Peter

My father made Grodie for me, for no apparent reason- it wasn’t my birthday or anything- when I was in first grade. At the time, I was happy just to get a present, but my older brother Mike, in fourth grade, was quick to use his advanced wisdom to smack it down “ that’s grodier than anything dad ever made me”. Then he jabbed, “put skates and a Whaler’s shirt on’m and you have Grodie Howe”. Still, at least I got something from my dad, and Grodie seemed to grow on me over time in an odd sort of familial way.
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A few months later, though, I let my ambivalence on Grodie slip out on a Sunday afternoon while my grandparents visiting. With Dad out of earshot, Mike sarcastically told our grandfather I was “special” to get Grodie from our father. I said, well, I’m not sure what to do with him”. “You’re lucky your dad thinks about’ ya ’nuff to make you somethin’ ta play with- when I was your age, I made m’own toys outta chicken beaks and corn cobs”, grandfather sternly addressed me. While Mike fell over laughing, I started to wonder about my roots.
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I don’t know what ever happened to Grodie, but I sorta wish I still had him. Trying to be different, I bought my own kid a set of Auto-Bots. Probably, when he’s my age, he’ll forget about them.