A contented old man dozes on a quiet beach in fading sun. He's surrounded by his grandchildren, one of whom is not ignoring him. As Grandpa comes to, he realizes that a kid shaking away at his left arm is also talking to him.

"Come on, Grandpa, please tell us! Grandpa?"

The littlest kid's older sister stands and gives her brother a stern look. "Stop that! Let go of Grandpa's arm."

The kid drops the arm. "Daddy said Grandpa could tell us kids a lot about life. Mum said yeah, and the old fart could add in how to win at bridge, gin rummy and stud poker while he's at it. I wanna hear all that stuff. Come on, Grandpa." He gives the bony ribs a sandy little kick.

Grandpa is fairly deaf, but this dialog does get his attention. It's true. He doesn't talk much to grandchildren. They're always busy. They have a different language. But will all his experience really die with him, never passed on to these beautiful kids of his own kids? He remembers fascinating insights shared by his own grandpa during leisurely trips and wandering walks together so long, long ago.

So the old man pushes himself up to sitting, looks around at the busy kids, then pulls the littlest one over onto his lap as he yells out, "All right, everybody, a break from the fun, get over here and listen up. By popular demand I'm about to tell you what is and what isn't what. Sit down and get comfortable. It might take a while." The kids drop shovels, buckets, balls, run over, find places, sit in a circle, grinning at something new finally happening.

"Aloha. I'll try to stay in plain English here, but some aspects of reality are a little slippery, so be patient with me. Let's start with Truth..."