Have a Good Time at Camp!

We were reading the morning Post on our porch one Tuesday when we saw our neighbors heading off to work.  “Don’t work too hard,” she said.  “Have a good Thursday,” he teased.  He had a point.  Retirement is rather like perpetual summer camp except you can sleep in -- if you have the time.  The day of the week becomes almost moot.

“What do you do now that you’re retired?” 

I take ballet three times a week.  I quilt.  I sew a bit of costuming. 

“What does Steve do?”

He golfs.  He takes classes at George Mason’s Lifetime Learning Institute.  He goes to his men’s group and reads books for his men’s book club.  He golfs.  (Yes, I said it twice on purpose; he loves golf the way I love dance.)

We have season’s tickets to the Washington Ballet.  We go to movies DURING THE DAY!  We visit our children and Perfect Grandchildren.    We travel.  (Turkey’s coming up and then French Polynesia.  Heh) 

My theory is that it takes a year to settle into retirement and create the life you find rewarding.  Many people seem trepidatious about retirement.  Although they could retire comfortably, they continue to work because they think they have to have it all mapped out in advance.  Never mind that they don’t do that with any other part of their lives.  They can’t imagine how they'll fill the time.   For starters, errands could take up every second of the day.

One by one you add activities and crafts and friends.  Wine plays a substantial role in our retirement.  We switch off cooking, or we eat eggs, or we order out. 

Seriously, to the question, “What do you do now that you’re retired?” there is only one answer:  “Whatever I darn well please.”  

Except, of course, when the Perfect Grandchildren call.  Then we run like puppies hearing a dinner bell.

I Hate That

You know what I hate?  I hate it when the tab on the cereal box won’t go in the dratted slot.  You’ve just opened a new box of cereal, and you’re going to keep the freshness in and the ants out.  You scrunch up the plastic wrapper, punch through the slot and, voila!  No not voila.  Un-voila.  The dratted thing won’t slide in.  You punch out the slot more thoroughly.  Nope.  You wiggle and waggle the tab around.  No, no, no!  Grrrr.  Eventually you push and shove enough to force the tab through the slot, and the entire box stands there listing to one side.  You give up and put it in the pantry and hope you can forget about its drunken, leering stance until you have to face it the following morning. 

I hate it when you’re changing the sheets on your bed, being a good housekeeper, and you run slam into the bed frame practically breaking your toe, and you’re hopping around, and blood’s dripping down, and you’re swearing and you can’t even kick anything.  What kind of reward is that for good behavior?

I hate it when you think you’ve paid a bill, but the next bill comes, and it’s almost twice as big as usual, and you figure out that you misread the previous bill and paid only part of it, and there’s no one else to blame it on, and what were you thinking, you idiot? 

I hate it when you buy something at the store -- especially something for a child -- and it’s in that heavy plastic packaging that can’t be opened, no way, no how.  You pull out a heavy pair of scissors or even some metal snips and jaggedly slice the stuff, risking slicing your hand opened on the stiff, sharp plastic in order to extract an object your Perfect Grandchild is dancing out of his or her pants to play with.  I hate that stuff.

I really hate it when you’re sound asleep, it’s 5 AM and you are awakened by shrill stabbings of sound.  The pastoral life is all well and good, but what’s a bird doing bursting his lungs with song at 5 AM?  By six, your eyes are a-goggle and more sleep is hopeless. By the time you drag yourself out of bed, the bird is silent.  Stupid bird. 

I hate it when someone tells you their store is two miles past a well-known landmark and, yes, come in any time during regular business hours to pick up that replacement part.  Then you drive out there, and it’s freaking seven miles past, plus five of those miles are under construction so the traffic’s been reduced to one lane, and, instead of half an hour, it takes you an hour to get there.  You get there at 3:05 only to find out that “regular business hours” to this person means 8 AM to 3 PM but not between noon and 1 PM which would be lunch, and no one will answer your tapping on the window or anything, and, well, Long Fence, yes I do mean you.  Then you have to turn around and drive a half hour home completely empty-handed and frustrated and exhausted.  Man, I really hate that, don’t you?

Grandfather's Prayer

I was crazy about my father.  We all were.  We adored him.  When he was in the army in World War II, his nickname wasn't Killer or Sluggo or Tough Guy; it was Bambi because he had kind eyes. 

When the first of his grandchildren turned 13, my father wrote this wish for his coming of age.  He subsequently gave it to each grandchild at whatever ceremony marked his incipient adulthood.  My daughter received it posthumously, through me, at her high school graduation.  I have given it to other young people as the most important part of a congratulatory gift.  My Dad was quite a guy.

                                Grandfather's Prayer

May you always be upright in character, just in action, yet compassionate; may your life be long and healthy both in mind and body; may your life be full of peace, contentment, and love; may you relish and enjoy whatever activities you undertake; and may you realize your best and fondest dreams.  (Milton S. Winters, below, with a happy grandchild)

Perfect Gift for the Holiday

I received an early holiday present today.  I use the generic term “holiday” because at our house, we celebrate every holiday that floats along.  We light the Hanukkah candles, we decorate the Christmas tree, and we kindle a Solstice log.  We’re big on snow storms, too, knowing that in celebration of getting snowed in, our neighbors they'll make us incredible Irish coffee.

Anyway, the Washington Post just gave me an early present, and I’m so happy about it, I could write them a thank you note.  If you look at the Metro section of today’s Post (page 2, bottom of the fold), you will see a human interest article by ME (Nana finds everyone wins at Kangaroo Bean Bag Hop).  It has to do with my Perfect Grandchildren, of course, and it sports a by-line by ME.  Sure, they had to cut a paragraph to make it fit, but do I care? I do not. 

I wrote and trimmed the text and submitted it, so how is its printing a present?  It’s the gift of readers, the gift of approval, the gift of an ego boost.  For a writer, a present doesn’t get a lot better than that?   
                                 *If I had a picture of me grinning, I’d post it here!*

Recovering from a Light Saber Accident

It’s a shame about Luke. He lost his head once, about 20 years ago, and he’s never fully recovered. I tried, heavens knows I tried, but Elmer’s therapy was short term and household cement didn’t last much longer.
Star Wars.

Who knew Star Wars would become a phenomena that lasted generations? Our son lovingly consolidated quite a collection of books, paraphernalia and figures. Star Wars was our go-to theme when shopping for birthdays and holidays. When he was 14 and past the playing-with-figures stage, we found the Millennium Falcon at a garage sale, and he eagerly purchased it. Our Luke, as mentioned before, had a precarious head for a number of years. Leia lost her cloak which was replaced by a piece of white flannel. Helmets and lances and light sabers have fallen to the bottom of the stuff two over-stuffed cardboard boxes in our storage room.

Enter the Perfect Grandson, Alan, age three. Alan has never seen a Star Wars movie. It would scare the pants off him, but the story draws him like a moth to a light saber. He looked over all the toys as the store in Disney World, but once he saw the flash-light, noise-making light saber, it was all over but the purchasing. Oh, and the removing from the package, but that’s another post. (I made the sales clerk dot it – I’m no dummy.)

Last time they visited, when he was 2 ½, I brought up the Jaba the Hut platform and three or four figure.

It kept him occupied for hours.  He knows Jabba from the pop-up books weheld on to.  Now he can make Jabba smoke his hooka (he smokes 'cause he's a bad guy) and throw people in his dungeon with glee.  

This visit, now that he’s a big boy (did I mention he's a Perfect three-year-old?), I brought up a box. He lifts each figure carefully, and we label it a good guy or bad guy (of course we make it up; who can remember after 25 years?) I’ve been holding out, but next visit I look forward to seeing his eyes light up when we pull out the band that played in the bar where Obi Wan took Luke.  (On a cultural note, Alan has no self-consciousness about calling these his dolls.)

As for Luke and his unfortunate beheading, I discovered that Krazy Glue holds quite well as you can see below.  Would that we could all keep our minds just as eaily. 

My Perfect Date

Everyone was pretty exhausted by our last evening at Disney. There were few ambitions left to fulfill. Suzie still wanted to ride Thunder Mountain; Alan had been asking for the Winnie the Pooh ride for three days. Steve and I agreed that one child was easy whereas coordinating two children on divergent developmental levels was, well, disastrous, so after clearing it with their Mom and Dad (you can guess how much arm-twisting that took since it meant they got the night to themselves), off Steve and Suzie went for an evening of stomach-turning fun. I spent half an hour waking Alan up from his nap, and then we outlined our big evening.
A still groggy little boy waited pretty patiently with me for a bus that took 15 minutes to come, and we were off to the Magic Kingdom. He walked into the park, asking to be carried but not fussing when I said no.  Once there, he climbed in the Disney stroller, and it was comfortable fun to be able to stop without losing an entire party so I could hear what he had to say or to look at Cinderella's castle, lavender lit with silver tinsel lights adorning the spires, whatever he wanted to do.
I nabbed fast passes for the Pooh ride, and we shared some ice cream – his preference, chocolate swirl. The Dumbo ride had a long wait, but all Alan really wanted to do was play with the matching three-part clowns that cornered the line. We simply let people pass us by as we made funny combinations and then climbed out over the chain and rode on the carousel. Some people (okay, one little girl next to us) are disappointed when they have to ride the small, center horse, but guess what? When you ride inside of the ring, you can see yourself in the central mirror! We watched ourselves laugh as we circled.
Next we headed over to Pooh, but the attendant said we had to wait out the five minutes until our fast pass was good. She was nice enough, however, point out that in the regular line there were several play items, and we spent our time happily making Pooh's vegetables squeak, drumming on watermelons and turning a wheel that made red balls go poppity-pop.
Unfortunately, the ride itself wasn't as much fun as the pre-ride play. We climbed into our honey pots with happy anticipation, but the focus was Pooh's nightmare about heffalumps. It involved sharp turns and jiggly bumpswhich would have been okay by themselves, but which were accompanied by large, close bright graphics that burst up in front of you and swirled and turned. On the whole, it scared Alan and assaulted my eyes.

Back into the night, the park was jammed, and lots of lights and music jabbed through the dark. I felt both of us had had about as much as we could stand. There were two important elements of our evening left, though. We stopped at the Disney Emporium to pick out a present. Nothing matches seeing a little boy's eyes light up as he tightly clasps his first light saber! From there, we hiked to the bus for which, luckily, we had to wait only five minutes.
For the final item on the agenda, we returned to the resort, stopping at the restaurant for take-out. We walked back to the room where we had a picnic (hot dog and fries in a sand bucket for him; roast beef/blue cheese chiabatta for me) ON THE BED (oooh!) while we watched Toy Story on TV.

I had a grand time.  It was exactly my idea of a wonderful evening (well, except for that damned Winnie the Pooh ride).  However, it is a bit disquieting that, on reflection, I find that my perfect date is a three-year-old.

3D: Don't Don the Device

Steve and I took Suzannah and Alan to see Megamind over Thanksgiving. only showing available between nap and dinner was in 3D. The result is that Steve and Stephanie wore cool black glasses and saw it in 3D. Alan and I saw it blurry.
I hate 3D. It's okay when the figures are in perspective on the surface of the screen and recede into the background, but when they are hanging in the air in front of my face, it makes me nauseous. I know many people love 3D, but many others feel as I do. It doesn't seem to have to do with age (thank goodness. One less thing to chalk up to that.). My guess is that it has something to do with depth perception.
A young friend of mine said that it was like the establishment of color in TV and movies. That people will grow to love it. Balderdash, I say. Bah! I remember when color was new in both the movies and on TV, and everyone was delighted and enthralled. This is less about seeing things realistically and more about having them occur hanging mid-air with no floor and no gravity. There is nothing realistic about having a huge space ship (say from Avatar) poking you in the face.
Alan, also, does not like 3D. He believes it is too scary for him. I ask, "Is it too scary for little Alan?"
"No! I a big boy! It is too scary for big Alan," he declares. Yet those black glasses belonged to him, and he wasn't giving them over.
""Do you want to try putting them on?"
No, his head shakes emphatically.
"Do you want me to take care of them?"
"No! They mine." They stayed gripped in his sticky little hands for an hour and a half.

Of course, I resent paying $4 more for a device I don't want to see an effect I don't like.  But to have Alan sing along with the songs ("It's Beiber!"), and to see he and Suzie run to the front of the theater to dance wildly through the closing music, that's priceless

My Private Nutcracker

I went to my dance school's Nutcracker on Saturday. They did a very terrific job. I've watched a couple of the 11-year-olds at the studio since they were 7 and measured 23-23-23. Now their legs are growing long and their tummies suck in instead of pouching out. When there's a school holiday, they drop in to the adult classes, not in their baby blue uniform leotards but in bright red or sophisticated black with daring low or keyhole backs. Their dancing has grown so strong, deliberate and graceful.  It was a joy to watch them.

Almost, but not quite, as joyful as the Nutcracker that was danced in my own house. I played the Pacific Northwest Ballet's Nutcracker (my very, very favorite) for Alan and Suzannah, and halfway through, they jumped up and danced. Alan concentrated hard on his plie's, turning out his dimpled knees, costumed only in Spiderman underware. Suzannah was draped in one of my T-shirts (she forgot to pack her pamamas), her arms floating in beautiful, extended port de bras. She swayed and turned and then knelt on one knee and extended her hand to Alan. He graciously accepted it, and they twirled and jumped and laughed. That was a Nutcracker to remember!

School Lunch

If you ever want to feel like a celebrity, join a first grader for school lunch. Don't worry about whether the chairs will be comfortable (not too bad) or the food will be palatable (it won't). None of that will matter once you undergo your superstar transformation. Grandparents Day came two days after we left Muncie, so we were allowed to lunch at Suzannah's school last Tuesday.
When I looked knocked at the classroom door, Suzie spotted Steve and I through the window. She stretched up tall, waving and waving, about to burst out of her skin. The teacher invited us in and called Suzie to be line leader and, what's more, in our honor, allowed her BFF, Brienna, to stand with her. I mean, how much more power could fame have than that?
The children are supposed to stand quietly in line, but we caused way too much excitement for that. One little boy skipped out to offer his left hand and introduce himself. I told him I was Nana and took his hand with my right. He sweetly shook his head and said, "Nope, wrong hand!" I corrected myself and shook left to left. Then hands were extended to me from all directions as every kid wanted to be recognized. I felt like President Obama working a campaign line.
Do you have any idea how long it's been since I ate in an elementary cafeteria? No more the hard wooden chairs of my youth. One plunks one's bottom down on a seat that grows from a curved up table leg. It was surprisingly comfortable! Steve sat on the end, then Suzannah, then me, then Brienna. I thought I was going to talk to Suzie, but I was mistaken. Between sound bites of Brienna's engaging monologue, an entire table of children told me their names, what their favorite subject was and demonstrated clapping rhymes. I hardly had time to take a bite which was okay because lunch was, well, school lunch.
No one had ordered the "alternate" lunch of barbequed turkey. (Would you?) With one or two home-packed exceptions, hamburgers, milk (white, chocolate or strawberry), French fries and canned pineapple were served on identical trays as far as the eye could see. One bite of my hamburger (cooked elsewhere and reheated at the school) was enough. I passed the rest to Steve (even though, "you're not allowed to share"). The mixed vegetables had been slathered with butter which made them really good! I ate mine up. Unlike most of the children, Suzie is a good eater. She usually brings a lunch box so eating school lunch was a treat. She ate half her hamburger, some fries and her fruit but no veggies. The little boy across from us ate only his French fries. His two best friends (he identified them as such three times) flanked him. One ate only the cup of pineapple and the other ate (are you ready?) nothing. I looked down the double rows of trays at the table. Not one serving of vegetables was touched. I was amazed that these kids buy lunch ($2.40 per day) every day, and their parents don't wonder about what or whether they eat. It was crazy.
Our star status didn't end with lunch. Our royal presence was demanded on the playground to watch four little girls hang run and hang and slide and climb and play Scooby Doo. Our departure was treated with sad faces and sighs. If only we could have cajoled a few six-year-olds into eating a bite of peas and carrots, I would have felt we had used our power for good.

A Better Sandwich

11 tedious hours
Fast food, heavy
Wheels droning
Scenery passing
Entering Muncie where factories are closed and dollar stores abound, where we are met with enthusiastic shrieks of (all one word), “Nana/ Papa! Nana/Papa!”

And where, early in the morning, watching a TV cartoon of Spiderman’s shooting webs, I am seated between Pumpkin and Pie Boy. I am the filler in a love sandwich.

Pumpkin and the Pie Boy

Early tomorrow morning we are headed westward to see our Perfectrr Grnadchildren, aka Pumpkin and the Pie Boy. I have always used the endearment Punkin for Suzannah (6) but was corrected last visit when I asked Alan if he was my Punkin.

He shook his head vigorously. "I no Punkin."

"Are you my Cookie then?" I asked endearingly.

Emphatically, "No! I no Cookie!"

"What are you then?"

A moment's thought. "I Pie Boy." (He's two. How much pie has he ever eaten?

Pumpkin or Pie Boy, they are so declicious, I could eat them up!

Bookends

Bookends: two sides of something in the middle. I am one of the things in the middle. My sister instructs me that I am not truly in the middle of a sandwich because I’m only in between because our mother is soooo old. However, I say that anyone in the middle of generations counts as being in the middle of a sandwich. She posits that, in that case, it must be a club sandwich as our children (not hers and mine together, but hers and mine in separate sandwiches) are between us and their own children. On second thought, there can be more than one item inside a sandwich. It could be that our children are the main sandwich ingredient while I am merely the mayonnaise. I often feel like the mayonnaise.

Anyway, on to the outsides, bookends. My mother has a successful ploy for getting her own way. It involves digging her heels in. Granted that her own way is often a good way, but she attains it through pure stubbornness, with, occasionally, a dollop of guilt and shame thrown in. Well, she’s a mother, after all; we have our ways.
My grandson at two and a half has already learned that charm works better than obstinacy for getting what he wants, better than , say, screeching at the top of his voice or throwing himself on the floor and crying. Instead, he turns on a little half smile, the one that shows off his dimples to such good advantage, and asks sweetly, “Pleeeease?” If that proves unsuccessful, he says whimsically and persuasively, “Hey, don’t say no.” Damn, the kid’s good.