One recent Tuesday, I got a phone call from my grandson. Or more accurately, from my grandson’s cell phone. The voice on the other end of the signal was that of my granddaughter, and what sounded like twenty of her closest friends. Imani’s volume control dial is set to “10” when she is on the phone, and it took me several questions to find out where she was. “I’m at Xavi’s football practice,” she shrieked. Attending her brother’s athletic events is a family tradition. Watching, however, is not her responsibility. She plays in the sand, dances on the sidelines and does gymnastics on the seats. And calls her grandfather.
Cool Papa!” squealed Imani. “Tell them you’re my grandfather!” I gathered from that statement that what was at play was the ongoing question of why I was “Cool Papa” instead of any of the other variations on “Grandpa.” (I elected to be called “Cool Papa” because I did not want to be called . . . the other name.) In the background, I could hear a cacophony of girlish giggles and wails. I heard her lead the ladies in a rendition of a song I taught her: “Cool Papa, he failed us, he failed us as a grandfather . . .” Imani split her attention between me on the phone, and the kids on the sidelines of the football field. An open-ended phone conversation with her is like a ride on the back of a runaway horse and I just hang on and hope to not get bucked off.
When I spoke to her mother about the call, she told me that she had an ear on it and figured out who was on the other end by her daughter’s animation and the words of the song. My granddaughter does not often make calls on her own — she has no cell phone — but when she gets control of her brother’s phone, she will occasionally call me, if there is no cooking show on YouTube that she wants to see. And every conversation is a screaming joy.
There are some who question the wisdom of giving young children access to cell phones. My grandson is 11, and has had one for little more than a year. I was not consulted about the purchase and have not weighed in on the advisability; my granddaughter is 7, and has — as she says — “a Kindle Fire HD” tablet, with WiFi and Internet access. My grandson’s call record can be generously called boring, with most calls going to his cousin. His phone is a device for the viewing of the all-time-greatest dunks in the NBA, and touchdown dances in the NFL. He has sent me photos of his drawings, text messages about birds seen at the trash bins and “narcing” messages about his sister calling me “Grandpa.” My granddaughter’s Internet history is replete with repetitive viewings of cooking shows. (She was not in favor of the cancellation of Paula Deen’s show, just so you know.) I trust that my grandpups’ parents are vigilant in the monitoring of their children’s Internet access.
I have made many phone calls to my family and friends, calls that I have termed “Stevie Wonder calls.” Stevie’s song, “I Just Called to Say I love You,” fits my style of contact. When I cannot reach them with my hands, I do so with my voice. If I get voicemail, I leave this message: “This is your Stevie Wonder call.” These calls grow in the emotional soil of distance and bloom in the need to show love.
My granddaughter may not know it, but she made a Stevie Wonder call.