My friend Asako teaches fourth grade in Osaka. Thirty-one kids. Ten years old. Last spring, one of her students, Noa, got a visitor. Her American grandfather flew in from North Dakota for three weeks. Mr. Halvorson. 79. Retired wheat farmer. Hands like oven mitts. He asked if he could help out at the school. The principal said yes, mostly because nobody could figure out how to say no to him. So for three weeks, he came every single day. He fixed things. He ate lunch on a chair built for a ten-year-old. He went to recess. On his last day, Asako asked the class to write one sentence. "What is an American grandpa?" She sent me all thirty-one. Here are some. "An American grandpa can find a quarter behind your ear. He found one behind mine. I checked again at home. There were no more." (Boy, 10) "He says 'Well, I'll be.' Nobody knows what he'll be." (Girl, 10) "He shook my hand like I was a grown-up. I stood up straighter for the rest of the day." (Boy, 10) "He fixed the broken wheel on the lunch cart with a pocket knife and a bobby pin. The lunch ladies still ask about him every morning." (Girl, 10) "He fell asleep sitting up at our recorder concert. He woke up right at the end and clapped the loudest." (Girl, 10) "He calls everybody 'partner.' The principal. The class goldfish. Me." (Boy, 10) "When he holds your hand to cross the street, his hand is so big that a truck would lose." (Girl, 10) "He laughs with his whole body. Even his ears move." (Boy, 10) Noa's answer was one word. "Mine." Then there was the quietest boy in the class. His grandparents all died before he was born. Whenever the other kids talked about their grandparents, he went quiet. He wrote: "An American grandpa is a grandpa you can have even if you don't have one. I asked him. He said yes." On the last afternoon, Mr. Halvorson knelt down in front of every kid in that room. Thirty-one times. At 79, Asako says, this was an athletic event. He found a quarter behind every ear. When he got to the quiet boy, he found two. "One's for now," he said. "The other one's for when you come see me." The boy keeps the second quarter in his pencil case. He has never spent it. He told Asako he's saving it for North Dakota. He already knows exactly how far it is. Thirty-one kids in Osaka now believe every American grandpa can pull money out of thin air. America, please don't tell them otherwise.