Traditionally, the car trip from the ski slopes of Colorado back to mid-Missouri doesn't involve a side trip through Saginaw, Michigan. But the route Pa-pa and I took a couple weeks ago did just that--if not literally, then figuratively--by way of the 1964 country hit of that name by the late, great Lefty Frizzell.
When the gentle familiarity of the ballad washed back over me verse by verse, I was surprised to realize that I could sing every single word along with the radio. Although I had not even thought about "Saginaw, Michigan" in years, Lefty and his guitar gently coaxed the song's long-forgotten-about lyrics from the deep recesses of the mysteriously amazing receptacle of treasure that is the human brain.
I did not miss a lick, and it was a good key for me if I do say so myself. For those three minutes or so, it was just me and Lefty, bemoaning the misfortune of a poor fisherman's son and his unrequited love for the daughter of a rich man who vowed to keep them apart. (If you have heard the song, you know that young love triumphs when the young man fakes a successful strike during the Alaskan gold rush, then sells the old curmudgeon his worthless claim.)
"Saginaw, Michigan" was Frizzell's last Number 1 hit, topping the country charts in 1964, the year I was twelve. Back then, my music collection consisted of stacks of 45-rpm records recycled from the juke box at Chuck's Cafe, a small neighborhood grill and coffee shop located just around the corner from my dad's mechanic shop.
Back then, I lived for the three or four days every year when Chuck updated his juke box. That meant Dad would come home for lunch with a special parcel for me. Joyfully, I would shuffle through a whole repertoire of new records to place one at a time onto my little suitcase-style turntable and watch, mesmerized, as the needle bobbed its way across the grooves. By the time the records got to me, some of them were warped and scratchy, and some of them occasionally skipped or stuck--but to me, in that time and place, the music that spun out of them was no less sweet.
I could not have revisited Saginaw, Michigan, at a better time. Lately, I have been worrying that I have sung the kids all the songs I know. I was afraid that I had pretty well exhausted the store of tunes that could be whipped out at a moment's notice to shorten a long car ride or build a magical ladder toward sleep.
But, thanks to Lefty, the old neurons are charging, and I am remembering a whole genre of country classics from the Chuck's Era. Many of them, like "Saginaw, Michigan," are the kind of stories-in-song that the kids love. Even now, I am anticipating the inevitable questions: "What does klondike mean?" "How do people find gold?" "Where is Alaska?"
Just think what I can do with "The Battle of New Orleans" by the inimitable Johnny Horton. Now, there is a lesson in American history and geography for you. Not to mention Kitty Wells, Jim Reeves, Burl Ives . . . the potential seems endless.
I am glad we were able to take the Saginaw detour on our trip home from the slopes. It didn't seem out of the way at all. Instead, it was like being home a little sooner than we had planned.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Switched at Birth
Several mornings ago I was wide awake at 1 a.m. Following a simple surgical procedure, I was spending the night at my hometown hospital, where the conditions in my room were far from conducive to sleep.
First, my IV machine was emitting an obnoxious series of squawks protesting a little unauthorized air in the line. Then, in their noble but relentless effort to prevent blood clots, the cuffs velcroed around my legs imitated boa constrictors attached to an air compressor. If the squeezing sensation wasn't enough to keep me awake, the noise alone could have accomplished the job. So I was wide awake when I heard the charge nurse take a call from labor and delivery, located just around the corner. It didn't take much imagination to launch my mind into a fascinating series of what ifs.
Beenie was due to be delivered at this hospital in exactly two weeks. What if he were to make his appearance a little early and arrive tonight? The nurse came to rid my line of its excess air and make needed adjustments to all the other tubing. I closed my eyes to settle back to sleep, but my mind still wanted to play "What if?"
Somewhere in that nebulous state between sleep and total wakefulness, I imagined Beenie's mama and me sitting in wheelchairs just outside my door. Our ID bracelets showed the same last name, of course, and Beenie was imminent. Suddenly a young nurse grabbed the handles of my chair, and just like that I was being whisked off to labor and delivery. The conversation that ensued went something like this:
Googie: Wait! You've got the wrong person!
Nurse: No, your bracelet has the right name. Just try to stay calm. Take deep breaths.
Googie: No, look! I'm not pregnant! I have boa constrictors on my legs, for heaven's sake!
Nurse: Now, dear, you're hallucinating. That's not unusual with a first birth. Don't worry now.
Googie: No, really! You need my daughter-in-law. She's right back there--
(The wheelchair slams through swinging doors into delivery. The nurse summons help, and in one fell swoop I am flat on the delivery table. They begin to strap down my arms.)
Googie: You guys are making a big mistake here. I tell you, you have the wrong person! Look at me! I'm 59 years old!
Nurse: (to other nurses, knowingly) She's in denial. We'd better call in a psychologist. (looking down in disbelief at my [somewhat] flat tummy) Ma'am, where is your baby? What have you done with your baby? Ma'am, are you aware that you may be charged with a felony?
Googie: Check Room 112! You left Beenie there, I swear!
Nurse: (puzzled) Beenie?
Googie: It's a long story--
My eyes flutter open and drift toward the bulletin board identifying this as Room 112. I am here alone amid the gentle rhythm of the inflating and deflating boas. The IV machine is behaving itself. I will be going home tonight, thank goodness.
I am anxious for Beenie to get here--I won't deny that. But maybe it would be better if he waits until I get out of here first. Some of those "switched at birth" stories are true, and I don't want to take any chances.
First, my IV machine was emitting an obnoxious series of squawks protesting a little unauthorized air in the line. Then, in their noble but relentless effort to prevent blood clots, the cuffs velcroed around my legs imitated boa constrictors attached to an air compressor. If the squeezing sensation wasn't enough to keep me awake, the noise alone could have accomplished the job. So I was wide awake when I heard the charge nurse take a call from labor and delivery, located just around the corner. It didn't take much imagination to launch my mind into a fascinating series of what ifs.
Beenie was due to be delivered at this hospital in exactly two weeks. What if he were to make his appearance a little early and arrive tonight? The nurse came to rid my line of its excess air and make needed adjustments to all the other tubing. I closed my eyes to settle back to sleep, but my mind still wanted to play "What if?"
Somewhere in that nebulous state between sleep and total wakefulness, I imagined Beenie's mama and me sitting in wheelchairs just outside my door. Our ID bracelets showed the same last name, of course, and Beenie was imminent. Suddenly a young nurse grabbed the handles of my chair, and just like that I was being whisked off to labor and delivery. The conversation that ensued went something like this:
Googie: Wait! You've got the wrong person!
Nurse: No, your bracelet has the right name. Just try to stay calm. Take deep breaths.
Googie: No, look! I'm not pregnant! I have boa constrictors on my legs, for heaven's sake!
Nurse: Now, dear, you're hallucinating. That's not unusual with a first birth. Don't worry now.
Googie: No, really! You need my daughter-in-law. She's right back there--
(The wheelchair slams through swinging doors into delivery. The nurse summons help, and in one fell swoop I am flat on the delivery table. They begin to strap down my arms.)
Googie: You guys are making a big mistake here. I tell you, you have the wrong person! Look at me! I'm 59 years old!
Nurse: (to other nurses, knowingly) She's in denial. We'd better call in a psychologist. (looking down in disbelief at my [somewhat] flat tummy) Ma'am, where is your baby? What have you done with your baby? Ma'am, are you aware that you may be charged with a felony?
Googie: Check Room 112! You left Beenie there, I swear!
Nurse: (puzzled) Beenie?
Googie: It's a long story--
My eyes flutter open and drift toward the bulletin board identifying this as Room 112. I am here alone amid the gentle rhythm of the inflating and deflating boas. The IV machine is behaving itself. I will be going home tonight, thank goodness.
I am anxious for Beenie to get here--I won't deny that. But maybe it would be better if he waits until I get out of here first. Some of those "switched at birth" stories are true, and I don't want to take any chances.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Celebrating Chocolate
Last October, when Bootsie celebrated her first birthday, her mama stripped her down to her diaper and put a big hunk of chocolate cake on her high chair tray. She couldn't believe her eyes. She looked back and forth among us as if to ask, "I get to eat this? All by myself? Right now? Really?"
A tentative little finger swept through the icing, and she looked at us again to see if we had changed our minds. We hadn't. We had already lit the candle, sung "Happy Birthday," and dipped the ice cream. It was now time to watch the much-anticipated premier of Baby Meets Chocolate. A little over five months later, we still smile at the photos and videos that preserve that event for posterity.
This week, I feel a little bit like Bootsie must have felt back then. On the day before yesterday, "Googie's Attic" turned one year old, and, in my mind at least, there has been a party going on.
Truth is, I am loving every opportunity I have to sit in front of this computer and let the words spill onto the screen. A project that began a year ago as a lark and an experiment has become a way of life. For many years I poured myself into what I hope was constructive criticism for students who often struggled to match their words with their ideas. Now I get to revel for myself in the power of language to touch readers and to create a verbal legacy for my grandkids.
Of all the blogging emphases I could have chosen, I am so glad I opted to focus on the kids. There is so much about the awesome experience of being "Googie" to digest, share and preserve. Better yet, my subject matter continuously renews itself, and I like to think that because I blog about the kids, I am paying more attention to those wonderful little moments that make up our time together. Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie have provided me no shortage of material--and now we have Beenie and Zoomba on the way. It is exciting to think that things can continue to get better from here as two more little boys arrive to join our party.
Happy first birthday, "Googie's Attic." I wish you many more. As I sit here, words cover my face like chocolate cake, and they taste wonderful.
A tentative little finger swept through the icing, and she looked at us again to see if we had changed our minds. We hadn't. We had already lit the candle, sung "Happy Birthday," and dipped the ice cream. It was now time to watch the much-anticipated premier of Baby Meets Chocolate. A little over five months later, we still smile at the photos and videos that preserve that event for posterity.
This week, I feel a little bit like Bootsie must have felt back then. On the day before yesterday, "Googie's Attic" turned one year old, and, in my mind at least, there has been a party going on.
Truth is, I am loving every opportunity I have to sit in front of this computer and let the words spill onto the screen. A project that began a year ago as a lark and an experiment has become a way of life. For many years I poured myself into what I hope was constructive criticism for students who often struggled to match their words with their ideas. Now I get to revel for myself in the power of language to touch readers and to create a verbal legacy for my grandkids.
Of all the blogging emphases I could have chosen, I am so glad I opted to focus on the kids. There is so much about the awesome experience of being "Googie" to digest, share and preserve. Better yet, my subject matter continuously renews itself, and I like to think that because I blog about the kids, I am paying more attention to those wonderful little moments that make up our time together. Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie have provided me no shortage of material--and now we have Beenie and Zoomba on the way. It is exciting to think that things can continue to get better from here as two more little boys arrive to join our party.
Happy first birthday, "Googie's Attic." I wish you many more. As I sit here, words cover my face like chocolate cake, and they taste wonderful.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Simplest of Things
I used to think my grandkids were excited to see me when I walked through their back door for one of my daytrip visits. It is with great humility that I acknowledge the real reason they welcome my arrival: they want to finish my Coke.
Since it is a three-hour drive to their house, I have gotten into the habit of stopping at a McDonald's about an hour from my destination and picking up a large Coke to provide company and solace the rest of the way. I should have been suspicious last time when, strangely and inexplicably, my straw took on the flavor of the chicken nuggets the kids had eaten for lunch. "Who's been drinking my Coke?" I asked in my best Mama Bear style. That time, Sooby looked especially guilty.
What followed was a ritual I have come to think of as The Dispensing of the Ice. This involves removing the lid from the cup, digging out cubes of ice one at a time, putting them on the upside-down lid, and letting the kids take turns picking them off and eating them. Yesterday, even Bootsie got in the action. "Bite!" she demanded over and over, and, well, who could resist that?
When the ritual is properly elongated, it consumes about the first ten minutes of my visit. Of course, by the time we are through, there are ice cubes melting on the floor and between the cushions of the sofa. All I can say is, thank goodness you can depend on water to evaporate.
Yesterday, The Dispensing of the Ice was the opening act for Dinosaur Day. I had taken along a couple dinosaur stories, a dinosaur pinball game, and a box of dominoes that, instead of the usual numbered dots, feature various species of the terrible lizard family. In no time the kids' vocabulary had expanded to include the likes of stegosaurus, triceratops, and tyrannosaurus rex. Then, while Pooh and I were engrossed in an especially competitive round of dinosaur pinball (he had just scored an elasmosaurus for 100 points), Sooby disappeared.
She came back with her arms and face covered in white strips that looked like tape. Upon closer inspection, they proved to be rectangular white adhesive labels from among her mama's school supplies. Yes, Sooby had transformed herself into a set of dinosaur bones. She curled up her lips to bare her teeth (which we learned might be as much as six inches long), and there was no question that time had moved backward and a T-rex had landed in our midst.
A cup of ice. A sheet of labels. These are the simplest of things. And yet, somehow, they are the stuff that forges bonds and cements relationships.
The ice melts and the adhesive finally wears off. But the world of a child's imagination is vast, and the cold, sticky sweetness of a day like this lasts forever.
Since it is a three-hour drive to their house, I have gotten into the habit of stopping at a McDonald's about an hour from my destination and picking up a large Coke to provide company and solace the rest of the way. I should have been suspicious last time when, strangely and inexplicably, my straw took on the flavor of the chicken nuggets the kids had eaten for lunch. "Who's been drinking my Coke?" I asked in my best Mama Bear style. That time, Sooby looked especially guilty.
What followed was a ritual I have come to think of as The Dispensing of the Ice. This involves removing the lid from the cup, digging out cubes of ice one at a time, putting them on the upside-down lid, and letting the kids take turns picking them off and eating them. Yesterday, even Bootsie got in the action. "Bite!" she demanded over and over, and, well, who could resist that?
When the ritual is properly elongated, it consumes about the first ten minutes of my visit. Of course, by the time we are through, there are ice cubes melting on the floor and between the cushions of the sofa. All I can say is, thank goodness you can depend on water to evaporate.
Yesterday, The Dispensing of the Ice was the opening act for Dinosaur Day. I had taken along a couple dinosaur stories, a dinosaur pinball game, and a box of dominoes that, instead of the usual numbered dots, feature various species of the terrible lizard family. In no time the kids' vocabulary had expanded to include the likes of stegosaurus, triceratops, and tyrannosaurus rex. Then, while Pooh and I were engrossed in an especially competitive round of dinosaur pinball (he had just scored an elasmosaurus for 100 points), Sooby disappeared.
She came back with her arms and face covered in white strips that looked like tape. Upon closer inspection, they proved to be rectangular white adhesive labels from among her mama's school supplies. Yes, Sooby had transformed herself into a set of dinosaur bones. She curled up her lips to bare her teeth (which we learned might be as much as six inches long), and there was no question that time had moved backward and a T-rex had landed in our midst.
A cup of ice. A sheet of labels. These are the simplest of things. And yet, somehow, they are the stuff that forges bonds and cements relationships.
The ice melts and the adhesive finally wears off. But the world of a child's imagination is vast, and the cold, sticky sweetness of a day like this lasts forever.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Once Upon a Mountain
You visit the ski slopes of Colorado in early March, and you expect certain pleasures. You expect the breath-taking scenery of the high country, its firs lined up like soldiers marching up a snowy mountainside. You anticipate the afternoon sun slanting down on you, delivering its welcome warmth from an azure sky. You look forward to the back-and-forth schussing of skis through powder as you slice through the brisk air toward the end of your run.
All that is in the contract when you sign on for a winter ski vacation, and I was not disappointed again this past week. What I hadn't counted on was the pleasant surprise of riding up the lift with a five-year-old boy named Reid.
When I first saw Reid, he was wearing a ski helmet adorned all over with protruding green felt padded spikes. He was standing to the side of the lift line with his ski school instructor, watching for a pair of skiers who would have extra space in their chair on the ride up. Somewhere there underneath our stocking hats and goggles, the instructor must have detected our affinity for small children and our willingness to take on a passenger. "Can this one go up with you?" he asked us. "He can get on and off by himself."
As soon as we were airborne, Pa-pa and I were treated to a barrage of questions, information, and advice. Why weren't we wearing helmets? Didn't we know those were safer? Could we lower the foot-rest bar from overhead? Wouldn't that make sure we didn't fall off?
In the course of the 7.5-minute ride I learned that Reid was looking forward to kindergarten next year and that he had skied about "400,000 times" at "hundreds of different places." When I told him I had once taught preschool, he wanted to know everything about my classroom. He wanted to know if I played with the kids, and I told him, "Absolutely." I told him about Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie, and he told me about his little sister who was three like Pooh. All too soon we were at the top ready to exit the lift, a maneuver he executed with the style and finesse of a pro despite his short little legs.
Later that afternoon, I came upon a ski school class making its way down the mountain in the usual serpentine fashion. Near the head of the line, right behind the instructor, I recognized that unmistakeable green spiked helmet. Reid was controlling his speed in a perfect snowplow.
"Hi, Reid," I called as I went by. He recognized me and said, "Oh, hi!"
"Hey, Reid, you've got a fan," his instructor commented.
I imagine that charming little boy will grow up to have lots of fans, perhaps among them a couple of pa-pas and whatever it might be that he calls his grandmothers. Because of him, I couldn't help imagining Sooby and Pooh on skis.
Maybe that will actually happen somewhere down the road. For now, I will be content to check kids' ski apparel clearance racks. Those green spikes definitely have a way of winning friends and influencing people.
All that is in the contract when you sign on for a winter ski vacation, and I was not disappointed again this past week. What I hadn't counted on was the pleasant surprise of riding up the lift with a five-year-old boy named Reid.
When I first saw Reid, he was wearing a ski helmet adorned all over with protruding green felt padded spikes. He was standing to the side of the lift line with his ski school instructor, watching for a pair of skiers who would have extra space in their chair on the ride up. Somewhere there underneath our stocking hats and goggles, the instructor must have detected our affinity for small children and our willingness to take on a passenger. "Can this one go up with you?" he asked us. "He can get on and off by himself."
As soon as we were airborne, Pa-pa and I were treated to a barrage of questions, information, and advice. Why weren't we wearing helmets? Didn't we know those were safer? Could we lower the foot-rest bar from overhead? Wouldn't that make sure we didn't fall off?
In the course of the 7.5-minute ride I learned that Reid was looking forward to kindergarten next year and that he had skied about "400,000 times" at "hundreds of different places." When I told him I had once taught preschool, he wanted to know everything about my classroom. He wanted to know if I played with the kids, and I told him, "Absolutely." I told him about Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie, and he told me about his little sister who was three like Pooh. All too soon we were at the top ready to exit the lift, a maneuver he executed with the style and finesse of a pro despite his short little legs.
Later that afternoon, I came upon a ski school class making its way down the mountain in the usual serpentine fashion. Near the head of the line, right behind the instructor, I recognized that unmistakeable green spiked helmet. Reid was controlling his speed in a perfect snowplow.
"Hi, Reid," I called as I went by. He recognized me and said, "Oh, hi!"
"Hey, Reid, you've got a fan," his instructor commented.
I imagine that charming little boy will grow up to have lots of fans, perhaps among them a couple of pa-pas and whatever it might be that he calls his grandmothers. Because of him, I couldn't help imagining Sooby and Pooh on skis.
Maybe that will actually happen somewhere down the road. For now, I will be content to check kids' ski apparel clearance racks. Those green spikes definitely have a way of winning friends and influencing people.
Monday, March 5, 2012
For Love of the Bear
The three bears aren't about chairs, and beds, and porridge anymore. The three bears my grandkids know best gather up a rope, a stick, and a flashlight and set out to explore a gigantic, hollow tree just down the winding path from their home. In this episodic tale employing the simplest of words and the richest of illustrations, these loveable bear siblings couple their meager safety devices with their huge sense of adventure to create a suspense-filled story Sooby and Pooh have loved ever since we first read it together around Halloween.
The name of the book is The Berenstain Bears and The Spooky Old Tree, and I pay this tribute to it on the occasion of the recent death of co-author/illustrator Jan Berenstain at age 88 from complications of a stroke. Before the death of her husband Stan in 2005, the Berenstains took their teamwork to the drawing table, creating a 50-year-long legacy of their gentle, humorous bear stories for generations of children who cut their literary teeth on their unforgettable characters, words, and pictures.
In this story the bear children find their imaginative tools of defense ineffective as, one by one, they are destroyed or made inaccesible by the forces of danger they encounter within the tree--a ravenous, snapping alligator who clenches the rope away in his sharp, pointed teeth; a battle-axe-bearing suit of armor who expertly splits the stick in half; and the ominous "Great Sleeping Bear," who, very unhappy at the prospect of being disturbed, knocks the flashlight away from the last little bear. His act of aggression renders the trio defenseless in the dark as they are left with no choice but to scamper for the safety of home.
An aside: For the record, in our enactments of this story, the role of Great Sleeping Bear (whom Pooh calls "Sleeping Old Bear") has often fallen to me, whereupon I lie in a heap on the floor and pretend to awaken in a rage as the kids crawl over me. This can hurt. After we have played the scene several times, I sometimes assume the grouchy, aggressive character of Sleeping Old Bear for the rest of the evening.
You have to admire Stan and Jan Berenstein, who met in art school when they were barely adults themselves, married five years later, and devoted their lives to creating children's art for 60 years. For their plots, they turned to the antics of their own children; for their themes they chose to reinforce universal family values (today.msnbc.msn.com/id/46543696?ocid=ansmsnbc11#.TO1cmlemhME).
Their formula worked. In their lifetime they saw 300 stories published in 23 languages, with sales reaching 260 million books. Their respect for young readers shows in the way they were never didactic, never judgmental. Their trademark style always guided children gently toward enduring truths and universal values (www.newser.com/story/140584/jan-berenstain-dead-at-88.html). Certainly, the death of Stan in 2005 and now that of Jan leaves an empty space on the bookshelf that is contemporary children's literature.
For the Berenstain bears who adventure into the spooky old tree, home is a haven where they can return for safety and security, personified by Mother Bear in her white-polka-dotted blue housedress. The kids get this subtle message: It is OK to explore beyond the familiar so long as you never lose your sense of home.
The name of the book is The Berenstain Bears and The Spooky Old Tree, and I pay this tribute to it on the occasion of the recent death of co-author/illustrator Jan Berenstain at age 88 from complications of a stroke. Before the death of her husband Stan in 2005, the Berenstains took their teamwork to the drawing table, creating a 50-year-long legacy of their gentle, humorous bear stories for generations of children who cut their literary teeth on their unforgettable characters, words, and pictures.
In this story the bear children find their imaginative tools of defense ineffective as, one by one, they are destroyed or made inaccesible by the forces of danger they encounter within the tree--a ravenous, snapping alligator who clenches the rope away in his sharp, pointed teeth; a battle-axe-bearing suit of armor who expertly splits the stick in half; and the ominous "Great Sleeping Bear," who, very unhappy at the prospect of being disturbed, knocks the flashlight away from the last little bear. His act of aggression renders the trio defenseless in the dark as they are left with no choice but to scamper for the safety of home.
An aside: For the record, in our enactments of this story, the role of Great Sleeping Bear (whom Pooh calls "Sleeping Old Bear") has often fallen to me, whereupon I lie in a heap on the floor and pretend to awaken in a rage as the kids crawl over me. This can hurt. After we have played the scene several times, I sometimes assume the grouchy, aggressive character of Sleeping Old Bear for the rest of the evening.
You have to admire Stan and Jan Berenstein, who met in art school when they were barely adults themselves, married five years later, and devoted their lives to creating children's art for 60 years. For their plots, they turned to the antics of their own children; for their themes they chose to reinforce universal family values (today.msnbc.msn.com/id/46543696?ocid=ansmsnbc11#.TO1cmlemhME).
Their formula worked. In their lifetime they saw 300 stories published in 23 languages, with sales reaching 260 million books. Their respect for young readers shows in the way they were never didactic, never judgmental. Their trademark style always guided children gently toward enduring truths and universal values (www.newser.com/story/140584/jan-berenstain-dead-at-88.html). Certainly, the death of Stan in 2005 and now that of Jan leaves an empty space on the bookshelf that is contemporary children's literature.
For the Berenstain bears who adventure into the spooky old tree, home is a haven where they can return for safety and security, personified by Mother Bear in her white-polka-dotted blue housedress. The kids get this subtle message: It is OK to explore beyond the familiar so long as you never lose your sense of home.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Month of Beenie
Today is March 1, and you know what that means, don't you?
Spring? No, that is still several weeks away, although we have enjoyed the mildest winter in recent memory here in the Midwest. The fateful Ides of March? No, Julius. It is still safe to go to the forum and enjoy maybe one last toga party with Cassius and Brutus. Easter? Not that either. The bunny is not set to hop until April this year.
In our family at least, when we change the calendar page today, we herald the arrival of The Month of Beenie. Before we turn over another one, our fourth grandchild (and first child of son Teebo and his wife) should be kicking around in a less confined space and exercising his brand new lungs. The red letter day is March 27.
So, Teebo, you best brace yourself. If Beenie is anything like you, you should buy stock in a sporting goods business. If this boy gets the ballgame gene, the toy box needs to contain an ample variety of spherical objects that can be thrown, hit, caught, shot, bounced, dribbled, kicked, and otherwise moved from Point A to Point B. You should update your tackle box too. He descends from a long line of fishermen, this boy of yours, not the least of whom was his Great-Grandma Florence.
Now, a word of advice to Beenie's mama: sleep now. This may be your last chance to do so for a long, long time. Take these last few weeks to enjoy an uninterrupted meal with mashed potatoes that are still hot. And down the road, make a note to yourself to watch what he takes with him to school. His father had his first-grade picture taken with Alf. I was the laughingstock of the Christmas card network that year, and I have never really been the same since.
To both of you: your lives are about to change immeasurably. Your relationship will deepen in a way you could never have imagined. You will never know a more awesome responsibility that to take this little boy and help him carve out a place for himself in this world. You won't be able to save him from disappointment and heartache, but you can teach him about the comfort of unconditional love.
This is a most difficult job, but Pa-pa and I are here to help you. We've been here before. We have turned over many calendar pages. We are delighted to see that The Month of Beenie is here.
Spring? No, that is still several weeks away, although we have enjoyed the mildest winter in recent memory here in the Midwest. The fateful Ides of March? No, Julius. It is still safe to go to the forum and enjoy maybe one last toga party with Cassius and Brutus. Easter? Not that either. The bunny is not set to hop until April this year.
In our family at least, when we change the calendar page today, we herald the arrival of The Month of Beenie. Before we turn over another one, our fourth grandchild (and first child of son Teebo and his wife) should be kicking around in a less confined space and exercising his brand new lungs. The red letter day is March 27.
So, Teebo, you best brace yourself. If Beenie is anything like you, you should buy stock in a sporting goods business. If this boy gets the ballgame gene, the toy box needs to contain an ample variety of spherical objects that can be thrown, hit, caught, shot, bounced, dribbled, kicked, and otherwise moved from Point A to Point B. You should update your tackle box too. He descends from a long line of fishermen, this boy of yours, not the least of whom was his Great-Grandma Florence.
Now, a word of advice to Beenie's mama: sleep now. This may be your last chance to do so for a long, long time. Take these last few weeks to enjoy an uninterrupted meal with mashed potatoes that are still hot. And down the road, make a note to yourself to watch what he takes with him to school. His father had his first-grade picture taken with Alf. I was the laughingstock of the Christmas card network that year, and I have never really been the same since.
To both of you: your lives are about to change immeasurably. Your relationship will deepen in a way you could never have imagined. You will never know a more awesome responsibility that to take this little boy and help him carve out a place for himself in this world. You won't be able to save him from disappointment and heartache, but you can teach him about the comfort of unconditional love.
This is a most difficult job, but Pa-pa and I are here to help you. We've been here before. We have turned over many calendar pages. We are delighted to see that The Month of Beenie is here.
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