My five-year-old grandson, Alistair, has just learned to read. I sat down with him last weekend and showed him my book. He has already received his signed copy of “Granddad’s book,” which will interest him in about 15 years, but it has not so far affected his life one way or another, and has not caused him to go easy on me in street hockey or driveway tennis.
But this time I turned to the last sentence in my chapter on Alistair MacLeod, which speaks of “the latest deeds of my tiny grandchildren, Lindsay and Alistair.”
Alistair read it solemnly, his lips moving. Then he looked up, jumped to his feet, and ran into the kitchen, whooping “Lindsay, Lindsay! We’re in Granddad’s book. We’re famous!”