My Mikey

by Paul Kandarian

New Year’s was a few months ago, and one thing I’ve noticed when the calendar flips is that it gets harder to pinpoint which of our x-number of years have been exceptional.

But for me, it's a no-brainer: it all started on January 28, 2015, when a little starbust of joy – my grandson, Mikey – exploded into my life.

New Year’s Day this year was a typical outing for us. I drove to his house, picked him up and asked, “Where to, buddy?” and he said, “How about the Jamestown Playground?”

In my lines of work over the years, mostly writing and acting, I’ve spent a fair portion of my time driving to and from jobs. I don’t mind that much. My dad was always on the road, loved driving, he was never happier than when he was behind the wheel. I guess I inherited that from him. But as I get older, much as I hate to admit it, driving can be tiring, especially combined with being around someone with boundless energy. So when Mikey asked to go to Jamestown and one of our favorite playgrounds, I quickly calculated the math: an exhausting afternoon of driving from my home in Marion to his in Taunton and then to Jamestown, then who knows where, then back to his house to drop him off and then back to mine, roughly three and a half hours behind the wheel, covering 150 miles and then some, mixed in and around running through the playground with him, grabbing lunch nearby, and then some hiking up and down pretty rocky terrain.

"You got it," I said. And we were off.

It was, as always, glorious and tiring fun with my best friend and untiring life force full of the wide-eyed wonder he always is, playing easily with other kids, chatting up adults in the cafe we went to, waving at people hundreds of yards across a watery divide as we stood on one cliff of Fort Wetherell looking over to another, him shouting gleefully to them “It's a beautiful day!” not realizing nor it mattering that they couldn't hear him.

It’s harder to keep up with him these days, but he’s ever-helpful. When he notices me limping and gimping along sometimes, he’ll race back to me, take my hand and say, “I gotcha Grandpa,” and guide me along. He owns me at that point, and really, has since the day he was born.

The biggest thing I love about kids in general, and Mikey in particular, is their unrelenting joy for the new. There is no slice of this amazing gift we call life he is not fascinated by, enamored with, curious about, and most importantly, grateful for. He devours every sight and sound and scent and appreciates the moments we share.

Maybe because I am an actor and writer and know how to use words to express emotion I perhaps passed some of that down to him, because boy, does he knows how to push my tear-duct buttons, which that day included: 1) him giving me the Best Gift Ever: a framed photo of us on one of our adventures (he remembered exactly where we took it and what we were doing); 2) asking as we drove around, “Grandpa, I love our time together. Do you love it as much as I do?”; and 3) Making me close my eyes on the beach, then having me turn around to see where he’d scratched “I Love You” in the sand with an arrow pointing to me.

Cue the waterworks kiddo, I don't mind.

I’ve also instilled in him, I think, the delight of discovery – how to not fear the unknown in the simplest way possible: embracing spontaneity.

“Which way, Mikey my boy?” I said as we sat at a four-way intersection in Jamestown after leaving the playground.

“Uh… how about that way?” he said, pointing right.

“I was thinking the same thing,” I laughed, taking the turn.

We drove over to Fort Wetherell, where we’d been before, and scrambled over rocks and sand. Okay, he scrambled, I mostly stumbled. He checked to make sure I was okay all along the way. It was a gloriously bright and chilly day, all blue skies and brilliant sunshine, which pretty much reflects my little guy’s personality.

We hiked here and there, me just following him wherever he wanted to go. The sun was setting, and we emerged onto a rocky precipice to drink in the moment, the 4.5-billionyear-old center of our solar system shining its waning light on the 8-year-old center of mine.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he gushed with breathless wonder, and absolutely meaning it.

It was. He is. And my life always will be, with him in it.