When Cellini was about five his father chanced to see a creature like a lizard playing in the middle of the fire. He realized what it was and, calling the boy to him, brought it to his attention.

This done, he gave him a great box on his ear. After which, he kissed him.

“My little boy,” he said, “I am not striking you for any wrong you have done, but to make you remember that there is a salamander, a thing which has never been seen before by anyone!”

Anatole France has a story much like the above. A few of the details vary. For instance, the salamander—it is a woman, a Nymph, “of a perfect beauty.” Nonetheless, the pattern of his story is the same.

As he tells it, a gentleman once called Jacques to the hearth. Bidding him look above the flames, he asked him if he could see a resemblance to a woman. As the smoke curled, its curves might be said to simulate a female body. The lad, not entirely lying, replied that—maybe—he was able to see something. Hearing this, the other fetched him a huge buffet on the shoulder. “My dear child,” he said, “it was necessary to make a strong impression on you—so that you may never forget that you have seen a salamander.”

“’Tis a sign,” he added, “that you are destined to become a philosopher!”

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Grandpa and I had a similar experience. We were out in a rowboat.

Like the old-timers used to, Grandpa kept his hat on. His jacket too. It was a hot day. Yet he wouldn’t loosen his coat. Wouldn’t undo a single button.

He was rowing in such a way that he faced the way we headed. The derby lay square on his head. There was no tilt to it at all.

Grandpa sat bolt upright, practically on the edge of the seat. As a matter of fact, he sat the way he used to sit when he would drive his buggy.

We were half a mile from shore when he began to idle, moving the oars just enough so that the boat would not drift.

The waves were slow and rather small. Suddenly, there was one that was of a medium size. In the trough behind it, I saw a tiny mermaid.

She had button breasts, like a little girl’s. The lower part of the body was like a mackerel’s.

She was very much at her ease.

She saw me; she smiled; then she wrinkled her nose. Then—in a couple of seconds—a wave carried her away.

“Grandpa,” I said. “I saw a mermaid.”

Grandpa stopped his rowing.

“I did!” I said.

He took the oars from the locks.

“I did!” I said.

Grandpa took his hat off. He laid it on the seat beside him. He took his coat off; he sat there in his vest. After this, he rolled up his sleeves. He had to remove the cuff-links before he did so. After that, Grandpa spit into the cup of his right hand.

I knew he was leading up to something. As I wondered what this could be, Grandpa rubbed his palm. Then he hauled off, and he smacked me across my mouth.

“Son!” he said. “If I hit you, I did it because I had to fix it in your mind . . . . You saw a mermaid. And there is no such thing!”

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I Am a grandpa now.

As such, I have an urge to say a few wise words.

I had meant to say words of wisdom to my children. Before they began school. Before they finished it . . . . Before adolescence . . . . Before they got a job . . . . Before they fell in love . . . .

Things would happen too fast.

I meant to draw a map. But, while I was thinking of it—the travelers flew past.

It is different now.

I have a grandson . . . . I have the time.

So, last night I was thinking of my grandson. I was trying to frame the words, the sage words I was going to say.

This was not easy.

Any time I thought of a truth, I thought of a reservation. The more I thought, the worse it got. Any time I saw a truth, I saw that, to some degree, its opposite was also true. The map became like a maze. My guide-to-life got as involved as life itself was.

Yet I knew there was something, something I had for the boy. It was alive. I could feel it. It would gallop up to the very tip of my tongue. Then, whenever I tried to put a bit of salt on its tail, it would scamper back to the deep caves of my mind.

And, as if to make it harder, I began to see my grandpa.

I saw him take his hat off. I saw him take his coat off. I felt his palm across my mouth. The veins on his freckled hands were the color of his eyes.

I felt his palm against my mouth. “You saw a mermaid,” he said. “And there is no such thing!”

“You saw a mermaid,” he said. “And . . . there is no such thing!”

Grandpa’s words suddenly came into a new importance. All these years, they had been only a detail of the episode. I saw, suddenly, that they had been its heart.

Oh, how foolish I had been! I saw that the worst mistakes I had ever made in my life I would have avoided if I had only understood him.

There were times when I would think that I had really seen a mermaid. I would forget then that they did not exist. There were times when I would think that a mermaid did not exist . . . . I’d forget that I had seen one.

I saw why my grandpa had been edging into my mind while I was thinking of my grandson.

His thought was the thought I had been trying to get.

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The words—I had them now. The words I would tell my grandson.

Yet—yet—

What good will they do him?

I—I had seen a mermaid. I had been with my grandpa. He had taken forceful steps. He had hit me; then he spoke, impressing his words upon my mind. I remembered them all my life.

What good did it do? What good did it do me?

I did not get his point. Fifty years had passed before I got his meaning. I learned it by myself, wholly apart from any action he had taken, any words that he had said. That is the way that my grandson will learn it too.

Grandpa—surely he had known that his words were of no use.

Why did he bother to speak?

Finally—I saw it. The lag of fifty years—that was the point of the affair. He was not reading a homily. He was giving a greeting.

He was sending it into the future.

Grandpa—

He had touched my sleeve. Fifty years later, I would feel it. He had moved his lips. Fifty years later, I would see them.

He had said, “Hello.” Fifty years later, I would hear him—

“Hello,” I said. “Hello, my grandpa!”

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I will do the same.

The boy will see a mermaid. It may be a salamander. But I feel, I really feel, it is going to be a mermaid.

I think I will like it best if it happens in a rowboat.

“Grandpa,” he will say. “Grandpa—I saw a mermaid!”

He will repeat it. “I did!”

“I did.” And when he does, I am going to hit him . . . . I won’t want to. I’ll be shy. But—I will have to.

And—as I do—I will feel it again. I will feel my grandpa’s bony hand on my mouth.

And, from fifty years in the past, I will hear his voice.

“Hello,” he’ll say. “Hello, my grandson!”

As for the boy, the boy is going to sniffle.

I have watched him when he’s hit. He tries not to cry. But he gives a little whimper.

Then he sniffles three, four times.

So—he is going to sniffle. But, as he does, I will hear a voice. A voice out of the future. Fifty years into the future . . . . I’ll hear my grandson’s voice.

“Hello,” he is going to say.

“Hello, my grandpa!”

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