Dearest Jack,
Covid-19 has been especially cruel to those of us whose grandchildren live nearly 3,000 miles away. Before the pandemic, I would fly from my home in Brookline, MA to your home in the San Francisco Bay Area every three months or so. But this year, I hadn’t seen you since we all went to Mexico for February vacation.
Yes, you and I had daily FaceTime visits between April and August for something you and I called “Jack and Bubbie’s Book Club,” a wonderful opportunity for you and me to read together. That stopped when you entered fourth grade in early August.
FaceTime and Zoom are great. I even got to attend your 9th birthday party in June, the one where Momma and Daddy hired an illusionist from New York to make up for the fact that the only party you could have for you and your buddies was virtual. But virtual visits don’t allow for hugging, and by September I was feeling super bummed about not being able to treat you to ice cream and play catch with you.
As it happens, the not unexpected death of your paternal great grandmother, an accomplished woman who led a long and productive life, precipitated a trip to the Philadelphia area for you, your sister Lucy, and your parents for the funeral. What with working remotely, learning remotely, and wildfires, your aunt and uncle graciously offered to have all of you stay with them in Delaware for a while.
At a time when parents are contemplating sending their young children off to boarding school – only kidding – I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to receive your Momma’s text: “I wish Jack could stay with you for a few days.” Fortunately, your Grandpa Dennis, in the age category considered high risk for Covid-19, said having you visit was fine with him.
Your Dad drove you to a rest stop in Milford, Connecticut, which is where I picked you up, along with your laptop computer, skateboard, school supplies, iPad, and Nintendo Switch. Despite planning to take your temperature with that gun style thermometer I’d ordered specifically for your visit, all I could do was hug you as you ran toward me. From there it was on to Brookline.
Under the supervision of your neat freak Bubbie, you loved using my blender to make smoothies. You even agreed to add a container of Icelandic Skyr to ensure the smoothies had protein.
The best was that breakfast conversation you and I had. Jack: “Do you think I’m smarter than you?” I nodded my head, but you responded with: “Maybe not? Maybe in different ways?”
I explained that you’re a bright little boy, and that some smarts come with age and experience. I also told you that reading would make you smarter than spending time on your electronic devices.
“Don’t let Jack spend too much time on his iPad,” your Momma cautioned me. “If you don’t set limits, he can spend hours on YouTube.” She also urged me to make sure you got outdoors before the start of your California school at 11 a.m. eastern time.
Am I a negligent Bubbie? You played on my sympathies, saying: “But Bubbie, I’ve been in front of my computer all day for school.” You begged me to let you use both your iPad and your Nintendo Switch. At dinner time, I could see you were more than eager to get back to your games of Animal Crossing, and whatever you could find on Netflix. When I noticed the stuff was from PBS Kids, I wasn’t too concerned about your watching anything inappropriate.
I hated the fact that you being chained to a computer for school prevented you from being able to join me for a picnic lunch on the Boston Common with your cousin Connor, a freshman at Emerson. At least you were able to see Connor at your cousin Steven’s outdoor, socially distanced birthday party in Wellesley, along with some other cousins. I could see that the opportunity to be with other kids, all of whom were older than you, put a big smile on your face.
You and I also played catch with a medicine ball in the hallway of my condo, which probably accounts for the new pain in my shoulder. But it was fun. You wowed me when you got the playground ball I’d gotten you caught in the basketball hoop in the playground across the street from my home. “I can get it down," you said with confidence. You proceeded to remove one of your sneakers and toss it up at the ball a few times before you liberated it.
Accustomed to California’s elaborate skateboard parks, you asked me if there were any in Boston. Initially I said “no,” but then one of my rowing coaches told me there was a Pump Track in back of Harvard Stadium. Having forgotten your own helmet in California, you loved the camouflage helmet I’d bought you at Target before you arrived.
We looked high and low for the elbow and knee pads, your parents thought they had packed, but to no avail. “I think we should ask Momma and Daddy if it’s okay,” you told me. By the time we called them, we were already in the car, headed for the park. Thank goodness, they said it was “okay” to forego the extra equipment.
You had a ball at the pump track. I had even more fun shooting video to text your parents. We capped off our little excursion with our second trip to JP Licks for ice cream, and a stop at the Brookline Book Smith to purchase souvenirs, including a handheld Pac Man game.
On the morning you and I needed to drive back to that rest stop in Connecticut to meet up with Momma, you walked into the dining room before breakfast, and surprised me with a big hug. I can’t tell you how much joy that gave me.
You’re now back in Delaware for a spell, and I miss you dearly. Thank you for giving me a new sense of hope and energy.
Love, Bubbie
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