In a holiday bustle of four generations, I once caught a scene. Ben’s Great-grandpa Swartz sat on our living room couch showing his age. And Ben, racing round and round through the rooms that circled the fireplace chimneys, showed his. Each time Ben passed his great-grandpa, they exchanged chuckles.
Ever since he was a babe in arms, Ben had been drawn to this grandpa. He liked to touch his big nose and his balding head and the hearing aids in his ears. And he understood early that to be heard, you had to shout.
Which is what Ben did when he suddenly halted his racing. Planting his feet on the floor and his hands on his hips, Ben gave Grandpa an appraising look.
“Why,” he said in a voice you could have heard two rooms away, “don’t you do something?”
Ben waited while Grandpa considered.
“Because,” Grandpa finally said. “I’m tired.”
Ben nodded and raced around the circle three more times. But each time he passed the sedentary figure on the couch, Ben looked more puzzled.
Then he stopped again, looking at the legs that hadn’t moved at all.
“How in the world,” he asked, “could you be tired?”
Great-grandpa opened his mouth. But nothing came out, and he shut it again. Ben waited. Still nothing.
Ben shrugged. And raced around again. But this time Great-grandpa didn’t chuckle. He barely smiled. So Ben drifted away to find a more appreciative audience.
I couldn’t blame Ben. Or his great-grandpa. Neither had the capacity to explain the differences in their metabolic rates and in the abilities of their bodies to convert food into usable energy and, most of all, in how the wear and tear of ninety-one years contrasted with three.
The young and the old are good for each other. But now and again they need time apart.
Apple to Apple 