The woman means well. She really does, and I love her for that. She is concerned. Apparently much more than I am. And that's something. But the button stays.

I don't know, three or four years ago, I guess, my oldest grandson was in my arms. Like any infant-toddler might do, young Sy was exploring his granddad's face with his eyes and his hands. And his finger. And bless his heart, he found nothing that bothered him. The wildly growing ear hair didn't even phase him. The wide and black gaps between Paw Paw's tooth and gum were just an adventure to him. The white hair and scaly and flaky white facial skin must have seemed like ocean side play sand to that kid. At some point he started poking my face with his tiny finger. Then he found it.

When he first touched the button, for some odd old man granddad reason, my right hand became a claw. I gently clawed and tickled the youngster's belly and made an electrical buzzing sound. Sy pulled his hand from the button, squirmed in my arms and howled with laughter and pleasure.

When Sy's younger brother came along, and when he was old enough to be held and to explore, he joined Sy on my lap and in my arms. Young Seth saw his older brother press the button. And he saw and heard what happens when the button is pressed. And just like Sy, Seth, too, howled with laughter and pleasure.

For several years now, many times during my visits with those guys – now three and four years old – they do the same thing. They find places on the left side of my face and neck to press with their little pointers. When they press those places, they get nothing. Then their fingers move closer to the button on the right side, and they press another spot. Nothing again. But when they finally press the button, I grab and I make sound effects. And they squirm and howl.

My son and his family were in town last weekend. They left for their home Sunday morning. As they were loading the car, I held Sy for a few minutes. He pushed the button, got clawed, squirmed and laughed as always. Then it was time to hold young Seth. I kissed Sy and placed him on the ground. When I picked up Seth to give my final goodbye to him, he nestled in my arms, wrapped his legs around me and said, “Where's your button?”

That was the very first time the round and rather large and dark old man mole at the base of my right jaw was actually called “the button.” Seth found it, pressed it, got the claw again, and squirmed and howled. And he named it.

I don't know why this happened at that particular time, but after Seth called it what he did, and after he pressed it once again, I had a sort of vision. This may sound morbid, but it was one of the most pleasant visions I have ever had. I saw myself, stretched out in my own coffin as my family walked by paying their last respects. Sy and Seth, both in their twenties or thirties in my vision, leaned over. They didn't kiss me. They didn't stroke my hair. They didn't use words to say that they love me. They both, just one last time, pressed the button. They got no claw, but they both laughed one more time.

Today, my son's wife contacted me. It seems she is concerned about my button and a few other old man moles on my old man skin. She told me about a free skin screening in Raleigh this June, and she suggested that I go. Her concern means the world to me. I love and admire my son, but the man “married up,” to be sure.

I told her I would go. And I reminded her about the mole beneath my right jaw. I told her that I will never remove that mole. I can't do that.

That's Sy and Seth's button.

Please check out "A Nut" on this week's LUNACY!

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