Blogger’s Note: Now that I’m writing for a living again, I am trying to find my way back to writing for the heck of it (i.e., for the sheer enjoyment). Wish me luck!

A curious thing happened at the St. Michael Catholic Church Fall Festival last month. The celebration was just getting underway on the church grounds; I was setting up a St. Vincent de Paul display in the gathering space of the church (which also serves as our cry room), and Saturday evening Mass was about to culminate in the reception of Holy Eucharist.

Just then, a young father approached me with his infant daughter in his arms. I am familiar with this young man: We are close friends with his wife’s family and attended his wedding, though I’m not sure I ever spoke to him directly before this moment.

He leaned close and whispered, so as not to disturb the other parents praying nearby: “Would you mind bringing our baby down to her mom? She’s working in the food tent outside. It’s almost time for Communion, and baby needs mom-time!”

I was not expecting this, but the prospect of snuggling this baby, even for a few minutes, was irresistible. “Sure!” I said, extending my arms to receive the precious bundle, “Happy to do it!”

“I knew if I found someone like you or John*, I’d be all set,” the young man said. “Thank you.” Then he knelt and returned to prayer.

As I carefully descended the stairs, I nuzzled the fuzzy head near my chin and a wave of infant sweetness swept over me. Her eyes were open wide, but she seemed content. I stopped at the bottom, closed my eyes, smiled, and sighed, briefly contemplating if it would be a violation of trust to find a quiet corner to enjoy this blessing while she was peaceful and quiet. I shook off the desire and headed out to the festival grounds.

The women-folk noticed first: “Jim’s got a baaa-beee!” “Whose little one?” “Oh, isn’t she precious.” “Way to go, grandpa!”

I moved quickly away, determined not to share this moment. I made my way to the food tent, hesitated, then reluctantly approached the baby’s mother. Her back was turned.

“I have something for you,” I said.

She turned, and her face turned quizzical: “Where did you get…?”

“Your husband asked if I could bring her to you,” I explained. “He was about to receive Communion and said she needed mom-time.”

“So he just handed our daughter off to you?” she said, then laughed. “That sounds about right. Thank you for bringing her down!”

I handed over her child, but I’d be lying if I said my gaze didn’t linger on her little face. My heart ached for two little boys an ocean away in Italy.

It was time for a beer.

+ + + + +

This incident was the clearest indication yet that I now give off grandpa vibes. I turn 49 next month, so I don’t think it’s an age thing. The change, I think, is interior, but more and more often manifests itself in a peaceful openness to the present moment and an unreserved friendliness with strangers and aquaintances that I didn’t used to display or even feel.

What do I mean? Well, the young father in the account above seems to have glimsped the former characteristic: He knew, even before I did, that I would deliver his daughter to her mother—that I would be open to the request and could be relied upon to carry it out. My bride and offspring can vouch for the fact that I am neither patient nor particularly flexible, but since having grandchildren, I find myself adapting to the needs of even other people’s children in ways I couldn’t have imagined when I was a young father and Jodi was doing home daycare.

A friend and I also have a discipleship group (D-group)—a group of high-school guys we meet with roughly monthly to discuss life and pray together. Historically, I have struggled with relating to teens outside my own family, but the other morning, the mother of one of these young men stopped me after Mass to tell me how much her son enjoys spending time with us and how much it means to her family that we are there for her son, loving, guiding, and praying for him.

I didn’t used to be that guy.

Plus, I putter. For years now, the neighbor across the street would spend much of the day with his garage doors open, working on vehicles, tending his yard, helping his neighbors, and observing and commenting on the happenings of the day—essentially, enjoying the day at its own pace as it unfurled.

By contrast, I was a man on a mission, grumpy and anxious, trying to do way too much in too little time, and doing none of it well.

Until now. These days, I’ll go the garage and open the overhead door, just to see what happens. Something always does. Often the neighbor and I will wave from our respective driveways; frequently this results in a short reverse nod that indicates he’d like a word, and we meet at the street, talking and laughing in loud voices.

As the elder and more experienced putterer, often he is giving me grief:

“Is that one of those electric/rechargeable snowblowers? It sounds like my razor!”

“You heard me rolling my trash can to the curb, eh? Did you hear my lawnmower? Looks like you need to do that, too!”

I never take offense, because none is meant. It’s just the banter of two old men. But it’s not just him with whom I banter. I jab cashiers and restaurant servers, compliment good service, joke with strangers, and talk with anyone who shows an interest in anything.

I didn’t used to be this sociable. I think a big part of the change is this: I don’t feel the need to impress as much anymore. We have a good life, and I am more and more content every day.

+ + + + +

The day after the baby incident, my D-group and my men’s group helped to clean up after the Fall Festival. I’ve been in a few different men’s groups over the years, but always by invitation, never as a founding member. This time it was my idea, and I’m the oldest man present. I’m trying to share my experience (I have experience!) with younger husbands and fathers, as well as with teens. Go figure!

While we were cleaning up litter, another older man I didn’t know approached me and asked about my hat, a gray wool cap with a brown leather brim called, in Polish, a maciejowka (ma-cheh-JOOF-kah), or more generically, a fiddler (for its resemblence to the headwear in Fiddler on the Roof, I presume). **

My father wears a broad-brimmed cowboy hat—he has for many years—but that’s never been my speed. Ball caps are too casual and difficult to find for a size-8 head; flat caps too hip; fedoras, homburgs, and derbies too formal. But I love a good fiddler, and so did my new friend.

We talked at length about hats, about Poland, about our families, as we—you guessed it—puttered around the church grounds picking up trash. We connected quickly over my hat, but I’m convinced the first connection was more subtle and subconcious. We were both giving off grandpa vibes.

*I assume he meant our youth minister and fellow grandfather John O’Sullivan.

**Also, since Jodi and I go by Oma and Dziadzi (JAH-jee)—German for grandma and Polish for grandpa—a Polish cap seems appropriate, especially since it was worn by the Polish Resistance!