"Oh, you mean Blake, the one I call Big Guy."

"Yep. That's the one," I said.

He put a grandfatherly grin on his face and began his story.

I named him Big Guy the first time I saw him. He was about the size of an aerosol can so I figured he was going to need a little emotional pumping up from time to time. The Big Guy name has given him the idea that the two of us are on the exact same level, even though he realizes I've got a few years on him, a few inches and more than a few whiskers.

When he was old enough to stand by himself, Big Guy and I began to take walks together. At first they were short jaunts out back to the swing set. Occasionally I talked him into walking with me to the curb to take out or bring back the garbage cans. He refused to go after dark, though.

Little by little as he grew, our walks became more adventurous. We might look for frogs on a newly discovered path near the water. At other times we liked to wander down the dirt road in front of the house. On those days, we watched for any birds that might have strayed off course while migrating south for the winter.

Once or twice, Big Guy was able to talk his old grandpa into jogging down that dirt road with him. In practically no time, I was out of breath and ready to flop down on the first patch of grass we came to. He would join me there after a bit, and together we would gaze at the sky and make animal cloud pictures until he got bored with "seeing" only poodles up there.

One day in particular stands out in my mind. We were just returning from a long walk down to the water and were approaching the gate leading to our house. Big Guy looked up at me, and in a tiny voice full of trust, he said, "Granddaddy, will you hold me?"

He was only five-years-old and his legs were still trying to catch up with his body. Even though he was tired, he had made a valiant effort to keep ahead of me. There was such a childlike and wondrous quality in his face that my heart melted quicker than a Hershey's Kiss held in the palm of my hand.

So there I was, grinning like crazy as I stooped down to gather up all forty pounds of him, amazed that my back didn't go out. His little body felt as light as one of my mama's Sunday morning scratch biscuits.

Unlatching the gate with my free hand, I kicked it closed with my foot, and with Big Guy tucked neatly under my right arm, we headed up the slight incline that would take us home.

I made a big production of sniffing the air. "Mmmm. Mmmm. Can you smell what I smell? Grandma must be frying a chicken." He smiled and nodded his head. "Yum. Big Guy loves fried chicken."

We walked on without saying anything more. About that time, I noticed him looking intently into my face as though gazing at something very far away. Feeling silly, I cut my eyes over at him and said, "Boo!"

He quickly pulled his head back in feigned surprise, a little game the two of us had played hundreds of times before and which always preceded a big, tight hug. While I was still holding him in kind of a hug, Big Guy did the sweetest thing. He leaned into me and very gently rubbed his nose against my whiskers, another "game" we had played ever since the day he had come into my life.

"Granddaddy," he said softly, "One day when I get big and tall and have lots of whiskers, I will hold you."

Hardly a day goes by now that I don't recall that sweet moment with my grandson. It refreshes my soul to think how unselfish it was of him to hand over a little piece of his future, with no strings attached.

Now that I am unable to pick him up when he asks me or hold him the way I so loved doing, I must be satisfied with that memory.

Even so, sweet, salty tears spring from my eyes and roll freely down my cheeks and into my whiskers as the memory swaddles my heart with love."

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"You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was." -Irish Proverb