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Our grandchildren Allison, 4, and Ben, who will be 3 soon, were absorbed in play on the floor in our living room during their visit last week — Ben with a puzzle and Allie with a wooden train that her mother and uncle once played with when they were small.

I was hoping they would want to sing some songs, so I pulled out my guitar and began to play the “chicken” song, as Ben refers to it — an old tune passed along to me by my uncles many years ago. There’s never been sheet music for this song, so I can’t vouch for the title we use: “Who Stole the Lock for the Chicken House Door?”

It’s a lively tune that begins, “Down in the hen house on my knees, thought I heard a chicken sneeze.”

Neither of the children even looked up from their play, as opposed to other times when they would come running, crying out, “guitar!”

Disappointed, but persistent, I continued: “‘Twas the old rooster saying his prayers, singing a hymn to the hens upstairs.” Then, “Who stole the lock?” And this is the part where the children are supposed to shout “I don’t know” in response.

I stopped playing and waited. They looked up. “I don’t know.” They said in unison and went back to their play. They were listening after all, and with each singing of the chorus they gave their response, but no more.

Well, that wasn’t exactly the level of enthusiasm I had hoped for, and I was tempted to put the guitar away. But, being a stubborn grandpa, I thought I’d try one more and began to play “Waltzing With Bears.”

At that point, their mother appeared, grasped Allison by the hands and began to waltz with her as Ben scrambled to his feet to join in.

“We gave Uncle Walter a new coat to wear, but when he comes home it’s all covered with hair.”

And then Jen began to twirl, as graceful in dance as she is aggressive in hockey. She pirouetted down the hallway, around the bookcase and back into the living room, leaping across scattered wooden alphabet blocks, dodging the train, hopping over stuffed animals and dancing around the dining room table, swinging shut the door to the deck as she passed it.

The children followed, barefoot, skipping, waltzing and running to keep up.

“Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, waltzing with bears, raggy bears, baggy bears, shaggy bears, too.”

The song went on verse after verse and so did the dancers, riding the tune through the wood-toy hazards, past the fragile blooming orchid, avoiding the plastic dump truck, slippery playing cards, hard-edged wood stove and matchbook cars.

I could see, in an existential moment, there were dangers that could be avoided if only I would stop the music. But the moment passed and the song went on until that last chorus, “so he could go waltzing, go waltzing with bears.” And then, breathless, the children clapped, and their mother, my daughter the dancer, smiled at me.

Memories, as the old song goes, are made of this.