I live near Hartland, Minnesota.

Wednesday, September 19, 2001

I live near Hartland, Minnesota. There are not many people in the world who can say that. I think those of us who live in or near Hartland are wise to do so. We have a lot of smart people in Hartland. The residents of this area are smart, but modest. We just don’t like to let on how smart we are. That is why you don’t see many people from my hometown attending Ivy League schools. Perhaps it is only because we don’t like to get that far away from Hartland? What do you call a Hartlander at Harvard? A visitor. Maybe my grandson will change this.

I am a grandfather. My mother always said that being a grandparent is the gift we are given for not killing our teenagers. She also said that grandparents and grandchildren get along so well because they share a common enemy. I love being a grandfather. My father said that grandchildren were wonderful as long as they didn’t expect you to remember their birthdays.

I remember holding my first grandchild, Bailey, shortly after he was born. I was so excited looking down at the tiny face of the new life I held in my arms. I felt warm all over. It was such an incredible feeling that I asked the nurse if it was awfully hot in the hospital. She replied that, on the contrary, it was quite cold and that she would see that the thermostat was turned up some.

It was a similar feeling to that I felt many years earlier when I first held Bailey’s father. It was similar, but different. The responsibility expected of me is lessened with a grandchild. The expectations of the baby are not the same. It is natural for a father to want his child to be a success, to do better than he has done. It is nearly impossible not to want this. With a grandchild, I found that I only want him to be happy. I don’t care what he does in life, just as long as he is happy doing it.

I have great hopes of spoiling my grandchildren. As I say, I love being a grandfather. I have two grandchildren&160;- a little boy and a baby woman. When my first grandchild, Bailey, became old enough to talk, one of his parents asked me what I would like him to call me. I thought for a bit before giving my answer.

&uot;Grandfather,&uot; I said. The name has a classy ring to it. It is the kind of thing you hear in one of those English movies or in one of those plays that everyone raves about. I figured if Bailey was able to master calling me &uot;grandfather,&uot; that he would be able to get into Harvard or Yale just on the strength of him calling me &uot;grandfather.&uot; He would not even have to study. Oh, Bailey tried. He really tried to utter the word, &uot;grandfather.&uot; The boy is a trooper. He just couldn’t do it. His tangue would become tungled and the word just wouldn’t come out right.

&uot;What is your second choice for what you would like Bailey to call you?&uot; I was asked.

I gave it a lot of thought.

&uot;Sir,&uot; I replied. I thought that if Bailey would call me, &uot;sir,&uot; he would be admitted to Dartmouth or Princeton with no problem. I realized that these schools are no Harvard or Yale, but they are still Ivy League colleges. He still should be able to get into these colleges without having to do any studying. All Bailey would have to do is to call me &uot;sir.&uot;

Bailey tried hard. He really did. He just couldn’t get the word &uot;sir&uot; past his lips. Goodbye, Harvard and Yale. So long, Princeton and Dartmouth.

Bailey calls me &uot;Boppa.&uot; I guess that &uot;Boppa&uot; is a cross between &uot;grandfather&uot; and &uot;sir.&uot; That won’t even be good enough for Brown. I’ve kissed away my dreams of an Ivy League education for him. Bailey is going to need to study hard and his parents are going to need to save their money. I hope that whatever he does in life, that he will have a good time doing it. I hope that his parents will enjoy him each and every day because he will grow up much too quickly.

As for me, I am just happy being called, &uot;Boppa.&uot; It may never get Bailey into an Ivy League school, but it will keep him forever in my heart.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.