Mr. Write's Page

“So… I have this mole on my back,” said Sarah, my youngest granddaughter. Sarah just turned eight. She enters third grade next fall.

“It’s pretty big, but the doctor said it’s not dangerous.”

“That’s good news,” I said. “Be glad he didn’t say, ‘Nurse, hand me that scalpel.'”

Her eyes widened, and she grimaced dramatically at the thought.

We were in my car at the time, Sarah in the back seat, chattering about this and that and making occasional eye contact in the rear view mirror.

“How big is this mole?” I asked. “Have you looked at it in a mirror?”

“No, I don’t need to,” she said. “It’s just a stupid brown thing.”

“Does it itch?”

“No. I usually don’t even think about it.”

“But you know what?” she added suddenly, straining against her seatbelt. “Mom and Dad gave it a name! They call it Fred!”

“Fred?”

“Yes! They think it’s funny, and they laugh, but it’s embarrassing!”

“Well, it IS kinda funny.”

“Yeah, but what if someone at school found out? That would be awful! Pretty soon, every kid in school would know! I’d be walking down the hall, and they’d be, like, ‘Hi, Sarah! Hi, Fred!’ Can you imagine how humiliating?”

“I see what you mean. But kids are always clowning around. It’s harmless. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, right. I’d be laughed out of school.”

Later, when I dropped her off, I gave her a hug and said goodbye.

I was tempted to add, “Oh, and, goodbye, Fred!” but the better angels of my nature prevailed.