'Pried' and prejdice when needed

My granddaughter is on the cusp of that magical age of thirteen. She is involved and seems most happy with her overall environment, particularly her love for the excellent Catholic school she attends, the many sports in which she participates, and her ever-evolving circle of friends beyond family and her experiences.

Surprisingly, she still likes to “chill out” with me on most weekends; challenge me to card games; and hit the local Subway on Saturdays. She politely laughs at my dumb jokes and howls at my occasional PG-13 expletives. And she endures occasional “boring” and “un-cool “excursions with me, my girlfriend and our worlds

But understanding that misty, mysterious transition between girl and young womanhood is something males never fully fathom. At any age, including geezers like me.  I have lived long enough to recognize what those rolled eyes and tight-lipped expressions mean. I do my best to avoid prying and poking too much and playing the friendly grand inquisitor.

The brief journal entries and stuff she writes about and leaves following a weekend visit with me are sacrosanct and not for mine or anyone else’s eyes. I trust it and leave well enough alone.  

In a far previous life, I was a journalist, and quite demanding of the public’s right to know everything from exposing corrupt political and corporate practices, to uncovering the sins and iniquities of shallow public and private programs. A real crusader, surrounded by a world of infidels. I was strongly averse to anyone suggesting dare read my notes.

One of my first and best lessons was about prying occurred more than twenty years ago. I always tried to attend school or special occasions with my two daughters, situations rarely and not easily pulled off with them in Evansville and me slowly carving my career future in Indy.

On one occasion, I spent a full day with my youngest daughter and her sixth-grade class. She didn’t seem at all embarrassed to have me sitting with her in class and, in fact, introduced me to most of her classmates and teachers. I was invited to talk about my experiences covering Operation Desert Storm only a few months before and pass around shattered Scud missile pieces. I was feeling pretty heady about all of that.

Then, came a break in her schedule and she and her fellow students were sent to the library for brief research. And I sat in the chair eyeing a tightly folded note my daughter had left. A boy’s name was circled with a heart with a message: Your Eyes Only. I hated the kid already.

As a searcher for truth – and more important an anxious father – I unfolded the note. The horrifying revelations nearly destroyed me.

Hi Dad, I knew you would try to read to this so I thought I’d say hi! 
Have you have had a good day so far? Well I gotta go. Love Always, “Joey”

I chuckled as I refolded the note and put it back in its place. Several minutes later, my daughter returned, grinning and asking how I had filled my time. Then she “outed” me on my intrusion and we cackled together. I still have that note

It was another step in my continuing life education, a path I continue to plod along. Pry and gently probe into youngsters’ lives  – unless your heart, gut and basic instincts tell you to do otherwise. Listen to them, though their voices and variegated meanings may not always weave clearly. They belong to all of us and are not bound solely by blood and DNA; rather, that tough responsibility we have of being parents, grandparents,  protectors and caregivers. 

And maybe, eventually, they will want to chill out with you when they enter our ranks after their done rolling their eyes.