Baby Icarus

If you have read the stories of Greek mythology, you may recall the boy Icarus, who, like his father Daedalus, wishes to fly. After Daedalus, a master inventor, fashions a pair of wings from feathers and wax, he cautions Icarus not to fly too close to the sun lest the sun melt the wax, thereby causing the world's first aeronautical disaster.

The rest is predictable: Icarus, imbued with the folly and carefree abandon of youth, ignores his father's warning, melts his wings, and plummets into the sea.

I thought of this story today when Beenie's mama forwarded me a Facebook message containing a blog post from his daycare website. In it, the daycare provider was describing a clever and creative activity she had executed with her young charges.

In Beenie's case, she colored a picture of a smiling sun shining down on a little robot-like creature composed of geometric shapes and then asked him to tell a story about it. She then transcribed that story in his own words.

If you know me very well, you know that I am fascinated by the way language and creativity develop in young children. With six grandkids ranging in age from one to seven, I have had a heyday of recent opportunities to witness such goings-on. So when I read Beenie's story, I was ecstatic.

To me, Beenie's creation seemed to teem with poetry (for me everything teems with poetry), so I have taken the liberty of breaking it into lines like a poem. Other than that, nothing else has been changed. Here then, for your reading pleasure, is the only slightly rearranged creation of a little boy who will turn three years old in two months:

He flew to the sun.
Happy face.
It's spells robot.
He fell off.
He cried.
He hugged Mom.
He fell off with Olaf.
He fall off that sun.
He fell off the kangaroo.
He fell off the horses.
Yes.
That's the end.

And now, because I simply can't resist, here are some conclusions we can draw (maybe) from the work of this author:

1. Flying to the sun is a universal obsession of mankind regardless of country, culture, or time period.
2. The act of falling is prevalent in the life of a two-year-old. (Actually, Beenie has in the past distinguished between two particular kinds of falling, namely plopping and flopping--he is well versed in both, but that's another blog post.)
3. Irregular verbs like fall and fell are hard to figure out when you are two. (They are also hard when you are in college.)
4. The Disney movie Frozen is imprinted on the subconscious minds of kids in this generation.
5. Kids like robots and animals. (This is kind of Orwellian.)
6. Moms make boo-boos better. (This is so universal that it should be an archetype.)

Now if I wanted to, I could delve further, citing Beenie's use of the demonstrative adjective that in Line 8 as proof that, innately, he suspects there are other solar systems. Or, I could speculate about his awareness of ambiguity as expressed in his last line. 

When he says "That's the end," does he mean the end of the story or the end of the boy who flew to the sun and fell off numerous times? Hmmm. How would Socrates answer that one?

As you can see from my title, I am naming Beenie's little poem "Baby Icarus." Given the similarities of theme between Beenie's plot line and its Greek counterpart--and the fact that I literally watched him cut his teeth on the likes of Baby Einstein and Baby Mozart, that just seems to say it all.

About the Author

Beenie is a smart, rambunctious two-year-old who likes Hot Wheels, his iPad, the movie Frozen, and his four cousins. He has recently learned to sing and use the potty, but not, usually, at the same time. He lives with Mommy, Daddy, his little brother, and his dog Berniece. His Googie thinks he is pretty special.

The Yellow Giraffe

What are the chances that I would happen to have a yellow giraffe perched on my closet shelf?

As it turns out, just such an animal has been sitting there among my t-shirts and sweaters since the half-price clearance sales after Valentine's Day. Sporting a stuffed heart that said "Kiss Me," he was about to be raffled at the February fundraiser for my local writers' group.

However, this year Beenie's Christmas wish list necessitated an abrupt change of plans. The only things he wanted from Santa, he said, were a taxi cab, a trumpet, and--you guessed it--a yellow giraffe. (As you can see, Beenie has rather eclectic tastes.)

Beenie's mama looked to Amazon for the first two items, but, alas, the third one proved more elusive. It seems a dearth of yellow giraffes had been manufactured at the North Pole this year. A day or two before Christmas, she mentioned this to me in passing.

"Well, actually," I said to her, "I think I may have a yellow giraffe." Later, I texted her a picture of it to see if she thought it might fill the bill. Luckily, she thought it was perfect.

I took another close look at Mr. Giraffe. He was the right color and the right size. He was appropriately soft and furry and cuddly. But there was something about the "Kiss Me" heart that just didn't seem quite right for a two-year-old.

Upon inspecting the heart more closely, I saw that it could be easily removed with three swipes of a seam ripper. Better yet, the surgery would leave no scars. The heart was only loosely tacked onto the giraffe's hands (Do giraffes have hands?) and tummy. Post-op, he looked totally suitable for our purposes:

So, in the spirit of happy Christmases, Beenie got his yellow giraffe and Pa-pa found this under his pillow that night:

And that is the story of how a $4 stuffed giraffe from the Big Lots store translated into a "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night."

BUT--if you are worried that my writers' group is without an animal to raffle this year, don't fret. You see, early last summer I was at a garage sale, and there in a basket of 25-cent items was this brand new stuffed Siberian tiger . . . .

Joy to the Squirrels!

Joy

to the squirrels!

The walnuts fall-

They'll gather up them all!

They'll nibble and they'll bite

All day and half the night.

They'll chomp and gnaw and chew

Until their cheeks turn blue.

They'll chomp,

They'll chomp,

And gnaw and chew.

Joy

to the squirrels!

The hick'ries drop--

They wiggle loose and--PLOP!

The squirrels rush and scurry

So they won't have to worry

When ground is white with snow

That blankets all below--

When ground,

When ground

Is white with snow.

Joy

to the squirrels!

Pecans are found

'Neath trees upon the ground!

This year the squirrels may try

To make a pecan pie,

A tasty Christmas dream,

And top it with whipped cream--

And top,

And top

It with whipped cream.

Merry Christmas, everyone, from Googie. Have fun singing these words to the traditional Handel melody.

The Other Holiday Turkey

There are times when, for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I bake two turkeys.

One is the two-legged kind, the stuff of wishbones and drumsticks--the kind whose rich broth makes possible classic holiday fare like homemade noodles and dressing and giblet gravy. The other is my famous Brownie Turkey Pizza.

The recipe for the latter has been a staple of my recipe box--and of our family holidays--for nearly twenty-five years. It came my way via my hometown newspaper sometime in the early 1990s, one of those things I clipped out because it looked like something fun that the kids might like.

Basically, the Brownie Turkey Pizza consists of a boxed brownie mix prepared according to package instructions and baked at 350 degrees on a round pizza pan for twelve or thirteen minutes. When it has cooled, icing, nuts, and candy pieces give it its "turkey" design:

As you see, brownie toppers consist of generous portions of pecan halves, chopped Butterfingers (or walnuts--or both), and M & M's (or Reese's Pieces). These are arranged into turkey formation atop a still-gooey layer of canned chocolate and vanilla (for the head and neck) frosting.

Forming the turkey's beak and wattle are a single piece of candy corn (or a pecan half will work) and a small length of some sort of red gummy candy. Among other choices, you can enlist a gumdrop or a gummy worm for this purpose. This year I sliced the center out of a gummy spider I found at the after-Halloween clearance sales.

A couple tips make the decorating process easier and the outcome more successful. One is to make a pattern (approximately 4" by 6") for the head/neck unit by folding a piece of paper double and cutting freehand until you get about the size and proportions you want. 

Then, lay the pattern on the brownie where you want the head to be, and trace around it with a toothpick. Finally, if you apply the white frosting first, it will not be so likely to get swirls of chocolate in it.

From experience, I have learned that, once the frosting is in place, it works better to add decorations from the outside in. Doing this gives you a better chance of giving your feather structure a round, rather than more oblong, appearance.

Finally, be ready for a fight over the gummy worm or whatever you use for the wattle. No matter how many delicious morsels of M & M's or Reese's Pieces you use, and no matter how thoroughly you saturate the empty chocolate icing spaces with crumbled Butterfingers, every kid at your party is going to want that one irresistible piece of gummy candy.

I have found this to be true through two generations of turkey-eating children, and nothing I have witnessed hints that a change is imminent. It is simply a rule of the universe, and you just have to accept it.

The recipe I clipped from the Sedalia Democrat newspaper (adapted from a source titled "My Own Creation!") so many years ago is yellowed and chocolate-stained. Nevertheless, it has provided the blueprint for more turkey brownie pizzas than I can remember.

This past Thanksgiving is no exception, and, for posterity, let the record show that this year it was Sooby who got the wattle.

Christmas Gothic

When it happened last year, I thought it was just a fluke. Surely, I thought, we would do better this year.

But, despite our high hopes and best efforts, the unhappy reality of the situation has only been confirmed: It is impossible to get a good Christmas card photo with six little kids involved. There are simply too many eyes to keep open, moods to appease, and heads of hair to run a comb through all at once.

Up until last year, our annual Christmas card photo had posed no problem. In fact, the year before that, we had successfully added both Beenie and Zoomie to the mix without incident. Apparently, however, the addition of that sixth little body complicates things (through no fault of the baby himself, of course). It is the sole piece of evidence needed to prove the validity of chaos theory.

Indeed "chaos" is the only word that describes the five minutes immediately preceding the flash that added our Christmas 2013 photo to my iPhone camera roll. I will remind you how that ill-fated photographic specimen turned out:

Here, in a shot I will title Christmas Gothic, everyone is visibly unhappy and all for different reasons. At the top of the stairs Pooh and Sooby cannot agree on who gets to hold the bigger part of the stocking, so they are mad at each other. So much for my costuming efforts with Santa hats and red mittens.

In front, Bootsie is aggravated because we are crowding our photo session in right before lunch. She is hungry and wants to eat. Left of her, Beenie perches sullenly on Pa-pa's lap. In his defense, I have to admit the surly look is not entirely unjustified. In the moments just preceding, Beenie's mama attempted to confiscate both his sippy cup of milk and his pacifier.

Although she successfully commandeered the cup, we had to leave the pacifier in the spirit of compromise. Shrill squeals, we quickly learned, reverberate most unpleasantly in the close confines of a stairwell. (These account for Pa-pa's dazed expression,)

Meanwhile, Zoomie, in the center, marshals his cat-like reflexes and seizes the opportunity to grab the aforementioned sippy cup. Normally, this shouldn't pose a problem. But Zoomie is very allergic to dairy products and begins to feel nauseated. You will notice that, wisely, none of us chooses to sit directly in front of him.

Baby Heero, barely a month old, just wants to sleep. Quite understandably, he is unhappy with the noise and the jostling and the general melee. You will notice that I am the only one smiling--"grinning like a possum," Pa-pa would later say--apparently oblivious to the goings-on around me.

So you can see why, this past Thanksgiving weekend, I had high hopes for our 2014 picture. Everyone would be a year older, and the whole process should go more smoothly. That seemed to be the case, until we all took a closer look:

Sooby, it seems, thought it would enhance the photo if she appeared to be asleep. So, in the midst of a gargantuan effort to make sure sixteen eyes are all open in the same split second, Sooby closes hers on purpose in order to look like she is sleeping. Oh well. I guess she does look rather angelic.

And so, in this 2014 Christmas season, Pa-pa and I present to you our official holiday photo with this colorful little string of Christmas lights that illuminate our lives all year long. Sooby, our oldest, is already asleep, waiting for Santa. If you look very closely, I am sure you can see visions of sugar plums dancing somewhere in the vicinity of her head.

Cousins

I pause this Thanksgiving night to think about the sheer blessing of what I experienced today. No, it was not the day you probably expected me to talk about, wrapped in the lively but wonderful chaos that my six little grandkids bring to any celebration. That will happen tomorrow.

Instead, I spent today in the laughing, loving bosom of my extended family--a gathering of some fifty or more of us representing five generations of descendants from my paternal grandparents. In that family, I fall in the chronological middle of fifteen grandchildren, as my dad occupied the middle spot among the seven siblings of a Depression-era farm family eking out an existence alongside Flat Creek in Morgan County, Missouri.

I remember my dad once remarking that my grandma could not envision a world where cars would one day zoom across the country at 70 miles per hour. That makes me wonder if she would ever have imagined our gathering today, realizing the extent of the legacy she and Grandpa would leave in the generations to come.

Though the sheer number of us is impressive, I am much more taken by the fact that, as an extended family, we still gather together regularly, once for a summer reunion and again on Thanksgiving Day. In spite of the geographically mobile society we have become, most of us still show up for at least one of these yearly events if we can. So do many of our kids and grandkids.

We represent states as far north as Minnesota and as far south as Texas, and still we come together. We do this because we are family, and, simply put, we love each other. My cousins and I gather to renew early friendships forged climbing our grandparents' trees and playing in their hayloft. We have kept up with each other all our lives. I know many families who couldn't--or perhaps just didn't--do that, and I am sorry they had to miss this special brand of camaraderie.

Today nine of the fifteen of us, along with one older and three younger generations, shared turkey and the trimmings in a lavish and traditional Thanksgiving feast. When our grandparents passed away some fifty-three or so years ago, we were all children and teens--and one of us was not yet born. But here we are in all our turkey-stuffed, dessert-laden glory, in a rare shot captured by what seemed like a million cell phones all flashing at once:

In another fifty years my own grandkids will be nearing the age I am now. I can only hope for them the blessings that can be theirs only through nurturing the bonds that join an extended family such as mine. It seems that, with each subsequent generation, doing that in our world will prove to be an even greater challenge.

Don't get me wrong--our lives have not been perfect. Among us we have faced broken marriages, strained relationships, and job problems. We have endured the deaths of loved ones and serious illnesses among ourselves.

But through it all we remain a fan club that exists to cheer one another on through this life, and for that, on this Thanksgiving night, I am eternally grateful.

Bookends

The age span between the oldest member of our family and the youngest is eighty-nine years. As a family, our four generations span nearly a century, with birth years ranging from 1924 to 2013.

My mom turns 90 on Saturday, marking the beginning of her tenth decade on this earth. Just a couple weeks ago, little Heero, pretty well the only baby we have left after seven-plus years of rather rapid-fire grandkid production, blew out the single candle on his Old MacDonald cake.

The past two weekends, in a flurry of November pre-Thanksgiving celebrations, various components of our family have hosted two landmark birthday parties, a 90th and a first. Both were loving expressions of our gratitude for these two special family members, the oldest and the youngest, the temporal bookends between which all the rest of us fall.

Below, you see the guests of honor in a photo taken the day after Heero was born:

Of the two, of course, Heero has changed the most:

He is running around everywhere and doing some serious jabbering, much of it consisting of "bah"--which might mean ball or bottle or what a sheep says. Change the vowel sound to oo, and you have a pretty close approximation to cow language. It has been fun to watch what could be our last baby grow a personality and toddle along in the footsteps of his brother and cousins.

With Thanksgiving just a week away, I give thanks for the added blessings of this particular November: the long, healthy life of my mother and the year-ago arrival of this disarmingly charming little boy who came along in his own time, a couple years before the master plan dictated.

A week from tomorrow we will gather once again for Thanksgiving Friday. Framed by our two special bookends, we will once again unwrap the gracious gift of family and, I'm sure, find there many, many more reasons to celebrate.