Today I wiped the last fragments of dried blue icing out of the cookie jar. The egg shaped sugar cookies I made a couple weeks ago for Easter are history.
Easter egg sugar cookies have been a tradition at Googie's house for a long time. There is no prettier centerpiece for a spring table than a basket filled with these cookies (recipe compliments of Betty Crocker) iced in a rainbow of pastel colors and adorned with sprinkles. My cookies are traditionally frosted pink, green, yellow, and blue--and if I have the time and energy, you might also find some in orange and lavender.
I like to bake and frost the cookies one day, let the icing dry overnight, and package them in pretty cellophane bags as an Easter treat for my mom, kids, and grandkids. If we happen to be going somewhere for a social gathering, I like to stack some on a platter for a hostess gift or for a beautiful and tasty dessert.
I remember one particular Easter lunch we shared some twenty years ago at the home of my mother- and father-in-law. At that time, our son and daughter, Teebo and Cookie, were a tween and a teen.
Sadly, Grandpa W was in the later stages of Alzheimer's and no longer able to converse with us. Instead, he had to rely on gestures and a variety of incoherent vocalizations in order to communicate. Often, he would do neither and sit quietly and somewhat sullenly among us as we continued our family traditions as best we could.
That had pretty much been the case on this particular day. Cookie and Teebo had enjoyed a relatively quiet lunch. Although I don't actually remember, I imagine that Grandma F had fried a skillet full of crappie (If you are not from the Midwest, you need to know that crappie, pronounced KROP-ee, is a delicious, mild-flavored fish abundant in our freshwater lakes.).
Anyway, I had taken along a basket of Easter egg cookies, which Grandma F had set in the middle of the table. When dessert time came around, it was time to pass the basket and dig into those cookies. What happened then was something I will never forget.
Grandma handed Grandpa a pink cookie. Grandpa refused with a scowl and a violent shake of the head. He pointed to the basket and gestured spasmodically with a perfectly straight forefinger. This happened repeatedly as she offered him the other colors. Nothing seemed to please him; that is, until she handed him one of the blue ones. With a blue cookie in hand, he returned to a calm state and proceeded to devour it with great relish.
Strangely, Grandpa wanted another blue cookie, and another. Further, if one of the rest of us chose a blue one, he quickly made it known that he did not approve. So we would put it back.
That year, Grandpa W got all the blue cookies. This year, I could not wipe the pieces of blue icing out of the cookie jar without thinking about him. Remembering the year of Grandpa and the Blue Cookies always makes me smile, and Pa-pa and I still miss him every day.
Alzheimer's is one of the cruelest and most debilitating diseases in our present-day repertoire of end-of-life maladies. It takes vibrant, loving people and builds a wall between them and the ones they love. It erases the personality and replaces it with paranoia. It tortures the caregivers, often spouses who are themselves in their later years with their own health issues.
If my grandchildren read this post years from now, I want them to know that their Great-Grandpa W would have loved every one of them. He would have lifted them up and said, as he did so many times to my own children and their cousins, "Pam-paw loves you a whole great big lot." I can say unequivocally that he was the kindest, gentlest man I have ever had the pleasure to know. I count myself lucky beyond measure to have called him my father-in-law for seventeen years.
Kids, your great-grandpa was many things. He was a dairy farmer, a deer hunter, a fisherman, a postal worker, a Baptist deacon, and a decorated World War II veteran. Eventually, one of you may inherit his Purple Heart. All of you have inherited his heart of gold. I hope you use it, as he did, to buoy the people around him with a love for God, country, and family; a selfless spirit; and an unrelenting respect for traditional values.
In years to come, it will be up to you to carry on our Easter sugar cookie tradition. If you do that, make sure to think of this story and this great man. And when you frost your cookies, just for old time's sake, be sure to make a few of them blue.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Gravy
Every time Beenie sneezes, I say what my dad always said to us years ago: "Scat, you old cat! Get your tail out of my gravy!" At our house, it was never "Bless you" or its German counterpart, "Gesundheit." It was always "Scat!"
The other day I found myself wondering why this was so. Was this something peculiar to Dad's family? Was this an idiom related to region? To generation? My friend Google would surely be able to shed some light on the mystery.
A quick online search revealed that "Scat, you old cat . .." and its variations are indeed "Southernisms" commonly used in response to someone's sneezing. Among other things, I learned that even country singer Toby Keith has a song titled "Scat Cat" on his Hope on the Rocks album. The reference appears in the final three lines of the song's chorus: "If a bullet doesn't find me,/They'll let me rot in jail./Scat cat, you've got gravy on your tail."
By now, my mind has branched off into other family figures of speech referencing gravy. In his characteristic style fraught with hyperbole, as an example, Pa-pa always liked to tell our kids the "gravy sandwich" story. His family was so poor when he was growing up, he told them, that they had to take gravy sandwiches to school for lunch.
When times were especially hard, he said, they couldn't even afford bread, so on their way out the door the children would have to file past the cook stove so that their mama could ladle a spoonful of gravy directly into their back pockets.
My father-in-law used to declare that all gravy fell into one of two categories. Brown and white? Nope. He categorized gravy as either "chasin'" if it was on the thin, runny side or "slicin'" if too much flour pushed it over to the thicker side.
Great-grandpa's gravy categories speak to the challenge of making gravy of a perfect consistency, with just the right ratio of grease to flour and then flour to milk. Once this is achieved, the salt and pepper part is easy.
I grew up in a 1960s blue collar family for whom fried meat, mashed potatoes and gravy were staples on the lunch menu. So without really trying, my mom passed on to me the mechanics of gravy-making, and my children, Cookie and Teebo, also grew up with a steady diet of the creamy white stuff.
When I was working, one of my colleagues would shudder at the prospect of white gravy, blaming it alone for the fall of the South. This attitude, along with the tendency of today's families to fall back on the likes of fast-food burgers and pizza, makes me worry that the fine art of gravy-making is destined for extinction.
Therefore, in the interest of preserving this fine family tradition, I will record here how to make gravy. But I warn you--I will have trouble. I will run into the same problem I encounter every time I try to explain to my daughter or my daughter-in-law how it is done.
First, I firmly believe that the best gravy grease comes from either fried chicken or browned, crumbled sausage. (The sausage will make its own; you will have to give the chicken a start using solid shortening.) If you fry your chicken in a big skillet, save about enough grease to cover the bottom.
Whatever you do, DON'T throw away the rest of the grease. Instead, save it to use later when you want to have potatoes and gravy without freshly fried meat. Baby food containers work well for freezing just the right amounts.
To make your gravy, heat the grease until it is hot but not popping. Then, stir in a rounded tablespoon of flour and a little more if needed to make the mixture resemble a thick sauce. Keep stirring as you add milk. I don't really know how much milk; it varies with the exact amounts of grease and flour that are already there. I just know that you pour and stir and pretty soon your instinct tells you when to stop. If it doesn't, well, neither chasin' nor slicin' gravy tastes all that bad.
Finish the mixture off with salt and pepper to suit your taste. (You have to actually taste the gravy to know how much it needs.) Bring the gravy to a gentle boil, keep stirring, and turn the fire off when it reaches the desired thickness. Then, pour it immediately into a bowl for serving.
When I create gravy (I use the word create here because gravy-making is an art), I have to take care not to inhale deeply as I add the pepper. Doing this invariably leads to a sneeze, whereupon someone nearby is likely to say, "Scat, you old cat," and I am lost again in my memories of this good life of mine lived in the savory, abundant presence of a wonderful thing called gravy.
The other day I found myself wondering why this was so. Was this something peculiar to Dad's family? Was this an idiom related to region? To generation? My friend Google would surely be able to shed some light on the mystery.
A quick online search revealed that "Scat, you old cat . .." and its variations are indeed "Southernisms" commonly used in response to someone's sneezing. Among other things, I learned that even country singer Toby Keith has a song titled "Scat Cat" on his Hope on the Rocks album. The reference appears in the final three lines of the song's chorus: "If a bullet doesn't find me,/They'll let me rot in jail./Scat cat, you've got gravy on your tail."
By now, my mind has branched off into other family figures of speech referencing gravy. In his characteristic style fraught with hyperbole, as an example, Pa-pa always liked to tell our kids the "gravy sandwich" story. His family was so poor when he was growing up, he told them, that they had to take gravy sandwiches to school for lunch.
When times were especially hard, he said, they couldn't even afford bread, so on their way out the door the children would have to file past the cook stove so that their mama could ladle a spoonful of gravy directly into their back pockets.
My father-in-law used to declare that all gravy fell into one of two categories. Brown and white? Nope. He categorized gravy as either "chasin'" if it was on the thin, runny side or "slicin'" if too much flour pushed it over to the thicker side.
Great-grandpa's gravy categories speak to the challenge of making gravy of a perfect consistency, with just the right ratio of grease to flour and then flour to milk. Once this is achieved, the salt and pepper part is easy.
I grew up in a 1960s blue collar family for whom fried meat, mashed potatoes and gravy were staples on the lunch menu. So without really trying, my mom passed on to me the mechanics of gravy-making, and my children, Cookie and Teebo, also grew up with a steady diet of the creamy white stuff.
When I was working, one of my colleagues would shudder at the prospect of white gravy, blaming it alone for the fall of the South. This attitude, along with the tendency of today's families to fall back on the likes of fast-food burgers and pizza, makes me worry that the fine art of gravy-making is destined for extinction.
Therefore, in the interest of preserving this fine family tradition, I will record here how to make gravy. But I warn you--I will have trouble. I will run into the same problem I encounter every time I try to explain to my daughter or my daughter-in-law how it is done.
First, I firmly believe that the best gravy grease comes from either fried chicken or browned, crumbled sausage. (The sausage will make its own; you will have to give the chicken a start using solid shortening.) If you fry your chicken in a big skillet, save about enough grease to cover the bottom.
Whatever you do, DON'T throw away the rest of the grease. Instead, save it to use later when you want to have potatoes and gravy without freshly fried meat. Baby food containers work well for freezing just the right amounts.
To make your gravy, heat the grease until it is hot but not popping. Then, stir in a rounded tablespoon of flour and a little more if needed to make the mixture resemble a thick sauce. Keep stirring as you add milk. I don't really know how much milk; it varies with the exact amounts of grease and flour that are already there. I just know that you pour and stir and pretty soon your instinct tells you when to stop. If it doesn't, well, neither chasin' nor slicin' gravy tastes all that bad.
Finish the mixture off with salt and pepper to suit your taste. (You have to actually taste the gravy to know how much it needs.) Bring the gravy to a gentle boil, keep stirring, and turn the fire off when it reaches the desired thickness. Then, pour it immediately into a bowl for serving.
When I create gravy (I use the word create here because gravy-making is an art), I have to take care not to inhale deeply as I add the pepper. Doing this invariably leads to a sneeze, whereupon someone nearby is likely to say, "Scat, you old cat," and I am lost again in my memories of this good life of mine lived in the savory, abundant presence of a wonderful thing called gravy.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Aloha Oe
It has been the kind of weekend a person only dreams about. After several weeks of kicking around possibilities and probabilities, the plans were finalized only yesterday.
I have already pinched myself in disbelief at least ten or twelve times so far today. Yes, my friends, today Googie has big news, and I mean BIG.
If you know us personally, you know that six or seven times over the past ten years Pa-pa and I have enjoyed vacations in Hawaii. Most of these have been spent immersed in the breathtakingly beautiful tropical paradise of the island of Maui.
On one of our early trips to the island, while snorkeling near Black Rock off Ka'anapali Beach, we became acquainted with Aolani and Kanunu, native Hawaiians who work at the Ka'anapali Beach Hotel, where we often stay. The couple live in a beautiful home just down the beach a ways from the more commercial, touristy area.
A couple weeks ago, we learned that Aolani and Kanunu plan to spend a year on the mainland lending their expertise in native Hawaiian language and culture to a research project conducted at a university located not too far from our home here in the Midwest. What began as a phone conversation Kanunu initiated to get our advice on a temporary living arrangement has ended with an unbelievable solution: beginning in June, we are going to swap homes for a year.
Even as I stare at the words I just typed, I find myself incredulous. However, it doesn't take long to wrap my mind around what this actually means. For a year, Pa-pa and I will drift off to sleep to the sound of the ocean lapping the shore. We will begin every morning with a pot of coffee, a bottle of Bailey's, and a two-mile saunter where we squish our toes into the soft, wet sand of Ka'anapali Beach.
Two or three times a week we will venture into nearby Lahaina to take in the night life there. We will sit under its world-famous banyan tree, which has grown in 140 years to encompass two-thirds of an acre. We will breathe in the night air rolling landward off the ocean and eat dinner in all our favorite places, including the Cool Cat, where our friend Captain Eric croons and strums as long as the restaurant management keeps him adequately plied with Captain Morgan.
The longest we have ever stayed on Maui at once has been two weeks. Then, it was always a countdown as the days slipped by way too fast, shrouded in the awareness, always present in the back of our minds, that the dreaded day of departure was never far away.
The one down side, of course, is how much we will miss the kids and grandkids. But there is always Skype, and I am hoping that vacations can be arranged so that everyone can come and spend a couple weeks or more with us a time or two while we are there. I love the idea of splashing in the ocean and building sand castles with Sooby, Pooh, Bootsie, and the two baby boys.
Like I said, it has been the kind of weekend a person only dreams about. And that is just what I did. I sat at my computer and dreamed this whole thing up.
Confession time. I just couldn't resist. We really do love Hawaii, but we have no immediate plans to go back there.
You guessed it. April Fool's.
P.S. Followers and Facebook Friends: I would love for you to comment, but please do so discreetly. Help me keep the joke going, at least for the rest of the day!
I have already pinched myself in disbelief at least ten or twelve times so far today. Yes, my friends, today Googie has big news, and I mean BIG.
If you know us personally, you know that six or seven times over the past ten years Pa-pa and I have enjoyed vacations in Hawaii. Most of these have been spent immersed in the breathtakingly beautiful tropical paradise of the island of Maui.
On one of our early trips to the island, while snorkeling near Black Rock off Ka'anapali Beach, we became acquainted with Aolani and Kanunu, native Hawaiians who work at the Ka'anapali Beach Hotel, where we often stay. The couple live in a beautiful home just down the beach a ways from the more commercial, touristy area.
A couple weeks ago, we learned that Aolani and Kanunu plan to spend a year on the mainland lending their expertise in native Hawaiian language and culture to a research project conducted at a university located not too far from our home here in the Midwest. What began as a phone conversation Kanunu initiated to get our advice on a temporary living arrangement has ended with an unbelievable solution: beginning in June, we are going to swap homes for a year.
Even as I stare at the words I just typed, I find myself incredulous. However, it doesn't take long to wrap my mind around what this actually means. For a year, Pa-pa and I will drift off to sleep to the sound of the ocean lapping the shore. We will begin every morning with a pot of coffee, a bottle of Bailey's, and a two-mile saunter where we squish our toes into the soft, wet sand of Ka'anapali Beach.
Two or three times a week we will venture into nearby Lahaina to take in the night life there. We will sit under its world-famous banyan tree, which has grown in 140 years to encompass two-thirds of an acre. We will breathe in the night air rolling landward off the ocean and eat dinner in all our favorite places, including the Cool Cat, where our friend Captain Eric croons and strums as long as the restaurant management keeps him adequately plied with Captain Morgan.
The longest we have ever stayed on Maui at once has been two weeks. Then, it was always a countdown as the days slipped by way too fast, shrouded in the awareness, always present in the back of our minds, that the dreaded day of departure was never far away.
The one down side, of course, is how much we will miss the kids and grandkids. But there is always Skype, and I am hoping that vacations can be arranged so that everyone can come and spend a couple weeks or more with us a time or two while we are there. I love the idea of splashing in the ocean and building sand castles with Sooby, Pooh, Bootsie, and the two baby boys.
Like I said, it has been the kind of weekend a person only dreams about. And that is just what I did. I sat at my computer and dreamed this whole thing up.
Confession time. I just couldn't resist. We really do love Hawaii, but we have no immediate plans to go back there.
You guessed it. April Fool's.
P.S. Followers and Facebook Friends: I would love for you to comment, but please do so discreetly. Help me keep the joke going, at least for the rest of the day!
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
The Happy Meal Birthday
Happy Birthday, Dear Beenie:
You won't remember the day you turned one year old, so I will gather up a few memory treasures and stick them in a trunk in this old attic for you to uncover later.
It was great that we had the chance to spend this time together on your first birthday and my thirty-second wedding anniversary. Your mama and daddy had to work, and Pa-pa was off skiing--so it was up to us to make this day something really special.
And although you won't remember it, we managed to do just that with a little help from good ol' Ronald McDonald. At about 11 o'clock this morning, we sashayed into the lobby and made our somewhat cumbersome presence known. We shared a cheeseburger Happy Meal topped off with cake and ice cream, and you were quite impressed with your Ronald McDonald toy.
You won't remember the cake, but you liked it a lot. It was a little vanilla cake-in-a-mug I baked last night and frosted with some icing left over from our last batch of cookies. It even sported a single lighted candle.
(For future reference and possible other birthdays, I will take a detour here and document the logistics of that cake. I mixed in a coffee mug 4 T. milk, 1 T. oil, and 1/2 t. vanilla, then added 6 T. flour, 2 rounded T. sugar, 1/2 t. baking soda, and 1/8 t. salt before baking it in the microwave for two minutes on high.)
Although you won't remember it, ours was a relatively quiet little celebration tucked back in one corner of Mickey D's. But I considered it a success of the greatest magnitude because
You won't remember the day you turned one year old, so I will gather up a few memory treasures and stick them in a trunk in this old attic for you to uncover later.
It was great that we had the chance to spend this time together on your first birthday and my thirty-second wedding anniversary. Your mama and daddy had to work, and Pa-pa was off skiing--so it was up to us to make this day something really special.
And although you won't remember it, we managed to do just that with a little help from good ol' Ronald McDonald. At about 11 o'clock this morning, we sashayed into the lobby and made our somewhat cumbersome presence known. We shared a cheeseburger Happy Meal topped off with cake and ice cream, and you were quite impressed with your Ronald McDonald toy.
You won't remember the cake, but you liked it a lot. It was a little vanilla cake-in-a-mug I baked last night and frosted with some icing left over from our last batch of cookies. It even sported a single lighted candle.
(For future reference and possible other birthdays, I will take a detour here and document the logistics of that cake. I mixed in a coffee mug 4 T. milk, 1 T. oil, and 1/2 t. vanilla, then added 6 T. flour, 2 rounded T. sugar, 1/2 t. baking soda, and 1/8 t. salt before baking it in the microwave for two minutes on high.)
Although you won't remember it, ours was a relatively quiet little celebration tucked back in one corner of Mickey D's. But I considered it a success of the greatest magnitude because
- you didn't scream.
- you didn't poop.
- we made less of a mess than the teenagers at the next table, and
- we didn't start a fire.
Mama and Daddy will have a big bash for you next weekend when your whole family can be there. Now THAT will be a party, and even Aunt Cookie and your cousins will be here to take in the action. Ours was just a little prelude to a much grander performance to come.
You won't remember today, but trust me when I say that both of us had a great time--followed by a great nap when we got home. No, Beenie Boy, you may not remember this first birthday of yours, but it was as special as I had hoped for--and I will never forget it.
Monday, March 18, 2013
The Googery
googery /goog'-uh-ree/ n. : a collection of grandchildren's photographs taken by a googie, treated with an artistic flourish, and then grouped and displayed on the wall of the room the kids use for sleep and/or play during extended visits
I am pretty proud of the googery. I use the definite article the here, because I am sure it is the only one of its kind.
Unique to my googery (an invented word telescoped from googie and gallery) are not only the particular five children who inhabit it but also the technique by which it was designed and the way it evolved.
It all began when a two-page ad in a magazine caught my eye. I was impressed by the fact that the entire second page consisted of only an 8 1/2" x 11" graphic whose design and palette of colors cried out to me with the very essence of carefree childhood joy.
Instantly, I imagined it as the matted portion of a series of 8 x 10 wall portraits featuring 4 x 6 photos of my grandkids (who at that time numbered only three, but two more were on the way). Each piece would feature a frame and secondary mat in a solid color matching one of the colors in the graphic. The color would be different for each child, and I would change out the photographs periodically as the children grew.
It took only one trip to a couple craft and hobby stores to see that my great idea was couched in dollar signs. Frames were expensive, mats were worse, the colors weren't a perfect match, and there weren't five different colors available of any one design. Facing obstacles like these, how would I ever make my idea work?
Well, unlike most people whose brains are divided into left and right hemispheres, my brain has three distinct sections: left, right, and cheap. I decided I could make multiple copies of the graphic by photocopying it onto white card stock and use matching sheets of variously colored card stock for the insets.
With cardstock purchased piecemeal from our community college reprographics department, I then invested in five cans of spray paint from Wal-mart and five wooden frames marked 25 cents each at a local thrift store.
With a little snipping and spraying using supplies like this,
my updated googery now looks like this:
Things have been so busy that I just recently got Beenie and Zoomie, both born this past year, added to the display along with newer photos of the other three kids. All told, the project required an investment of about three hours' time and less than $20, with the biggest expense being the paint.
I love to sit in the glider-rocker in the kids' room and admire the way the googery stretches across the wall above Pooh's toddler bed. I like the fact that the different colors showcase each child's individuality, while the common mat design suggests the ties of family.
If I ever need to add another piece to the googery, I will go with the graphic's chocolate brown for the frame and the inside mat. After that, who knows? Maybe I should keep my eyes open for new graphic ideas just in case.
I am pretty proud of the googery. I use the definite article the here, because I am sure it is the only one of its kind.
Unique to my googery (an invented word telescoped from googie and gallery) are not only the particular five children who inhabit it but also the technique by which it was designed and the way it evolved.
It all began when a two-page ad in a magazine caught my eye. I was impressed by the fact that the entire second page consisted of only an 8 1/2" x 11" graphic whose design and palette of colors cried out to me with the very essence of carefree childhood joy.
Instantly, I imagined it as the matted portion of a series of 8 x 10 wall portraits featuring 4 x 6 photos of my grandkids (who at that time numbered only three, but two more were on the way). Each piece would feature a frame and secondary mat in a solid color matching one of the colors in the graphic. The color would be different for each child, and I would change out the photographs periodically as the children grew.
It took only one trip to a couple craft and hobby stores to see that my great idea was couched in dollar signs. Frames were expensive, mats were worse, the colors weren't a perfect match, and there weren't five different colors available of any one design. Facing obstacles like these, how would I ever make my idea work?
Well, unlike most people whose brains are divided into left and right hemispheres, my brain has three distinct sections: left, right, and cheap. I decided I could make multiple copies of the graphic by photocopying it onto white card stock and use matching sheets of variously colored card stock for the insets.
With cardstock purchased piecemeal from our community college reprographics department, I then invested in five cans of spray paint from Wal-mart and five wooden frames marked 25 cents each at a local thrift store.
With a little snipping and spraying using supplies like this,
my updated googery now looks like this:
Things have been so busy that I just recently got Beenie and Zoomie, both born this past year, added to the display along with newer photos of the other three kids. All told, the project required an investment of about three hours' time and less than $20, with the biggest expense being the paint.
I love to sit in the glider-rocker in the kids' room and admire the way the googery stretches across the wall above Pooh's toddler bed. I like the fact that the different colors showcase each child's individuality, while the common mat design suggests the ties of family.
If I ever need to add another piece to the googery, I will go with the graphic's chocolate brown for the frame and the inside mat. After that, who knows? Maybe I should keep my eyes open for new graphic ideas just in case.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
The Perfect Chair
In scrolling through the Internet's vast offering of rocker recliners, I see that the perfect chair is not anywhere to be found.
The perfect chair is a huge rocker recliner with no arms. It has a rounded, papasan-style seat with the high back of a typical recliner. It sports a chocolate brown, easy-to-wipe microfiber surface. Its footrest is easy to raise and lower, and it rocks with a gentle, squeakless motion that bestows a restful comfort on children and googies alike.
Because it has no arms, its spacious seat can cradle a googie, two grandkids, and a bowl of popcorn expertly when there is a Disney movie playing across the room. Or, replace the popcorn with a third kid and a book, and you have all you need for some serious story reading. Or, send all the kids upstairs to play while you rock the baby to sleep. There is very little that the perfect chair can't do. It is magical.
"Good luck," you must be thinking. "A chair this perfect is impossible to find." And, it would seem, you are right. Tonight's Google search yielded no photos of the perfect chair. That's why I am especially grateful that it sits in my family room, occupying the corner like some majestic throne:
The perfect chair is a huge rocker recliner with no arms. It has a rounded, papasan-style seat with the high back of a typical recliner. It sports a chocolate brown, easy-to-wipe microfiber surface. Its footrest is easy to raise and lower, and it rocks with a gentle, squeakless motion that bestows a restful comfort on children and googies alike.
Because it has no arms, its spacious seat can cradle a googie, two grandkids, and a bowl of popcorn expertly when there is a Disney movie playing across the room. Or, replace the popcorn with a third kid and a book, and you have all you need for some serious story reading. Or, send all the kids upstairs to play while you rock the baby to sleep. There is very little that the perfect chair can't do. It is magical.
"Good luck," you must be thinking. "A chair this perfect is impossible to find." And, it would seem, you are right. Tonight's Google search yielded no photos of the perfect chair. That's why I am especially grateful that it sits in my family room, occupying the corner like some majestic throne:
The perfect chair came to live with us almost six years ago, just about the time Sooby, the oldest of our five grandkids, was born. Since then it has performed its duties, hazardous and otherwise, like an ultimately devoted and selfless servant. Its forgiving surface has graciously wiped clean of any substance capable of emanating from a child's body. It is known around here as "Googie's chair," and it is like a member of the family.
This is not to say there are no signs of wear on our old friend--quite the contrary. Some of its noble seams are showing evidence of stress in places, and it has begun to protest our sometimes vigorous rocking with the slightest little squeak. But overall, the perfect chair has been a trooper, and, if I could, I would give it a medal for meritorious service.
The unique design of the chair also serves me well when I sit or lie in it alone, recovering from a marathon day with one or more of the kids. I can stretch out with the footrest, cross my legs up Indian-fashion, or lie sideways with my legs dangling over the side. The perfect chair accommodates my every comfort whim.
That's why I have started to worry a little about what I will do when we finally wear it out. After all, how much battery can a chair, even a brave soldier like this one, be expected to survive?
It was this distressing thought that precipitated tonight's premature, casual online search for a replacement. In the event that the grandkid total does not stop at five, I want to be secure in the knowledge that there are reserves waiting to be called into action if needed.
With the arrival of daylight savings time today, bedtime is coming early tonight. Beenie, almost a year old now, will be coming tomorrow for our Monday together. He will get here bright and early, and the new day will be like a present for me to unwrap and enjoy.
And so, we will gather up his bottle and binky and bib and blanket and head downstairs to begin our day in the perfect chair. Stay with me, old friend. Beenie and I are counting on you for another perfect day.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Barbie and a Cupcake
On this date in 1959 the Mattel Toy Company debuted the Barbie Doll at the American Toy Fair in New York. She went for $3, the same amount I paid three years later for my first and only Barbie, who sported a black and white knit swimsuit and a blonde bubble-cut.
I bought my Barbie with a matchbox full of quarters I had saved from months of allowance money, and I still have her downstairs in a shiny black doll case along with her friends Ken (with the fuzzy blonde crewcut), Midge, and Allen.
But I digress. What I really want to focus on is the significance of March 9. Barbie (who, by the way, looks remarkably good for being almost as old as I am) is not the only one with a birthday today. Yes, today Barbie may be turning fifty-four, but "Googie's Attic" is turning two.
I remember March 9, 2011, very well. I had just brought Pa-pa home from out-patient surgery on his right rotator cuff. A day or two before, I had read a magazine article praising blogging as a creative outlet and a means of documenting thoughts, ideas, and life events.
Since I would be close to the ranch with Pa-pa for a day or two, I decided I would give it a try. So I knocked on the portal of www.blogger.com and "Googie's Attic" stood there on the porch, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, waiting to see if the door would swing open and allow admittance to this wonderful, new world.
Now, 150 blog posts later, I am still here, celebrating the day with the birthday blog. We have had two memorable years together as we have chronicled the many and sundry adventures of Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie as well as the arrival of two more grandsons and the loss of their great-grandpa.
We found ourselves in a bonus situation a year ago, when "Googie's Attic," a toddler who had barely cut its teeth, finished as close runner-up to an established blogger in About.com's contest for Favorite Grandparenting Blog. With that, our visibility reached beyond our community of e-mail contacts and Facebook friends and stretched its way over the nation and the world.
As I publish each post to Facebook, I print a hard copy to keep in a huge three-ring notebook for quick off-line reference. Also, every time I get about twenty pages of copy, I send those posts to blog2print for binding in a very nice soft-cover book, each of which roughly corresponds to a season of the year. I received my last one, Volume 9 of Googie's Attic: A Different Kind of Grandparenting Blog, just a few days ago.
The things that make "Googie's Attic" different from other blogs are the things I enjoy most. I love experimenting with the different genres of writing and playing with the nuances of the language. I thrive on unexpected comparisons, ironies, analogies, sensory description and metaphor. I love to incorporate the elements of dialogue, suspense, and humor. I can't wait to discover what a piece will become in the process of the writing.
"Googie" is first and foremost a literary blog, where words take center stage (see? a metaphor). Although I greatly admire blogs with advertising, giveaways, magical graphics, lots of pictures and videos, and other techno-savvy bells and whistles, they are not me. I know this may limit "Googie"'s appeal, but I am out to document the childhood of five special little people using the best language I can find.
For the most part, I am content to let the kids' parents do the picture-taking. (I know there are occasional exceptions, especially lately.) But as far as viewing childhood through the lenses of cameras and camcorders goes, I have been there and done that. I have stacks of albums in my closet to prove it.
With the grandkids, I am after a style of documentation that offers them more of myself. I like to think that, as adults, they will find that meaningful, and that, even after I am no longer a physical presence among them, they can invite others they love to rummage around in this attic of ours.
Enough of this. On to the celebration. "Googie" is two today, and tonight I am putting two candles on a cupcake to celebrate. Who knows, I might even invite Barbie.
I bought my Barbie with a matchbox full of quarters I had saved from months of allowance money, and I still have her downstairs in a shiny black doll case along with her friends Ken (with the fuzzy blonde crewcut), Midge, and Allen.
But I digress. What I really want to focus on is the significance of March 9. Barbie (who, by the way, looks remarkably good for being almost as old as I am) is not the only one with a birthday today. Yes, today Barbie may be turning fifty-four, but "Googie's Attic" is turning two.
I remember March 9, 2011, very well. I had just brought Pa-pa home from out-patient surgery on his right rotator cuff. A day or two before, I had read a magazine article praising blogging as a creative outlet and a means of documenting thoughts, ideas, and life events.
Since I would be close to the ranch with Pa-pa for a day or two, I decided I would give it a try. So I knocked on the portal of www.blogger.com and "Googie's Attic" stood there on the porch, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, waiting to see if the door would swing open and allow admittance to this wonderful, new world.
Now, 150 blog posts later, I am still here, celebrating the day with the birthday blog. We have had two memorable years together as we have chronicled the many and sundry adventures of Sooby, Pooh, and Bootsie as well as the arrival of two more grandsons and the loss of their great-grandpa.
We found ourselves in a bonus situation a year ago, when "Googie's Attic," a toddler who had barely cut its teeth, finished as close runner-up to an established blogger in About.com's contest for Favorite Grandparenting Blog. With that, our visibility reached beyond our community of e-mail contacts and Facebook friends and stretched its way over the nation and the world.
As I publish each post to Facebook, I print a hard copy to keep in a huge three-ring notebook for quick off-line reference. Also, every time I get about twenty pages of copy, I send those posts to blog2print for binding in a very nice soft-cover book, each of which roughly corresponds to a season of the year. I received my last one, Volume 9 of Googie's Attic: A Different Kind of Grandparenting Blog, just a few days ago.
The things that make "Googie's Attic" different from other blogs are the things I enjoy most. I love experimenting with the different genres of writing and playing with the nuances of the language. I thrive on unexpected comparisons, ironies, analogies, sensory description and metaphor. I love to incorporate the elements of dialogue, suspense, and humor. I can't wait to discover what a piece will become in the process of the writing.
"Googie" is first and foremost a literary blog, where words take center stage (see? a metaphor). Although I greatly admire blogs with advertising, giveaways, magical graphics, lots of pictures and videos, and other techno-savvy bells and whistles, they are not me. I know this may limit "Googie"'s appeal, but I am out to document the childhood of five special little people using the best language I can find.
For the most part, I am content to let the kids' parents do the picture-taking. (I know there are occasional exceptions, especially lately.) But as far as viewing childhood through the lenses of cameras and camcorders goes, I have been there and done that. I have stacks of albums in my closet to prove it.
With the grandkids, I am after a style of documentation that offers them more of myself. I like to think that, as adults, they will find that meaningful, and that, even after I am no longer a physical presence among them, they can invite others they love to rummage around in this attic of ours.
Enough of this. On to the celebration. "Googie" is two today, and tonight I am putting two candles on a cupcake to celebrate. Who knows, I might even invite Barbie.
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