How Much Does a 4-Year-Old Know?

Well, At Least My Grandson …

William Sundwick

He does love to talk! From the moment his dad dropped him off Friday afternoon, duffel bag stuffed with changes of clothes and toys, until we took him back home Sunday afternoon, it was nonstop conversation! (Except after 9:00 P.M. Friday and Saturday nights.)

Four-year-old Owen got to spend the weekend with his grandparents, while his parents celebrated their wedding anniversary on the Maryland Eastern Shore. It was a new experience for grandpa and grandma “G.G.” Baby sister Mira was farmed out to the other set of grandparents.

Speech in children develops in interesting ways. Owen has always been a talker (like his dad at that age?) and seems to have modeled both parents. His grammar, including tense, use of pronouns, gender and number, all fit proper contemporary adult speech patterns. This has been developing for a while. Owen now seems to have even mastered verbal punctuation: exclamation points, question marks, commas for independent phrases, are all apparent in his oral arguments.

Somehow, he has also learned unique speech mannerisms that I must say I’ve never heard in other children. He habitually introduces a statement when others are speaking, even when talking to him, saying “Excuse Me!”– whether interrupting or not. Statements of fact are often preceded by “Actually,” as though he is providing surprising new information to his listener. Still evident in his conversation is his favorite interrogative from toddlerhood, “why?” This is typically a stand-alone sentence, neither preceded nor followed by any context – it’s been his favorite signal that he wants to continue the conversation, at least since he was two. He is seeking explanation.

Lately, Owen has also exhibited awareness of pop culture. This goes beyond speech mannerisms into real shared experiences with his parents and friends at “school” (their accepted name for the licensed family daycare facility down the street where he’s been since infancy). Action and characters from the Lego Movie, and Star Wars, are an integral part of his world. Marvel comics are now creeping in as well.

Would a more formal pre-K program enrich him more? He won’t be entering Kindergarten until he is almost six, due to his November birthday. His parents have discussed pre-K, but apparently rejected it, so far. His dad and uncle both had formal pre-school at Owen’s age or earlier. But I must say his language skills haven’t suffered!

What does Owen learn from observation? Where do his interests take him? At four, nature is the biggest draw. He notices the earth, soil, rocks, bugs. He helps Mom with her vegetable garden. He notices trees in the woods as well as people’s yards. And animals! He loves not only reptiles and dinosaurs, but everybody’s pets (he doesn’t have one of his own) and his favorite books are about wild animals, sea life, and dinosaurs. Owen even expresses concern about climate change and fragile ecosystems. He wants to build habitats for animals to “rescue them” from climate change, and thinks that people build “too many factories,” in his words.

Is Owen at a pre-reading level? He can print his name, and knows the alphabet, but familiar story books are memorized, the words aren’t read – including those “chapter” books his parents are collecting for him. He fooled me the other day when he appeared to read word-for-word the text on a page of one of them. But, when I asked him to identify specific words in the line of text, he couldn’t. It was the illustration on the page, and the sequence, that he had memorized.

Videos seem to be the best way to teach him concepts – much of his apparently deep understanding of complex things appear to come from educational videos that he’s shown me online. Some of them are brilliantly produced for preschoolers. Nonfiction children’s books are also a favorite, like D-K picture books, or National Geographic. Much factual knowledge in his interest areas comes from such additions to his home library. His dad loved pictorial reference books when he was Owen’s age, too.

Owen, the builder
Christmas, 2019

Analytical skills, including math and physics, are not yet apparent, except in primordial form, with Owen. The best exercise for this right now is building with Legos. He can now follow the pictorial instructions for small Lego sets by himself – meaning he can identify the pieces shown in the instructions and recognize the patterns of how they fit together. Larger sets still require help from dad, who was an avid Lego builder himself, and remains so today! (I suspect It’s now a stress-reducer, especially as a shared activity with his son.) Owen, so far, seems to limit his math to counting, some simple addition and subtraction, and he is finally beginning to understand gravity and balance when he gets creative in his building projects. But symmetry is now both a mastered concept, and a word in his vocabulary! “See grandpa, I made it symmetrical!” He was correct!

Owen has always been a physical kid, he loves outdoor running, and indoor yoga. He understands the difference between indoor physicality and outdoor physicality. Although, I haven’t been apprised of any interest in team sports yet. Outdoors, whether the terrain is familiar or not, he senses the opportunity to run, not walk, when he sees a path before him. His daycare facility deploys a Cosmic Kids yoga curriculum, and Owen confidently shows us his expertise, including naming poses, the horse pose from the farm “adventure” or the banana pose from the Betsy the Banana video adventure. All adventures begin with the secret Cosmic Kids word: “Namaste.”

His body awareness goes back to toddler days. I believe his mom has always emphasized it (his dad, not so much, if memory serves). He seems to be aware now of some grooming concerns – not just potty routines. He insisted, unprompted, during his weekend with grandparents, that we clip his nails! He instructed grandpa how to give a manicure! He also seems to know when to use a band-aid, and for how long, when he has a scratch or cut on his finger. He can now bathe himself in the tub, although he says he hasn’t had any experience with a shower.

Perhaps the greatest measure of early childhood development, however, is social awareness. Here, Owen, as can be expected, places the heaviest emphasis on his parents. They are the most important people in his life, and it’s critical that he get along with them. He expresses this by obeying their rules, and sometimes by showing genuine concern for their feelings. He seems to sense when his father is anxious, fading into the background as warranted (at least when grandpa is nearby), and I suspect he is at least as considerate toward his mother – I’ve noticed him asking when mommy is coming back, which is more likely than asking when daddy is coming. On the other hand, when confronted by a complex engineering (building) problem, he wants his daddy. Owen seems to see his grandparents as fun, somewhat lax in the rules department, which he works to his advantage – but he’s still amenable to the overall dictum, “when you’re with grandpa and G.G., we make the rules!”

Moving down the hierarchy from parents, Owen’s baby sister Mira (18-months) is becoming a playmate these days. There are competition and territory issues when they both occupy the same space at home – Mira isn’t allowed to play with Owen’s toys – but, generally, they interact well when the activity can be supervised and shared. When we brought Owen home that Sunday, slightly before his parents returned from Maryland with Mira, the first thing Mira did when she arrived was run to Owen and give him a hug! She hadn’t seen him for a whole weekend!

The outer circle of Owen’s world includes friends from “school,” children of his parents’ friends, and fictitious characters from play scenarios. The latter are invariably divided between “good guys” and “bad guys” – each playing a role, usually a function of their identity (policeman, “space guy,” or generic bad guy). Some school friends seem to be influencers as well – there are a couple older (or bigger?) boys at the daycare center. But I learned that “Logan is a troublemaker” – why? “Because Miss Eymy said so.”  So much for influencers.

As Owen relates his social experiences to grandpa, I can’t help but wonder if any of it portends a primal morality – or is it merely reflecting conflict? I haven’t heard Owen say anything about “fairness.” He seems to have all his needs met – for now! Neither can I see him parroting any sense of injustice from his parents, either. They seem to have their needs met, too. What am I missing?

Puzzlemaster Owen: two 48-piece puzzles all by himself!

  

Am I Old Yet?

An Update

William Sundwick

Warp & Woof has seen other pieces about getting old. It seems I owe the reader an update from time to time. I am now mid-way through my fifth year of retirement.

I wouldn’t contest the rationale for my exit from the Library of Congress after 42 years – the decision was a sound one, backed by sound reasoning. The retirement adventure began with excitement and enthusiasm in 2015. I was getting out before I got old. This was good. The first thing I noticed was what an incredible relief it was to sleep in every morning. (I am not a lark by nature, but an owl.)

As time passed, the distance increased from the institution I had served for the bulk of my life. I went back only once, within the first year after retiring – for a tour with our neighbors and their then seven-year-old grandson. He was impressed; me not so much.

By now, I can safely say that I’ve retained absolutely no knowledge of the things which qualified me for my highest-level position, and my status at the Library. It’s telling that I’ve written only one post in Warp & Woof about anything I learned from a career at the Library of Congress!

My wife’s situation is different. She still works there, in an analogous position to mine. We’ve discussed her retirement decision process using the same criteria I used in making my 2014 decision. It doesn’t work for her, since she has something I lacked – deep personal friendships with some of her colleagues. Even Facebook friends carried over from work are now fading from my active interest. Apparently, my professional life was rather shallow compared to hers.

My credo is “don’t look back” – that 42-year career is no different from my ancient childhood memories of growing up in Flint, Michigan. Nothing is forever.

Other social outlets have become suitable substitutes for whatever I lost from my professional relationships at the Library. There’s church, community, and my Writers’ Group. Then, there are my kids – and grandkids – all local still!

I am also fortunate that no major health concerns have emerged (yet). I find that good habits regarding fitness and diet do seem to pay dividends. Practicing good habits is the best way to do maintenance as we get older, even if gym memberships don’t necessarily constitute social engagement.

While some interests from earlier phases of life (even the first couple of post-retirement years) have waned – sex, cars, and computer/software geekery among them – others have emerged, like politics, philosophy, and popular music, seen as art. I feel my mind is still active; I read lots, listen to podcasts, and continue to write for this blog. I am immensely grateful for time spent with my two sons, and the grandkids. Babysitting is a joy!

So, when do I get old? Could it be when I become more absorbed with my legacy than my life? I don’t spend much time with that perennial question: “Will anybody miss me when I’m gone?” Ultimately, it doesn’t matter since I won’t be here to know. And memories are different from “missing” someone, anyway. But we do all have legacies.

I suspect mine will be divided between the concrete legacy (financial, educational, values transmitted to offspring) and the abstract legacy (impact on strangers and unborn generations). I can see evidence of the concrete legacy every day, but the abstract variety is more elusive. The latter might make me wonder what I was doing for 42 years at one of the world’s foremost cultural institutions. Screw it! Hardly anybody deserves the privilege to worry about those things, right? I’m not ready yet to spend time justifying my legacy, either variety, as “good.” Leave that for others to judge.

So, if I’m not old yet because I don’t worry about my legacy, am I maybe starting to get tired? The answer is both yes and no. As noted above, sleep is a motivator -- perhaps even more now than five years ago? But when awake I can usually still engage in lively conversation on any number of issues. I believe I have no difficulty getting people to understand what I’m saying. People, in general, are never tiresome – although my grandchildren can be very tiring!

A final indicator of being old might be the role dreams play in my life. Are they still there? I must confess to a “new boredom” at times. Much of what sparked my imagination in times past only elicits a “meh,” or yawn, now. Perhaps I need to find new emotional stimuli? Cultural conditioning is a constraint here in my response to art. I always look to younger folks (like my kids) for help in this area. Millennials are still the best interlocutors for art appreciation.

Whether I decide to define myself as old or not, there remain the Erik Erikson developmental stages of life. I am now wrestling with stage 8, “Integrity vs. Despair” – working full-time on the complete integration of my personality. This is the final act. I’m waiting only for stage 9, the hypothetical one suggested just before the Eriksons’ deaths, where everything rewinds back to the beginning!

I should be asking myself if there is anyone I missed – any debts I still owe? Are there still some opportunities to exploit? And, if I’m truly old, I need to start prioritizing what to do with the time left. Should I start leaving Post-It notes? “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep” – Robert Frost.

Mira and Her Big Brother

Grandchildren in the World

William Sundwick

When they first come into the world, they have no idea what’s in store for them. And it will be a long time before they have much influence over it.

They do, however, influence us, their elders – parents and grandparents. We love them, nurture them, are entertained by them. We raise our offspring in a spirit of optimism. They force it upon us.

Grandchildren, perhaps, even more than the immediately present and demanding children, suffuse that spirit. We must make it good for them for, surely, we have the power!

I have two grandchildren (so far). They are almost four and about 13 months. Big brother Owen is bemused by his baby sister Mira, but his primary concern seems to be to keep her from messing with his creations and toys. She is surprisingly mobile – and curious. He mainly seeks peace.

They both are driven by achievement. Mira is now taking her first steps.

She is tall, can pull herself up on most pieces of furniture in her house and her grandparents’ house. Yes, even walk without holding on. This presents an increasing threat to Owen – whose own achievement motivations require imagination, role playing, and manual dexterity. And he is aware of knowledge – he tells us as much when he says: “I’m almost four, I know lots.” He appears to be contrasting his mammoth achievement portfolio to his baby sister’s trivial level of development.

They each have their own communication styles: Mira by smiling, grasping, pointing, vocalizing (not quite words yet); Owen by his politeness (“Excuse Me!” when he wants to talk) and questions (“Why?” is the eternal question). Both seem to have an urge to share – stories, experiences, objects, food – and both seem to crave attention from adults, including their grandparents! “Play with me, grandpa!” commands Owen, and outstretched arms from Mira indicate she wants to be removed from her highchair.

As grandparents not charged with primary care for these two, we have the best of both worlds. We see them and interact regularly, but then can always send them home with their parents. We welcome them at our house, providing accommodations like training potties, highchairs, car seats, step stools, as the need arises. Plenty of books and toys at our place, too. When we babysit at their house evenings, we’ve learned to nail the bedtime routine for both – as well as feeding them dinner (and playing together). But we’re never required to spend more than a few hours devoted to their care. This is good for septuagenarians.

Even such relatively short stretches, however, remind me of the sense of foreboding we all share these days. That commitment to optimism is being increasingly challenged. What sort of world will they inherit? How much of their future misfortune will be our fault? In extreme cases, it appears that some are foregoing having children altogether. Has guilt and fear consumed them to such an extent?

It’s clear that much of Mira and Owen’s education will be focused on dealing with their own uncertain futures. What will they now need to learn? Instead of success tools, it seems they will be learning mostly survival tools! Even their parents – what will they have to look forward to in their own retirement? Will they even have a retirement? Will lifespans increase, or drastically contract? What about economic resources? Will my two grandchildren grow up conditioned to expect less? It seems the moral choice for them would be … absolutely, yes! Nobody should be allowed to have as much in their future lives as their parents had (or their grandparents). At least, that’s the way it looks from the privileged positions we find ourselves in today.

Perhaps the secret for us grandparents is to spend even more time in direct contact with our grandchildren. Then, we wouldn’t have time to think too hard about these questions. Their wonder at the world – at their own bodies, minds, and capabilities -- might consume us as much as it does them. We might discover some of their innocence. Optimism may then begin to climb out of that pit of anxiety and pessimism.

Staying Anchored and Marking Time

The Meaning of Routines

William Sundwick

About two years ago, I wrote a post for Warp & Woof called “Celebrating Banality.” It was a defense of the banal, quotidian routines in life. They were contrasted with the relatively rare moments of exhilaration from new experiences that our culture tends to equate with creativity or a “meaningful” life.

I’m now two years older, seems like it might be time for an update. Much of my beloved banality has survived. I still eat the same breakfasts and lunches I did two years ago, sleep patterns remain the same, and watching TV late at night with my wife continues to be a hallowed tradition. I still play games by devising alternating patterns on a complexity continuum for executing my routines. I will always do my neighborhood walks in the same order (counterclockwise from my house) for the complete eight-day circuit of my eight different routes, then start over. Gym workouts include back strengthening on nautilus equipment for two of the four sessions each week, but not a third day – unless I anticipate play dates with grandchildren which require lifting and carrying them. Other contingency patterns work for other routines, depending on the number of choices available for any given task.

But there have also been some changes of routines. I am now off the Board of Deacons at my church (3-year terms), hence have fewer regular evening meetings to attend, and fewer joint projects with folks at church. A replacement for that, however, is that I have gone “all-in” with my Daytime Writers Group, making blogging nearly a full-time pursuit. And, the routines around grandfathering have also changed. Parents’ work schedules no longer require frequent afternoon babysitting. Although more independent now, Owen has a new baby sister!

Staying anchored via routines is what others expect of us. They’re our real world. Marking time is what we do when we “recharge” for the next new thing. But those new things often have obstacles in their path – at our age, old routines often die hard. As much as I love my neighborhood walks, losing one of the eight different routes recently due to park maintenance in Falls Church caused real discomfort when I had to reconfigure that route! It’s always easier if routines remain unchanged when you get old.

And, because I am generally slower to react to new stimuli, I may not even recognize when an old routine is no longer working for me. I spend too much time on Facebook. Social media surfing has grown rather than subsided over the past two years, and now consumes much of my day – despite warnings from many pundits about its addictive properties. It’s marking time, but not in a good way.

Physical mobility is even more important to me now than two years ago. My stretching exercises and weights at home, as well as my cardio-intensive gym workouts, have become more critical – at least in my mind. I’ve experienced no decline in mobility but am more afraid of it for the future. Exercise helps me stay anchored.

It’s also possible that the range of future possibilities is greater now than two years ago. At least, I now look forward to developments that were less clear then. Maintaining the status quo of a democratic society has become a greater challenge, seemingly more threatened than even two years ago. I anticipate seeing at least two grandchildren growing up (well, getting bigger). I want them to have as many of the fruits that I was privileged to share as I can provide. Two years ago, I was still enjoying the freedom from the social constraints of my pre-retirement work environment. Today I place social interconnection at the top of my list of desirable traits in society.

My writing for Warp & Woof, as well as micro-blogging in Facebook discussion groups, has taken the form of a meta-analysis of reality. More than any other activity in which I engage, it keeps me anchored. Each post marks time until the next one. And, I think I don’t really care if anybody reads my writing (I do get feedback from Facebook friends and discussion group members, as well as Daytime Writers). At least I’ve put it out there. Anybody can discover it. And, listening to podcasts while on my neighborhood walks helps me explore that meta-analysis for later use in my writing.

Establishing routines, whether writing, exercise, or social interaction, is like a toddler learning to walk. Place one foot in front of the other, while maintaining balance. With practice comes greater confidence. And as you get good at the routines, you can even learn how to fit other people into them. They can support your routines, rather than interfere with them.

What happens when you must stop a routine? If physical difficulty, or danger, requires a replacement for the old routine, then you unlearn the old behavior, as painful as that can be as we age. The replacement therapy may take the form of help from others in your life, or systematic re-education. Ultimately, you will ask yourself the question: why do I need to change?  The answer will likely be you are harming your health, or others are making new demands on you, or that you’re simply missing something in your life, even if you can’t quite identify it. If none of these apply, maybe you don’t need to change!

Will I have another update in reporting my routines? It may depend on other people in my life forcing change on me. Or, it may be because of something I see as a “decline” – I hope not! Change when you’re over 70, not to be taken lightly.

School’s Out!

Even Family Day Care Gets Summer Vacation

William Sundwick

It happens every year. This is Owen’s second summer vacation from the family day care provider in his neighborhood. Grampa and GiGi volunteered to take three days out of the facility’s five-day closure. We played, we napped on the Aerobed in Grampa and GiGi’s bedroom, bought just for Owen. And, then the big event Friday – we got a haircut at the award-winning Westover Barber Shop. They specialize in kids’ haircuts! Topping it all off, we visited the Westover Library and had lunch at the Lost Dog Café.

As he gets bigger, Owen is more confident of his place in the world. He is comfortable with us, our

house, our toys – and, we have now discovered, our neighborhood business district! This was his third haircut at Westover Barber Shop. He already knew the people there. And, he knew the Library and Lost Dog, too! Comfortable, confident, more interested in the truck and bus traffic he saw through the windows than what was happening inside.

But, if there was a lull in the adventure content of what he saw and heard, he made up for it with his active imagination – he became a “trash man,” the toy ambulance was rushing to an “emergency,” Grampa was “sick”! Or, Owen was a “monster,” making gruff roaring sounds.

As soon as he arrived Tuesday morning, the first thing he asked for was “trains” (the Brio collection inherited from the older boy next door when he outgrew them).

Then, thanks to GiGi buying sidewalk chalk for him, we went outside on the patio and drew on the pavers – long, straight lines, rather impressive. Grampa suggested two lines, different colors, equal length, next to one another. Then, the two pull-back vehicles entered the scene – a DRAG RACE! (Credit Grampa’s imagination for that.) it worked. The lifted Hummer beat the Crown Vic police car!

To prove to us that he was a “big boy,” Owen presented no resistance to afternoon naps on that nicely dished out Aerobed, with a full-size pillow (prepped, to be sure, with the requisite two bedtime stories). Like the barber shop, naps were a piece of cake for him – been there, done that!

When comfort begins melting into boredom, Owen easily fills in with his play-acting skills (child development specialists like his mom call this “imaginative play”). Presented with the same toys, the same Brio tracks, the same rooms, that he knows so well, he can make something different happen with them each time. The boredom isn’t in his head – maybe his grandparents? But, Grampa, at least, has no problem letting Owen take the lead, letting those wonderful fantasies go wherever they may.

As engaging as he is now, his life will soon be turned upside down with the arrival of a new baby sister! Owen knows she’s coming – Mommy and Daddy have spent much time talking to him about that. When GiGi mentioned her doctor’s appointment, Owen asked, “Do you have a baby in your tummy?”

Who Am I, and How Did I Get Here?

Rare Reflection on Origins and Motivation

William Sundwick

What is my earliest childhood memory? It’s hard to say. Experiences from early childhood can sometimes be counterfeit. But one that I identified years ago, when my parents were still alive to confirm its authenticity, is standing in our driveway on a warm summer day, looking at the sun glinting off a sparkling two-tone green 1950 Chevrolet.

Both Dad and Mom agreed, as the memory flashed unexpectedly into my consciousness, it must have been when we had just gotten a new car – right about the time of my third birthday. My mind’s eye saw not only the car, but the red brick house on one side, the side door to the kitchen, the green grass of the front yard. It was real to me. No photograph was found, and the family photo album was intact at that point. Why did it appear to me just then?

Had the memory been somehow implanted earlier by my parents? Or, was it truly experienced, suddenly disgorged from my subconscious? Does it matter?

Here to Please

Pleasing my mother and father was one of my most important goals in early self-awareness. I remember the emotional distress of that struggle (especially pleasing my father). I remember my mother being forced to “run interference” between my father and me from a very early age. I had no siblings.  A fils unique has a special burden since his parents’ entire legacy is embodied in him! Yet, he also has the advantage of a simple family structure to master. He is there to please his parents, full stop.

I don’t remember any pain in childhood. Anxiety, for sure. But, actual physical pain, no. If asked today, I’d say my childhood was a privileged and comfortable one. Yet, another early memory (vague compared to the car in the driveway) is my mother telling ME, age 4 or 5, that it was wrong of my father to spank me -- although I don’t remember the spanking.

As I grew older, loneliness became palpable. Another bit of collateral damage from singleton status? Again, it was emotional rather than physical pain. There was always a wall between me and my neighborhood and school friends, even between my cousins and me (three of them my age). The cousins had different parents -- and siblings. I retained no connections in adulthood with any childhood friends, and little with the cousins for that matter (except for polite Christmas cards).

As I progressed through school, the drive to please was seamlessly transferred from parents to teachers. I did well. My learning style seemed to favor logical discourse, more than analytical experiment. Sciences were okay, especially physics and astronomy, but math needed to stop before it got too abstract – no calculus for me. People did interest me, however, and studying their behavior was fun. I loved to draw, then write. Mostly, I drew cars but wrote about people.

There were conflicts. I believe I was bullied – but, do not remember details or assailants. Again, don’t remember pain, only anxiety. I relied on authority figures to protect me from bullies. It usually worked.

The Sundwicks and the Chambers

Extended family filled the void left from limited immediate family. The Sundwick clan, especially, was a powerful force. They came from Swedish-speaking Finland in the late nineteenth century, settling in Michigan’s Keeweenaw Peninsula – Houghton and Hancock, the UP “copper country.” My paternal grandfather was a piano tuner by trade, and violin maker by art. He sold his violins in the area, and several have been recovered by the family.  He had eight children -- my five aunts, my dad, Uncle Bob, and a third boy, David (who died in my childhood, never knew him well).

The Chambers family of Wisconsin, by contrast, was largely a mystery to me. My mother told me of her eleven siblings (yes!) and itinerate Methodist minister father (circuit riding?). But, she left her family when she married my dad. I’ve had no contact with any of the Chambers family, not in childhood, not in adulthood. One sister-in-law showed up only at Mom’s funeral in 2007. It was a very sad story. Why?

My mom and dad met during World War II in Detroit – the war industry (nee automobile) employing both. My father had an occupational deferment as an engineer. Mom felt she was “adopted” by the overbearing Sundwicks; did her own family even miss her? What dark stories lay under the surface?

The Sundwick family dynamics placed the two oldest sisters and my father as titular (but squabbling) family heads.  The younger siblings were always the “children” – this seems to have taken a toll on Uncle Bob, in particular.

Family hierarchies tend to last a lifetime. Four of the eight children died early, by my reckoning. One survives (she’s 95). My father’s two youngest sisters, especially, tended to portray Dad as a demi-god. He was revered, and fawned over, by both. Uncle Bob, on the other hand, was generally ignored – his contributions minimized. He died early of heart disease. His brother David had died even earlier, after crippling war injuries sustained in the Pacific. I knew him only as wheelchair-bound. But, it was cancer that killed him.

Flint

In 1953, when I was not yet six, we moved from Dearborn to Flint. We lived only a few blocks from Uncle Bob and his family of three kids. Flint seemed to me like “Sundwick City.” My mother wasn’t happy about it.

Yet, all my schooling from age six through high school graduation was in the public schools of that fine industrial city.  It was mostly my mother who kept the standards high – and she was class-conscious. She embarked upon a college education for herself, would become a high school English teacher upon completion of her degree in an early graduating class of U of M-Flint, 1960. She was an adult, part-time, student. We had hired help around the house (Thelma, our African-American housekeeper and Boyce Buckner, our African-American yard man). Mom was going to get that college degree! She loved English literature more than anything, but I remember a sociology discussion with Mom about the distinction between middle-middle and upper-middle class. She steadfastly maintained we were middle-middle class. I heard her, but as I look back, it really seems more like upper-middle – at least in that Flint environment. My father’s position in plant-level management, with an engineering degree, solidified our standing -- especially when Mom became a high school teacher. Our country club membership was a marker, too.

I needed to move on. The Flint public schools did nothing to encourage me to stay and contribute to the community. My high school guidance counselor, my teachers, my parents, those aunts, all understood – Flint was no place for anybody like me, the anointed one in the Sundwick family.

My dad always talked of job security, his chief concern – you won’t find it in industry, work for the government, he said. My mother felt that a mind was a terrible thing to waste. And, my friends all received those same messages. We all left. Apparently, that trend only accelerated over the ensuing decades. Flint is now the poorest city of its size in the U.S. Not surprising that it would be forgotten five years ago when planning water supply redirection.

Getting Out

The social milieu of Flint, Michigan in the 1960s was perhaps an extreme case of the opposite of what I sought. Any “Big City” was the draw. It would only be there, I imagined, that I would ever fit – among intellectuals, people who made a difference with their minds and words. Not so much their hands, feet, or backs.

My strategy would be to get established somewhere in the public sector (or academia), then build a life. Unfortunately, the prospect of an end to student deferment after my college graduation forced a decision during those peak Vietnam War years. I postponed graduate school.

I wasn’t drafted, however (high lottery number). By that time, I found myself working in a public library system in Tampa, Florida. It was close to my parents, who had left Flint when I went off to college. The story continues with my pursuit of graduate work in the library field, at the University of Maryland, called “Library and Information Science” in those days, now simply “Information Studies.” From there, I embarked on my father’s dream career, the federal government – at the Library of Congress.

As the anointed one in the family, I was obligated to become a parent.  I had two sons with my wife, and my new role as solid rock, playful pal, and guarantor of their safety, was activated in the experience of parenting.

Now that I’ve “gone the distance’ – the boys are men, self-sufficient (mostly) –retirement has become feasible. Some personal issues remain: how long do I have? What happens when wife retires? When to downsize? But, these are still beyond the horizon. As I ask myself, “does it matter?”, motivation does sag a bit, as I’ve accepted that the world is bigger than me and my family. My contribution to it may be relatively small. But, it keeps growing.

Grandparenthood has given me a slight burst of enthusiasm -- grandchildren do matter, after all. As I replay the rock, the playmate, the safety guarantor, roles yet again, I reflect on those origins. The family line continues.

My legacy could be teamwork. One son sees himself as the natural leader of a team, the other as a contributor to the team. What defines the team? Common bonds and purpose, I think. It’s not as hierarchical as the large family of three generations ago – much flatter organization chart!

I can enjoy that structure.

When It All Comes to an End

… Grandfatherly Affection for a Very Young Grandchild

William Sundwick

I’ve read much about the pros and cons of a late start raising a family. Often, these pieces are aimed at young women, with the best of intentions. There are good feminist reasons for delaying child birth, although not too long, for equally valid medical reasons. And, much research indicates that older parents are often better parents. But, what about dads? Are they also better dads if they are more mature, better established in their chosen profession? There is so much incentive to get more years of education, more secure financial position, better resume – all before becoming “tied down” to a family!

As a result, dads get old before they become grandfathers. 

And grandfathers, especially if they have raised their kids to also start late, can be very old! What may be gained by providing that steadier hand for their children, is offset when it comes to generational continuity as grandfather. I’m not saying that I should live to be a great grandfather, but it would be nice to see your grandchildren (at least one of them) grow into a man, graduate from college, meet a spouse --whatever.

Sigh. I have a 20-month old grandson. There may be more coming, maybe not. But, I know I’m not getting any younger -- despite the rejuvenating effect of babysitting a toddler. Actuarially, I’m not likely to make it very far into his adulthood. I’m 70 now.

 He will soon learn my name -- I hear attempts to say something approaching “appa,” but usually he gives up and just shouts “daa-daa” (even when his own dad is not present).

But, will he ever know me? Since we live in the same area, theoretically there is every chance that we can become very familiar. I am, so far, in pretty good health. No obvious infirmities, but that may change by the time he reaches a more impatient stage in his own development (adolescence).  Grandma seems more playful, less reserved, than Grandpa – perhaps Grandpa is intentionally withholding that playful side, for fear of it being unrequited?

What common experiences will we share? Right now, his world consists mostly of exploring his new-found autonomy and agency -- everything is new. He’s fascinated by all of it, but certain behaviors have longer-lasting appeal, it seems. He loves placing things in containers, and tries endless combinations of different things being placed in the same container. He also assiduously mimics kitchen behavior -- “cut, cut” with a plastic knife or fork is downright compulsive. It is always followed by “eat” or “food” o “hot” -- among his earliest words. Both parents are die-hard hipster foodies! His mother maintains a vegetable garden … and often works there with him. And, his other grandfather gave him a kitchen play set which has been sitting in the dining room since before he could stand at its mock sink and oven. Now he prepares full meals there – placing pots on burners (“hot”), offering plates of fake soft pillow fruits and vegetables to his guests (“eat”, “food”). 

Eventually, I must accept that grandpa will mostly be known by his legacy, not by shared experiences. When it all comes to an end, that legacy will hopefully be transmitted by his dad. His dad knows me, for sure. And, whatever family history is conveyed to my grandchildren, I trust my two sons will relay the appropriate mix of myth vs. reality.

How can I protect him from the future, after I’m gone? I’m convinced that things will get increasingly difficult during his lifetime. By the time he’s my age, much of the planet may well be uninhabitable. Even if apocalyptic climate change is somehow averted, there is still the ever-present danger of social collapse. Migration to another country may be necessary, to escape the inexorable drift toward civil war in the U.S. Then, what about other dangers -- disease, accidents, economic dislocation? I don’t want him to endure any of these afflictions. Can my legacy provide him security? Probably not, alas.

As I contemplate human history, however, I ask myself: isn’t this the universal condition of civilization? One generation passes its legacy to the next, nobody lives forever. That legacy is always a skillful blend of storytelling, part myth, part documented events. Teaching a younger generation “life’s lessons” has always been a dicey proposition, at best -- it makes more sense just to tell a good story!

My grandson doesn’t know any of this yet. He’s too busy finding things that fit inside other things, and mimicking kitchen behavior of his parents. But, he is learning at a phenomenal rate. So long as he is protected from disaster, we’ll tell ourselves, “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” And, his parents both believe they do know it -- all! -- a bonus for him. Their confidence is truly amazing. They are among the lucky few who may be right about that, too!

As for myself, Grandpa, I remain optimistic that my wisdom will be accepted, if offered in small doses. Perhaps it will even be sought at times. Grandparents are, indeed, helpful -- babysitting in a pinch, allowing them escape from the crushing burden of 24/7 toddler parenting duty; or, those errands run for overworked, ambitious parents. And, then, there’s that Virginia 529 college savings plan … 

Fingers crossed, my grandson and I are poised to explore many new things together -- for a while, at least. And, when it all comes to an end – there is that legacy!