Barbara Presnell: How to Get to Where We Want to Go
How to Get Where We Want to Go
Barbara Presnell
I walked to Connecticut last week, and let me tell you, it was a journey worth sharing.
I have two grandsons. Born post-Covid, they are members of Generation Alpha. Their parents are strict, millennial parents, focused on organic food, the importance of reading, regular bedtime, rules. Their parents were born into an analog world that changed quickly to digital. They suffered through dial-up connection, 9/11, and a world that lost all privacy and most security. They're good parents, who are doing their best to make good people of their boys. I'm all in.
In my opinion, the boys are lucky to have a boomer grandmother who will sneak treats, let them stay up a little later, and bend rules if it means fun, play, and imagination. "Don't tell Mom" is one of our favorite phrases, usually followed by a smile and a pinky swear. Boomer grandparents aren't the first, by far, to do these things, but my own turn of the century, 1898, grandmother—who was born before we began to label generations—was a toe-the-line kind of woman. She scared me.
My grandsons are two generations younger than I am, but there is an understanding between us that they can teach me, and I can teach them. We work together, whether our work is planting a garden, building a block tower, or stirring a batch of blueberry muffins. It's too soon to know what will characterize Generation Alpha, though Covid will certainly play a role. These two are dreamers, they are doers. They recycle. They're good huggers.
One day last week, the 3 ½ year old and I were scrunched inside a child-sized tent sharing tuna salad pitas and figs right off the bush. I don't know how our conversation went from Richard Scarry's Busy Busy People to travel, but it did. My grandson was born in Connecticut, and something in him remembers his first home fondly. So, with those giant brown eyes, he looked at me and said, "Let's go to Connecticut," which came out something like "Nect-nut," and I said, "How are we going to get there?" and he threw his arms in the air and said, "Let's walk!" Of course.
He was wearing the sweat pants and sweat shirt he chose when he got up for breakfast, a red Mario cap with a giant M on the front, and shoes he calls natives. In one hand, he carried a water bottle. In the other was a Halloween basket, into which he had stuffed Big Dog, his constant companion. We headed out, intentional, through the back door,
down the driveway, and turned right toward Connecticut.
I might be an easy-going boomer grandmother, but the idea of walking 600 miles in 98 degree weather was not a good one, and I began to plot ways we could get back to the house without ruining my Alpha's dream.
"That looks like Nect-nut," he said, pointing to a shade tree, and I thought, "Okay, this will be easy. We'll sit under this tree, drink some water, and head home." But a few sips later, he said, "This isn't it," and off we went again, down sidewalks, stopping on porch steps, pausing on patios. We walked and we walked, crossing streets, keeping our eyes open. Finally, we peered in the glass doors of a condo unit until the nice lady inside opened the door. "Is this Nect-nut?" he asked. No, she said. She gave me a look that made me think she was about to call child services. Instead, she gave him a popsicle, and we headed on our way.
An hour passed. While sitting on the sidewalk of one of the busiest streets in Charlotte, I insisted we head home. Orange popsicle juice dripped down his sweatshirt, "But what about Nect-nut?"
Was it genius, exhaustion, or some of that wisdom boomers are supposed to have that helped me say, "Think of it like this: everything you loved in Connecticut is here. Your mom and dad, your brother. Harry the cat. All your toys and books. It's like Connecticut is all around you. Worldwide Connecticut," I called it.
He thought about it, skeptical at first, and then said, "I think we need to go home."
So, this old boomer and this Alpha kid turned and walked the 600 miles back home, holding hands. When we arrived, Harry the cat was waiting, and we were both very happy. We'd been to Connecticut, and we had made it back home.
I don't really know what the moral of this story is or why it has resonated with me through the days that have followed. I can promise you, his parents, and the somewhat skeptical condo woman that not one single bit of harm will come to this little boy while he is in my care. I will throw myself in front of a train, I will wear myself completely out, I will use the best wisdoms I can conjure to give life to his dreams.
What I love, though—and what I think he has that I sometimes forget that I have too—is that he is a dreamer. He is young enough not to accept the realities of geography, of weather, of practicality. He is determined enough to make his dreams come true. He is
wise enough to know when it's time to readjust.
One day, this little man and others just like him will be running our world. It's up to the rest of us to make sure that he has a world to run, a world that allows dreamers and doers, that offers affordable organic food, good books, Big Dogs, and adventure.
I believe in our Alphas. I believe in boomers. And I believe in millennials and generations X and Z. Each generation has had its struggles, from Vietnam and Civil Rights to 9/11 to Covid. Each generation searches for meaning, for connection, for love. Each generation has something to teach the other generations, if the others will listen. Alphas need to hold the hands of boomers, not just because, as I tell my grandsons, I am liable to get lost. But because we need to all walk together, helping each other get to where we need to go, whether it's Nect-nut or a better, braver world.
