I told them it was a squirrel's

nest.

No, they insisted, it's a bird

nest; it's in the tree. See, Gagan.

I looked and I saw what I knew

was a squirrel's nest and what they knew to be a bird nest.

Gagan (pronounced goggin) is

what they call me. I like it. Have no idea where it came from, but suspect

it probably means grandmother is some ancient language, or maybe even

in some language that is still used today.

Doesn't really matter, a rose

is a rose, regardless of what it's called and a Gagan, well, she's a grandmother

who must contend with grandchildren no matter what they call her.

And what a joy it is, such

contention. Even when there is no chance of winning an argument. It really

was a squirrel nest. From my office window I have seen see the squirrels

come and go from it. But what does a Gagan know? At 3 and 7 years old

they are not easily convinced of anything anymore.

The 3-year-old became really

upset with me a few weeks back. The kids were at my home for the weekend

and we were having a great time. I mean the entire visit had been really

swell. UNTIL the bear episode.

Elise and I were coloring a

bear in a coloring book. We were taking turns. All markings were up and

down or straight across on all parts of the bear's body. It was my turn

again when we were down to nothing left to color but the head. The head,

that was it, and we would have another work of art. UNTIL.

UNTIL I did the unforgivable.

I know the term "thinking out of the box" is relatively new.

But I've practiced the concept all my life to a limited degree. I'm sure

I probably started when I was as young as my granddaughter. I was sure

she practiced such thinking as well.

Little did I know her obsessive

compulsive streak was ruling as I sat there drawing in all the curly hair.

When she caught a glimpse of what I had done she truly went ballistic.

The wailing defied description.

I had "ruined" the bear. Forever. She was in shock. How could

her Gagan have destroyed such a perfect work of art.

I thought our bear with all

the well-combed straight hair all over his body would look really cute

with curly hair on his head and face so I had drawn in tiny, curly strokes

for his head.

Even now as I recall the incident

I can hardly believe her reaction. It was clear that I really had done

a bad thing.

I didn't get it. I mean when

we are making biscuits or cookies, she has no problem turning her share

of the dough into snakes, hearts, dog bones, or whatever strikes her fancy.

And when she dresses herself

she is quite strongly of the opinion that stripes go quite well with polka

dots or check or plaids, that lime green and any color she puts it with

is perfect, that socks do have to match, and that pink, any shade, is

the best color in the world for anything from her wardrobe, to cakes,

to guns (Her dad is an accomplished gunsmith and he builds primitive weapons,

flintlocks, muzzle loaders, etc. She has requested that he build her a

pink gun.)

Do you get the picture? She

appears flexible. Quite free thinking. Easy to get along with. Obsessive?

Compulsive? Unforgiving? Never before the bear fiasco.

She left my house that night

still feeling quite cool toward me and clearly showing it.

Me? I forgot about the incident.

UNTIL she returned a few weeks later. She had made me a heart for Valentine's

Day. And yes, you guessed it. All lines were straight. She had wrapped

it and taped it and presented it with great fanfare.

Once I had opened it and thanked

her appropriately she put her arms around my neck and announced, "I

forgive you for ruining my bear with your curly lines."

Now, I've asked for forgiveness

more times than I care to remember from more folks than I could begin

to count and the answer, thankfully, to my "Will you forgive me?"

has most often been "Yeah, yes, sure, or of course ..."

But I don't recall anyone ever

saying those words to me. "I forgive you." Especially weeks

after the fact. And after I had forgotten all about my indiscretion.

Do you ever wonder how many

indiscretions we leave behind us that we never get forgiven for?

Once more a little child has

set me to thinking and given me a brand new appreciation for three little

words that can make your day.

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