Her eyes gleamed mischievously as she reached up to stroke my liberal expanse of bare dome. She knew I couldn't resist that gesture.
'We've got a busy morning ahead of us, young lady,' I said. 'Here's what
I'll do. I'll write a letter to you with a story in it about palm trees. Then
Mother or Dad will read it to you and Grandson. OK?'
Granddaughter stared at the three palm trees and their gyrating tops.
'I want more than one story,' she smiled as her hand patted and stroked.
'Hm,' I grandpa-growled, 'you're a hard bargainer, my dear.'
'Gampa, Gampa,' an impatient shout burst down the hallway.
Pajama-clad Grandson tore into the dining room like a tornado and climbed chairs. Too small to notice what was happening outside, he pounded a seat with tiny fists. His mind was on something far more important.
'French Toast, French Toast,' he demanded. 'I want French Toast.
Now!'
Granddaughter twisted from my arms, further talk about stories replaced by this much higher priority.
'Me, too!' she shouted, joining the pounding.