They started calling him “Da” when they could hardly talk. These small grandchildren couldn’t have known this is a traditional Irish name for father or grandfather, but “Da” he became.

At birthday parties he gets a party bag and favors. Draped in crepe paper streamers, wearing a ridiculous party hat, he is in line with the kids for ice cream and cake.

On warm afternoons, trailed by grandsons, he hunts for fishing worms, leading the way with a hefty shovel. The boys detour to the tree house, pelting Da, a pretend monster down below, with acorns and leaves. Hard to know who is having the most fun.

Da makes popcorn, watches Scooby Doo, Curious George, and Sponge Bob television with his boys. His wide lap accommodates two kids at once, and nobody cares if food is spilled or drinks are tipped over.

At departure time, Da carries sleepy kids to waiting parents, flashing the porch light on and off until the last car pulls out of the driveway. The grandfather, the party boy, the loving presence, my husband. This is Da.