A Convertible for Zoomie

Sometimes I find myself with an awkward-sized birthday present that no bag from Dollar Tree will work for. This was the case earlier this week, when Pa-pa and I took a road trip to Kansas to celebrate Zoomie's seventh birthday.

With no workable bag, I then have to improvise, this time with some leftover Spiderman Christmas paper. Look closely--the tiny sprigs of holly, though discreet, are a dead giveaway.

Zoomie didn't know it at the time, but he was about to get the only convertible I could find on my down-to-the-last-minute shopping trip last Thursday. Despite the fact that we are in the middle of summer, all the convertibles seemed to be on car lots rather than on the toy shelves at Target.

Except this one--and I almost missed it. That's because this blue plastic convertible came a part of a tow truck/trailer set, shown here with Zoomie, Bootsie, and Pooh.

If I do say so myself, the truck is a pretty cool rig with all the bells and whistles--or at least the working horn, lights, and backup/engine noises--any self-respecting seven-year-old could want. It even includes winch and harness for moving the convertible on and off the trailer. The toy is a neat birthday story in its own right, but the story behind the gift makes it even better.

When Zoomie and his family visited us a couple weeks ago, their visit coincided with that of some other very special house guests. The evening of everyone's arrival marked the first time in fifty-one years that Pa-pa had seen a friend he served with in Vietnam in the late 1960s. It was the culmination of an effort he and I had begun as a long shot via Facebook message last September after Pa-pa recognized the man's name in a veterans' newsletter.

To make a long story short, the man and his wife answered our message (from me--a name they didn't recognize) several weeks later. Phone calls between the guys followed, and finally the two reunited when the couple took a short detour from their vacation route and stopped to spend the night with us. 

Here's where the convertible comes in--they were driving one. As they prepared to drive off, they put the top down and prepared for a ride toward the Black Hills on a perfect summer day. Zoomie, in particular, was fascinated by the way the car top receded behind the back seat, leaving its occupants to enjoy the open air. He talked about it all day, and that was when I knew, somehow, there would have to be a convertible for his birthday.

We left Zoomie and his family after our birthday lunch together at McDonald's (his choice), but I have been thinking ever since then about him and the things I wish for him as he turns seven and prepares to head into the second grade.

Happy birthday, Zoomie-Zoo. I wish you a great summer of fun. You are riding your bike so well now, and I hope you can put the finishing touches on those swimming lessons. I hope your allergies and asthma improve with the testing and treatments planned for summer. In some ways, you have had to grow up beyond your years, and in others you have hung tenaciously to your role as the "little brother."

In just a few short months, you will no longer be the "baby." Little Pookie (trying out a blog name here) will be the youngest, and for the first time you will be a "big brother." I am sure you will be a good one, and he will learn a lot from you about the sweetness and kindness and gentleness that have always been a part of what you are.

I hope you meet the coming changes bravely, sweet boy, and embrace this transition. This time next year, when you are turning eight, someone else should be about ready to learn just how that blue convertible works.

The Bunion

It is just a matter of bad timing.

Just as I am exhibiting some of the less attractive features of growing older, my grandkids seem to be taking an uncanny interest in my anatomical anomalies. Translation: If something about me looks weird, the kids are anything but shy about pointing it out and demanding explanations.

Several years ago, when Zoomie asked me why I had "witch fingernails," I didn't think much about it. A chronic nail biter through my childhood, teen, and even young adult years, I was proud that my nails (all natural, I might add) had grown to medium-long and were good for gently scratching little backs at bedtime.

It wasn't much different last summer when Pooh seemed to be staring at me with a strange, curious expression. Finally, in a tone of wonder and amazement, he pointed out a "really long hair" growing from my chin. Those stray single hairs, which I like to call "chin wires," are not all that unusual these days.

But during the past week I have been asked if a mole on my collarbone is "a raisin" (honestly, it is nowhere near THAT big) and why there is a "little seed" on my lower lip. This, in case you too are curious, was an especially persistent flax seed from my Uncle Sam breakfast cereal (those little rascals have a mind of their own).

"Why do you eat cereal with seeds?" Bootsie asked, to which I replied, "because it has 10 grams of fiber per serving." This, of course, led to a discussion of the benefits of dietary fiber, a conversation which needs not be repeated here.

Perhaps the most interesting of our recent chats, however, centered on the bunion that protrudes from my right foot.

As you can see, the abnormal and rather unsightly condition of my foot offers tantalizing fodder for conversation. When interrogated, I spilled out the sad story of The Curse of the Narrow Heel. This, I told the kids, often required me to wear shoes that were too narrow for the wider part of my foot in order for them not to slip up and down on my heels. (Shoes with too-big heels, I explained, tended to fall off at inopportune times.)

The fact that my right foot is a little bigger than my left one only compounded the problem, resulting in a bunion that has worsened gradually over the years. The kids seemed satisfied with this explanation--but first they all had to actually touch the bunion to see if I was making all this up. "Poor little bunion," Pooh said, and I considered the subject closed.

That is, until the kids' parents brought them, from the weekend garage sales in our little lake village, a magnetic dart board. In the process of tossing darts and comparing scores, they found that some darts, because of their magnetism, stuck sideways out from the board rather than landing flatly on the face of it.

The kids labeled these errant shots "bunions." "Bunions" in darts, I guess, are kind of like "leaners" in horseshoes; they are not quite "ringers," but they ought to count for something.  Following are some of the "scores" I heard coming from the kids' room during an especially competitive game of darts:

"Twenty points and a bunion."

"Oh, man, I just missed getting a bunion."

"Oh, wow--TWO bunions this time."

"Darn it, I didn't even get a bunion."

"One more bunion, and I would have won."

"I beat you by a bunion."

Most people wish secretly and fervently for something to be named after them. They hope for one thing that will stand out long after they are gone--that one thing that will honor their memory in years to come.

I am so proud to have accomplished this while I am still living. I foresee that, down the line, the game of darts will be forever changed--all because of me and my unsightly right foot. At least, I think that will happen.

To the normal eye, I may appear to be just a Googie with a wire on my chin, a raisin on my collarbone, and a seed on my lip. But as you see here, I am so much more than that. I can only hope the full significance of this will dawn on you the next time you find yourself in a heated game of darts.