The Best Kind of Goodbye

This year I have not been anxious to let go of autumn.

There have been wonderful, soul-soothing days of sunshine and 60-degree weather that I have clung to like a dog playing tug-of-war on the other end of a big, juicy bone. In spite of sub-freezing nights and two early snows, I have been determined to keep five pots of begonias alive and thriving for Thanksgiving weekend.

I did, and they did. As they hung off my deck yesterday in all their bright pink splendor, I made sure everyone noticed them one last time. They afforded us a splash of color amid the fallen leaves, now brown and drying and spread like a crunchy blanket over the yard.

This was the setting for our final Thanksgiving hurrah, an afternoon outside around the fire pit, roasting sticks in hand and a last, guilt-free chance to indulge in abundant, delightful food that has been absent from our South Beach Diet menu of the past six weeks.

Long about mid-afternoon, our cell phones began buzzing with warnings of near-blizzard conditions predicted for our area today, but I ignored them. It was fall, I insisted to myself and the others. And then my daughter-in-law took the picture.

It is one of those photos that short-circuits the eyes and lands right in the heart. In it, Beenie, Bootsie, Heero, and Zoomie are tossing up handfuls of leaves, which then rain down on them all in a shower of pure joy. You see this in their faces.

For me, the picture works as a metaphor. In it, I see that this is the way I need to release autumn--in a dramatic, exhilarating gesture of delight and gratitude. There is no reason why I shouldn't do that, considering all that autumn--and these past several days in particular--have given me.

On Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, we celebrated my mom's 94th birthday. Happy and well, she was able to go with us to the yearly gathering of our extended family, which now numbers five generations of the descendants of my grandparents. This year, there were seventy-something of us present. Then came two great days with our own kids and grandkids here at the lake. Humbly and gratefully, I acknowledge that autumn owes me nothing. It has given me everything, and I graciously let it go.

The snow and wind began mid-afternoon today. I let them have the begonias. I restocked my depleted fridge with healthy food. I put up the Christmas tree. This is the best kind of goodbye--one that brings, along in its wake, a kind of hello.

Hello, winter. Hello, Christmas season. I am ready to shop and decorate and play Christmas music. I am ready to turn over a new calendar page--and, I guess you might say, a new leaf. 

Changing Times

"Goog?"

It was the quietest little whisper tiptoeing across the darkness of the kids' bunk room at 4:30 this morning. Heero and his brother Beenie were spending the night, and our world had just "fallen back" from daylight savings time a couple hours earlier.

"What do you need?" I whispered back. It is Heero that often calls me "Goog."

"I lost my pillow."

I felt myself smile. Heero was sleeping on a trundle bed we had scooted out from under the daybed where Beenie was still asleep. I knew the pillow had to be on the floor only inches from his head, but I got up, went to him, and conducted a proper search anyway.

"Here it is," I said, straightening his blanket. "Can you sleep just a little more until it's time to get up?"

"Yeah."

Heero went right back to sleep, but I lay awake for just a bit, contemplating the significance of what had just happened. My youngest grandchild had gone to bed as a four-year-old and, only several hours later, shared his first conversation as a five-year-old with me. Before drifting back to sleep myself, I decided that was a pretty special thing.

Although Heero's birthday is officially today, Pa-pa and I enjoyed a big party his mama and daddy hosted for him and others of his extended family yesterday at lunch time. The Superhero party featured all the appropriate accoutrements--including the present of his dreams (a huge Hot Wheels garage from Mom and Dad), Superhero masks, balloons, and a big plate of cupcakes adorned with a "5" candle that he extinguished quite efficiently.

Happy birthday today, little Heero. It was great to celebrate with you yesterday and to have you at my house for a quick overnight. I will remember it as the night we did backwards somersaults, ate pizza and candy corn, played pirate, drew bedtime pictures, read Toot and Puddle books, and tried out your new "phlat ball."

And I will remember it as the night you "lost" your pillow. You have to watch those things, or they can get away from you.

Five years ago today, I became "Googie" (or in your case, "Goog") to my sixth grandchild in as many years. It is bittersweet to realize that, quite suddenly, I don't have any babies anymore.

That is what makes those 4:30 a.m. conversations so special.   

If You Build It . . . .

Ever since Pa-pa and I moved to a lake neighborhood nearly fifteen months ago, I have been hearing voices--the kind Kevin Costner heard nearly thirty years ago as the star of the classic movie Field of Dreams. There, Costner repeatedly hears a cryptic voice whisper, "If you build it, he will come." To summarize, Costner takes a leap of faith, builds a ball diamond in his corn field, and in so doing conjures up the Chicago White Sox team of 1919.

For a year now I have scrutinized my new back yard, trying to envision what I could build there that the grandkids could call their own--a place offering unlimited play potential and plenty of growing room. A one-of-a-kind place where siblings and cousins and friends could gather to role-play or read, to "camp out" or just dream. A sort of clubhouse for Googie's kids.

I didn't want a structure from a kit. I didn't want swings, slides, and other apparatuses that would make it sprawl across the yard. I scoured the internet for pictures and took vacation photos of play sets as far away as Minnesota and even Switzerland. Finally, I took my ideas to a talented builder who converted them to actual plans on paper. The building process spanned several weeks of October, and this past weekend the kids came together to initiate their new play space.

Here you see all six of them--Zoomie, Beenie, Pooh, Heero, Bootsie, and Sooby--lined up across the front of the second level, a 10-foot square with a banister railing. Both this and the first floor have five-foot ceilings. Following is a guided tour of the rest of the building.

This front view shows all three levels. The second and third stories are accessed by indoor ladders, with a rock-climbing wall also leading from first to second on the opposite wall. The top level, fully enclosed, features a window that opens inward and a floor large enough for several sleeping bags. The "front door" on the left opens inward and closes with a gate latch. The lap siding on the first floor is cedar, and all other wood is treated to withstand Missouri weather. The structure rests on concrete blocks at the corners, making it movable with a skid loader.

This photo shows the open front door and one of the two movable wooden boxes. This one on the first floor stores outdoor play equipment, while the one upstairs holds wood scraps of all shapes I salvaged from the construction for use as building blocks. When closed, both boxes double as seats that I will equip with cushions next spring.

This inside shot of the first floor shows the rock climbing wall at the back left and, in the foreground, a drop-down table for snacks, games, or whatever. The two wooden stools were donated from son Teebo, and I will have them cut down to better fit the height of the table.

This view of the second floor shows where the rock wall comes up from below and the ladder to the third floor, or loft.

This picture shows the loft as viewed from the top of the ladder coming up and looking toward the front of the clubhouse. I plan to put a square indoor-outdoor carpet remnant up there next spring to enhance the coziness of this neat spot. On the weekend just past, we put a "Halloween Party" CD on the player, opened the window, and let the likes of "Ghostbusters" and "Monster Mash" lend a spooky-fun atmosphere to our family wiener roast on a glorious fall day.

Back down two ladders and we are on the ground again, looking at the clubhouse from the back. And that completes your tour of the house that Googie built.

If I built it, will they come? I surely hope so. I look forward to many days when this little house of mine will be filled with laughter, imagination, and love. But what will I do if a baseball team shows up? I will just have to hope there is enough room along the other side to accommodate a dugout.

Yellow

In my college theatre classes, we used to play a metaphor game called "Essence." In that game, designed to encourage us to extract the "essence" of character, the person whose turn it was would choose a well known real-life person--perhaps a celebrity--and the rest of us would ask questions in an attempt to guess the identity of that person.

The questions asked had to be designed in the following format:

• If this person were a car, what would he/she be?
• If this person were a dance, what would he/she be?
• If this person were one of the crayons in a Crayola 8-pack, what would he/she be? 

And so on. If the answers to these questions were Corvette, rock and roll, and black, those doing the guessing might gradually narrow their thoughts toward Elvis Presley. If the initial guesses were incorrect, then more questions would be asked until the "essence" of the person in question was finally made clear by the metaphors. 

If it were my turn to answer these same questions about my granddaughter Bootsie, I would say Volkswagen Beetle, ballet, and yellow. With those clues, you would be well on the way to extracting the "essence" of this beautiful little girl whose eighth birthday we celebrated three days ago.

Of the metaphors above, the one that best describes Bootsie is yellow. From her buttery yellow braid to the delicious three-layer lemon cake her mama baked for her birthday, Bootsie exudes yellow. In our lives she is like a bright ray of sunshine that bounces around a room and warms us all.

Pa-pa and I were glad to get to spend the night at Bootsie's house this year on Oct. 3 just like we did on that same date in 2010. It was in the wee hours of the morning of Oct. 4 that year that Bootsie's mama rapped on the guest bedroom door with the words, "Mom, we're going now." And just a few hours later, that little trip to the hospital made our world the cheerful yellow place it has been ever since.

Happy birthday to you, Bootsie. You are butter and sunshine and lemon cake--and sometimes a little bit bananas . . . .

But we love you that way and never want you to change. We love the special shade of yellow that is the essence of you. Pa-pa and I are sure you will brighten your second-grade classroom all year long and leave a trail of shiny sunbeams wherever you go. 

More About the Harvest

The kids' book is just days away now. Yesterday I received notification that it had been shipped. It won't be long until I can start watching out the front window for the mail truck.

Harvest the Stars has been good for me. Most importantly, it has motivated me to gather the kids' poems stashed in the various corners of my life and give them some kind of logical platform that allows them to work together. The collection's goal is to take readers on a playful, imaginative romp through the wonders kids find in a typical day.

I can't say enough about the way Billy Jack Boatman enhances the poems with his illustrations, drawn and colored to imitate the pages of a child's coloring book. His style complements the words perfectly, with most of his drawings featuring animals and/or the little boy character on the cover.

Sandy Selby, an accomplished free-lance writer and editor whose work I respect greatly, says,  "Noland's clever poetry dares to challenge and expand a child's vocabulary and ignite his or her imagination. There's wisdom within that adults will appreciate, too." Sandy's comments target exactly what I wanted to do: build a collection with appeal for a wide range of readers and listeners.

Again, Harvest the Stars will be available for $10 from me in person or $13 by mail. If you have let me know you want a copy (and I thank you profusely for that!), your name is on my list and I will contact you before long regarding distribution. Please add a comment to this post or send me a personal message if you would like me to add your name to that list.

The book's back cover calls it a "rhythmical, rhyming world where stars are available for the gathering and nothing is impossible." This affirms my belief that anything can happen in a child's imagination--and yours too if you let it.

Harvest the Stars

When Beenie came to spend the night with me several years ago, he latched onto a plastic dinosaur in my toy box. He played with it all evening, slept with it, and "fed" it Froot Loops for breakfast the next morning. At some point, he named the dinosaur "Darryl."

Darryl ended up going home with Beenie later that day and hasn't been seen around here since. But shortly after that visit, I composed "A Dinosaur Named Darryl," a poem written from the viewpoint of a little boy with a toy tyrannosaurus. At the time, I published it here in "Googie's Attic," and you can read it in my post for March 6, 2015.

But wait. Maybe you would rather read it later this month when it comes out in my new book Harvest the Stars, a collection of fifteen poems for kids. Creatively illustrated by my friend (and pastor) Bill Boatman, this project has been a couple years in the making, but 100 paperback copies should arrive within the next couple weeks. Needless to say, we are excited.

Initially, Harvest the Stars will be available from me in person for $10 a copy or for $3 more by mail. I think it works nicely as a read-aloud book for preschool and the early grades, while older elementary children may like reading it on their own. Measuring 6 x 9 inches, the book makes a good Christmas gift or stocking stuffer.

As I wait for the books to arrive, I will be doing a series of blog and Facebook posts providing more information about the project. And, I have already tried out a proof version on Beenie, as you can see here:

I hope you will watch the blog and social media as this latest writing adventure unfolds. I look forward to sharing more of the backstories explaining how these poems came to be and some of the nice review comments we have received.

The Recipe

Take six kids ages four to eleven. Stir in a couple warm August days. Add the annual state fair to the mix, and you have a recipe that serves up a big batch of fun for all of us. This year was no exception.

Our Missouri State Fair has so much to offer that it takes us two days to do it justice, and even then there are things we miss. But, as always, we once again gave it our best effort and, from what I can tell, we were left with the usual aftertaste of pleasant memories. Here are some of this year's key ingredients.

The fairgrounds never lack for free entertainment. Although we have yet to enjoy the annual circus, we finally made it to the pig races this time. Heero would be the first to tell you that "our" pig won the big race, meaning he got to the Oreo first in the third and final lap. Here, Heero, Zoomie, Beenie, and Sooby wait for the races to start.

 
Other entertainers stroll the grounds, like this pair of human Transformers. You can tell by the kids' Highway Patrol hats that we had just come from numerous conversations with Otto the Talking Patrol Car.

The Petting Zoo, where the kids can pet and feed exotic animals, is always a favorite, but I couldn't pull my camera out there because my hands were covered with llama slime. The Children's Barnyard is a little less interactive but no less fun, as Bootsie demonstrates with her cousins. No, this cow is not one of the many real ones you can see at the Fair.

In addition to agriculture, Fair exhibits also promote an awareness of conservation. Here, none other than Smokey the Bear himself warns Pooh, Bootsie, and their cousins about the dangers of forest fires.

Just outside the Conservation Department buildings, the kids gather for a group shot around another friendly bear.

Our second day at the Fair takes us to the midway, where the kids do all they can to get Googie's money's worth out of six unlimited-rides wristbands. I can safely say I have never left the Fair feeling cheated. Our matching yellow shirts, which have made it successfully into their third year, make us a force to be reckoned with. They also make it easier for us to find each other in the mayhem.

This year, one of my friends told me she had seen a video clip of our gang on MSNBC as the "Fair Family of the Day." Since I missed it, I am left to wonder what I was doing and how I looked during those few seconds. But one thing I am sure of is that we were having a great time.

Now, a couple weeks post-Fair, I relegate this recipe for fun to the box until we pull it out again this time next year. The kids (and I) will all be another year older then, but I won't worry too much just yet.

I know that one of these days I will wake up and the t-shirts will no longer fit. Instead of the Fair, there will be a whole slew of graduations and weddings, and carnival money will go for more tangible presents. That day will come all too soon.

That's why, for the time being, I don't mind investing in wristbands and enduring the occasional kiss of a llama.

The Art Bag

If your grandkids are elementary-school age, Staples can be your best friend this time of year. In late summer, usually the latter part of July, the office store features deep discounts in their school-related merchandise. Traditionally, this is when I like to re-stock my supply of crayons and markers for the kids to use at my house. But this year I am going a step further.

For the first time this fall, all six grandkids will take to classrooms from preschool to sixth grade. So with the help of Staples, I am making each of them a fun "school supply" bag of art supplies to while away the remaining days before school starts. And--drumroll, please--I am doing that for the cost of only $3.44 plus sales tax per child.

Here is what each kid receives: a spiral notebook (25 cents), a box of ten Crayola markers (97 cents), a box of Crayola colored pencils (97 cents), a box of 24 Crayola crayons (50 cents), a colored folder to keep their finished artwork in (17 cents), two mechanical pencils (8 cents), and a pack of 100 index cards (50 cents). At regular Staples prices, the per-child cost for these items would have been $12.21 plus tax. Since I have a bunch of those printed tote bags that come from advertisers at fairs and trade shows, I am going to gather each kid's supplies into one of those.

Next comes the really-fun part. Along with their bags of supplies, I will also give them a printed list of suggestions for things to draw. Here are my ideas so far, but you might want to suggest other activities appropriate to the ages and interests of your own kids.

1. Draw a picture using only your green pencil, marker, and crayon.
2. Make a design using only circles, squares, rectangles, and triangles.
3. Draw a picture using only primary colors (red, blue, and yellow).
4. Draw three different rainbows--one using markers, one using crayons, and one using colored pencils. Which one do you like the best?
5. Draw a picture that shows how you think you will look when you are 16.
6. Imagine that you will visit a place named "Rainbow Beach." Draw what you think that place looks like.
7. Imagine that a storybook or fairy tale character invites you to lunch. Draw a picture of your plate with the food on it.
8. Sometimes we look at clouds and imagine seeing pictures or shapes. Draw a cloud that takes the shape of something you might see. Add blue sky around your cloud.
9. Draw three things you think Santa Claus might have in his bag of toys.
10. Draw two people or animals and add "speech balloons" that show them talking to each other.
11. Draw a picture showing your favorite holiday.
12. Pick a season and draw how a tree looks then.
13. Draw a place you would like to go on vacation.
14. Draw a house that a giraffe might live in.

You get the idea--and the list can go on as far as you and your kids want it to. Maybe they can even contribute some ideas. As for the index cards, older kids might want to make flash cards, a deck of playing cards, or greeting cards. Add a pair of scissors, and they could even design paper dolls or action figures with clothes or accessories. Who knows what they might come up with if you added a glue stick?

Keep your eyes peeled for the summer school supplies sale at Staples, and you can offer your grandkids hours of creative projects to do at your house or at their own home. The art bag can be a way to celebrate a new school year,  a good Christmas present, or just something special you can take along when you go to the kids' house to visit.

Whirlwinds

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.

Woddyodda

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.



   

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? (https://www.choc.org/health-topics/kids-tonsils/)

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.

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.

Frankenbunny

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.

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 onecreativemommy.com 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 thebalance.com by Stacy Fisher and also on makoodle.com.

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 makeandtakes.com (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!

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.

.

A Fresh Look at the Nativity

Everything about Bootsie exudes originality. In considering the four children in her family, we have, at different times, referred to this energetic first-grader as "the quiet one," "the devious one," "the helpful one"-- and the list goes on.

Although Bootsie is not the only one of the foursome to demonstrate talent in the visual arts, you can always depend on her artwork for a certain--well--the best word I can think of is quirkiness. Nowhere has this ever been more apparent than in the one-of-a-kind Christmas card she drew for Pa-pa last month.

But wait--let me prepare you for Bootsie's unique spin on the traditional nativity scene in small doses. Here she is at Googie's on the day after Christmas, showing off an angel she captured in blue dry erase marker on marker board.

As you study this drawing, you are likely to notice in short order that Bootsie's angel does not appear to be addressing shepherds in the field keeping watch over their flocks by night. She does not seem to be singing "Hallelujah!" or anything else, for that matter. No, not quite.

It is unmistakably apparent from this thoughtfully-drawn piece that this angel suffers from a bout of the stomach flu. Euphemism aside, this angel is throwing up right there in the highest or wherever she happens to be at the time.

What we have here is a biographical influence at work. Bootsie herself had come down with the bug just four nights earlier, and two nights later her brother Pooh had done the same. Knowing this helps us understand why the artist chose to place this angel in this particular predicament.

Interestingly, Bootsie's manger scene, a graphite work on the cover of Pa-pa's Christmas card, is not so conveniently explained. Here is that masterful piece, followed by a few appropriate words of review.

At first glance, the scene is familiar and predictable. The tableau is complete with stable, star, Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. The Baby lies smiling on a manger bed; Joseph sports a staff and a beard; a sheep looks on.

And then you see them--the animals on the periphery of the drawing. Standing by Mary in complete wonderment and awe is--a chicken? And if that is not enough, peering in from the other side (outside the stable, fortunately) is none other than a dinosaur.

If you ask me, Bootsie's work of art is at once simple and profound. It juxtaposes anachronistic concepts of time. It surprises and delights.

With a creativity that even the artist herself can't realize, the drawing incorporates the unusual into the familiar in a way that evokes emotion and thought. It may exhibit a minimalist technique, but I look at it and see nothing but joy.

P.S.: It came to my attention some time after this writing that the questionable animal visiting the manger is not, after all, a dinosaur. It is a cow. My bad, and my apologies to the artist.--Googie

Pooh's Haunted Castle

Take a clean white sheet of paper and a pencil. Add creative children mixed with a little holiday vacation time on their hands, and what Googie gets are imaginative, delightful keepsakes from last month's Christmas. They are more than enough to lend some much-needed warmth and cheer to the sub-zero temperatures that have socked in with a vengeance here at the northernmost tip of the Missouri Ozarks.

One of the neatest things about the Christmas just past is the fact that, for the first time, the three oldest grandkids gave me and Pa-pa gifts they had made themselves. Sooby, 10, made a bright multi-colored tissue paper flower, complete with the scent of her mama's perfume, that I stuck in the dirt alongside my Christmas cactus.

Pooh capitalized on his love of Hardy Boys mysteries to write five "chapters" of his own story, Fred and John in the Haunted Castle. Either because he got tired or because he ran out of time, Chapter 5 ends with a cliffhanger that, in an introductory note, Pooh instructs me to resolve and finish.

I may not be entirely objective, granted, but the story so far seems pretty advanced for an author who is in only the third grade. Consider the following synopsis.

Fred and John (last name--Scott) are contacted by police chief Francis Key. (Am I the only one humming "The Star Spangled Banner" here?) The chief has received a call from millionaire theatre owner Jim Divenport, who reports his concern that a medieval castle on his New York (a state older than we previously thought) property may be haunted by his ancestor, King Robert. And just like that, the Scott brothers have a new case to investigate.

The brothers then accomplish the one-day drive from their Colorado home to New York (hope they had a radar detector), where Jim greets them with an English accent and has his butler (uh-oh--a suspect already?) drive the three of them to the castle (by a lake, of course) in his luxury limousine.

"It was a large stone castle," Pooh writes. "High turrets stood at each of the four corners. Mr. Divenport inserted the key into the rusty old lock and opened the huge wooden doors." Then, a few lines later, "Suddenly metal walls slammed down in front of all the exits." At the edge of your seat? Read on.

Warned by a mysterious, threatening voice that there is no chance of escape, the boys note with dismay that Jim has disappeared and a rusty piece of metal, which turns out to be an ax, protrudes from the dirt floor near them. After a struggle to retrieve the ax (reminiscent of a scene from The Sword in the Stone), they find a secret tunnel, accessed by a now-collapsed trap door, where someone truly sinister has stashed Jim.

It is then that Jim lets the boys in on a family legend. He speculates that robbers have used the ax to break the trap door and search for the fortune in gold thought to belong to the royal Divinport family of medieval times.

At this latest plot wrinkle, Fred declares that a stakeout is in order for the evening. But just as the boys are lifting Divinport from the hole, "BANG!!!!!!! A shot rang through the air." Clearly, the Divinport heir and his two youthful sleuth buddies are under attack--but a quick survey of the immediate area turns up no one.

And this is where the story, in its present state, ends and Pooh's note comes in. "Dear Googie," he says. "I wrote this book myself . . . . I made it in a special way where you can finish it. Love, [Pooh]."

In my opinion, Pooh's idea of joint authorship sounds like tremendous fun, so I will pick up the story where he left off, all right. I am thinking perhaps a flashback of some sort might add some depth and background and, maybe, lead him to consider a new fiction technique.

Then, when Pa-pa and I go to his house to celebrate his ninth birthday with him in a couple weeks, I will throw the ball back in his court and tell him to write the next part. There are quite a few pages left in the little 6 x 8-inch notebook. Who knows what drama and skullduggery might ensue?

Charming as it is, Pooh's creation is not my only Christmas keepsake. His younger sister Bootsie drew Pa-pa a Christmas card that depicts a delightful manger scene--and I'll bet my boots and yours there has never been another quite like it.

But I'll save that story for next time. Right now, I have some other important writing to get started on.

Co-author of Fred and John in the Haunted Castle

Unwrapping Christmas

I think it must have been the tree--the seven-foot-plus Kennedy fir pre-strung with 600 multi-colored mini lights to illuminate our new home with holiday spirit. Or maybe the inspiration came from the move itself, with its promise of a chance to regroup, re-settle, re-think priorities, and, in essence, reshape our lives and lifestyle in these retirement years.

Whatever the reason, I decided right after Thanksgiving that THIS Christmas would be different. This year, I vowed to do away with my usual "Ebenezer Scrooge" Christmas mindset and give the season its rightful due. I would embrace every preparation it demanded, right down to the sprinkles pelting my last sheet of sugar cookies.

So, in record time--pay attention, Guinness people--I finished the shopping and sent out cards to inform everyone of our new address. I bought the new tree, put it up, and dressed it in all the old family ornaments that surfaced when we moved. I cooked an early Christmas dinner for Pa-pa's brothers, then wrote and directed a play for the church kids.

By this time, I was unstoppable. I saw a professional production of A Christmas Carol (Scrooge reformed in that one, too), drove through the light displays down on the harbor, and went to a couple Christmas parties. Finally, and still a good week before the big day itself, all I had left was wrapping the presents.

Now normally, in my former life as Scrooge, this would involve throwing the presents for each grandkid in a big holiday bag and calling it good. This year, however, I swear that my gorgeous tree, from its perfect place there in the great room corner, whispered to me, "Wrap! Wrap! I am too beautiful for cheapskate shortcuts. You must wrap!"

A trip to yet-unpacked boxes in the garage led me to three unopened rolls of blue and white snowman wrapping paper from various years of my former life. Three hours of deliriously happy snipping, folding, taping, and ribbon-curling later, my new tree looked like this.

For several nights afterward, with Pa-pa already down the hallway dreaming of sugarplums, I sat up in the tree-lit living room by myself, admiring my work. There were 36 presents in all, including four--wrapped separately but bundled together with ribbon--for each of the six grandkids.

Fast-forward to Christmas Day, with the traditional holiday meal devoured, the dishes in the dishwasher, and the kids piled in the floor with their stacks of presents. "Let's open them one at a time," someone said, creating a delightful alternative to the massive, chaotic upending of six huge bags.

It was great fun to watch the suspense build and the surprise register as each gift was meticulously unwrapped. At ages four through ten this year, the kids were old enough to be patient and wait to unwrap their own next presents in turn.

For me, it was a fitting culmination of a season in which I, too, had been patient enough to give each preparation its own time while contemplating its own special meaning in the sequence of all things Christmas. This year, unlike many before, I unwrapped the Christmas season myself in a way that helped me see it better, appreciate it more, and actually enjoy it.

Yesterday I packed up the ornaments and took down my beautiful tree. I hit the after-Christmas sales for deep discounts on cards, wrapping paper, and a few new ornaments. Instead of feeling only exhausted relief that the season is over, I surprised myself by beginning these modest preparations for next year.

I have found--or perhaps re-learned--that the weeks leading up to Christmas do not have to bog down in a tiresome flurry of obligatory activity. Begun early and savored one at a time, each preparation for the season can be a mini-celebration of its own.

This new year, I resolve from here on out to allow the Christmas season the joy it deserves. In that regard it would seem that I, like Mr. Scrooge himself, have some lost time to make up for.