Beech Tree News Network

On a large chalkboard, outside an antique store in Bloomfield, Kentucky, is a list the town’s residents have put together under the heading: Before I Die.  Some of the goals include: Meet Seth Rogen (of “The Interview” fame); make God proud; become president; fall in love; sky dive; live to be happy; and be like my grandma.  If I added one of my own to the list, it would say: Be like my granddaughter.  Sabria sees the good in others, searches out the answers to life’s important questions, and is one of those rare people who is genuinely happy.
    Sabria and I have our moments, and she can be difficult at times, especially if she is convinced she is right.  I used to argue with her, but I’ve learned that taking that route is a dead end, so now I just tell her okay, with the realization she will figure it out down the road.
    A couple of days ago, she asked me if Pluto was a planet.  I went into the spiel about how Pluto used to be considered a planet but has now been demoted to some other status.  I couldn’t remember what it was, but told her I would look it up when we got home.
    “Pluto is not a planet, Gee,” she said, “He’s a dog—a hot dog.”
    “A hotdog,” I say, with surprise.
    “Not a hotdog,” she says, “A hot dog. You know, like when Milly (our Beagle) stays in the sun too long.  Pluto is a hot dog.”
    If I were the former planet, I’d rather be demoted to a hot dog than whatever its designated status is currently, so I let her explanation stand.
    Often, while riding together in the car, Sabria sings at the top of her voice.  Recently, her favorite song is “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”  She usually rearranges the lyrics, except for the verse that promises: “Everywhere I go, I’ll think of you/ Every song I sing, I’ll sing for you/ When I come back, I’ll wear your wedding ring—in Sabria’s version, it’s I’ll marry your wedding ring.”  I take the same attitude toward the mix-up as I do toward Pluto and the hot dog theory—my apologies to Peter, Paul and Mary.
    It’s while we’re in the car together that I answer most of the important questions she poses to me, like “Do vampires drive?” and “If two is twice, is three twicer?”
 If we’re going to Bowling Green, I always ask her if she has to go to the bathroom before we leave.  She always answers, “No,” then I always say, “Now, you know there’s no bathroom between here and Bowling Green.” She always responds, “I know.”
Inevitably, by the time we reach Hadley, she is telling me she has to pee, and I’m telling her she will have to hold it until we get to the small market on the outskirts of Bowling Green.  Once there, she always tells me how the bathroom stinks, and I always tell her she should have thought about that before she told me she didn’t have to go at home.  It’s like the movie, “Groundhog Day.”  I know what you’re thinking—just make her go.  You’ve heard of the proverbial horse and water—Sabria is the mule in this analogy.  Besides, it’s hard to be mad at someone who tells you they love you and means it, which is what she says as I load her back into the car.
As we travel on our way, Sabria spots a Redbud tree that she says is pink, not purple, as I had told her before.  “It’s a pink tree,” she says.  “You said there weren’t any pink trees in the fall, and you were wrong.”
“Okay,” I say, realizing that reminding her that this is spring, not fall, will open a whole other can of worms.
Before I die, I want to be like my granddaughter.  I want to be curious and happy, and I want to love people; but most of all, I want to be convinced that I know exactly what I’m talking about.