Yesterday was my only granddaughter’s birthday.
Freshly 19, she was too young to recall the first time we met, the last time we met — the only times we met — on back-to-back nights in 1999.
I was on the way home to Los Angeles from a whirlwind 5-month job fling in Baltimore.
Her dad is the oldest of my four sons.
Therein lies the kernel of a sentimental family tale that almost – but not quite — brought my granddaughter and me together, telephonically, for her birthday.
I met her grandmother 47 years ago in a baseball pressbox when I was a relief reporter for Bob Hunter, the legendary Dodger beat guy for the late Herald-Examiner.
It was “I really like you” at first sight. Impulsiveness aside, 90 days later we were married. Six months later, my wife was with child. Ninety days after that, she flew back to her hometown for keeps. Our son was born in November, and the following year we were divorced. My son grew up with his mother, a good woman, on the Other Coast. He and I were strangers. In high school, he met his beautiful wife-to-be.
They would have two children, a son, then a daughter.
When my granddaughter graduated high school last May, she sent an invitation, our first true contact. Days later, I hand-wrote a lengthy response, seeking to unlock at least a correspondence-based relationship.
One morning a month later, on July 5, she texted me out of the blue.
“Hi, this is …” she wrote. Happily startled, I texted with her across the next four hours.
I wanted to call her, hear her voice. She demurred.
Too many clouded questions about this newcomer and his role in her family.
Lightning struck again last Friday morning. At 7:42, she texted merely “My birthday is Tuesday.” That launched another texting hurricane exchange, hours long.
Once done, I ordered 19 red roses to be delivered on her birthday.
After she wrote yesterday to say thank-you for the roses, I called. No answer. But, for the first time, I heard her beautiful voice.
I left a message saying that I was nervous and scared, that I would call back in an hour.
Shortly afterward, we were texting. Including the above caveats, I said I wanted to converse by telephone.
In declining, she said that “I’m still a little nervous.”
Her next line read, “I’m sorry.”
I am, too. I also am patient.
