A still moment in the midst of a rush

Grandma would also be beaming, of course -- she was a story-clipper, to boot, so I don't doubt that she would've picked up two or three more copies for the scrapbooks -- but Grandpa would be the one heading out the front door of the house, and strolling downtown, clutching a rolled-up copy of this very newspaper in his hand, off to brag about one of his "bodyguards" to his friends at the bank or the hardware store or the grocery. I have no concrete proof of this -- John Bones, my maternal grandfather, has been enjoying his eternal reward since the last day of January 1994 -- but I don't think I'm too far afield in assuming any of the above.

For one thing, the man loved me, as he loved all of his "grandbabies," so him being proud of me for achieving something -- well, that's a given.

But for another, the man was a reader of the McCook Daily Gazette. I know this because I'd watch him do it. I can remember finding him engrossed in the paper on warm summer afternoons (and cold winter ones, too).

He'd be standing in the back of the house, leaning against the deep freeze, with the newspaper splayed across the lid. It was a daily habit, regular as clockwork. He'd take in every word, and didn't turn a page until he'd absorbed it all. You could interrupt him, sure, to ask him for permission to take a cookie from the jar, or help retrieve a glass from the cupboard, but as soon as he was done, it was back to the porch. Back to the paper.

He took reading the Gazette seriously. It was a window to the world that didn't close until he was good and ready. He could study a story, really examine the issue being presented, and absorb the information he'd been given.

I wonder if I started reading the newspaper simply to imitate his example. Because while my parents were -- and are -- readers, the earliest memory I have of someone reading the news with any measure of intensity is one of my grandpa, hunched over his daily paper on a sun-warmed back porch.

So seeing my name and picture in his copy of the paper would likely make him grin. And when I'd pay him a visit, he nudge me in the ribs and joke that there was finally something in the paper worth reading. That's when I would know for sure that he was bursting with pride for me, for my accomplishment.

And I suppose I do know that he's proud of me now. I wish he was around to demonstrate it, but I can feel his joy for me somewhere in my soul, and oddly enough, it's a feeling that's almost as good.

Almost.