Plus--"Guess who I like, Papa?"
I told her I had no idea.
She googled a name and instantly there were pictures of this raven-haired teen crooner all over my screen, at least a half dozen of which landed on my desktop. "Guess who she goes with, Papa?" I have no clue. "Justin Bieber," she says.
"I thought you didn't like him," I said because he was the only teener heartthrob I'd ever heard of and when I'd mentioned his name I got a scowl.
"I don't," she said, click'n and drag'n those Gomez pix onto the card.
She has her standards, I suppose.
So this morning I googled her--this Ms. Gomez, that is--only to discover that it seems she didn't make a Cleveland concert last night, at least not according to Twitter. From there I went to Facebook to get the whole tragic story.
To all of my Cleveland fans. . You do NOT understand how sadden I am that I was unable to perform tonight. You all mean to so much to me and my heart is breaking.. I love you guys with everything in me and I promise I will back and give you the best show. Im planning on doing a huge meet n greet for you guys when I come back. I am so so sorry and I hope to see you guys when I get back. I love you -Sel
15,689 facebook-ers "liked" that post. That's no typo. 15,689--and I'm sure the number is still growing.
If you've got 16,000 fans, you can write like a basset hound and nobody cares, I guess.
Oh, well, it's my granddaughter we're talking about, head-over-heels in passionate pre-teen adoration with her own celebrity goddess, someone named Selena Gomez, who loves just about everyone in Cleveland and dates Justin Bieber. You didn't know that?
I'm sending a letter to my 93-year-old mother today, as I do every-other Monday morning. In it, I go over the news, tell her what I'm up to, and, often as not, try to prod her out of her wholesale Christian-right politics. Never works. She thinks I'm a heathen, except I'm her son. I wrote it yesterday, early Sunday morning. It's a kind of ritual.
But I have to remember to include that picture of her great-grandson holding a catfish he caught when we took him out to the Big Sioux River and wet a hook. She'll love it.
Not that she's spent a dime's worth of her life sitting along the banks of a river with cane pole. If ever.
What she loves, more than anything--more than a recitation of the weekly Schaap happenings, more than FOX News, more than TV preaching--is a picture of a grandchild, any one of them and preferably all of them. She's got them arranged in a semi-circle around her in the apartment she occupies in the home, and they are, more than anything else, what keeps her heart buoyant.
I'm starting to understand. Even though Selena Gomez is now in my trash, I'm old enough to understand that all young life has to do is wink and nod, and somehow I know that hope is real. Nothing energizes my mother like her great-grandchildren. To her, nothing promises more than children. And I know, because I'm getting there myself.
Selena Gomez. What?--you never heard of her?