The family pitch game that ensues when the kids have finally gone to bed at Googie's was well underway. Engrossed in tricks and trumps, no one paid much attention to the first tiny sounds of shuffling and bumping coming from upstairs.
Eventually, my daughter Cookie imagined she heard a small voice. Then another, this time louder. Two voices. More shuffling and bumping. Finally, between hands, Cookie headed up the steps to investigate. After all, Sooby and Pooh had gone to bed over an hour ago.
The look on Cookie's face when she returned to the pitch circle was beyond incredulous. "Do you know what they were doing?" she asked, and I thought maybe she was directing this at me. "They were eating PEZ!"
I looked away, cleared my throat, and tried to think how I was going to get out of this one. Truth is, I had found two PEZ dispensers among the kids' stash of "tiny toys" that I keep in a tall kitchen waste basket that doubles as a toy box up in their room. Spiderman and Tow-Mater, the tow truck from Cars.
I don't even know where they originally came from, but it occurred to me how much fun it might be to fill them up and wait for the kids to discover them. I just hadn't counted on the discovery occurring some night at midnight. More importantly, I hadn't realized I might get caught plying my grandchildren with tiny pink bricks of compressed sugar when their mama had plans for them that did not mix well with a sugar high.
It takes 3,000 pounds of pressure to make one of these cute, yummy little candy pieces. I ingested this, along with a bunch of other equally intellectual bites of trivia, from the official PEZ website. Introduced in 1927 as a breath mint and smoking substitute for grown-ups, PEZ expanded its appeal to include children with the fruity flavors the company introduced in the 1950s. This is also when the popular character-head dispensers replaced the "regulars," those original (read "boring") dispensers designed to mimic cigarette lighters.
The website touts PEZ as "the pioneer of 'interactive candy.'" (This is a fun notion. Before now, I had never thought about any type of food being "interactive," except maybe beans.) It takes its name from an abbreviated version of the German word pfefferminz, meaning "peppermint."
The popularity of PEZ is nothing short of phenomenal. Americans consume over 3 billion pieces annually, and the candy is sold in over eighty countries worldwide. Collectors of PEZ dispensers now have their own yearly convention. The best-selling dispenser of all time is Santa Claus.
Of those 3 billion PEZ consumed this year in the U.S., I am proud to say that my grandchildren, on the aforementioned night, are already responsible for twenty-four of those. They will enhance their contribution this weekend, when they test-drive their brand new jack-o-lantern dispensers fueled with rolls of lemon and cherry candy.
I will be more careful with the timing, though. No more midnight dispensing. This time, I am thinking maybe we might embellish our Saturday morning breakfast with, well, a little PEZ-azz.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
In Halloween Mode
Maybe I was homesick for the old journalism days. Maybe I was missing the grandkids. Maybe I was just looking for a way to indulge myself in the substance of my favorite holiday.
Whatever the case, the result was a hankering to once again conduct a phone interview. With Sooby and Pooh. On the subject of Halloween. Following is the closest thing to a transcript of that event I can muster. It began much as you would expect, with Googie on speakerphone.
Q: What is your favorite thing about Halloween?
A: (Sooby) Going trick-or-treating. (OK, scrap that. Unnecessary question, obvious answer. Duh.)
Q: What is your favorite kind of candy to get when you go trick-or-treating?
A: (Sooby) Candy bars, lollipops, candy kisses, Nerds . . . . (List continues, but voice trails away.)
A: (Pooh) Chocolate. (A child after my own heart. Succinct answer. Recognition that, when you say the word "chocolate," nothing more needs to be said. Or eaten. Or invented.)
Q: What is your favorite costume?
A: (Pooh) A 'keleton.
A: (Sooby) A candy corn witch. (Note: Both are costumes from Googie's house. The 'keleton: a quarter at a garage sale; the witch: 75% off sale at Walmart last November. Good job, Googie.)
(Long silence. Interviewer falters. Interviewer struggles to recall TV interview style and content, then resumes.)
Q: Many people seem to denounce Halloween as a dark holiday that celebrates wickedness and evil. Do you perceive evil forces at work on Halloween?
A: (Pooh) Huh?
A: (Sooby) Just my brother.
Q: What do you consider the sociological ramifications of Halloween in a society where such a pronounced dichotomy seems to exist between the ideologies of good and evil?
A: (Pooh) ZZZZzzzzz . . . .
A: (Sooby) (After a long silence and two verses of "Old MacDonald") Halloween is fun.
Bingo. I couldn't have said it better. For me, Halloween has always represented pure, carefree fun. You get to dress up. You get to be outside in what is usually gorgeous Indian summer weather. You have parties and bonfires. You get free candy. You collect a stash of sweets that, if you are judicious, will last until Christmas.
Halloween has never required that I thaw a rock-hard turkey in my refrigerator for four days and then cook it for hours. It has never asked me to drag a tree out of the attic and stick stuff all over it. I don't have to send dozens of cards against a deadline or negotiate a shopping list as long as my arm.
Halloween asks me only to think like a kid and have some serious fun. I love doing both, and I think that people who read all kinds of sinister things into the holiday should maybe buy their underwear a size bigger.
That said, I have a confession to make. It may surprise you to learn that not all of the phone interview went exactly as recorded above. I allowed myself a tiny bit of poetic license toward the end there. Forgive me. It is the season of Halloween, and the kids and I are in full fun mode.
Whatever the case, the result was a hankering to once again conduct a phone interview. With Sooby and Pooh. On the subject of Halloween. Following is the closest thing to a transcript of that event I can muster. It began much as you would expect, with Googie on speakerphone.
Q: What is your favorite thing about Halloween?
A: (Sooby) Going trick-or-treating. (OK, scrap that. Unnecessary question, obvious answer. Duh.)
Q: What is your favorite kind of candy to get when you go trick-or-treating?
A: (Sooby) Candy bars, lollipops, candy kisses, Nerds . . . . (List continues, but voice trails away.)
A: (Pooh) Chocolate. (A child after my own heart. Succinct answer. Recognition that, when you say the word "chocolate," nothing more needs to be said. Or eaten. Or invented.)
Q: What is your favorite costume?
A: (Pooh) A 'keleton.
A: (Sooby) A candy corn witch. (Note: Both are costumes from Googie's house. The 'keleton: a quarter at a garage sale; the witch: 75% off sale at Walmart last November. Good job, Googie.)
(Long silence. Interviewer falters. Interviewer struggles to recall TV interview style and content, then resumes.)
Q: Many people seem to denounce Halloween as a dark holiday that celebrates wickedness and evil. Do you perceive evil forces at work on Halloween?
A: (Pooh) Huh?
A: (Sooby) Just my brother.
Q: What do you consider the sociological ramifications of Halloween in a society where such a pronounced dichotomy seems to exist between the ideologies of good and evil?
A: (Pooh) ZZZZzzzzz . . . .
A: (Sooby) (After a long silence and two verses of "Old MacDonald") Halloween is fun.
Bingo. I couldn't have said it better. For me, Halloween has always represented pure, carefree fun. You get to dress up. You get to be outside in what is usually gorgeous Indian summer weather. You have parties and bonfires. You get free candy. You collect a stash of sweets that, if you are judicious, will last until Christmas.
Halloween has never required that I thaw a rock-hard turkey in my refrigerator for four days and then cook it for hours. It has never asked me to drag a tree out of the attic and stick stuff all over it. I don't have to send dozens of cards against a deadline or negotiate a shopping list as long as my arm.
Halloween asks me only to think like a kid and have some serious fun. I love doing both, and I think that people who read all kinds of sinister things into the holiday should maybe buy their underwear a size bigger.
That said, I have a confession to make. It may surprise you to learn that not all of the phone interview went exactly as recorded above. I allowed myself a tiny bit of poetic license toward the end there. Forgive me. It is the season of Halloween, and the kids and I are in full fun mode.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Googie Reflects
"Googie" is starting to stick. The grandkids have always called me that, but more recently I have caught myself answering to the name when I hear it used by other family members, people at church, and people I run into when simply out and about. Often, it takes me by surprise.
I became the "Googie" of "Googie's Attic" seven months ago today. I was here at home nursing Pa-pa back from shoulder surgery when it occurred to me that I might enjoy blogging. I have always considered my writing a huge part of who I am, yet, since retiring from teaching, I found myself writing very little other than the occasional poem. That bothered me.
When I started the blog, it was my goal to produce 100 pieces in a year. I am a little behind this self-imposed schedule, as this writing is only the fiftieth treasure to occupy the old attic. However, the goal may still be reachable, and this seven-month, 50-piece mark affords me good opportunity to reflect on how the project has gone to date.
First, I have to say that I love having this creative outlet. Non-writers may find this difficult to understand, but writing can be addictive. Now that I am in the habit again, I am a junkie who simply must sit down at this computer every so often and shoot myself up with words and ideas and turns of phrase. When circumstances prevent or delay that, I get restless and fidgety. I have been known to experience symptoms of withdrawal in the middle of the night, and when that happens, there is no choice but to stumble to this keyboard and get myself a fix.
Also, I feel good to know I am creating this unique legacy for Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie. When they are teenagers, they will probably be embarrassed if their friends find out that, years ago, they were the stars of a blog. Most likely, they will not be calling me "Googie" anymore; that may be too juvenile and undignified. But at some point, I can't help thinking, they may cherish these vignettes of their childhood much as they would an old photo album. It is a legacy of word pictures that I hope will some day make them laugh and cry and know how much they were treasured.
Finally, I have enjoyed a response from a reading audience that far surpasses anything I expected. Often, my readers--or, in blog language, followers--weigh in to let me know that they had a similar experience, that I made them laugh, that I struck a universal chord that reverberates with some kind of meaning for them. This is every writer's wish: to touch others with their words in a way that somehow makes a difference.
I am so glad I chose to focus on the grandparenting experience in "Googie's Attic." It insures a constantly renewable source of material. Every visit, every phone call is ripe with potential blog material. And, because I know I will soon want to write about the kids, I am more attentive and more watchful of the things they say and do when we are together. This makes me less likely to miss those precious little moments that, when captured and preserved in words, become immortal.
In this way, writing the blog further enriches an experience that is already a life pinnacle. "Perfect love sometimes does not come until the first grandchild." I believe that statement, and, as Googie, I welcome the opportunity blogging gives me to examine its truth for myself, for the kids, and for you.
I became the "Googie" of "Googie's Attic" seven months ago today. I was here at home nursing Pa-pa back from shoulder surgery when it occurred to me that I might enjoy blogging. I have always considered my writing a huge part of who I am, yet, since retiring from teaching, I found myself writing very little other than the occasional poem. That bothered me.
When I started the blog, it was my goal to produce 100 pieces in a year. I am a little behind this self-imposed schedule, as this writing is only the fiftieth treasure to occupy the old attic. However, the goal may still be reachable, and this seven-month, 50-piece mark affords me good opportunity to reflect on how the project has gone to date.
First, I have to say that I love having this creative outlet. Non-writers may find this difficult to understand, but writing can be addictive. Now that I am in the habit again, I am a junkie who simply must sit down at this computer every so often and shoot myself up with words and ideas and turns of phrase. When circumstances prevent or delay that, I get restless and fidgety. I have been known to experience symptoms of withdrawal in the middle of the night, and when that happens, there is no choice but to stumble to this keyboard and get myself a fix.
Also, I feel good to know I am creating this unique legacy for Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie. When they are teenagers, they will probably be embarrassed if their friends find out that, years ago, they were the stars of a blog. Most likely, they will not be calling me "Googie" anymore; that may be too juvenile and undignified. But at some point, I can't help thinking, they may cherish these vignettes of their childhood much as they would an old photo album. It is a legacy of word pictures that I hope will some day make them laugh and cry and know how much they were treasured.
Finally, I have enjoyed a response from a reading audience that far surpasses anything I expected. Often, my readers--or, in blog language, followers--weigh in to let me know that they had a similar experience, that I made them laugh, that I struck a universal chord that reverberates with some kind of meaning for them. This is every writer's wish: to touch others with their words in a way that somehow makes a difference.
I am so glad I chose to focus on the grandparenting experience in "Googie's Attic." It insures a constantly renewable source of material. Every visit, every phone call is ripe with potential blog material. And, because I know I will soon want to write about the kids, I am more attentive and more watchful of the things they say and do when we are together. This makes me less likely to miss those precious little moments that, when captured and preserved in words, become immortal.
In this way, writing the blog further enriches an experience that is already a life pinnacle. "Perfect love sometimes does not come until the first grandchild." I believe that statement, and, as Googie, I welcome the opportunity blogging gives me to examine its truth for myself, for the kids, and for you.
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Naming of the Two
Sorry, Mr. Shakespeare, but I couldn't resist this play on words. I'm sure you understand, having reached the pinnacle of punship in those masterful comedies you penned all those years ago. Bear with me here. I have a story of my own to tell.
"The Two" refers to a pair of newly acquired donkeys in dire need of appropriate monikers. When said beasts, one white and one gray, took up residence on our farm a couple weeks ago, Pa-pa announced that the official dubbing was to be done by Sooby and Pooh. My initial reaction was relief. I had already begun to worry that their names would be something like "Whitey" and "Silver."
It is probably a good thing that Pa-pa and I were not Adam and Eve. It is the sad truth that, in our thirty-five years together, Pa-pa and I have never seen eye to eye on the fine art of naming our various critters. It would seem that the old saying about opposites attracting is certainly true in our case. Pa-pa lives in a literal world, while I tend to inhabit the figurative. He is "Hee-Haw" and I am "Saturday Night Live." He is a belly laugh and I am a Mona Lisa smile.
Nothing makes this difference more pronounced than when a new animal joins our menagerie. For instance, during our years together we have had occasion to name a number of dogs. I once named our black lab/cocker spaniel mix "Pavlov," which I considered extremely clever and Pa-pa considered ridiculous. His choice for another dog? "Red." (Red, you see, was a red heeler. You get the idea.)
I once named an orphan calf born on a drizzly spring morning "April Rain." Beautiful, I thought, even poetic. Pa-pa's bovine name choices, to mention a few, have included the likes of "Goldie," "Spotty," "Blackie," and "Ring Nose." (The one exception was a bull he named "Dinger," which I considered mildly humorous--but as I say, that was the exception and not the rule.)
When the donkeys first arrived, I will admit, my mind was instantly awash in possibilities. Because they are females with sweet, friendly dispositions, I went immediately to the "girlfriends" genre of name pairs. I thought of "Lucy" and "Ethel," but the image of the red hair was troublesome. I thought of "Laverne" and "Shirley," but I couldn't imagine a hee-haw with a Milwaukee accent. What I absolutely adored, however, was "Thelma" and "Louise." (If you saw her, I'm sure you would agree that the white one even looks like a Thelma.)
As luck would have it, the kids were excited about naming the donkeys and took the responsibility very seriously. To make a long story short, Sooby named the white one "Maisie" and Pooh named the gray one "Rosie." Not bad names, I suppose, and much more interesting than "Whitey" and "Silver."
As we prepared to leave the farm, I gave a quick departing scratch to the huge, furry ears of Thel--er--Maisie. I tried not to let my disappointment show. After all, the kids got such a kick out of picking the names themselves.
But, I couldn't help thinking to myself, if, down the road, Maisie and Rosie try to jump a 1966 Thunderbird convertible over the ravine that runs through the south forty, I won't be able to keep from smirking. And I won't be able to avoid the superior air that will certainly dominate my demeanor when I say to Pa-pa, "See? I told you so."
"The Two" refers to a pair of newly acquired donkeys in dire need of appropriate monikers. When said beasts, one white and one gray, took up residence on our farm a couple weeks ago, Pa-pa announced that the official dubbing was to be done by Sooby and Pooh. My initial reaction was relief. I had already begun to worry that their names would be something like "Whitey" and "Silver."
It is probably a good thing that Pa-pa and I were not Adam and Eve. It is the sad truth that, in our thirty-five years together, Pa-pa and I have never seen eye to eye on the fine art of naming our various critters. It would seem that the old saying about opposites attracting is certainly true in our case. Pa-pa lives in a literal world, while I tend to inhabit the figurative. He is "Hee-Haw" and I am "Saturday Night Live." He is a belly laugh and I am a Mona Lisa smile.
Nothing makes this difference more pronounced than when a new animal joins our menagerie. For instance, during our years together we have had occasion to name a number of dogs. I once named our black lab/cocker spaniel mix "Pavlov," which I considered extremely clever and Pa-pa considered ridiculous. His choice for another dog? "Red." (Red, you see, was a red heeler. You get the idea.)
I once named an orphan calf born on a drizzly spring morning "April Rain." Beautiful, I thought, even poetic. Pa-pa's bovine name choices, to mention a few, have included the likes of "Goldie," "Spotty," "Blackie," and "Ring Nose." (The one exception was a bull he named "Dinger," which I considered mildly humorous--but as I say, that was the exception and not the rule.)
When the donkeys first arrived, I will admit, my mind was instantly awash in possibilities. Because they are females with sweet, friendly dispositions, I went immediately to the "girlfriends" genre of name pairs. I thought of "Lucy" and "Ethel," but the image of the red hair was troublesome. I thought of "Laverne" and "Shirley," but I couldn't imagine a hee-haw with a Milwaukee accent. What I absolutely adored, however, was "Thelma" and "Louise." (If you saw her, I'm sure you would agree that the white one even looks like a Thelma.)
As luck would have it, the kids were excited about naming the donkeys and took the responsibility very seriously. To make a long story short, Sooby named the white one "Maisie" and Pooh named the gray one "Rosie." Not bad names, I suppose, and much more interesting than "Whitey" and "Silver."
As we prepared to leave the farm, I gave a quick departing scratch to the huge, furry ears of Thel--er--Maisie. I tried not to let my disappointment show. After all, the kids got such a kick out of picking the names themselves.
But, I couldn't help thinking to myself, if, down the road, Maisie and Rosie try to jump a 1966 Thunderbird convertible over the ravine that runs through the south forty, I won't be able to keep from smirking. And I won't be able to avoid the superior air that will certainly dominate my demeanor when I say to Pa-pa, "See? I told you so."
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Scarecrow Man: The Sequel
This year my grandkids are old enough to make a scarecrow man, and I am so excited. Next weekend can't some soon enough to suit me.
This will take some thinking and remembering on my part. It has been about fifteen years, I think, since I built my last such creation. When Cookie and Teebo were still at home, the building of Scarecrow Man was as much a part of our October ritual as painting pumpkins, carving jack-o'lanterns, roasting hot dogs, and riding around town in our minivan with a huge inflatable skeleton strapped safely in the back seat.
I have been biding my time these last four Octobers waiting for the perfect year to reinstitute Scarecrow Man as an October tradition, and I have the unmistakeable feeling that this is it. I can feel it in the gentle chill of these gorgeous late September mornings, and I can see it in the autumnal slant of the sunshine. I can hear that raspy whisper calling to me: "If they come, you will build it." Yep. Kevin Costner and I have a little something in common here.
Tucked away on a shelf in the basement are the flannel shirt and bib overalls that I rescued from the garage sale box just for this purpose. They have been waiting patiently for Scarecrow Man's return. I will need only to confiscate from Pa-pa an old pair of gloves, an old pair of boots, and a straw hat. Then, I will need to talk him into bringing me two bales of straw from the farm, one to use for stuffing and the other for the finished Scarecrow Man to perch on as he assumes his place of honor against the retaining wall out front. Oh, and I can't forget to buy a pumpkin: Scarecrow man will most certainly need a head.
Next Saturday or so Sooby, Pooh, and I will stuff the shirt and bibs with straw and tie the legs and sleeves and waist with binder twine or big rubber bands. We will tuck his legs into the boots, stick the gloves at the ends of his sleeves, balance his head atop the shirt (Scarecrow Man does not have a neck--he is an anatomic anomaly in this regard.), and top him with the hat. Then, we will prop our life-size new friend on his straw bale, magic-marker him a face, and stand back to admire our work. I imagine there will be a photo shoot in which Scarecrow Man will captivate everyone with his crooked-toothy jack-o-lantern smile.
A couple days ago I was talking to Sooby on the phone and telling her about our plans to build Scarecrow Man next time she comes to visit. The phone line went quiet, and I knew she was thinking. "Scarecrow Man?" she mused. "What about the tin man?"
Hmmm. The tin man. Well . . . .
There are some big boxes in the garage and a can of gray spray paint in the basement. I am thinking this New Millennium Scarecrow Man just might need a companion. My little Dorothy from Kansas has spoken, and her words are more powerful than those of the Great Oz himself. The last couple nights, I have drifted off to sleep with Tin Man blueprints running through my head as I contemplate what we might fashion into a makeshift oil can.
My small plastic watering pitcher is showing real possibilities. " Hurry up, next weekend," I think as I become lost somewhere along the road of yellow bricks running through the field of my own dreams.
This will take some thinking and remembering on my part. It has been about fifteen years, I think, since I built my last such creation. When Cookie and Teebo were still at home, the building of Scarecrow Man was as much a part of our October ritual as painting pumpkins, carving jack-o'lanterns, roasting hot dogs, and riding around town in our minivan with a huge inflatable skeleton strapped safely in the back seat.
I have been biding my time these last four Octobers waiting for the perfect year to reinstitute Scarecrow Man as an October tradition, and I have the unmistakeable feeling that this is it. I can feel it in the gentle chill of these gorgeous late September mornings, and I can see it in the autumnal slant of the sunshine. I can hear that raspy whisper calling to me: "If they come, you will build it." Yep. Kevin Costner and I have a little something in common here.
Tucked away on a shelf in the basement are the flannel shirt and bib overalls that I rescued from the garage sale box just for this purpose. They have been waiting patiently for Scarecrow Man's return. I will need only to confiscate from Pa-pa an old pair of gloves, an old pair of boots, and a straw hat. Then, I will need to talk him into bringing me two bales of straw from the farm, one to use for stuffing and the other for the finished Scarecrow Man to perch on as he assumes his place of honor against the retaining wall out front. Oh, and I can't forget to buy a pumpkin: Scarecrow man will most certainly need a head.
Next Saturday or so Sooby, Pooh, and I will stuff the shirt and bibs with straw and tie the legs and sleeves and waist with binder twine or big rubber bands. We will tuck his legs into the boots, stick the gloves at the ends of his sleeves, balance his head atop the shirt (Scarecrow Man does not have a neck--he is an anatomic anomaly in this regard.), and top him with the hat. Then, we will prop our life-size new friend on his straw bale, magic-marker him a face, and stand back to admire our work. I imagine there will be a photo shoot in which Scarecrow Man will captivate everyone with his crooked-toothy jack-o-lantern smile.
A couple days ago I was talking to Sooby on the phone and telling her about our plans to build Scarecrow Man next time she comes to visit. The phone line went quiet, and I knew she was thinking. "Scarecrow Man?" she mused. "What about the tin man?"
Hmmm. The tin man. Well . . . .
There are some big boxes in the garage and a can of gray spray paint in the basement. I am thinking this New Millennium Scarecrow Man just might need a companion. My little Dorothy from Kansas has spoken, and her words are more powerful than those of the Great Oz himself. The last couple nights, I have drifted off to sleep with Tin Man blueprints running through my head as I contemplate what we might fashion into a makeshift oil can.
My small plastic watering pitcher is showing real possibilities. " Hurry up, next weekend," I think as I become lost somewhere along the road of yellow bricks running through the field of my own dreams.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The Horse, the Bull, and the Bump
While ago I was flipping--no, scrolling--through an album of pictures from my son Teebo's wedding, a momentous occasion in our family life that took place nearly fourteen months ago. Granted, the bride was beautiful, and the groom was dashing--but, as might be the case with any self-respecting Googie, I was most struck by the pictures of Sooby and Pooh. I am pretty sure there has never been a flower girl/ring bearer combo quite like them.
For one thing, I can't recall another wedding where the child attendants were quite this young. At barely three, Sooby had her own ideas about the flower girl's job, and it did not involve an elegant, ladylike negotiation of the aisle while daintily sprinkling flower petals at her feet. Oh, no.
The flower girl, you see, is more like a horse who gallops down the aisle, splashing petals in sporadic bunches until she reaches the bridal party. At that point she suddenly reins herself in, allowing inertia to dispense the remaining flora in a clump that would make any horse proud.
When this elicits laughter from the spectators, Sooby turns around quickly, surprised that the church pews are suddenly full when they were practically empty at the rehearsal. Her eyes grow large with disbelief as she mouths the word "Wow!" before her mother emerges from the line of bridesmaids to grab her halter and look for the nearest hitching post.
All eyes return to the back of the sanctuary, where Pooh makes his appearance in the doorway with the ring pillow. (Luckily, these are fake rings that are sewn to the pillow--someone was thinking ahead here.) At not quite eighteen months old, Pooh is definitely the wild card in this wedding processional. Nevertheless, Pooh's daddy sets him down, hands him the pillow, and prompts, "Go give this to Uncle Teebo." At this point, I perceive a collective holding of breath, including my own. After all, just how much can you expect from a ring bearer wearing a diaper?
Pooh lowers his head like a bull preparing to charge the matador. Then, those tiny little legs scamper down the aisle straight toward the groom, who reaches out to grab the pillow just as Pooh wheels around and runs right back toward the back door. Pass complete. First down. However, apparently worn out by the play, Pooh decides to lie down across the aisle near the back of the sanctuary, effectively blocking any gain of yardage the bride and her father are hoping for. Thankfully, a watchful spectator emerges from the sidelines to remove the object of interference, and the ceremony continues downfield.
Baby Bootsie also attended this wedding (in a somewhat more clandestine fashion) as a bump protruding beneath the empire waistline of her mother's navy blue bridesmaid dress. As her mother sang a solo, Bootsie helped out by rendering her diaphragm unusable. So much for the correct breathing techniques Cookie learned in her voice lessons; the name of this game was survival.
I am glad to report that everyone involved did indeed survive, and that, come spring, the newlyweds of that day are expecting a little horse, bull, or bump of their own. Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie have prepared them well.
As for me, I look forward to celebrating Bootsie's first birthday in a few weeks and Pooh's third later this winter. Then about the time the last snow is melting and the dogwoods are thinking about blooming, I will depend on them all to show their new cousin how the ropes work here at Googie's.
For one thing, I can't recall another wedding where the child attendants were quite this young. At barely three, Sooby had her own ideas about the flower girl's job, and it did not involve an elegant, ladylike negotiation of the aisle while daintily sprinkling flower petals at her feet. Oh, no.
The flower girl, you see, is more like a horse who gallops down the aisle, splashing petals in sporadic bunches until she reaches the bridal party. At that point she suddenly reins herself in, allowing inertia to dispense the remaining flora in a clump that would make any horse proud.
When this elicits laughter from the spectators, Sooby turns around quickly, surprised that the church pews are suddenly full when they were practically empty at the rehearsal. Her eyes grow large with disbelief as she mouths the word "Wow!" before her mother emerges from the line of bridesmaids to grab her halter and look for the nearest hitching post.
All eyes return to the back of the sanctuary, where Pooh makes his appearance in the doorway with the ring pillow. (Luckily, these are fake rings that are sewn to the pillow--someone was thinking ahead here.) At not quite eighteen months old, Pooh is definitely the wild card in this wedding processional. Nevertheless, Pooh's daddy sets him down, hands him the pillow, and prompts, "Go give this to Uncle Teebo." At this point, I perceive a collective holding of breath, including my own. After all, just how much can you expect from a ring bearer wearing a diaper?
Pooh lowers his head like a bull preparing to charge the matador. Then, those tiny little legs scamper down the aisle straight toward the groom, who reaches out to grab the pillow just as Pooh wheels around and runs right back toward the back door. Pass complete. First down. However, apparently worn out by the play, Pooh decides to lie down across the aisle near the back of the sanctuary, effectively blocking any gain of yardage the bride and her father are hoping for. Thankfully, a watchful spectator emerges from the sidelines to remove the object of interference, and the ceremony continues downfield.
Baby Bootsie also attended this wedding (in a somewhat more clandestine fashion) as a bump protruding beneath the empire waistline of her mother's navy blue bridesmaid dress. As her mother sang a solo, Bootsie helped out by rendering her diaphragm unusable. So much for the correct breathing techniques Cookie learned in her voice lessons; the name of this game was survival.
I am glad to report that everyone involved did indeed survive, and that, come spring, the newlyweds of that day are expecting a little horse, bull, or bump of their own. Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie have prepared them well.
As for me, I look forward to celebrating Bootsie's first birthday in a few weeks and Pooh's third later this winter. Then about the time the last snow is melting and the dogwoods are thinking about blooming, I will depend on them all to show their new cousin how the ropes work here at Googie's.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
"One Star"
Recently, as my brother was taking his turn keeping vigil at our dad's bedside, the two of them relived many a coon hunt of his boyhood nights gone by. That's when he thought of a question he had always wanted to ask.
"It was so dark out there in the woods," he mused. "How did you always know exactly where we were?"
The faintest smile flickered across Dad's face as he held up a weak forefinger and answered, barely above a whisper, "One star."
Later, my brother shared this story with me over breakfast. I have not been able to stop thinking about it since. One star. My dad, the consummate hunter, looked to the sky to get his bearings. To keep his perspective. To find his way. How beautifully profound I find that idea. How powerful that image is--a single star somehow separating itself from the others to say "Fix your eyes on me. I will help you see through the night. I will show you where you have been. I will lead you to the next place you want to go."
The idea of a guiding star is certainly not new. The Bible tells us that the magi followed a star to Bethlehem to find the Christ Child. Poet Robert Frost bids us "Choose Something Like a Star" to use, in a figurative sense, as a moral and ethical compass that can somehow grace a faltering human resolve with certainty and steadfastness. What is new to me is the surprising revelation that my dad, no less so than Frost and the eastern kings, understood, in his own way, the power of one star.
At this writing it has been less than a week since that early-morning conversation between my brother and me and less than twenty-four hours since Dad died. As I sat with him in the early hours this morning, as his breathing was growing shallower and his heartbeat became barely audible, I knew what I wanted to tell him.
Look up, Daddy. Find that one star. It will show you the way through this darkness. It will lead you home.
"It was so dark out there in the woods," he mused. "How did you always know exactly where we were?"
The faintest smile flickered across Dad's face as he held up a weak forefinger and answered, barely above a whisper, "One star."
Later, my brother shared this story with me over breakfast. I have not been able to stop thinking about it since. One star. My dad, the consummate hunter, looked to the sky to get his bearings. To keep his perspective. To find his way. How beautifully profound I find that idea. How powerful that image is--a single star somehow separating itself from the others to say "Fix your eyes on me. I will help you see through the night. I will show you where you have been. I will lead you to the next place you want to go."
The idea of a guiding star is certainly not new. The Bible tells us that the magi followed a star to Bethlehem to find the Christ Child. Poet Robert Frost bids us "Choose Something Like a Star" to use, in a figurative sense, as a moral and ethical compass that can somehow grace a faltering human resolve with certainty and steadfastness. What is new to me is the surprising revelation that my dad, no less so than Frost and the eastern kings, understood, in his own way, the power of one star.
At this writing it has been less than a week since that early-morning conversation between my brother and me and less than twenty-four hours since Dad died. As I sat with him in the early hours this morning, as his breathing was growing shallower and his heartbeat became barely audible, I knew what I wanted to tell him.
Look up, Daddy. Find that one star. It will show you the way through this darkness. It will lead you home.
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