Grandparents often have interesting names. My sister-in-law was known as Mimi. Her husband goes by Peeka. Why? Their firstborn grandchild decided on those names.

My firstborn grandchild named me as well. I will never forget the day Joshua hugged me and, in front of a roomful of people, called me “Doll. My Doll Baby!” From that point on, I was known as Doll or Doll Baby. Even my sons-in-law call me Doll. Friends of my children and grandchildren call me Doll. It’s a given.

For the most part, it’s fine, even endearing, to hear my grandchildren call me Doll. But there was one time… My daughter and her husband were going out of town, so the plan was for me to pick up five-year-old Spencer from kindergarten, take him to their house to wait for Joshua’s school bus, and bring both boys home to spend the night with us. Spencer and I arrived long before the school bus. While we waited for Joshua, Spencer wanted to show me a new trick he learned on his skateboard.

Spencer was pretty good. He had learned how to step on the back of the skateboard so that the front tipped up (一边翘起), and then put his front foot down on the board and take off. Cool!

Then it was my turn. I had played around with skateboards in my day. Of course, they weren’t the high-tech kind of toys my grandchildren enjoyed. Ours were made by mounting the wheels of our old sidewalk roller skates to the bottom of a plank of wood. Still, I had this. I put my right foot on the back of the board and tipped up the front. So far, so good. I brought my left foot down with every intention of rolling forward.

Good intentions. Bad form. I fell hard on my elbow as the skateboard flew across the concrete driveway. My injury was minor, but Spencer raced into the house and got Boo-Boo Bunny from the freezer to bring me comfort. It helped my arm, but not my pride.

When I made my way home safely with the boys, my husband blamed me.

My husband helped Spencer practice calling 911 emergency call, pretending I hurt my head seriously. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was our tun to open our presents this particular Christmas morning. The living room was already covered with tom wrapping paper. Obviously, the children could hardly wait to discover the hidden treasures, which they had expected for nearly a month. Now we adults sat around the room with our presents at our feet, slowly removing the paper, tying o maintain our dignity in front of the children.

My wife Brenda, and her family have a tradition of getting each other gag(恶作剧) gifts. This day makes me a bit uneasy at Christmas or my birthday, never knowing what form of embarrassment lies waiting for me under the thin borders of the wrapping paper.

Recently, my six-year-old daughter Christy seemed to busy herself with something while I was playing computer video flight games. Now she was standing directly in front of me. The excitement of the moment just beamed across her face. It was everything she could do to keep herself from helping me rip the paper from each present. Finally, I came to the last gift and with my natural Sherlock Holmes ability, I concluded that this had to be the gag gift. With everyone looking on, I decided to go ahead and got it over with—just let them have their laugh—and I tore the paper and there it was…a toy airplane about two inches long. Our holiday guests started giggling to themselves as I looked up to my wife with an unpleasant smile on my face and blurted out, “A toy airplane? Are you kidding me?”

Brenda gave me the look—that look that always tells me I have just said something wrong and should have given it a second thought. I had failed to look at the name tag(标签) before I opened the present to see who it was from. As I picked up the paper from the floor and read the name tag, my heart sank.

On the tog were the letters that read, “To Dad, Love Christy”.

Storing at the gift, I suddenly thought of a way to lift her up.

His father said, “All set, boy?” and Johnson nodded, picking up his gun with awkward gloved bands. His father pushed open the door and they went out into the freezing dawn together. Ordinarily Johnson would take out his camera to record the scenery, but not this morning. This was the morning, particularly sacred, when 14-year-old Johnson would go duck hunting for the first time.

However, he hated it, and had bated the whole idea since his father bought him a gun. But he was determined to go through with it. He loved his father, and wanted his approval more than anything in the world

They came to a narrow and hidden place facing the bay. Johnson sat down nervously and waited. To reduce fear be took 8 picture of his father against the clean water. Then be put the camera hurriedly on the grass and picked up his gun.

Johnson got his gun ready. “I'll let you shoot first,” his father said, loading his own gun. “You know, I've been waiting for a long time for this day. Just the two of us...” He broke off, bending forward, eyes narrowed. “There's a small flight heading this way now. Keep your head down. I'll give you the word.”

The sun came out. Johnson could see everything clearly: his father's face, tense and eager, the white frost on the gun. His heart was beating wildly. He prayed, “Don't let them come, please!”

But they kept coming. “Four black,” his father said. “One mallard (绿头鸭).” High above, Johnson heard the pulsing whistle of wings as the fight began to circle. The mallard was leading, his feet dropping down, reaching for the silver-colored water. Closer, clos... “Get set,” his father whispered,

“Now!” cried Johnson's father. “Take them!”

Johnson felt his body obey. He stood up, holding the gun. In the same instant, the wild ducks saw the gunners and flew. “Shoot!” said something sharply in Johnson's brain. But up went the mallard higher still, until suddenly it caught the full force of the wind and flew away, out of range.

His father asked in a controlled voice, “Why didn't you shoot?”

To Johnson's surprise, his father was handing the camera to him.