Super Mikey

by Paul Kandarian

The wonderful thing about kids (especially before they hit 10 or so and are aimed toward adolescence and adulthood when their enviable newness in the world melts on the wings of so-called “maturity”) is their joy, wonder, innocence, inquisitiveness, and, speaking as a super-proud Grandpa of Mikey, one supersmart almost-9-year-old boy, their unbelievable intelligence and insight. I’m about to go into full grandparent-gush mode here, so you’ve been warned.

Recently, I asked Mikey if he wanted to see a film. We love movies. He’s all-in every time we go, face glued to the screen and absorbing everything. As an actor, I take that as a sign that maybe he’ll follow in my footsteps someday though where those footsteps take him is entirely up to him. Not that I won’t nudge him toward acting, of course.

He said he wanted to see one of his favorite movies, which surprisingly was Tim Burton’s “The Nightmare

Before Christmas,” a 1993 animated cult classic. I’d never seen it before, so off we went, Mikey enjoying it for the millionth time, me for the first, and I spent a lot of it just beaming at him as he leaned forward on his hands drinking it all in, enchanted by the story and presentation. I never tire of watching him happy. Later, I took him on a ride, not sure where we were going, but that’s how we roll. We get in the car and go. It matters not where, for almost every place is new to him, and sometimes to me. Very often, we’ll be driving along and he’ll say, “Grandpa, take a right” for no other reason than he’s never been down that road. And take a right I do, because I’m always up for a new adventure and I always listen to my grandson.

That day, the movie was in Seekonk, so after we left I drove around the town where I grew up, pointing out places I played and lived and had adventures as a child. We’d done this before and I feared I was boring him and said so.

“Hey, at least you’re still around to show me this stuff,” he said.

I’m not sure if he meant I’m around as in around the area or around as in not dead yet, but I laughed and thanked him and was amazed once again by the stuff he comes up with.

I remarked along the way how bright he was, and he thought about it for a second, and said without a hint of arrogance, just as matter of fact, “I don’t think people understand my mind… or how smart I am.” I agreed heartily, told him it’s okay and outright fun to be different from everyone else and being your own person.

Later, as we were sitting in my car and he was fiddling around in the glove compartment, he came across a button I picked up at a conference in Boston that featured a quote by Elise Roy, a deaf motivational speaker who is all about thinking and living outside the box that reads: “Different is the New Normal We Should Be Designing For.”

“I like that,” Mikey said, stabbing it into the visor above him where I will leave it forever.

While sitting there, I drank from my water bottle in which I keep sliced lemons to add taste and vitamins.

Mikey looked at it and said, “I’d like to go swimming with lemons.”

I laughed, “I love that idea! But where?”

“In a big bottle full of lemons,” he added in a “duh” tone like I should have thought of that myself. Adventuring on, we ended up at the carousel at Crescent Park in East Providence, the only remaining icon of a long-gone amusement park I’d go to as a kid. We wandered around and down along the waters of Narragansett Bay, tossing rocks and sticks in the water, both of our imaginations afire as the sun started a golden descent toward the horizon, Mikey saying hello and waving happily to every person we’d see.

And I realized: there we were, just two kids, one young, one old, warm in the embrace of each other’s love, one very much smarter than the other in a way that brings the other a joy like no other.

Look, I know he’s not the only kid on the planet to be so keenly observant, so bright, so able to connect the dots and see patterns. I know he’s going to grow and perhaps tire of hanging around with his old Grandpa. I know he’ll change and I am uncertain how.

But one thing I know for sure is that we will always be together, either in real life or in the memories we shape with every moment we share. As we walked out of the theater that day, I told him I noticed some superhero movie posters inside and asked if he’d like to see any.

“Ah, I’m not really into Marvel, I’m not a superhero kinda guy,” he said. “Funny,” I said, “neither am I.”

“Good,” my little bestie smiled. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Lemme update my assessment: I am into one superhero. Him.