Once or twice a week I walk my nearest young grand children around the bock, or two blocks, or all the way to the park. The idea is to get their wiggles out for the benefit both of them and their mother, who as far as I know does yoga while they’re out.

These walks have been like segments in a good dream. They began in the part of spring when blossoms burst from trees all along the way. Most days it’s just me and the girls, but their brother  comes along every now and then.

While it was good from the start, rules have evolved that bring the venture closer yet to heavenly. While I retain ultimate decision authority, they can pick the route but no one can dominate the crucial “which way do we turn” decisions.

We don’t pick flowers out of people’s yard.

Cil is six. Julie three. They don’t require much more rule setting than that. They stay near, they’re pleasant, and they follow instructions.

Almost without fail, Julie will hold my hand.

Let’s take a sample walk:

I arrive at the house and greet and hug everyone. We talk of school and food and people. Julie may lure me upstairs to see some fantastic thing that she wants to show off, such as a new stuffed animal or a bed she made herself.

The little white Maltese dogs will seek their attention. Lucy demands it with all the energy she can summon, which is considerable. I’d guess she had twice of more of the energy one dog her size requires when she’s happy to see someone.

Hazel is older and very sedate. She takes the attention she’s offered.

Lucy is utterly without the means to reign in her enthusiasm. She’s often in arms when the door is opened to let me in and gets handed off to me.

That is the first conflict, because Julie is right there wanting the center stage so she can tell me all things that are her life eager and smiling.

Cil is no less ready to fill me on on the newest thing with her. Sometimes, it’s a new dance class outfit. Sometimes it’s a coloring project or beads or news. Last time it was the sad revelation that she was unable to walk comfortably. There was a sliver in her heel.

We got her in patient mode with her mom the surgeon and her older sister the nurse.

The tools were supplied by said sister and consisted of tweezers and a bent needle. Cil is horrified by the needle.

Her mom began the extraction and worked at it while reminding Cil that little girls who get into mischief may get slivers.

Big sister held a book in front of Cils face so she couldn’t observe when the dreaded needle might be called into service. Just in case it was, Cil supplied the howling complaints.

Big brother gave advice from the side and Julie showed me moves she learned in dance class.

Cil rejected the needle, so the extraction was abandoned.

I managed to coax Cil into accepting my barbaric tool, the bent needle. And the last of the timber tumbled out of the wound. She was fixed.

Well, we thought she was fixed. She required a band aid.

Then she was required to demonstrate that her foot worked before she could come along on the walk.

It did.

Julie found socks and put her shoes on the wrong feet and Cil got herself ready. We left through the front door.

It’s standard practice once we’re outside in the sun for me to put holographic glitter in the girl’s hair and a little on the toes of their shoes. But only if they request the glitter, which they do.

Then we’re off.

Not far from their home, the builders are putting up houses. We’ve watched them go from concrete foundations to finished units. At first, the lots with the foundations poured had heaps of earth from the excavations. The girls and I walked past it all and found lots of interesting things to comment about. Sometimes we stopped and watched the construction. At the bottom of the hill and past all the  action, we turn onto a sidewalk to the left. Because of the construction, that walk is bordered by a line of hay bales which both girls must traverse. Julie holds my hand.  They jabber in the most beautiful way. I have found no equal to the sound of children at play.

At the last bale there is a lamp post and a pile of other bales. One girl asks me to take photos.

I think it’s a tradition that began with their older sister who I painted first when she was five or six and for a very long time she and I worked together on art works which mean that we had photo sessions. Cil wanted to be an artist model too. And now Julie wants in the deal.

It was at the photo station, that last pile of hay, that I learned that Julie would soon be wearing glasses. She very much looked forward to this but there was something I needed to be made aware of by Cil: those glasses were NOT going to be pink.

“Yes. I’ll have pink ones” her teeny sister told me without the smallest doubt.

“That can not happen,” Cil told me. “I don’t like pink.”

Cil wears pink every time we walk. One time I asked her about that and she explained that she doesn’t buy her clothes. Another time, she said, “I’ve explained this to you last time. It is my Flamingo shirt. The pink just happens to be the background.”

We continue head up the block which has now become painted in red because of clover heads.

Cil prefers the purple clover because she needs the nourishment. She shows me how the little ends taste sweet.

Julie prefers the red clover because she’s making a bouquet of flowers for her mom. Her eyes are on the lookout for them. Fortunately for her, they abound. Most likely they came  as seeds in the imported top soil.

Julie talks almost non stop. It’s like music.

Cil talks too, occasionally correcting Julie for “talking over me”, which correction Julie is oblivious to. I’ve gotten better over time at staying in two conversations simultaneously.

We left the side walk and braved our way through the clover where there seemed to be a path. Cil went first as long as there were no spiders.

They insisted on going up the steep trail rather than taking an easier route and I showed them how to place their feet and how to not go sliding down.

It was quite the adventure.

We also conquered several mountains, made from mounds of top soil.

By the time we reached the walk way again, Cil had a full bouquet.

We continued up the hill, having fully reentered civilization. The talking continues all the way.

I show Julie how to walk backward.

On the days when Cil brings her bike, I act as backup power on the steep hills by holding the seat and nudging it along.

She shows off her incredible feats of speed on the down hills.

Sometimes Julie is asking if we’re headed to moms house by this late stage of the walk. She’s ready to be home.

Sometimes Julie is reminding me again and again, “we keep walking”. She’s no where near ready to quit (she thinks).

We reach the house and Cil waits for us. She asks me to stand to the side of the garage while she enters the top secret code as I tell her I know the code while she denies every fake code I reveal to her.

“Happyknees”

Nope.

“Cottonwads”

No Grandpa. You aren’t looking are you?

When the door opens, Julie rushes in to show fresh flowers to her momma and Cil waits outside to race me as I drive home. She runs at top speed beside me to the stop sign and we wave our goodbyes there.

Now the red clover has run it’s course, replaced by the purple majesties of wild pea flowers but I’ll likely always connect the sight of red clover (which I had never seen and didn’t know it existed before I saw it on our walks) to the morning walks I shared  with Julie and Cil when they were in their glory (both flower and child).

They remind me of the time I spent with actual ambassadors from heaven, true angels. It’s not something I’m new to. I have  daughters and a son.