My grandfather got the picture, too.

Then he reciprocated.

We almost always went to the Natural History Museum on Sunday afternoons after we’d been to church and had some breakfast. My grandfather liked to take me to see the Hall of Rocks, as I called it.

There were geodes and slices of agate and pebbles from meteors and lumps from outer space. After he’d read about six, seven or even eight of the labels on the displays to me, he’d get quiet. I, however, did not. I would try to memorize what he’d said. I thought rocks were very interesting. We had rocks in our garden at home. We had rocks arranged in a nice display out on our front lawn, right where the driveway and the sidewalk came together.

Big rocks and in-between them were three, fat, plaster-of-Paris ducks. Nice rocks. Nice ducks. We must be very important, I thought, if we had great books about dead people, big rocks and nice plaster ducks.

“Did the Shah have plaster ducks?” I’d ask my grandfather.

“I don’t know,” he’d muse. “He probably had real ducks.”

“Ours last longer,” I’d say.

“Hmm,” said my grandfather.

“Did John the Baptist have plaster ducks?” I’d ask.

“Somehow I doubt it,” my grandfather said.

“Did John the Baptist have fish?” I’d ask.

“He probably ate fish,” my grandfather said.

“Oh,” I’d say, “did he have plaster fish?”

“No, he probably had real fish,” replied my grandfather.

“You mean he had real fish on his lawn?” I’d ask.

“No, “ said my grandfather. “He ate the fish.”

“He ate plaster fish?” I’d say.

“NO,” said my grandfather. “He ate real fish.”

“Well, then what did he put on his lawn?” I’d ask.

“I don’t think he put anything on his lawn,” said my grandfather, wiping his brow.

Just then my grandmother walked up. She’d spent a lovely time all by herself looking at the furniture and costume collections in the museum. She looked happy.

“I say,” said my grandfather, “how do you deal with this all day?”

I think he meant our time together, asking questions and not having enough answers or time to find the answers.

“Hmm,” said my grandmother. “I think Deborah knows something

about the Taj Mahal, don’t you dear?” She looked at me.

“Yes, I do!” I said. “The Shah kept a very nice garden for his wife

and the plumbing was very good and the building was full of very beautiful marble and….”

“Thank you,” said my grandfather, interrupting me. He looked at my grandmother. She smiled back at him.

“Deborah is learning to read by enjoying the pictures in the books in our living room,” said my grandmother.

“That’s very nice,” said my grandfather. “Perhaps while she’s reading the pictures, I could work in the garden and on some of our plumbing at the house when we get home. What do you say?”

My grandmother smiled.

“And maybe I can learn to write some of the stories in the books!”

I announced to my grandparents.

“Good idea,” said my grandmother. “You can be a writer when you grow up!”

It’s tough being a writer. But reading got me started.

It usually does.