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  I now have proof-positive that there is a genetic link to Growing Up Bronx.  It is an established scientific fact that both dormant and recessive genes that lie buried deep in the double helix chromosomatic structure of the DNA molecule will often skip a generation before they rear their all too unpredictable heads in the development of physical and emotional traits in our offspring.

  This brings me to my grandchildren, who are all quite the pieces of work that makes one the typical lost in space, ga-ga, can you believe this kid, grandfather that stands before you today.  Our two children, now mature, hard-working, nurturing, thirty-something parents of the current generation seemed, in my humble estimation, to have reached this exalted perch quite naturally; making all the requisite stops and go’s along the way, without any indication of any internal emotional or intellectual conflict resultant from their upbringing by a good, solid, well-intentioned mother, The Weze, and a father who could never quite understand why the stickball games have ended and how did I wind up in this truck, working for a living.  JD and J are two of the finest people I know who love their lifes and most especially, their children whose orbits take up all the gravity in their constellations.  JD’s Emmie and Colin are spirited, energetic and chatty little people with smiles as wide as the great outdoors, who when that time comes can also require the solitary confinement of a “time-out”.  Hey, when you are an all out 5 yr old, running with a 4 yr old sidekick, a little down time is inevitable.  J’s BT is an almost 10 yr old direct from heaven’s One of a Kind Sale.  He is our first grandchild and he did a great job of teaching us what that is all about.  He lives a Huck Finn life on Martha’s Vineyard with his Mom and step-Dad and brother, Cabot; fishing, horse backing, swimming in a “swimming hole”, farming and basically walking barefoot in the woods through the summers of his life, while spending much loving,fun and educational time with his Daddy J in the Big City. The very best of both worlds.  Sigh...! 

  So what’s the problem?  There have been times when I see it.  It is there, the gene shows itself, it cannot hide; I know it too well.  The smarty-pants attitude, the “oh grandpa” look on their faces, the wise-crack remark and most conspicuous, the thought, the question that causes you to back pedal to get your balance that only comes with the marination of Growing Up Bronx.  Where, why, and when did this happen and how can I save them?

  For example; in chronological order, BT when he was a mite of a 2 yr old, having been caught out with the Weze and I in a thunderous rain and lightening storm took refuge under a sapling growing hesitantly alongside a nearby apartment building.  Trying to delude him, we raised our voices acapella to the melody “Singing in the Rain”, in hopes of allaying all our mounting fears of the crashing, crackling torrents about us.  After several minutes of this charade, this two yr old with a facial expression worthy of the most streetwise Dickensonian urchin, opined: “Grandpa, I don’t thinks this is a good idea!” Thus reproached, we gathered our belongings and ourselves and hustled to the safety of home and hearth.

  Emmie at 4 yrs old, while blithely recounting to her grandpa the day’s gaiety that she encountered at a carnival size outdoor party thrown by her Uncle Paulie, suddenly grew mute, which immediately caught my attention. Gazing luxuriantly out her dining room windows to the expanse outside, populated by a cranberry bog and a wooded area alive with nature’s wonders, she slowly turned to me with an expression both profound and pressing.  “Grandpa, do trees have families, or do they just live together?”  How much time do I have to answer this inquiry; my tousled brain sputtered and stalled.  Quick, hit reboot, say something, she is looking at you chin on cupped hands expectantly.  Is that a smirk I seeing crevicing her smile, she is only 4 yrs old, where did this insight come from, oh no! There it is that “oh, grandpa” look before I even got a chance to mutter a response.  “Well, Emmie, it depends on your definition of family” was my best retort.  “Lame”, my fevered brain shot back.  Fortunately, her Mom rescued me from further embarrassment.  Seeing the perplexed looks on both our faces, she inquired as to what she had said and when so informed, whisked her off to bedtime with a kiss on the noise for Grandpa that somewhat allayed my desperation.

  And now, Colin; the rootingest, tootingest, wise guy this side of both his paternal and maternal grandpas that I have ever encountered.  At your own peril get in between him and his intended purpose.  At two yrs old, he could wing a stone with deadly accuracy from a distance of 25 ft at his grandpa’s sleepingly nodding head, after being sentenced to a time out on the beach , when he did not agree with my judgment.  Oh, I reprimanded him in my harshest tone; but under my breath, I had to marvel at his arm.  And now, when we visit, he abides by his own internal clock and though he softens the blow with a hug and a kiss, he lets us know when it is time for us to go home.  Once again, I have to give him credit for his good judgment.

  Where do these characteristics come from?  They are not learned. They come from the gene pool, the dormant Bronx Gene.  Yes, I have contacted the necessary State and Federal agencies to make them aware of my observations.  I expect a follow-up any day now.  There is hope…but I don’t know!