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.

"When We Were a Couple o' Kids"

That title line comes from an old song titled, "School Days." (A quick Google check tells me that it was written by Gus Edwards and Will Cobb in 1907.) When I was little, I learned it from one of those little yellow 78-rpm records that I played until the scratches eventually made the needle arm skip and miss.

I think of that song every time a kid or grandkid of mine starts school. So it has come to mind often in recent months as I have watched Beenie join the rank and file of four-year-old preschoolers.

For him, preschool means new playmates, a gentle introduction to academic routine, a little nudge toward increased personal responsibility, and fun outings to places like the fire station, the library, and the pumpkin patch. For Pa-pa and me, it means we get to see him more, since we deliver him to school three mornings a week and then bring him home to spend the afternoon with us until his mama and daddy get off work.

Beenie's classroom is in the basement of the same church where, twenty-five years ago, I took my own kids to monthly 4-H meetings. It has changed very little since then; thus, every trip down that familiar hallway brings a comforting sense of deja vu. Here I go again, I think to myself, delivering a child I love to a doorway where something new and enriching waits on the other side.

It is a good feeling, and I love every part of the experience: holding that little hand, unzipping the coat, signing my name on the list, and delighting in whatever treasure has been left in the hallway folder to be brought home. Maybe it is a sheet of G's traced with a shaky orange crayon. Maybe it is a pair of butterfly wings artfully attached to a clothespin. Maybe it is a feathered card stock headband in honor of Thanksgiving. Maybe one day it will have Beenie's name printed on it with all the letters facing in the right direction.

Waiting to pick him up at the end of the morning is an opportunity to stand outside the classroom and study bulletin boards reflecting collaborative projects. For instance, during Thanksgiving season each child put a feather on a large poster board turkey proclaiming what he or she was most thankful for. There, among all the "moms," "dads," "families," and other more predictable answers, Beenie seized the opportunity to express gratitude for his "teddy elephant."

Now if Beenie indeed has such a thing, none of us knows about it. What is a teddy elephant, anyway? It is apparently not a subject Beenie wishes to elaborate on upon questioning.

On the last class day before Thanksgiving, a marker board outside the classroom door displayed the children's numbered list of steps for "How to Cook a Turkey." "Pull the feathers off," one child advised, while others reminded us to "Turn the oven to 168" and then "Cook for 5 minutes." Number 7 on the list (of which Beenie was very proud) showed his more practical side: "Put in in a pan." Well, yes. Even when you are four, you know the process is a lot less messy that way.

Our afternoons together are steeped in cookie dough and free play. Beenie's favorite all autumn long has been a role-playing game he calls "On the Way to School." This requires him, me, and any three action figures he decides to pull out of the crate.

Of the three, one is a bad guy, one is a hero, and one is a "kid" on the way to school. Beenie always assigns me the kid and the villain, leaving the hero for himself. As the kid's journey commences, he greets the hero, who points out that a villain has spotted him and is up to no good. Although the villain often threatens, the hero, aided by the very resourceful kid, always thwarts impending evil (with huge, finger-mashing clashes of plastic, I might add). Invariably, the villain ends up either "in jail" (the toddler bed) or on the floor ("hot laba").

Occasionally, for variety, they will all become friends and go trick-or-treating, at which time I also assume the part of the person giving out the candy. Thankfully, I am nothing if not versatile, and, apparently, learned quite a lot from the movie Sybil.

Here, Beenie puts his snack bag in his "cubby" on his first day of preschool back in September. It is hard to believe that was nearly four months ago.

At this writing, Christmas break is about to put our school-day routine on hiatus. I'm not sure exactly when or how things will have changed when we resume at some point in the new year. But here is what I do know: If Beenie has loved this autumn routine even a fraction as much as I have, then both of us are happy.

Meanwhile, rolls of cookie dough wait in the freezer, and a crate of villains, heroes, and kids may be pondering sequels. Or, they may return in 2017 to play the same familiar roles. Whatever the case, the last half of Beenie's preschool year is something to anticipate and cherish.

And who knows? Maybe the villains will all reform in time to get off Santa's "Naughty" list. We'll just have to wait and see.