I wanted my

grandchildren to come and visit. To spend two nights. Not just one. They

love to come. I love to have them come.

There is just

one problem. Once the sun sets and bedtime approaches, they want Mama.

They want Mommy. They want Mother. They want the real thing. No substitute.

Normally, the

boy, eight years old, sleeps downstairs with Granddaddy in the master

bedroom. The girl, four years old, and I go upstairs to one of the spare

bedrooms. Daniel and I usually hear and tell a dozen stories, rub backs

and wipe tears. Always there are tears, because they really miss Mommy!

So, I devised

a plan. I converted one of the upstairs rooms from a queen to twin beds.

I had Dick Nye, at Pretty Primitives over in Warm Springs, build two flour

bins for head boards. I altered his usual measurements and told him what

I wanted to use the tall, deep primitive chests for and he was eager to

oblige.

I put separate

lamps on each headboard along with a pretty angel, but left plenty of

room for books, toys, a glass of water ... you name it, I was prepared

to be accommodating.

But the real

trick came when I explained how they now can have Mommy with them when

they sleep over. Bear with me. These kids are bright.

I explained

about genes and DNA and how each of them have some of Mommy's and some

of Daddy's. So all they had to do was look over at the sibling in the

opposite bed and see whichever parent they wanted to see because part

of that parent was in the child.

I know. I was

reaching. Didn't help at all. First night was plagued with tears for Mommy

with me hanging off the edge of one of those beds since they decided as

a grandmommy that I'm the closest thing to Mommy in the house.

Plan number

two goes into effect for day two. I'll wear them out. We'd stay up until

midnight, one a.m., two, whatever it took until they just collapsed in

exhaustion.

At ten minutes

before two in the morning , I give in, I give up. I declare the rules.

I bravely tell them, "You are going to sleep now. You are going to

sleep here in your special beds. Grandma is going to sleep directly across

the hall. The nightlight in the hall is on, and yes, I will leave the

bathroom light on as well."

The little

one points to the side of the bed, pleadingly. I ask that she very gently

raise her head and look at that space. Then I stand so she can get a good

look at me. I ask, "Do you really think there's room for me to lie

down there comfortably?" She giggles a most disconcerting giggle.

Finally, as

dawn looms nearer, I win. They stay. Without tears. I go. Across the hall.

To a whole bed. To utter comfort. To victory. To memories ...

I don't know

where they came from. But suddenly they were upon me. I was a little girl

again, sleeping over at my Grandma's house. All the booger bears in the

world were threatening to crawl in bed with me.

Who needs empathy

at that time of the morning?

It got worse.

I recalled visiting the old homeplace about three years ago. I drove up

to find an old man sitting on the front porch. I got out of my car and

explained that my grandparents once lived there and asked if I could walk

around the yard for a moment. Sure he said, I told you the last time you

were here that you could come back anytime.

Puzzled, I

walked around back, lingering long enough to drink in the fragrance that

belongs only to that place, to let the taste of watermelon once cut on

the back porch return to my lips, to hear the distant clucking of yesteryear's

chickens ...

Reluctantly

I returned to the front yard and the man was cutting a camellia from the

bush by the edge of the porch. I asked how he knew I wanted one.

You wanted

one when you were here a few weeks ago, he said. I told him I'd not been

there in more than 30 years. This stranger I had never seen before laughed

and said, "You were here, and I told you that you could come back

anytime."

It was nearing

four a.m. before I finally won out over the urge to travel that eternal

distance back across the hall and reclaim my eight inches of the bed in

which my granddaughter was so peacefully curled up and sleeping.

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