Wednesday, June 27, 2018


When my path crossed the outer edge of a little tornado yesterday, I dared for a moment to think I shouldn't have begun the four-hour drive to see the kids after all. A difficult weekend had left me physically and mentally drained, and this would be a whirlwind overnight trip that I would have to make alone or not at all.

But I hadn't seen Sooby, Pooh, Bootsie, and Zoomie since Mother's Day. More importantly, Sooby would turn eleven in four days and Zoomie's sixth birthday had been the day before. I counted on my fingers all the perfectly logical, sane reasons why I should stay home--but the kids had leftover cake at their house, and I had presents. I wanted desperately to see them, and so I set out.

About ninety minutes into my drive, the sky took on a dark indigo tint, and torrents of rain reduced visibility to nearly zero. The farther along I crept, the more vehicles I saw stopped along the highway, flashers blinking. Hail pelted my minivan, and debris flew across the highway. I thought of that memorable scene from The Wizard of Oz where bicycle becomes broom and Miss Gulch turns into the Wicked Witch.

Thank goodness for the semi. With its taillights flashing hope a little way in front of me, I was able to creep behind it through rows of stopped vehicles toward slightly brighter sky and the exit I needed. Weather conditions continued to improve from there, and I drove the last leg of the trip in sunshine.

Turning toward the kids' house, I caught sight of Pooh standing in the street, peering around the brush along the front of their property. Quickly, he ran into the wooded area to alert the other three that, finally, about half an hour later than expected, I was just about there. I turned into the driveway to this:

Four children had waited patiently for me to get there, jack-o'-lanterns full of leaves to herald my arrival. I have never treasured--or needed--a welcome more.

I won't lie--in many ways, I have had a tough seven years. I have watched my dad suffer a terminal illness, sat with him as he died, and cared for my mom as she has grieved, struggled to find her place alone in the world, and faced numerous health issues of her own. There are times when the responsibility is almost too much. Without a doubt, the hardest thing about being the age I am is watching my parents become frail and seeing them through these last days.

But then, if I just hang on, if I look past the hail, the torrential downpour, and the swirling debris, those great little kids--six of them in all--will sustain me and give me hope. There, to balance out the storms, will be cake and make-believe and a leaf-strewn driveway.

Happy birthday this week, Sooby and Zoomie. You, your siblings, and your cousins are my bright patch of sky. The gifts I brought home from your house today are far superior to anything I might have left there for you.

Thursday, May 24, 2018


Woddyodda. This is the newest word in Heero's four-year-old vocabulary, and it's all my fault. But the story of how this came to be is innocent enough.

Who knew a duck could be immortal? Yet, that's exactly what has happened in the case of the children's folk song "The Little White Duck," penned by Walt Whippo and Bernard Zaritsky in 1950 and popularized by singer Burl Ives in the '60s.

Flash back to that wonderful time, and you would see me, the future-Googie, spinning out song after song on my little suitcase-style record player from Sears and  Roebuck. A favorite in my repertoire was a 45-rpm version of "The Little White Duck," a record I talked my dad into buying for me on one of our evening trips to the neighborhood grocery store for milk and lunch meat.

It is easy to see why this little ditty has survived the test of time. Simply put, it is a charming compilation of all the things children love--animal characters, animal sounds that are fun to imitate and listen to, rhyme and rhythm, a catchy melody, lyrical repetition, dialogue, and a good, action-filled story-line. (If you don't know this song, or just need a refresher, take a trip to YouTube and let Burl Ives or Danny Kaye serenade your inner-child.) 

Now fast forward to 2007, when The Era of Grandkids began. I don't exaggerate a bit when I say that all six of them, as preschoolers, have loved "The Little White Duck," asking for it time and time again, especially as I am tucking them in bed. This means I have sung this song an infinite number of times for nearly eleven years now.

Last weekend, when Heero and Beenie spent the night, was no different. But this time, as the song ended, Heero had a question.

"Googie," he asked. "What's woddyodda?"

At first I was stumped. Where in the world did this word come from? But after a few slow, sleepy seconds I figured it out. The key to the mystery lay right there, in the lyrics of "The Little White Duck."

The song begins, "There's a little white duck/sitting in the water. A little white duck/doing what he oughta." There it was: I guess my slurry, sleepy singing voice (combined with my hillbilly accent) does not articulate the best. Instead of "what he oughta," Heero heard woddyodda. And he wanted to know just exactly what in the world it was that the duck and other animals had been "doing."

I gave some lame explanation about the animals doing what was right for them. "A duck is supposed to sit in the water," I said. "A little black bug is supposed to float."

"I always do woddyodda," Heero told me, adding that sometimes his brother fell a little short. And just like that, he owned a new word.

And this, my friends, is how retired teachers of English adulterate the vocabularies of their grandkids. Unfortunately, in Heero's case, it doesn't stop there. I am also responsible for his love of piracy.

Yes, that is a meat cleaver he is wielding. Both it and the costume come from an after-Halloween Dollar General clearance sale (90% off!) that I just couldn't resist.

But that's another story.


Saturday, April 21, 2018

When Superheroes Run Amok

From the perspective of a four-year-old, tonsils and their adenoidal sidekicks are kind of like superheroes. Usually they lie in wait in the back of your throat and behind your nasal passages ready to fight any germ that dares to invade your body through your nose or mouth.

But once in a while, because there are adverse forces in the universe, their super powers run amok. As a result, the tonsils and adenoids can harbor recurrent infection or grow so large that they inhibit normal breathing. When this happens, they can disturb sleep, interfere with eating, and, in general, worsen a kid's overall quality of life.

My littlest grandson Heero knows all about this.

When this brave little guy had his tonsils and adenoids removed last month, I got the chance to spend several days with him as he recovered. That experience sent me online to learn more about those renegade superheroes that, in his case, had caused so much trouble. That process led me to some interesting tonsil facts that I share with you here in the event that one of us makes it to Jeopardy and needs to run the category on The Immune System.

Answer: More than 530,000
Question: In America, how many children under 15 years old undergo tonsillectomies each year?

Answer: About 80%
Question: How many kids who have obstructive tonsils removed experience definite improvement in their quality of life? (

Answer: 3,000 years ago
Question: When was the first tonsillectomy thought to have been attempted?

I am glad Heero had this procedure in 2018 instead. I doubt that the vinegar-milk concoction worked very well in stopping the flow of blood. I'm putting my money on cold cautery. (Rosenfeld, Jordan. "10 Fascinating Facts About the Tonsils." Mental Floss. 23 Aug. 2017.)

Answer: The technical name of a surgeon specializing in ear, nose, and throat issues
Question: What is an otorhinolaryngologist? (I tell you this before you get to Jeopardy so that you can practice the pronunciation. I don't want Alex Trebek to make fun of you.)

Ask Heero what the worst thing about having a tonsillectomy is, and he will tell you it is taking the medicine for the ten days afterward. For some reason, he hates all the kiddie Tylenols and ibuprofens, even the ones flavored like cherry and bubble gum. Go figure.

But we can already tell that the surgery has enhanced his enjoyment of life. He looks healthier. He seems happier, more content, and more outgoing. He embraces everything we do with a new kind of excitement.

No question about it, Alex. For Heero, life is definitely better without tonsils.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Rosie's Diner

Never underestimate the power of your house. In recent years I have watched, helpless, as the home I live in dictates the roles I take on there and, consequently, the way I spend my time.

Take, for example, our house just previous, which came equipped with a large above-ground swimming pool. We had barely moved in twenty-two years ago--with children ages 11 and 15--when we became the "party house" for their friends. Before I knew it, I was hosting a group of my own friends on many a wonderful, lazy summer afternoon. Then came family reunions, grandkids, and so on and so forth until it seemed unusual if anyone at all showed up at our door without a swimsuit under his or her street clothes.

In retrospect, I can see that I should have predicted that. It is logical that the people with the pool find themselves entertaining friends all summer long, and I don't regret one single splash. But, over time, it becomes just a little bit harder to maintain your enthusiasm for daily pool upkeep, yearly maintenance, and perpetual expense. That was just one factor--but an important one--that led to our decision to move to a subdivision where someone else takes care of the pool and a huge, beautiful lake just beyond a row of trees offers even bigger and better recreational options.

Our new house provides a much better lay-out for sleeping and feeding six grandkids and their parents, whom they often bring along. Its center of activity is the typical greatroom combining living room, dining room, and kitchen. In the middle of this area is a huge island where all six kids can sit comfortably for meals. And so, when they are here, I often find myself on the kitchen side of this island dishing up pancakes or adding milk to cereal.

And pouring coffee.

Yes, as though they need to even be in the same room with an extra jolt of caffeine, the fine art of coffee-drinking is enthusiastically embraced by Sooby, Pooh, Bootsie, and Zoomie. The last two times they have spent the weekend with us, my kitchen counter has morphed into a "diner," and, somehow, I have become "Rosie."

On the particular day you see pictured here, Bootsie, Zoomie, and Pooh are "Lucy," "Tom," and "Dave." If you can't tell by looking, they are detectives (except for instances when Lucy and Dave decide that a "police dog" is needed and then, in an amazing portrayal of dual roles, Tom goes canine). Wondering where Sooby is? Dave and Lucy have cast her as a "suspicious figure," and she is either somewhere "lurking" or off doing her own thing.

As it turns out, "Rosie's Diner" has evolved into the perfect make-believe game for all of us to play together when the necessity of feeding four children three meals a day forces me to put in a lot of kitchen time. While these kids are experts at role-playing, I have to rack my brain a bit for spontaneous answers when interrogated by Lucy and Dave. It goes something like this:

Dave: So, has anything suspicious happened around here, Rosie?
Rosie: Well, my husband disappeared two years ago and has never been found.
Lucy: When did you last see your husband?
Rosie: He was sailing off in a boat with two shifty-looking characters.
Dave: Can you identify them?
Rosie: No, it was dark--but one was tall and one was short.
Lucy: Did you overhear anything?
Rosie: I heard some angry whispers.
Dave: Did your husband leave a note?
Rosie: Why, yes, he did.
Lucy: What did it say?
Rosie: It said "not dead."
Dave: "Not dead," huh. That must mean he is still alive. They are probably holding him hostage . . . .

And so, just like that, the two detectives put their police dog on guard and set out in search of suspicious characters. Undoubtedly, the dialogue will resume during the next coffee break or lunch, whichever comes first.

Rosie wipes the counter after them and loads their cups into her industrial-size dishwasher. She checks the menu and sees that spaghetti with meat sauce will be today's special.

I turn the heat on under a pot of water and break some hamburger in the skillet to brown. I kind of like being Rosie.

But I hope those detectives find my husband. Come lunchtime, he will probably be hungry too.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018


DO NOT be misled by this innocent face:

I am fully aware that, to the uninitiated, this stuffed rabbit might appear to be just a cute, cuddly little kiddie toy that elicits sweet smiles and choruses of elongated "Oohs" and "Aahs." In reality, however, it is a cruel instrument of torture and frustration. You shrink in disbelief? Allow me to explain.

A Christmas ago, Bootsie received the gift of a make-it-yourself kit purporting to contain all instructions and supplies needed for an "8+" child to sew her own furry companion. Right there, in bold black letters, the box proclaims itself to be "FULL OF FUN!" Lying in ambush inside, indeed, were thread, fabric, stuffing, manual--items necessary to save the manufacturer from a class action false advertising lawsuit. Certainly nothing to raise your eyebrows at--yet.

My suspicion was first aroused by the disclaimer that "Scissors and Sewing Needle [are] NOT Included" (in a kit that presents itself as "complete"?)  But even the most disciplined eyebrows rise with the opening of the instruction manual, a segment of which I offer as Exhibit A.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you that these instructions prove quite difficult if not downright impossible for a child of eight to understand, much less execute. (Bootsie was six at the time, but that is beside the point.) "Sew all the parts of the head on the reverse side of the fabric using the overstitch." Yeah, sure.

Or better yet, "To finish the head, sew the side pieces together from the nose tip to the neck opening on the reverse side of the fabric of both pieces." Say what? Even I, with three years of home economics on my high school transcript, had to think entirely too hard about what these words and diagrams mean.

Let me pause here to testify that the enclosed thread came in a tangled wad, the cut fabric pieces were hard to differentiate among, and the fabric itself frayed easily. Consider the fact that the finished bunny was only nine inches tall, and maybe you can imagine the intricate nature of the handwork required and the utter inappropriateness of this for a child seamstress.

My daughter Cookie is smart. She took one look at the contents of the bunny box (After all, it said, "Come on, OPEN ME!") and claimed it gave her a headache just thinking about it. I get that. She has her hands full with four children, a household, and a truckload of music students. But Bootsie wanted her bunny made, and, well, how could I resist those big blue eyes and that plaintive little voice. "Googie?" she said. "Would you sew my bunny for me?"

And this is where I summarize--where I squeeze into a few poignant words the entire year it took to make myself sew up this awful thing. Beginning on a recent mid-afternoon while Pa-pa was out of town, I stitched, cursed, ripped out, and repeated that process more times than even I, in retrospect, can imagine.

I found a pair of buttons to use for eyes in place of the worthless rivets that refused to pierce the face piece. The red thread for the nose refused to pull through, so those extraneous loops became whiskers (four on one side and eight on the other, but who's counting?). The enclosed ribbon for the bunny's neck wasn't long enough to tie in a bow, so I had to scrounge up another one.

Determined to finish the project for our next visit to the kids, I stitched and stuffed relentlessly through everything late night TV had to offer, including two episodes each of Perry Mason and Alfred Hitchcock. Even Hitchcock's horror couldn't equal mine, until finally, around 2 a.m., this motley collection adorned the arm of my recliner.

A little over an hour later, the dots were connected and "Frankenbunny," my own little creation of mismatched, improvised rabbit parts, was born. It was about a twelve-hour job altogether. Right then, I was sure I would never take on another such project, even for a grandkid.

But then, in her Frankenstein, Mary Shelley writes, ". . . if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness." Bootsie was thrilled when she first laid those big blue eyes on Frankenbunny, and Shelley got it right.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

How To Rock a Valentine Party

When I was a school kid in the '60s, the classroom valentine party was something I looked forward to so much that I could hardly finish the day's installment of Dick and Jane. Like the stories, the parties were simple then, usually hosted by two "room mothers" that I considered equal to royalty.

About a week before the party, we would bring from home shoe boxes we had covered with construction paper and hearts (crepe paper and doilies when I was older and learned what those were). We would cut a slit into the top or side for the simple paper valentines our classmates would bring for us sometime the week prior. Only occasionally would someone's mom splurge and give us all an actual cardboard valentine with a juicy, red sucker affixed.

I don't remember making anything or playing anything, only getting to skip geography or some end-of-the-day stretch of boredom to open our valentines and eat mouth-watering heart-shaped, iced, decorated sugar cookies that the moms made. We usually got a paper nut cup of those little conversation hearts as well, along with a cup of red Kool-aid mixed right there in the classroom.

When my own children were in school and I had somehow myself risen to the ranks of royalty, the treats were pretty much the same (read: many opportunities to stay up past midnight spreading icing and tossing sprinkles). The decorated boxes, though, had been elevated to major art projects, and we had added a game or two and maybe a small take-home treat bag.

Since then, however, things have changed. Sadly, for safety reasons, treats from the royal kitchen have given way to pre-packaged, store-bought snacks. In the interest of equality among children (which I can understand and take no issue with), the valentine receptacles are decorated paper bags, all the same size, designed to hold cards and candy from those children whose families choose to participate. In addition, the parties are likely to feature take-away craft activities and games.

This information is all new to me. This Valentine's Day, I got to attend a kindergarten class party as Beenie's guest. In spite of the changes these parties have undergone over some fifty years (over three generations) or more, I found the event to be delightful. Following are a few suggestions in case you ever find yourself in the position of king or queen in charge of an elementary classroom valentine party.

1. Plan a couple simple "make-and-take" crafts. Of course, in the age of Pinterest and subject-specific blogs, these are easy to find with a google search and a few quick link clicks (try saying that three times). I got to assist Beenie with two well-chosen crafts that made use of supplies I recognized from Hobby Lobby. One was a hanging ornament, which demonstrates Beenie's tendency to "think outside the heart."

The other was a very cute "love bug," or butterfly.

My perusal of valentine party websites after the fact led me to the blog which, in an article titled "25+ Fantastic Valentine Class Party Ideas" (posted 01/23/16), even shows a craft designed similarly to Beenie's bug.

2. Plan a couple easy team games. Unfortunately, I got to see only one of the games because I was helping a couple kids glue their love bugs while the other one was going on. But Beenie and his classmates loved a "Minute to Win It" game that involved teams of four or five moving around a table to build a stack of conversation hearts as high as possible in a minute's time. As each child reached the stack, he or she added another heart. If the stack fell, the next child would begin a new one. The team with the highest number of stacked hearts (in this case, five) at the end of a minute received a valentine pencil as a prize.

Here, Beenie is adding his heart to his team's stack. (They are using the small hearts, but I think the larger ones might work better, especially for younger children.) I found references to this game and lots of other good ones under the heading "15 Valentine's Day Party Games for Kids" on the site by Stacy Fisher and also on

In surfing these websites, I found another one to be very good in its inclusion of both game and craft ideas and other suggestions for a successful party. "35 Valentine's Day Classroom Party Ideas" on (posted 02/09/12) was especially helpful in its grouping of activities into age-appropriate categories from grades 1-8; its recommendation to set up activities in classroom "stations" for the children to rotate through; and its diverse suggestions for crafts, card-making, snacks, and stories appropriate for Valentine's Day.

3. Offer some uncomplicated pre-packaged snacks. In Beenie's case these consisted a Capri-Sun-style drink and an individually packaged bag of mini-brownies.

4. Climb a tree on the way to the car after the party (optional). 

Of course, Beenie and I are likely the only ones who finished our valentine party off in this manner. But you can tell from his smile that this was a fitting activity to end our celebration.

As it turns out, though, this wasn't quite the end. There was a paper bag, decorated like an owl, that had to be emptied on the kitchen table and foraged through the minute we got home. Beenie received lots of good treats from his classroom friends, and--shhh! don't tell him--even I got a chance to sneak a miniature Hershey's dark chocolate bar!

Friday, February 9, 2018

Now and Then

Used to be, Feb. 2 wasn't an especially notable day on our family calendar. Although it did mark the end of another long January, it was, for the most part, only a time to pay lip service to a lazy Pennsylvania rodent and think about ideas for Valentine boxes.

But that was before the arrival of Grandkid #2 (Grandson #1) and a total renovation of Feb. 2. Now, there is excitement in the way we rip off the January calendar page and revel in the anticipation of Pooh's birthday. Last Friday was #9 in the series, and last weekend was nothing less than a glorious two-day party.

Here, the birthday boy prepares to extinguish his nine candles after his "dinner of choice," which, for the record, consisted of taquitos, shrimp, oysters, and sardines. (Let the record also show that I opted for a shrimp salad.)

We first used this delicious chocolate cake recipe for family birthdays some thirty years ago. I came across it in a Redbook magazine in the doctor's waiting room when son Teebo was imminent. It still exists in my recipe file in its original form, scrawled in red ink on a page torn from my bank book. But I digress. On to the presents.

Because Pooh's favorite school subject is science, it seemed like a no-brainer when, at Hobby Lobby, I discovered a junior "chemistry" set named "Test Tube Adventures." Although his mama cast a somewhat disapproving glance in my direction when this jewel was first unwrapped, I couldn't  imagine why any child wouldn't love such activities as "playing with touchable bubbles," "making a super bouncing ball," "making yards of worms," and "growing bright jiggly crystals."

As it turned out, the little "experiments," at least the two that I supervised, were entirely harmless and totally age-appropriate. I can honestly say that no floor, furniture item, or sibling was harmed in the production of touchable bubbles or super bouncing balls. At this point I have not heard just how many yards of worms materialized or just how "jiggly" those crystals were, but I'm sure this information will eventually trickle down.

For a game/group activity we got the maximum fun possible from a $4.99 Melissa and Doug hat-making kit (google Melissa and Doug Simply Crafty Adventure Hats) containing four sturdy, adjustable hat templates with stickers for embellishment.

Pooh chose a pirate hat for his headgear wardrobe, while the other hats made Sooby a princess, Bootsie a court jester, and Zoomie a Viking. To make matters even more pleasant, each child picked a different hat the first time, with no arguing. I still don't know exactly how that happened.

Pooh's ninth birthday celebration was a far cry from his first one, when he looked like this.

But although that was then and this is now, some things haven't really changed at all. Now, as then, we celebrate the blessing of being Googie and Pa-pa to this great kid. And, what's more, the cake is still chocolate--and the party still rocks.