Riding in car with granddaughter

The radio is tuned to a classical station, Mozart. I let the music wash over me like a warm shower. The stunted knotty willows fly by unseen. The shoulder slopes down to the river where barges chug. Riding low, heavy with cargo, going to, or coming from the seaport. Small dogs, like yapping figure heads, share the latest gossip as they pass.

The sun disappears, taking the sparkle from the water. More clouds gather; the wind picks up. The music swells and wanes and swells again like an incoming tide, adding to the tension in the car. I slow down when the rain hits the wind shield.

Allyson, arms crossed over her chest, turns away from the side window, pulls her earbuds out and sighs. A deep sigh, filled with a truckload of exasperation, drama, and hopelessness.

“You don’t understand, grandma. Everybody does it.”

I bite my tongue to keep from asking her the age-old question about everybody jumping off a cliff.

“I know.” I sigh. As deep as hers, maybe with less exasperation. But then, how do you measure drama?

“All I’m saying, dear, is to think it through. Two things they don’t tell you is that colors fade and gravity always wins. A sweet butterfly on your left breast might look adorable now, and I’m sure it would, but know that by the time you’re my age it will have stretched into a bat.”

“Grandma!” Allyson’s eyes are like saucers, her hand is clasped over her grin, as if I just spouted a series of four-letter words. Hell, I would never ... Well, almost never. I do, however, feel a certain pride that I, an old woman of seventy, can shock a teen. Reaching across the console, I pat her knee and try to shrug off the image of my grandmother doing the same to me

“Just promise that you think it through. And be sure you are sober.”

“Geez! I’m not old enough to drink.” I don’t have to look at her to know she rolls her eyes.

“Never stopped anyone, dear.”

Once again, I stuff my irritation at my daughter. I’m sure her job is important. I’m proud she was picked for it. I know that it is not a good idea to leave an almost sixteen-year-old alone in Tokyo for a summer. But what do I know about raising a teenager? Didn’t Pamela and I knock heads enough back then? What do I remember about being her age?

I still don’t know the difference between U2 and You tube. I never figured out whether grunge was good or bad. Whether Madonna was hype or substance. Why Britney Spears was famous and what everybody saw in Justin Bieber. I shake my head and wonder whatever happened to Mayberry RFD and Harlequin romances? Not that they prepared me for life. But …

How are we supposed to get through the next two months without permanent alienation? Will I be able to hold my tongue and not make the same mistakes I made with her mother? I know that we’re both floundering, standing at the doorstep to a new part of our lives. Are we too far apart in age and values to connect? I know my summer plans had not included her and I’m sure she had not planned on being baby-sat by an old biddy.

“Do you want to know why I’m against it?” I ask. No use lecturing if she’s not going to listen.

Another sigh dragged up from her toes. “Okay.”

I gather my thoughts. “Maybe you’re right and everybody your age is getting a tattoo. I just don’t want you to miss out on getting into the university of your choice, or get passed over at work, or even miss out on jobs because of body art. I don’t want you to have to wear long-sleeve shirts buttoned up to your neck to hide something you did when you were in high school.”

“But there are so many places where I could have a tattoo that won’t show.” She protested.

“If it won’t show, and nobody will see it, then why do it?”

“It’s cool.”

“So are new shoes, or a new haircut, or even dying your hair purple, shaving it all off. None of that is permanent.”

She swipes through her phone and holds it up to me. “But see. These are cute. Sure,” she scrolls down further. “Some are more bussin’ than others. But …”

“Fashions change, dear.” I say.

She starts to answer. “No, let me finish. When I was your age, heavy eyeliner and dramatic cat eyes were in fashion. Like Jean Shrimpton.”

"Who?”

“Never mind. Then came Twiggy.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Years ago I saw a movie. Liz Taylor in Cleopatra. Go ahead and google that.”

"EeUw!”

“Right. Let’s say I had a tattoo like that around my eyelids. I would have been stuck in the 60’s for all these years. Think about it.”

“Okay.”

For a few minutes all we hear is the rain on the roof.

“Do you get The Diaries?”

“Excuse me?”

My head spins with the change in topic.

“The Vampire Diaries.” I think I hear another eyeroll.

I shake my head. “No. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. What is it about?”

Allyson turns in her seat for as much as her seatbelt allows and for next half hour she gushes on about two brothers. How one has flashbacks and the other has cravings, and how they are constantly fighting over one thing or another, and all the other convoluted relationships and …

I nod and hum now and then and realize I’ve seen the show a hundred times. Granted, without the bloody mary’s, but with plenty of ketchup. And back then, I was just as carried away with endless, identical episodes of Rawhide, Bonanza and I Spy. While Allyson rattles on, I let myself become nostalgic over a young Rowdy Yates and the razor-sharp cheekbone of Adam Cartwright.

“And they have tats, Gran. And the ones on The Hundred, and … and … You should see them.” She’s swiping furiously over her phone and holds it up to me. “See, aren’t they …” a swoon-like sigh. Just like the ones I made each time I saw Clint, or Paul, or …

“Sorry, kid. I’m driving. But show me again when we get home.”

“Okay.” But her voice is trailing off. She’s in her fantasy land where she’ll be cool like them.

I let her have her dreams. I’ve had mine. They were harmless. I would have frozen on the spot or otherwise embarrassed myself if anyone I’d seen on TV, up to and including Festus, had ever said as much as ‘hi’ to me. And let’s be honest, who among us did not want to have Farrah hair? How many leather jackets were sold, just so we could be cool like the Fonz?

On the other hand, would this, still gangly, starry-eyed girl experiment with drinking blood? Nah. She wouldn’t, would she? But tattoos and piercings? That’s a whole other question. So frigging permanent.

While we outrun the rain, I tell myself to do some serious googling. Hopefully, whoever played the part of whatever character she’s gaga over, had some fancy make-up work done for the part.

Though … do I want to burst her bubble? Or will I let her swoon and obsess?

“Hey.” I pull her out of her dream.

“Yeah?”

“Your birthday is next month, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll pay for a tattoo. How’s that?”

“You would?”

I nod.

“Cool.” She whispers.

Two months later, when we drive back to meet her mother at the airport, my granddaughter is still tattoo-less and absorbed in Pride and Prejudice.