My three-year-old granddaughter was looking at a fresh withdrawal from the bank that included a hundred-dollar bill and some twenties. I’d told her who Andrew Jackson was before in terms that would resonate with a child her age, and sang her Johnny Horton’s classic, a favorite from when I was a boy.
For Ben Franklin, I told her about the kite and the key in the electrical storm, and remembered Ben and Me, another boyhood favorite from the era before Disney Family Values. Having just found another treasure the other day, I checked and here it is:
She loved it, and we now have a date to buy a kite and go to the park and fly it.
Or, I guess, we could always just subject them to Dead End: Paranormal Park.
I know, I’m a right wing extremist and hater. Next thing you know, we’ll be taking her to the gun range when it’s development appropriate, like I did with her father and uncle before her.


