The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination. (Albert Einstein)
While I loved and admired my grandmother, we didn’t share that many secrets and stories. I treasure the few incidents from her life that she did tell me. Her health wasn’t good. She lacked the stamina for running or getting down on the floor with an active child. Moreover, those were formal times. The generations were held together with a love focused on respect instead of interaction. I’m grateful for a break in the generation barrier that allows me to play with my grandchildren—to enter into their imaginative realm.
During an out-of-the-box moment I try to teach pretending-to-be toddlers Kate and Rebe how to say Mama. They refuse. They can speak in full, well expressed sentences. The word, Mama, however, isn’t on their list. They giggle at the absurdity of it, and I roll my eyes.
“You can say paparazzi,” I say with an exaggerated sigh.
“Paparazzi,” they repeat with perfect diction.
Their laughter fills the room.
“But not Mama?” I plead.
They shake their heads.
“What about historiography?”
“Historiography!” the girls say, not missing a syllable.
Then Kate breaks the tone of the game. “What does it mean, Grandma?”
“That’s a college word. It is the study of history and how it is put together from the tellers’ viewpoint. The South would have a completely different way of seeing the Civil War than the North would.”
She nods, appearing to understand.
She runs to get a note card to write down the information. It is storming, so I am glad that I don’t go to the computer for an official definition. Dictionary.com presents a meaning less easy to process—true, but nowhere near as child-friendly.
“More words! More words!” Kate exclaims returning to character.
But Grandpa enters the room. It is time for a different activity.
I hope we play this game again. We reach from the real into the unreal and back again, with elastic minds. Sometimes I learn from my girls; sometimes they learn from me. Our time is always an adventure.
terrypetersen 