“Ada, I have an idea of how we can find your lost tugboat.”
It was 7:30 Saturday morning, pre-coffee, and this was the first sentence to come from the back seat. I’d just picked up our 4-year-old granddaughter Devon for a visit and she was problem-solving, figuring out how to find the red tugboat I had told her about on the same drive last weekend. Forget the fact that said tugboat slipped away decades ago during an ill-fated ride on the State Island ferry. She had a plan.
“The two of us can get hang-gliders and look for it,” she said.
“Well, we could try,” I told her.
“But Ada. I don’t know how to fly. I’m scared.”
“Don’t worry, Devon. Remember, I lost my tugboat 59 years ago. It would be hard to find it anyway. Do you see me crying?”
“But Ada, this could be our last chance.”
It took some hard work but we managed a deal. We’d keep an eye out in stores for a new red tugboat. There was only one wrinkle left.
“But it won’t have a string,” Devon said (the rope tied to my old one broke when it was trailing behind the ferry).
“I bet we could tie one on,” I reassured her.
“If we find one,” Devon asked. “Do you want to keep it. Or can you give it to me?”
“I’ll give it to you,” I said.
“Ada, you’re the best,” she said.
Make my day.