It is a pleasure to say that having three grandchildren in one’s mid 70s is glorious in all ways.
I see two of my granddaughters daily during the week, and my grandson with some frequency. All live within a radius of mileage that is acceptable to a man who despises automobiles, driving, spending any money at all on auto repair and maintenance, and who believes the automobile is one of modern society’s great diseases.
I dispatch my duties as a grandparent with proper sobriety, though it is possible my priorities in this role could be perceived as counterintuitive. Not every interaction with the kids is met with approval by my son and daughter-in-law, but they do know that my intentions are sound, even when my methods may appear to be at odds with convention and good taste.
As a grandfather of granddaughters, I feel it is my duty to instill in them a certain distance, a wall of protection, if you will, regarding the male species of humans. This does not make me a feminist per se—it makes me a realist. When I tell my granddaughters outright that men are dogs, I speak from personal experience. I know men, and I know what they do.
In addition, as a former public school teacher and coach, I believe part of my role includes language skills and development and some sound instruction in the uses of vernacular. This entails specific training in the use of what some might call foul language. I don’t see it as foul language; I see it as language, a tool for everyday use.
I learned to curse from my mother, the alcoholic, Beatnik, jazz and poetry loving deep whole earth organism. For a man of my own bent comportment who believes in neither angels nor heaven, she was an angel from heaven. It was an enormous pleasure to get her Tareyton and Korbel soaked cough-laugh in high gear, a sign I was easing the tremendous suffering she endured in serving as my father’s tortured partner.
The grandgirls also know my family history, which is no Pollyanna picnic in the park. They know who drank, who was a jerk, who shot which parent in the ass with a BB gun and so forth. There are not many secrets. This is in stark contrast to my own upbringing, in which I was almost 10 years old before I knew who sent those Christmas gifts from the City with the scraggly writing and my misspelled name. This was not a family of high function and even temperament; let me be clear.
And so, I am simply doing my job to the best of my ability as adjunct professor of life, to ensure these kids are going to be able to take care of themselves when I am gone.
Craig Corsini is a writer and grandfather in Marin.
