'Very well,' Mother said.

The questions tumbled out of Leah. 'When will I start? What will I learn about? What's the teacher's name? Will I get new clothes for school? What about....?'

'Wait a minute. Wait a minute.' Daddy laughed. 'Let's take them one at a time. We can answer a few of your questions, and the teacher of your cla.s.s will answer others.'

Mother turned Leah to face her.

'You start school in three days,' she said. 'They know you are coming, just as they know of the others who will be with you. What you learn will depend on your teachers and on you.'

Suddenly Leah's face drooped.

'What about Sarah?' Her face clouded, and her voice changed to a whisper.

Mother and Daddy glanced at each other. Daddy picked Leah up, placed her on his lap so that they faced each other. Their eyes met.

'Tell me, Leah,' Daddy said as he drew her close and gave her a full all- round hug, 'When we have a change in our lives in which you will be at school every day, where do you think Sarah will be while you are gone?'

'Sarah will always be my friend,' Leah's voice was a whisper as she leaned her head on her Daddy's chest. 'She'll be with me always, wherever I go. Maybe we won't go flying as often as we did before, but I'll always feel her close to me.' Leah raised her head, grinned, and added with a laugh, 'and that will always make me feel good.'

Leah and her Mother and Daddy sat on the couch, talking about the changes that would come with school. There would be a new time to get up in the morning, dressing to go out, packing a school lunch and having a comb and brush kit, and things like that.

Leah listened, and voiced opinions which Mommy and Daddy considered very carefully. The meeting was a sharing.

After a while, Daddy and Leah went to the dining room table and Mother brought cookies and milk. They sat around the table, munched the cookies, sipped the milk, and talked some more.

Leah yawned.

Daddy rose, came around the table where Leah sat, and picked her up. Mother kissed Leah's cheek as her head rested on Daddy's arm.

Daddy carried Leah down the long hallway, pa.s.sed David's room, and opened the door into her softly lit bedroom. Daddy lowered drowsy Leah to her bed, tucked her in, and kissed her good night.

PART THREE

THE PALM TREE STORIES.

Realizing that Grandpa does well with stories, Grandchild wants to share in the process. One way for Grandpa to get the youngster involved is to have him or her suggest settings and names for characters.

Often, negotiations for story and character development, in themselves, become family stories and anecdotes; e.g., how a story came to be, and why and how it developed in this or that fashion. Injecting such background as introduction to a series gives a sense of involvement to the immediate and extended family, and to future generations that might come across a copy in an old trunk or tucked away in an obscure corner.

As the grandpa-grandchild discussions move along, and characters, settings and scenes take on substance, Grandpa or Grandma, whichever is the storyteller, may be transformed into a character in the story. I found a way to handle this, and remain inconspicuous, is to a.s.sume the role in the story as listener or recorder of adventures narrated by the leading characters.

In this series, Grandpa and Grandchild set the stage for the storytelling. That being done, Grandpa steps back and takes on the role of listener, rarely injecting himself into the narration. Throughout, Grandchild is aware that Grandpa in close by.

Put Palm Trees in Your Stories.

'Grandpa, where are you, Grandpa.'

The call reached me from down the long hallway. The sounds of scuffling slippers grew louder and, a moment later, Granddaughter's curly head peeked around the edge of the kitchen doorway.

'What are you doing, Grandpa?' she asked.

'Coffee,' I replied, peering in her direction over the rim of my gla.s.ses. 'Mornin' coffee.'

'Oh,' she said, standing in the doorway.

Her eyes focused on the scene beyond the kitchen window. The broad fronds of palm trees close by outside waved about furiously in the brisk November wind. There are no palm trees in the city where Granddaughter lives, and having arrived late the previous evening she had not seen the ones near our home.

Granddaughter stared. Dashing past me to the window, she placed her hands on the sill, and jumped to see out.

'When you visit us next year,' I said, 'you will be taller, and see over the sill without jumping.'

'I want to see now,' she demanded, reaching up. 'Pick me up, Grandpa.'

With Granddaughter seated on my forearm and her arms wrapped around my neck, we stared through the window. The palm nearest the window bent before a gust and straightened. The fronds of two palms across the driveway thrashed atop long, graceful trunks that leaned, straightened, and yielded again to the boisterous wind.

'Grandpa,' Granddaughter said, turning to look at me, 'tell me a story that has palm trees in it.'

Her eyes gleamed mischievously as she reached up to stroke my liberal expanse of bare dome. She knew I couldn't resist that gesture.

'We've got a busy morning ahead of us, young lady,' I said. 'Here's what I'll do. I'll write a letter to you with a story in it about palm trees. Then Mother or Dad will read it to you and Grandson. OK?'

Granddaughter stared at the three palm trees and their gyrating tops.

'I want more than one story,' she smiled as her hand patted and stroked.

'Hm,' I grandpa-growled, 'you're a hard bargainer, my dear.'

'Gampa, Gampa,' an impatient shout burst down the hallway.

Pajama-clad Grandson tore into the dining room like a tornado and climbed chairs. Too small to notice what was happening outside, he pounded a seat with tiny fists. His mind was on something far more important.

'French Toast, French Toast,' he demanded. 'I want French Toast. Now!'

Granddaughter twisted from my arms, further talk about stories replaced by this much higher priority.

'Me, too!' she shouted, joining the pounding.

Pots and pans rattled, dishes and bowls clattered, refrigerator doors slammed, and utensils baton-waved in all directions. Grandpa had launched into his traditional and celebrated French Toast Extravaganza that began early each Thanksgiving Day morning. *** Thanksgiving is past. The grandchildren are back home in a distant city. Grandpa has a promise to keep.

Creating a Setting.

"Where will the story take place?

'Where there are palm trees, of course.'

'What kind of palm trees? For example, there are coconut palms, and there are date palms, and there are also banana palms.'

'Grandpa,' impatiently, 'I want them all!'

That's one decision.

'Should I put the palm trees on a steeple on top of a tall skysc.r.a.per?'

'Just a minute now, Grandpa, who ever heard of palm trees growing on a steeple on top of a skysc.r.a.per? That would be silly. Forget it.'

'How about in the middle of a freeway?'

'C'mon, Grandpa, be serious. A palm tree wouldn't last long in the middle of a freeway. Cars would b.u.mp into it all day long. Nope, freeways are out, too.'

'By the sea? By the sea? By the beautiful sea?

'Hm, that's a possibility.' Long pause. 'OK, let's go with it.'

'Check. Keep in touch. Over and out.'

'Grandpa?'

'Yes?'

'You and Grandma. Love ya.'

A picture began to form. Three palm trees close to each other on a beach. They have thick trunks and huge fronds. One palm tree is a coconut palm, another is a date palm, and the third is a banana palm.

Little waves tumble over each other to the sh.o.r.e, and some distance behind them are rolling waves and a white, churning surf. Beyond the surf is the endless sea. A summer breeze is blowing, raising whitecaps. Two small islands are far out where the sea meets the sky. Add soft, fleecy clouds. The sky, even with the clouds, is empty. Skies and birds go well together. There! Three gulls, flying in from the left, low, skimming the waves.

What's missing? Aha, children! A boy and a girl, about your age. What are their names? That's your job, Granddaughter. Ask Mother which letters to draw on a sheet of paper to spell them out. Put the paper into an envelope, and ask Mother to address the envelope to Grandpa. Don't forget the postage stamp.

The names arrived in this morning's mail. 'Suzanne' and 'Roger' fit our characters well. I see you've named their adventures 'The Palm Tree Stories.' Fine, that's when we'll call them.

Along the Ridge of the Dunes One adventure is to explore the beach to search for seash.e.l.ls; another is to build sandcastles. Still another is to watch the sea gulls and pelicans dive and fish for food.

Suzanne and Roger enjoy watching the pelicans. They often watch the large, clumsy-looking birds fly low above the water until they see a fish beneath the surface. The pelican slips into a dive, folds its wings to cut the water cleanly to reduce the shock of hitting, disappears in the spray and rises with the fish in its beak pouch. The bird flies off with the fish to eat it, or to feed it to the baby pelicans. That's a little adventure for Suzanne and Roger.

There are also big adventures. Those happen when Suzanne and Roger and their mom and dad go sailing. Sailing often takes them far out to where the islands meet the sea. There they hike and explore the hills, and at night, sleep in a tent ash.o.r.e or in bunks on the sailboat. Those are real adventures and we'll be talking about them soon. *** I was thinking of Suzanne and Roger this morning and wondered what they were doing. I pictured them on the beach in the bright sunlight, walking toward where sand dunes had been built up by the wind and waves.

The dunes slope down to the beach, and tall reeds grow on the sides and along its ridges. When the wind blows, the reeds lean far over and rustle.

Birds build nests among the reeds. Sometimes, small animals rush up or down the dunes and through the reeds on their way from here to there, or from there to here. The dunes are among Suzanne's and Roger's favorite places for exploring.

I walked to the beach. Suzanne and Roger were waiting at Three Palms. They had a story for me. Suzanne told the story just as if it was happening right then.

Suzanne's story: When we get to the beach, we climb to the ridge of a dune. The wind is a gentle breeze and the reeds make a soft, sushing sound.

I see a movement in the reeds.

'Roger, Roger,' I shout. 'Come quick. We have company.'

Roger dashes over. I'm on my knees, separating the reeds with my hands to see better. Roger helps and we see a baby jackrabbit.

We stare at the jackrabbit and don't move. We don't want to frighten the baby jackrabbit and, of course, the baby jackrabbit doesn't want to frighten us.

A rustling sound comes from behind a clump of reeds off to the side, and out jumps a fully grown jackrabbit. It's as big as a cat, but has long, flapping ears and a cotton-ball tail, which cats don't have.

The grown jackrabbit rushes to the baby and, with its mouth, grips the back of the baby's neck and lifts it up. This must be the baby's mother, because that is the way most parent animals carry their young. It doesn't hurt the baby, and the mother does feel better knowing exactly where her baby is.

The adult jackrabbit looks up at us. All this time we are very still. I don't think the jackrabbit is frightened of us, but I suppose she has other things to do and can't just stand around visiting.

After looking us over for a moment or two, the jackrabbit wriggles her ears, turns away, twitches her cotton-ball tail and jackrabbit-jumps into the reeds. She and her baby are on their way from one place to the another. I guess only the jackrabbit really knows where and why.

'I hope they find their way to where they want to go,' Roger says, 'and I hope the baby stays close to it's mother. A baby can get lost among these reeds.'

'The mother jackrabbit knew where to find the baby,' I said. 'She must be pretty smart. Don't you think so?'

'Yes,' Roger agreed, 'she's smart, all right.'

We walked back to the palms and, from there, home.

Gone Sailing.

I strolled down to Three Palms and looked about. Suzanne and Roger weren't there.

Maybe they're at the sand dunes looking for the floppy-eared baby jackrabbit and its mother. I walked to the dunes to look for them. They weren't there, either.

Climbing to the top of a sand dune, I looked around. Two big, white clouds drifted across the deep blue sky, pushed by the wind. The wind rustled the high reeds along the ridge, and they sounded like whispers. A black and white gull flew low above the water, swooped, rose with a fish in its beak, and flapped up and away.

I looked out toward the horizon and saw a sailboat dipping across the waves. It was outward bound toward the islands. It looked like the sailboat that belonged to Suzanne's and Roger's parents. Suzanne and Roger must have decided to go sailing that day, and took their Mom and Dad along for company.

I looked for them each morning for the rest of the week, but they hadn't returned. I supposed they were having a long vacation.

Finally, this morning, when I arrived at Three Palms, Suzanne and Roger were there, waiting for me.

'h.e.l.lo, Suzanne. h.e.l.lo, Roger,' I said. 'It's good to see you back. I missed you.'

'Oh, we' re glad to be back at Three Palms,' said Suzanne.

'We sure are,' Roger added. 'We had a real fine time sailing and visiting on the island. We hiked in the hills and did other things.'

'Did you have any adventures?' I asked.

'Yes, we did,' said Suzanne. 'Would you like to hear about them?'

'I sure would.'