'
'I want to see now,' she demanded, reaching up. 'Pick me up, Grandpa.'
With Granddaughter seated on my forearm and her arms wrapped
around my neck, we stared through the window. The palm nearest the
window bent before a gust and straightened. The fronds of two palms
across the driveway thrashed atop long, graceful trunks that leaned,
straightened, and yielded again to the boisterous wind.
'Grandpa,' Granddaughter said, turning to look at me, 'tell me a story that
has palm trees in it.'
Her eyes gleamed mischievously as she reached up to stroke my liberal
expanse of bare dome. She knew I couldn't resist that gesture.
'We've got a busy morning ahead of us, young lady,' I said. 'Here's what
I'll do. I'll write a letter to you with a story in it about palm trees. Then
Mother or Dad will read it to you and Grandson. OK?'
Granddaughter stared at the three palm trees and their gyrating tops.
'I want more than one story,' she smiled as her hand patted and stroked.
'Hm,' I grandpa-growled, 'you're a hard bargainer, my dear.'
'Gampa, Gampa,' an impatient shout burst down the hallway.
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