I just returned home from two weeks in the UK with one of my grandsons. He was 15 and now 16. We landed at London Heathrow late morning, checked into our hotel near St. Pancras Station by 2 PM (14:00), bought local cell phone numbers with new chips for our phones, and decided to walk to Trafalgar Square.
My grandson, who is the same height as I am, held my hand as we strolled past the British Museum, heading for The Thames. Trafalgar Square was quiet. The last time I was there, hundreds of nude cyclists tied up the road and pedestrian traffic for almost an hour around St. Martin’s in the Fields and The National Gallery.
After Trafalgar, my grandson and I found a smoothie shop, recovered some of our energy — perhaps I’m projecting because I was really the tired one — and strolled back to our hotel past the fascinating architecture of inner London. We happily hugged and held hands. That wonderful closeness continued for the rest of our time together in London and in the countryside.
On the last day of our trip, we arrived early in the morning at London Heathrow only to find that my grandson’s Swiss Air flight to Geneva to meet his dad and sister, was canceled and rebooked to 17:00. In hopes of finding an earlier departure we joined a short line at the customer help window.
Immediately behind us was a small family group, twin boys, their mother, and a grandmother. We chatted with the mother a little bit, enough to know that they were all recently from Ukraine. I asked my grandson how old he thought the boys were. We both guessed around six or seven, but the grandmother overheard us and said, “They’re five.” I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was, that she understood English. Duh!
Sometime later my grandson and I were facing forward in the line, my arm around his shoulder. We were chatting, enjoying each other, me thinking that we’d soon be off in our different directions.
Then I noticed something moving low on my left side down by my knee. It was a little hand, fingers extended and wriggling, an invitation, “Notice me.” I reached down, covered the tiny hand with my own, then slowly turned around. The little boy was looking straight ahead, not up, standing still, with his hand now in mine. I put my other arm around him and gave him a gentle hug. He leaned in. His brother stepped over for his hug. Now I had one twin in each arm. Their mother smiled warmly.
Soon the small family group couldn’t wait any longer and headed to their flight. Half an hour later we made it to the window, where the lone assistant found my grandson the last seat on a soon-departing flight to Geneva that we hurried to board. It was now uncomfortably close to my United San Francisco flight on the opposite side of Heathrow. I made it just as my flight group finished boarding.
Sitting on the plane I thought about the Ukrainian family and how those five-year-old twins needed an adult male hug. Was their father still in Ukraine, fighting that terrible war with Russia? Was he dead? On my side, hugging them felt wonderful. The feeling reminded me that 11 years ago when my wife died, I realized that I should do what made me feel good. Top on that list was playing with my grandchildren, who were then also between three and six years old. That’s when I decided to volunteer at a local school helping immigrant children, mostly from Latin America, read English.
I started in first grade, gradually working up the levels to fifth grade, and in the last four years working with second graders. It’s been an enjoyable 2-mornings-a-week for 12 years, but the Heathrow hugs from those five-year-olds made me think about why I began volunteering. I’m going to talk with my supervisor about maybe spending some time with kindergarten or first grade.
Thank you for reading.
Barry
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