Wayne, my grandson, is graduating from grad school today.
I still remember his graduation from his first school, many years ago. His family lived in Sun Valley and I was visiting them. Just before breakfast, Wayne, eight years old then, knocked on my door and ask me to knot his tie. He was wearing his dark blue Sunday suit and a T-shirt, with a yellow tie wrapped around his bare neck.
“Do you have a shirt,” was my logical question.
“I do, it’s at the cleaners, but this T-shirt is fine.”
“Do you need to … do you want to wear a tie?”
“Yes,” he said, “you need to wear a tie when you give the graduation speech.”
“You’re giving the graduation speech?” I asked surprised; he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. “May I read it?”
“No need; you’ll hear it soon enough,” he smiled.
Frantically, we all searched for something shirt-like for Wayne to wear, but we couldn’t find a thing.
Frantically, we all searched for something shirt-like for Wayne to wear, but we couldn’t find a thing.
“Actually, I like your T-shirt, Wayne,” I mused. “It has character. Let your Dad do the tie. He’s better at it than I.”
So eight-year old Wayne gave his speech wearing a dark-blue suit, a white T-shirt and a yellow tie nicely knotted around his bare neck. He carried it off majestically. And I’m still smiling whenever I look at that photo of long ago.
After thanking all his teachers, he also thanked his friend John for bringing him lunch.
My daughter was sitting next to me and audibly inhaled, “I always fix him lunch,” she whispered deeply embarrassed. In a small town where everyone knows everyone, word would spread quickly that Alison didn’t fix lunch for her son.
“Wayne,” she said when she saw him, “I always fix your lunch!”
“Yes, Mom, I know, but I eat your lunch during my first break at ten. I’m hungry again by 12 and am really happy that John brings a big lunch for me.”
