Although the living arrangement was a good one, the transition into it was challenging. Actually, it was exhausting. The combination of war, absence of his father and new sleeping arrangement did not sit well with Leta’s three-year-old grandson Don. Every night that first week he and his mother Vivian lived with his grandparents, he awoke in the middle of the night after traumatizing nightmares, screaming at the top of his lungs.
The recurring incidences had left the adults in the household with frazzled nerves. By the time Friday came along, they were all “fit-to-be-tied,” as Leta’s husband Bob said. While Leta was still in the honeymoon phase of having her adult daughter and grandson temporarily living with her, Bob and Vivian were weakened by the little boy’s terror. Having never had a child in the house, Bob was confused and conflicted by his grandson’s behaviors, both by the night terrors which kept him awake long after the boy fell back asleep and the child’s amazing ability to live without memory or consciousness of them during the day. In fact, he was noticeably thrilled to have the rambunctious, loving lad run to greet him with a loud, “Grampa’s home!” every evening after work. But would immediately after crinkle his face in bewilderment that this same happy boy would scream for hours in the night.
And instead of becoming refreshed by living with her mother and stepfather while her husband was serving in the Air Force during World War II, Vivian looked more and more tired. A mother, Leta knew, worries most of all.
Before Vivian and Don moved in, Leta and Bob would visit their corner bar a couple of times a week in the evening to wind down and socialize, so it was no great surprise on Friday evening when he arrived home after the long first week with the invitation for his wife and stepdaughter to join him. However, he had not considered what to do with the little boy. Having no children or grandchildren of his own, he never even thought about Don.
The conversation, however, was short. All three adults needed a little relaxation after their long, hard week, and since he was so small they could take Don with him. While Vivian was uncomfortable with this decision, she accepted, declaring very firmly that no one could sneak Don a sip or two of anything alcoholic, even if done to help him sleep.
The truth was that she needed a little wind-down herself. Her little one’s terror had worn her out.
”We went every Friday,” my father told me. “I remember that they let me have all the root beer I could drink. I used to drink so much I floated home.”
“Did it make you wet the bed?” I asked. “After all, you were only about three or so at the time.”
“Now that I don’t remember,” he said thoughtfully. “I only remember walking a couple of blocks or so from the house and getting that root beer. I sure liked root beer. It was the biggest treat I had in my life so far.”
“And you went every single Friday?”
“Every single Friday.”
“And no one ever gave you anything else?”
“Only root beer.”
“Really? But they were all drinkers, and it wouldn’t have been unusual.”
“Nope, that’s it.”
While little Don would occasionally awake with nightmares after this Friday ritual began, he settled into appropriate sleep, at least for a three-year-old. This enabled his mother to get better rest, when—when she wasn’t worrying about her husband—and his mother and grandmother to grow more familiar and endeared to each other. This reconnection was exactly what Leta had hoped would happen.
THE END
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