In the Interest of Science

When your particular field of science involves writing a grandparent blog, your summer affords abundant opportunity to conduct field research.  While some of these raw data are substantial enough to support blog entries, others remain simply random scribbles in a notebook, unrelated to one other and lacking the length or depth needed to stand as posts on their own.

Nevertheless, they capture poignant or humorous glimpses into a kid's unique, creative way of looking at and talking about the world.  Or, perhaps, they offer "snapshots" of a moment that, though it may be inconsequential in itself, begs to be preserved.  Following, then, is a sampling of such notes from Googie's research log dated "Summer 2013."

• "If you shoot a man deer, you get ham."--Sooby on hunting, gathering, and the culinary arts
• "To make lasagna, you need monsterella cheese."--Pooh, on Italian cuisine
• "Here is a whole basket of 'gift tops.'"--Sooby, on discovering a stash of pre-made gift-wrapping bows (in a closet where she shouldn't have been looking).

And then, a few of my favorite anecdotes:

"What do you want to hear?" I ask Bootsie, who is wanting to sing at bedtime.
"Fecal, fecal," she answers, matter-of-factly.
My mind races.  What could she mean?  Then, suddenly, it dawns on me.  I smile to myself and begin the well-known children's favorite she has requested: 
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . . ."

Sooby is staying a few days with me and I am trying to get her to think about going to bed after an especially busy day.
"It's late," I say.  "Your little body needs to rest."
"No, it doesn't," she tells me.  "It's aching for action."

Another time, she is on Skype demonstrating how to drop a coin in her piggy bank.  She releases the coin with a dramatic flourish, then, in a tone of near reverence, remarks, "It sounds beautiful when it crashes."



 

Pooh has convinced me to let him sip chocolate milk out of a quart jug with a straw. 

"You spill that," I warn, "and I'm going to make you eat toenails for breakfast."

He considers this carefully. 

"That's too hard," he says, contemplating a compromise.  "Maybe I could just go without dessert."

 

 

Sometimes I picture these kids rummaging around in "Googie's Attic" in years to come--maybe when they are teens or college kids or even young parents.  I may or may not still be around then.  It makes me smile to imagine them reading about the things they did or said when they were little.

 

They are things that, otherwise, they might never know.  That is why I record them here.  That is why I practice this field of science. 

Technology Junkies

My grandkids range in age from one to six and every one of them is a technology junkie.  So these days, scenes like the one below tend to be the norm rather than the exception.

Mostly, their parents and I have our iPhones to thank for this.  Even the two baby boys, Beenie and Zoomba, use their little forefingers to scroll expertly through my camera roll file.  Beenie will stop every time he sees the right arrow symbol that signals a video.  He loves watching the clips I have recorded of him and his cousins doing just about everything children do. 

The older kids are always insisting that I "take a movie" of them doing this or that.  And so, my camera roll is filled with documentation of such things as Bootsie singing the ABC song on the potty and Sooby and Pooh singing "Charlotte Town Is Burning Down" over pancakes at breakfast.

Other equally captivating footage preserves for posterity the fab five as they dance, read, tell jokes, build blocks, laugh, cough (fake), tell jokes, learn to crawl, learn to walk--and the list stretches on.

The other morning Sooby's mama just about spewed an ill-timed sip of coffee out into the living room when Sooby asked me if she could send a text message.  (I always hope that Sooby and Pooh won't tell all our secrets, but in the end I usually get caught.)  She and I had collaborated on a series of texts to Beenie's mama on an earlier visit.

The handful of games I have downloaded to my iPhone have opened a whole new can of techno-worms to the mix.  I once lost a close game of Word With Friends to my son Teebo when one of the kids hit the button that skipped my turn.

During his recent week-long visit at our house, Pooh, at age four, became quite proficient at the game "Temple Run," which the kids all call "Guy."  (It was two-year-old Bootsie who first called it this, because the game features a "guy" running through a hazardous obstacle course to escape a flock of demon monkeys.)

With practice, Pooh has gotten good enough to occasionally attain boosts that give "guy" extra speed or make him invincible (Pooh says "convincible") for a short time.  These different powers are designated with different colors, so, as he plays, it is not unusual to hear Pooh holler things like "Googie!  I got the blue guy stuff."

I try to watch pretty closely when the kids are even in the same room with my iPhone, but once in a while I pay dearly for the sin of slight inattention.  Twice now, Pooh has somehow managed to share his "Temple Run" score to my Facebook page.  At least his game skills have improved to the point that it doesn't embarrass me that much anymore.

The old Atari system that my own children first knew seems so antiquated now.  The later-generation Mario and Luigi could not, in their wildest dreams, have run with the speed and finesse of our beloved "guy." 

I never cease to be amazed at the way these kids today seem to embrace and adapt so naturally to the new state-of-the-art technologies.  I admire that ability and encourage it because, like it or not, they are the way of the future to which these children belong.

I don't think it is too bad a deal that the kids are technology junkies on a limited basis.  After all, we still have our songs and our books and our hugs.  There are plenty of other times during the day when we rely on those old stand-bys.  Even "guy," in all his high-tech glory, is not always convincible.



 

The Missouri Compromise

Anyone who grows up in Missouri or Kansas knows that a rivalry runs deep between these two states.  Some speculation attributes this rift to the fact that, during the Civil War, Kansas was a free state while Missouri was a slave state.  Others translate this deep-lying chasm in terms of collegiate sports that pit the Jayhawks of Kansas against the Missouri Tigers. 

Whatever the case, we on the Missouri side mutter comments about "Kansas drivers" under our breath, while Kansans, I'm sure, have the same or worse to say about those of us who dare to crawl behind the steering wheel of a vehicle and venture westward across the state line.  Likewise, we Missourians are quite sure that the only reason anyone would drive through Kansas is because that is the only direct route to the ski slopes of Colorado.

Since four of my grandchildren live in a little Kansas town three hours away from my Missouri home, I find myself crossing frequently into "enemy" territory.  But I was never so aware of how far these differences reached until recently when Pooh came to spend a week with me here in Missouri.

He came during a week our local community college was hosting a "Kids' College" course for preschoolers called "Adventures in Science."  Thus, he spent a great week learning about dinosaurs, volcanoes, plants, planets, and the like every morning from 9 until noon. For this occasion, his mama packed his travel bag with five clean, nicely matched sets of shirts and shorts.

On the first morning of Kids' College, Pooh and I both woke up excited.  We basked in the anticipation of the activities ahead amid a flurry of cereal and fruit and yogurt.  We were going along great with our preparations for school when, suddenly, Pooh balked.  "But I am in Missouri, Googie," he lamented.  "I can't wear Kansas clothes."

Just like that, the boy took on a problem that I thought belonged solely to the teenage girl.  He had nothing to wear.  The clock was ticking, and I had to think fast.

Luckily, all the grandkids have a little size- and season-appropriate "stash" of extra clothes, mostly from yard sales, that I keep on hand for just such emergencies.  Usually, we can scrounge up the likes of underwear, a swimsuit, a pair of jammies, or an extra shirt. 

However, there has been a lot going on lately, and I haven't had a chance to restock the stashes.  Although there are ample hand-me-downs for the younger kids, my on-hand supplies for the biggest boy and girl are a little slim.  To make a long story a little bit shorter, I had plenty of Missouri shirts, but was sadly lacking in the pants/shorts department.

With the situation escalating to crisis proportions (meaning we were about to be late for the first day of school), I had to do some fast talking in my most convincing tone.  "Nobody notices your shorts," I told Pooh with my fingers crossed.  "They just look at your shirt." 

I don't think Pooh bought into this explanation completely, but I didn't really give him a chance.  We zipped up his Kansas shorts, threw his Missouri shirt over his head, stepped into his clogs on the run, and ended up in the van, where he was easily distracted by a SpongeBob movie.

It was our version of The Missouri Compromise.  It would work, I figured, as long as I remembered to do a laundry load of Missouri shirts about mid-week. 

Here, you see Pooh, on the right, instructing his cousin Beenie on the logistics of a shape sorter.  Obviously, his Missouri shirt shows up quite well, while the Kansas shorts are barely noticeable.  A crisis was averted, and I am now, more than ever, a believer in the value of compromise. 

News Flash!

Been waiting for the call since one
O'clock, and now the waiting's done.
Didn't know what next would be
A-hanging on our family tree.
Ultrasound: today's the day
The sex is for the doc to say.

Babies one and three are girls
Who tie bright ribbons in their curls.
Two and four and five are boys
That we love loads despite the noise.
So will we balance three and three,
Or will the girls outnumbered be?

Will there be playing house and dolls
Or teams with boys and basketballs?
Will we have closets filled with pink,
Or blue stuff soaking in the sink?
Will playtime proffer pirate kings
Or pixie dust and fairy wings?

We've wondered ever since we knew
That Teebo's kids would number two;
That Beenie's sib was on the way
To meet us one November day.
If you have read this far, you too
Are just about to know what's new.

I'll tell you this, and be quite blunt:
We'll have to teach him how to punt
And how to catch the ball and then
Run for the goalpost at the end.
No girl has ever gone so far
As being a great football star!

So now you know: there'll be a boy
Who'll bring more special grandkid joy;
Who'll be a little Beenie clone
And wear the clothes that he's outgrown.
So thanks for reading; now adieu;
It's great to share this news with you!

The Morning Games

Since Sooby was born six years ago today, I have discovered and re-discovered a lot of ways to have fun.  But I have to say that, right there at the top of that list, standing head and shoulders above everything else, are the morning games.

Unlike most forms of entertainment, the morning games require no money.  They don't require tickets.  You don't have to get dressed up; in fact, you don't even have to get out of your nightgown.  You don't need to comb tangles out of your hair or brush on mascara to make your eyes look like they are open.

Our best morning games have taken place at Sooby's house. They often transpire not long after daybreak during an overnight visit.  On game days I will awaken while the house is still quiet, lie there, and wait.  I am never disappointed.  It is never long until my fellow player pads up alongside my bed, pulls back the blankets, and snuggles in beside me.

Sometimes she pulls up her nightshirt so I can scratch her back.  She may drowse a little longer before starting the first game, or she may launch right into it.  I caution her to be "a little bit quiet" so as not to wake up everyone else.  The morning games will still be fun when the other players arrive, but right now they are best when it is just Sooby and Googie.

Yesterday was my last opportunity to play the morning games with Sooby as a five-year-old.  It was six years ago today that she came screaming into our world, and she still has the volume.  She still charms me and amazes me and keeps me pretty well wrapped around her pinkie.  She still holds my heart in her pudgy little hand.

The morning games usually grow out of some conversation that eventually arises when both of us realize that neither or us is going to sleep anymore right then.  Yesterday, in a conversation about the highlights of her past year, I asked her, "What's the best idea you've had while you were five?"

She thinks hard a couple seconds and then says, "It was an idea I had that I was a real princess."  She went on to tell me about the castle and its four inhabitants--Queen Julie ("because she wore a lot of jewelry"); King John; Prince Johnson ("because, of course, he was 'John's son'"); and herself, the princess.

She talks of a lavish ball (Cinderella influence, I'm guessing), at which she dances with all the young fellows in the kingdom while Prince Johnson dances with all the young ladies ("womens" and "mens").  The music playing in the royal ballroom is from The Nutcracker.

We are about to cast ourselves as the princess and Queen Julie in one of our dramatic improvisations, when Bootsie arrives on the scene demanding to be cast as "the baby."  Since there is no baby in the castle, Sooby and Boots suddenly become a mother and her baby who are in the hospital. 

Our dramatic enterprises demand spontaneity and versatility.  Just when I am about to be promoted to queen, I become a lowly nurse who, it seems, has to administer a lot of medicine and shots. 

And so it goes for a bit, until Pooh jumps through the door brandishing a scowl and plastic baseball bat, with which he (a "bad guy," of course) engages in some serious bashing and smashing.  By now, the morning game has pretty well morphed into chaos, and, in order to save innocent lives (mostly my own), it is time to promote breakfast.

When I left the kids' house yesterday afternoon, Sooby's mama was making a strawberry birthday cake, and Sooby was painting a papier-mached balloon red for a strawberry piñata.     

Happy Birthday today, my strawberry girl.  It was six years ago today that you made me Googie.  I cannot even remember an identity before that.  That was many, many morning games ago.  







       

   

Zoomba's Surprise Birthday Present

Happy Birthday, Zoomster!  You now have a year under your belt, or should I say, under your onesie.

Pa-pa and I are looking forward to seeing you in a few days for a proper celebration of this momentous occasion.  But for now, this birthday blog will have to suffice.

 

Just look at that toothy little grin, those big blue eyes, and that headful of blonde curls!  How could any self-respecting Googie not fall in love with those?

 

I did my birthday shopping yesterday following my usual two-ingredient formula: something to wear and something to play with.  Since you can't read yet, I think it is safe to show our friends what I got for you.  Then, when you are older, you can look back at this and know what your first birthday present from Googie and Pa-pa was.

 

First is a pull-along frog who can serve as your faithful companion as you learn to walk.  Your cousin Beenie is just learning to walk too, so you guys and the frog should be able to have yourselves a good old time before long.

 

 

Next is a Batman outfit.  Your brother Pooh is big into the preschool superhero culture, so I think it is time you were initiated too.  Now you will have the proper apparel to join the fray along with Wonder Woman, Naked Man, and Bat Baby.

 

 

In years to come, little Zoomie, you won't remember this day or these presents from Pa-pa and me.  And, fortunately, you won't recall the little present your siblings have given you and with which you observe your first birthday.  We can never know exactly which one of the three is responsible for this little "gift," but we suspect it might have been a team effort.  Most things in your full, busy household are. 

 

Anyway, we wish as happy a birthday as possible to a cute little guy with a toothy grin, big blue eyes, a headful of blonde curls--and patches of splotchy, blistery bumps.  You won't remember it, Zoomie, but the rest of us won't easily forget that you spent your first birthday with the chickenpox!  

 

By the time Pa-pa and I get there this weekend, the worst should be past.  Then, we will open up the pull-along frog and try on the Batman duds.  Meanwhile, hang in there, little guy, and whatever you do--try not to scratch! 

 

 

 

 





 

Riding Sandy

The old gray mare may not be what she used to be, but you really can't say that about Sandy.  Sandy is a coin-operated mechanical horse that has galloped and whinnied in the entryway of my hometown grocery store for well over fifty years now. 

As a child in the '50s and '60s, I stepped up into the stirrup and swung my leg across Sandy's saddle many times, as did my own children in the '80s.  With Pooh's discovery of Sandy last week, the tradition reaches down into another generation like a sweet, old cowboy campfire song.

Here's how it works:  You slide a quarter into Sandy's slot, give the coin box a little jiggle, and hold your breath for a split second to see if the old horse will lurch into his full, jerky gallop one more time.  Then, you stand back, enjoy the accompanying "William Tell Overture" ("The Lone Ranger" theme to us '50s kids), and watch the eyes of your grandson light up for the duration of the minute-long ride.

 

The sign on Sandy's coin box, lettered by a store employee, is a testament to the fact that his performance may be a tad irregular.  This close-up of the sign explains it all:

 

A store manager recently told me that their company's two stores, both named Bing's, opened their doors in 1952, the year I was born.  In the late '50s, they bought a Sandy horse for each store, and they both remain operational to this day. 

Clearly, the machinery that makes Sandy go hails from an era in American workmanship when things were built to last.  But with the technological changes of the past half century, the parts that trigger Sandy's mechanism have become obsolete. 

Thus, there will be no replacement parts when Sandy balks on his final rider or when his saddle finally wears out.  The leather reins that I used to pull back to make him buck a little harder are already gone.  As a result, Sandy's saddle horn is shiny from the grip of hundreds of little hands.

A few Sandys remain available on the internet, but only for the kind of big bucks clearly out of reach for a small hometown grocery business.  There will come a day when a local welder can no longer wield his soldering magic.  At that point, Sandy will have to be put out to pasture for good.

But for now, at least, Sandy rides relentlessly on, charming a sixth decade of riders with his novelty and his simplicity.  And when Pooh came to spend the week with me last week, the Sandy Fan Club gained another enthusiastic new member.

On the day of our last grocery store visit of the week, Pooh, who is not especially open with his expressions of affection, bade Sandy a fond farewell.  "I love you, Sandy," he said as we walked past.

Sandy's face didn't register much expression.  I imagine he has heard this before.