“Grandpa, can we go fishing?” This was sweet music to a retired man’s ears, floating over the cell phone airwaves on a sunny Saturday morning a week ago. An hour later, we were peacefully drowning worms in Liberty Centre Pond in North Liberty — my 7- and 9-year-old grandchildren and me — and life was good.

The kids were happy. They had finally started baiting their own hooks and had made it through Grandpa’s usual lengthy fishing safety diatribe without nodding off. I think the phrase “hook your sister’s ear and you’ll be one unhappy camper” may have been part of my closing speech. A couple of minutes later, it was Grandpa who was one unhappy camper.

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