"Isaiah," I called across the yard, "please pick up that empty box and take it to the trash cans."
It's grandpa and grandson clean-up-the-back-yard-day on an unusually cool and pleasant Sunday morning in August.
I was scrubbing the barbecue pad and smoker oven as I watched him run to the box.
"Grandpa," he called from the patio. "Can I make a club house in the box?"
The auto-dad in me started running my mental computer through all the reasons I should say no.
He wasn't doing what I told him.
I don't have all day.
It's just a crummy little box, not even big enough to play in properly.
Grandpa didn't hesitate.
Within ten or fifteen minutes he had wrung all the fun out of that stupid box and threw it away where I had asked him.
We're going to fix lunch now.