Years ago, our family of four would vacation at my parents’ cottage in the Laurentians in the summer. While there I would often look through masses of clover in search of four-leaf clovers. At the shore was a large dock, which allowed us to dive into the lake. During this one summer visit, our two sons, Matthew, a seven-year-old, and Andrew, a four-year-old , would excitedly head to the dock to jump off and practice their swimming skills learned during swimming lessons at the local pool back home. Andrew was tiny and fearless and didn’t think twice about jumping or diving off the dock. Although older, Matthew, who’d managed to successfully get through his swimming lessons, was terrified of the lake. Possibly this fear was rooted in his cautious personality, that he was exceptionally tall for his age and his height caused a long distance before he reached the water, or that the pressure to compete with his brother created a lathering cloud of anxiety. Try as we might, his father and I couldn’t help break through his fears. It was my father (yes, we called him the Grandpoobee) who managed to get through to Matt, gently coaching his every day with different strategies. My mom (yes, we gave her the nickname of Nanabanana), who also would sit by the sidelines and offer suggestions and sometimes critique my father to let Matt be, reassured Matt that in time he’d be able to dive off the dock. Hence, it was watching the power of this precious bond between grandson and grandparents that this story was born. We are so grateful for the role my parents played in helping our sons develop into the fine young men they are today.