The grandson

Our twenty-one-year-old grandson has been living here since sometime in June as a result of a room-mate situation gone bad. It was going to be temporary, but I decided, since he wasn't rocking my little boat too badly, to let him stay... as long as things are working out for all of us.

I told him I wouldn't cook for him. Cliff works nights, so our main meal is at noon. Grandson is at work then. Often, the meals I cook for Cliff and me are simple ones: a four-ounce serving of salmon, a baked sweet potato, and broccoli; a simple salad; or one of several healthy bean-and-rice dishes that makes four servings. Not the fare a young fellow would choose. I do keep a few frozen things he can microwave, and there's always peanut butter and jelly. And he goes through about a gallon of ice cream a week, making milk shakes.

So the cooking thing has worked out all right. He does his own laundry. And pays $25 as I requested, to help defray the cost of ice cream. He's taking this opportunity to build a nest egg, of which I'm in charge.

I don't expect him to check in with his whereabouts because, after all, he's of age.

Cliff gave him this rule: "If you get thrown in jail for something stupid, don't call me."

About the only rule I've given is this: "You cannot buy a motorcycle while you're living here.

This probably seems strange to others, since Cliff and I ride a motorcycle. But we do remember what twenty-one was like, vaguely; and we've seen some of the stunts grandson has pulled with his pickup: therefore, no bike for the grandson. Not while he's here where I would know every time he was out on it, and lose sleep worrying.

So far, things are working out. Oh, if I wake up at 3:30 A.M. and remember the grandson is supposed to go in early that day, I can't go back to sleep because I wonder if he'll wake himself up, then I'll get up so I can be sure to wake him. Things like that.

I realized yesterday that there is some pressure on him, living here with us.

His employers are really messing over him lately... changing his hours, having him come in for two hours on Sunday, things like that. So yesterday the boss chewed him out because he threw a fit Sunday in front of the big-wigs about the fact that they had promised him overtime for that day, then informed him when he got there it was a new week. No overtime.

"The only reason I didn't quit today," he told us, "is because I didn't want to come home and tell Grandma I quit my job."

Maybe that little bit of pressure on him is a good thing.

He's trying to get a different job, and I certainly hope he finds one. Prayers would be appreciated.