My four-year-old grandson Wyatt turns five next week. I’m pretty sure that means no more blogging about him unless I get an attorney.

One hot day last month I picked him up in Boonsboro for his day at our house. After he’s buckled snugly in his car seat in the back, he requests “boy rock.” I know his preferences, so I oblige with a carefully selected playlist that blasts us all the way to Shepherdstown.

Our weekly routine includes a carwash in the automatic bay at Whale of a Wash and then a quick stop in Food Lion for bananas, blueberries, and maybe a candy bar. After that, it’s off to home but not through the shorter campus route because I DON’T LIKE THAT WAY. I once explained the advantages. It didn’t change his opinion.

At the car wash, I insert my credit card and make a selection. The door slowly rises. We enter and roll to a stop. The door closes behind us and suddenly we’re met with a putrid smell.

Cowshit, says the passenger in the backseat.

What?

It’s cowshit.

I can’t disagree. His other grandparents live on a farm near Rohrersville. He’s become an expert on cowshit.

After the wash, we pull around to Food Lion.

I don’t want to go in there today.

That’s OK, I say. I’ll park by the door and dash in and out real quick. We only need some bananas. You can wait in the car.

But aren’t you forgetting something, Grandy?

I don’t think so. All we need are bananas. What am I forgetting?

The law.

As I said: This is my last blog about that guy.