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Wise Grandma Duck 1998 Huey looked out the car window. “There it is, Uncle Donald!” He could see Grandma Duck’s farm at the end of the road. Louie and Dewey waved to a cow in the field. That’s the opening page of Wise Grandma Duck. I read to my son from day one. Somewhere between ages two and three, he taught himself to read. People tried to give me credit for it. They’d ask, “How on Earth did you teach him to read so young?” I’d say, “I didn’t teach him. He taught himself.” I was as amazed as anyone. My son’s name is Hannibal. I was on a towboat that almost sank near Hannibal, Missouri (just above Lock & Dam 22). I took that as an omen to get off the river. I went to Texas. Hannibal is one of many great things that would never have happened had I stayed on the boats. I am also a big fan of Mark Twain. I told him that Hannibal was a name I chose, and that I would have it legally changed if he ever wanted to pick his own name. For the summer of his fourth year, he called himself Stompy Rootbeer. Has a nice ring to it. He tried that one on for a while then chose to go back to Hannibal. Around age ten he named himself William Samuel, after William Shakespeare and Samuel Clemens. Great name. Wish I’d thought of it. I called him Willie Sam. It fit. Again, he voluntarily returned to Hannibal. From the time he was five, until he was nine, it was just Hannibal and me. Every night, we would read a story. I’d read a page, he’d read the next page. Reading was our main source of entertainment. I was a full-time college student and money was scarce. We did not have a television. We barely had food. I somehow found time to do my mountains of homework, hold down a job, and still have time to read with Hannibal every night. That was my favorite part of any day. During those years, Hannibal and I were very close. I knew his every quirk, every expression; I could hear what he was saying and know what he really meant. He always wanted to read in my “room” (my corner of the ratty little trailer—mobile home is much too exotic a term to drape over that place). He wanted to read in my room because he could fall asleep there, knowing I would not move him. He was a squirmmer, too. That was okay. I loved having him close enough that I could reach over and rub his fuzzy head. I did not want him to ever wake up and not be able to see me. We were partners. I went to school while he was in school. I worked at a radio station and could take him with me. I did not go anywhere without him. What scant security either of us had during those years, we found in each other. Every night, for about a week, Hannibal selected Wise Grandma Duck for us to read. One night when he asked—he always asked—if I wanted to read a book, I said, “Sure. Anything but Wise Grandma Duck!” He thought that was pretty funny. He brought in another book, but had Wise Grandma Duck hidden behind it. At the last second, he whipped out the duck book. The louder, the more melodramatic my protest, the more he laughed. It became a tradition. He would hide the duck book under my pillow, under the mattress, behind the raggedy flap of a curtain; he would sneak it in inside his pajama top or between two other books. “Stop! Show me what book you have!” He would innocently hold up some other book, barely able to suppress his giggle. Then, when I least suspected it, he would flash the duck book, like an ace in the hole, and I would launch into the obligatory objections. Living with Hannibal was like living with Gandhi. He was peaceful, laid back, intelligent, thoughtful, and loving. I graduated college and found a job. I met and married the most wonderful woman who ever lived. I had no idea that Love could be so grand. I met her where I worked. She was my boss. Still is in many ways. Hannibal then had an excellent mother and a sweet little sister (Natalie was nearly two). I went back to school and got a master’s degree. Planet Earth was my own personal playground. Life was good. Then came the teen years. Hannibal started losing interest in school. He got involved in activities and with people that I considered less than desirable. Somehow, when I was not looking, an ugly distance crept in between us. He no longer confided in me. That’s an understatement; he no longer seemed to give two hoots in Hell what I thought about anything. His crisp enunciation gave way to a sullen, monosyllabic grunt. Yes, I knew other parents of teenagers. They all assured me this was normal behavior. For theirs, maybe, but not mine. I naively but firmly believed that Hannibal and I were different, that we had stronger bonds than most. Then came the sneaking out at night, not coming home for days at a time. I was out of my mind when I did not know where he was or how he was. Then came trouble with the police—nothing felonious, but serious enough. I found myself in the ridiculous position of explaining to detectives and school officials that the real Hannibal was a kind, wonderful.... But they did not know him. Their only history with this guy was negative. I went with him every step of the way. I took vacation days from work to sit with him on the hard, narrow benches while we waited for Hannibal’s turn before the Judge. I met with the public defenders, the social workers, and the—this can’t be happening—probation officer. I knew that if I could not reach Hannibal, nobody could. I tried being tough; I tried being understanding; I tried being philosophical. I was losing him and had no idea why. I let him know that I loved him and that if he wanted to go to down the drain I was ready to go with him. He grew taller than me and wore bigger shoes. His features and his voice changed. He had large, rough knuckles where those dimples used to be. About all we had in common was a love of comedy and classic rock and roll. Every now and then, Hannibal would bring in a tape and play a piece of music for me that he recorded off the radio or borrowed from a friend. I would talk (but mostly listen to him talk) about Led Zeppelin or Jimi Hendrix for as long as he would stay in the room. There was a growing dread, a constant fear in the back of my mind that made it difficult to concentrate on anything else. I was just as helpless and heartsick as a human can be. I missed my little boy. We’d been so close for so long. We were the kind of pals that only two survivors can understand. One day I found a cassette tape lying on top of a note. On the scrap of paper, Hannibal had written in his barely legible scrawl, “Listen to this when you get a chance.” I figured it was another really cool bass run or guitar riff or comedian that he wanted me to hear. I put the tape aside for a while and finished doing some reading. I wanted to make sure I listened to the tape before Hannibal came home—God only knew when that would be—so we would have something, any little thing, to talk about. I put the tape in the machine and heard Hannibal’s deep voice, but this time with a temporary return of his crisp enunciation. I do not need the recording to remember the moment; it is burned into my heart for eternity: Huey looked out the car window. “There it is, Uncle Donald!” He could see Grandma Duck’s farm at the end of the road. Louie and Dewey waved to a cow in the field. He read the whole book. I know that the “real” Hannibal is still in there. I can see him when he is playing with his sisters. I can see him when he hugs my wife. I see him in that grown-up face when he’s asleep. He is still a kind, considerate, intelligent, thoughtful, and loving boy—young man. He’s just going through some rough years, some strange times. I have confidence that everything, deep down, is just fine. I can see light at the end of the tunnel...and Grandma Duck’s farm at the end of the road. ### Fast-forward to 2006. Hannibal is 23 now. He has a four-year-old son, Abel. Hannibal does not have a TV in his house. He doesn’t want one. He has lots of books. He reads to Abel. Hannibal called a few days ago and asked if we still have Wise Grandma Duck. He wants to add it to Abel’s library. Yes, I still have it. Had there ever been a fire, it’s one of the things I would have carried out in the first load. I love the idea of Hannibal reading that damn duck book to Abel. And I don’t need a copy. I have it memorized.
(Wise Grandma Duck ã 1986 Walt Disney Productions. Bantam: New York) |