A TREASURED TRADITION
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Canterbury School crowns a windswept hilltop in the western Connecticut town of New Milford. The boarding school campus showcases stately granite buildings, impressive athletic fields, and a vibrant, attractive co-ed community of 300 students. One of those is a 16-year-old auburn-haired young man with the trendy “mix-master” hairdo and a shy smile — our grandson Miles.
“Remember,” the head of school said as she finished her welcoming remarks in the gothic chapel, “your grandchildren, who are waiting outside for you, are teenagers. Sometimes they get embarrassed by our exuberance.” So after stepping through the arched chapel door and spotting Miles, then waving frantically and hollering, “HI, MILES! I’M OVER HERE,” I knew I nailed a “10” on the head of school’s admonition.
After a long tight hug (“Okay, Vivi, that’s enough contact,” Miles whispered), we headed off to Algebra II. For me, it could have been introductory Mandarin. When the teacher asked the class, “If 4X equals 7, what is minus the square of that?”, I can assure you I wasn’t the only grey hair looking down at my sensible shoes, panicked he might call on me.) “What kind of arithmetic is that?” I asked Mr. Wonderful as we followed Miles to history class. “Don’t they learn the multiplication tables anymore?”
Lightyears have elapsed since my last history class in high school. Back then, we focused on the First Thanksgiving, the Civil War, the Industrial Revolution and World War I. Miles’ teacher discussed the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the aftermath of 9/11, the rise of Islamic fundamentalism and the high price of gasoline. “That’s current events, not ancient history,” I whispered to Mr. W., who replied, “We’re the only ancient things around here.”
After a delicious lunch (“Yeah, the food’s okay,” Miles admitted), I told him we had goodies in the car, so we walked back to the parking area. Handing him the large pink, purple, blue, orange and yellow felt Easter basket jauntily edged with spiked greenery, and loaded with Reeses and chocolate bunnies, he grimaced slightly. “Do you mind if I just take the candy? I don’t want to carry that thing across campus.” (Vivi scores again.)
Later that afternoon, we followed the Canterbury minibus transporting the boy’s varsity tennis team to its away match in Washington, Ct. Gale force winds and a 41-degree temperature kept Mr. Wonderful huddled in our Subaru with his seat heater set on High. I stood on a platform overlooking the courts with two other brave grandparents until frostbite set in. Then, back to the cozy car where we both watched through the windshield.
All too soon our happy day at Canterbury ended. After tight hugs and quick goodbye kisses (so no one would notice), Mr. W. and I drove down Aspetuck Avenue towards Route 84. I kept thinking about how my dear little grandson with rosy cheeks and thick glasses and legos stuffed in his pockets had morphed into a handsome, athletic, smart and kind young man. I miss sharing grilled cheese sandwiches with him at JG Melon when they lived in NYC. I remember watching him hail a cab when we left the restaurant — he was only seven years old!
Today, he shaves and wears contacts. His crosscourt return on the tennis court is awesome. He’s attentive in class, offering answers and opinions. There’s even a lovely young lady in his life. Compassionate to his core, he’d caution,“Vivi, please slow down” as Grandpa Bob trailed slowly behind us. And yesterday he texted, “The Easter candy was great!!!”
As was Grandparents Day and I can’t wait for next year.
