I don’t know whether I’ve seen a happier man than the great uncle who rode to the nursery school of his niece’s young daughter to escort her return from school.
Somewhere in North St Louis as we rode, he told how he had moved from Chicago for the express purpose of the care of this little girl. When he emerged from the school with her hand in his, I was all but forgotten. Hi attention was devoted to doting on her safety, immersed with her in the details of her exuberant child consciousness, showing his delight in her at every opportunity.
“Oh yeah,” he had said on our drive to the school, “I live for this!”