Mark, my son who is soon to turn forty, and Liz, the daughter-in-law I barely know, are herding my two grandchildren towards the red Ford station wagon for the trip from Massachusetts to Connecticut. On this balmy September day, the pale blue sky harbors a small fleet of secretive cotton-ball clouds that drift from west to east unperturbed by the troubled creatures below. Mark and Liz are both on edge. Not about visiting me, although I could understand that, but about how the children (my grandchildren) will act en route. They have reason to worry. Janice is nine, and Jeremy is seven, and there are times when they act like fighting fish in a tiny bowl. Jeremy is a thick, knotted rope of a boy, not easily untangled. Janice is a taut violin string, clear and resonant, but today she wakes up out of tune, so if you play her wrong, she screeches like a wounded cat. I am Grandma Leah to Janice and Jeremy, and, despite their rough edges, very proud of both of them.
Liz is collecting toys to keep them occupied in the back seat. She has snacks—exactly the same for each, eliminating one reason they may go at it. Janice is walking out to the car now, carrying a pink plastic handbag that contains gum and a Great Shape Barbie, although Liz, who during her college years in the mid-1970s jumped on the swelling wave of feminism like a surfer (I admire her for it too), was...
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