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Birthday Celebrations

Posted on July 29, 2015 by susanrray

IMG_1678Today is my birthday and I’m celebrating! I’ve never understood why anyone acts like having a birthday is a burden.   Why not be happy just as your parents were when you were born? As you were when you were 5? When you are 21?

And why say, “Oh, we don’t have to do anything special.” Those who love you want to celebrate and are happy when you choose the way, like Cathy did on her birthday last October.

Cathy is Daughter’s and my friend. Her age hits right in the middle of ours. She and Daughter bonded during the years they taught 5th grade in next-door classrooms. Cathy and I crossed paths at church, at social events, and as fellow teachers. Cathy loves Daughter’s children – in fact, she loves all children. So on her birthday, she celebrated with kids. Five of my Grands.

“Mom,” Daughter said in a phone call to me, “Cathy called and you might want to come by our house after lunchtime today. Cathy says she’d bringing stuff for her own birthday party.”

My Grands sat on their covered back porch watching for Cathy and they ask questions. Do you think she’ll bring a cake? What’s her favorite ice cream? Will she bring her own gift? Shouldn’t we give her something? How many candles will be on her cake? Can we help her blow out the candles? Is anyone else coming?

“I’m here! Let’s eat cake and ice cream!” Cathy shouted as soon as she opened her car door. She had made a one-stop shopping trip at the grocery store and she handed my older Grands, ages 7 and 9, packages to open. Birthday plates and napkins decorated with balloons. My five-year-old Grand put a candle on each of the dozen cupcakes. Six chocolate decorated with white icing. Six yellow, iced with chocolate. All with multi-colored sprinkles.

I opened the packaged individual ice cream cups. Chocolate and vanilla swirl. My three-year-old Grand put a small plastic spoon on top of each ice cream cup and Daughter passed out the individual packages of fruit drinks. This event had to be documented with a picture. I got my camera ready and Daughter, Cathy, and my Grands gathered close to each other.

“Wait!” said Cathy, “I forgot something.” She pulled two more packages out of a plastic grocery bag. Two packages with black looking hair. “They didn’t have birthday hats so I got mustaches!”

Mustaches. Black, fuzzy, stick-on mustaches. Cathy stuck hers on first. Then Daughter and four of my Grands, ages 3-9, and they all giggled and squealed.   Once again they grouped together for a picture. “What about Micah?” asked my oldest Grand. Micah, age four months, sat calmly in Cathy’s lap amid all the chaos. And he wasn’t exactly happy about having something stuck right under his nose, but he and his brother and sisters wore their first mustaches – long enough for a picture.

“Happy Birthday” has never been sung louder or more off key. Every cup of ice cream was eaten.   The icing on every cupcake was licked off and the cakes nibbled. Such laughing. Such a happy time. So much fun.

So, following Cathy’s example, I made plans for today. There’ll be children and cake and ice cream. No mustaches. Maybe a surprise or two. Surprises for those who celebrate with me.

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Come to the FAIR

Posted on July 25, 2015 by susanrray

search-1My calendar is marked with big red letters. F A I R! An arrow connects the dates. Thursday, July 30th- Saturday, August 8th. Sometime, and hopefully more than once, during those ten days I’ll get my Fair fix at the Putnam County Fair. A fix of memories, food, exhibits, seeing friends, and new experiences.

I always try to entice someone to go with me. “The exhibit building is air-conditioned. There are lots of mouth-watering cakes and candy and jars of pickles and beans. And all kinds of needlework. We’ll walk thru quickly, see everything, and then eat supper at one of the concession stands and then to the Country Store to buy homemade candy.” I don’t say that I also want to see the farm crops. From the largest watermelon to the best sheaf of yellow corn. And I can’t miss the photographs: Historic Tennessee to Tells a Story, even a Selfie. And I’ll check out the Lego models in the Hobby fair.

Then on to the concession stands. Time was that the choices were limited. Hamburgers, hotdogs, French fries, potato chips. Or a bowl of pinto beans with a hunk of cornbread. Now, there’s pizza, barbeque, chicken sandwiches – anything you want.   Somehow, a Fair cheeseburger is better than any other, even one I hand press from expensive beef and Husband cooks on the grill. And every time I sit on a hard concrete concession stand bench, I see someone who I haven’t seen in ages. Someone, who I knew well in the past. Who will I see and catch up with while eating a Fair cheeseburger?

On to the Midway. Bright, blinking lights. The ferris wheel. The shooting range. The carousel. The smell that’s the same since I first smelled it in 1967. The huge metal slide. The slide, that my then five-year-old Grand rode down three years ago when I thought she’d get to the top of the steps, freeze, and cry. She waved to me, spread out a ragged burlap feedbag, sat down, pushed herself off, and grinned all the way to the bottom. She was my only Fair companion that Thursday afternoon and cotton candy never taste so good. We sat in the shade of the grandstand, watched tractors smooth the dirt in the arena for that night’s horse show, and we savored every morsel of the purple and pink spun sugar. That was supper.

And on my very first trip to the Fair, Husband and I, college sweethearts, rode the Tilt-A-Whirl. The weather was cool and the Tilt-A-Whirl jerked fast. I leaned under his arm when we were slammed against the side of the metal bucket, and he wrapped both his arms tightly around me.

For me, a Fair experience must include the barns to see the prize cows and pigs and chickens. The Master Gardeners displays. The commercial exhibits. And finally, to the Country Store for homemade fudge.

And then I always notice what’s happening in the arena. A Monster Truck Show. And I hear music from the Music Barn. So many choices and the Fair comes only once a year.

For more information visit the website, www.putnamcountyfair.org, or pick up a Fair book at a local bank, the Putnam Farmers’ Co-op, or the County Extension Office.

The Fair motto is “Come make a fair memory.”  Making memories at the Fair – it happens every summer.

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Fingers and Noses

Posted on July 16, 2015 by susanrray

Screen Shot 2015-07-16 at 8.11.19 AMWhat is it about a kid’s finger and his nose? Evidently, an invisible magnet on the end of a child’s pointer finger attracts metal hidden deep inside that child’s nose. If this vision is repulsive, stop reading now. I understand. I don’t like it either. But not so long ago, Husband and I and two of our Grands laughed hard about fingers in noses, and then I thought of all the nose-pickers I’ve known.

My Grand looked downright cute wearing Husband’s TTU baseball cap. The cap bill slung low to one side and my Grand cocked his head. A perfectly innocent pose to capture on my camera phone. Click. I held the phone in front of Husband, “Look at this cute guy. I’m sending it to his mom.”

“With his finger up his nose?” Husband said and burst out laughing. My Grand’s finger was really close to – not up – his nose. But Husband’s comment gave my Grand and his younger sister, who stood beside him, an idea.

“Take another one!” my Grand said and he stuck his pointer finger second-knuckle deep inside his nose. “Me, too!” his sister said. She matched his pose. Their heads bumped against each other as they laughed. Husband’s laugh was a snort.

My two cute Grands. Wide open eyes. Mouths open. Laughing. With their fingers up their noses. I laughed so hard I could barely steady my phone for a picture. And yes, I sent it to their mother. Thankfully, she saw the humor in her children’s exaggerated poses.

As an elementary school teacher, I had at least one student in most every class who was a nose-picker, and I was always sure I could teach that child to stop. And it wasn’t just boys. Princess-like little girls dig for nasal treasures, too. I wish I had a nickel for every time I’ve told a kid to take his finger out of his nose.

At the beginning of the school year, I’d whisper in the child’s ear, “Take your finger out of your nose, please.” He (again, he could be a she) would duck his head and scrunch his exploring finger with his other fingers into a fist. By December, I’d stand in front of my entire class and say silly things such as, “So let’s review the steps of division, finger–nose. Divide, multiply, subtract, finger-nose, bring down.” The nose digger would slide his nose-picking finger over his lips, down his chin, along his neck, across his shirt, and rest it on his math paper.

By springtime, I’d give the culprit a wide-eyed stare and point my finger high in the air as I continued reading aloud about the adventures of Charlotte the spider trying to save Wilbur the pig. By then, nose digger simply rested his finger on his neck for a few seconds and then the metal inside his nose claimed the magnet on his finger.

Thinking back over my decades of teaching, I didn’t convince a single child to keep his finger out of his nose. I should’ve announced on the first day of each school year, “Give me a nickel every day you want to put your finger up your nose, and I won’t try to make you stop.”

I could’ve retired years earlier. And laughed all the way to the bank.

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Ogham Stones

Posted on July 12, 2015 by susanrray

DSC03966The tour bus sped along a narrow paved road in Ireland. John, the bus driver, manhandled the long 40-passenger bus as if it were a Volkswagen beetle. Over bumps, around curves. I hoped there wouldn’t be a vehicle from the opposite direction. The road, with no marked lines, was as narrow as the country roads I learned to drive on in Pickett County.

I leaned close to the Gordon, the tour guide, and asked, “Is there a reason we’re travelling on this back road?” Gordon didn’t understand. I tried again. “Why are we on this narrow road? Isn’t there a better road to get wherever we’re going?”

“Oh, yeah, but we’re driving by some Ogham (OH-ehm) stones,” Gordon said. I frowned. “They were used to communicate before Christianity. It’s markings on rocks that were stuck in the ground.” And with a simple explanation, I was hooked. “We’ll stop, but not get off the bus,” he said. I stared out the bus window and watched Ireland fields of green flash by. Herds of cattle. Flocks of sheep.

Finally, John slowed the bus and announced, “Ogham stones on the right. Get your cameras ready! One of the best collections of Oghams in this part (the southwest) of Ireland.” Six stones, the tallest about eight feet tall; the shortest, three feet. Twelve to twenty-four inches wide. With short carved lines around the perimeter. No letters I recognized. Just lines along the sides and the top of stones, which looked like tombstones. Lines like a Tennessee black bear scratches into the bark of an oak tree.

“So what do those lines say?” I asked. Neither John nor Gordon, both well-educated Irishmen, knew. “Probably someone’s name or maybe directions to somewhere,” Gordon suggested. “The writing usually started at the bottom left side and went across the top and down the right side.” Left to right – like we write.

Those stone tablets had been positioned in the ground close to the road for people, such as my twenty-one American travelling companions and me, to see. Located on private property near the Gap of Dunloe close to Killarney, these stones show the earliest form of Irish writing by the Celts and date back to third century AD. Because they were originally the roof of an underground passage that collapsed at the end of the last century, they were protected from exposure and are well preserved. (http://www.destinationkillarney.ie/dunloe-ogham-stones)

Those letters, formed only with straight lines, were carved centuries ago. Each of the twenty main letters of the Ogham alphabet, used for about 500 years, was also the name of a tree. The letters consist of one to five perpendicular or angled strokes, meeting or crossing a centerline. The number, position, and direction of the lines identify the consonants and vowels, and the vowels can also be written as dots. The origin of the Ogham alphabet isn’t known; it may have been adapted from sign language.

Seeing the Ogham Stones was a three-minute stop on a weeklong Ireland tour. They impressed me as much as the miles and miles of rock fences dividing pastures, flocks of Blackface Mountain sheep, the 700 foot high Cliffs of Mohr, Calla Lily gardens in tropical Ring of Kerry, and even Blarney Castle.

Here was a written language used by early Irish people. Simple lines carved on standing stones. If John hadn’t driven the long way around on the back roads, I wouldn’t have learned about the Ogham alphabet. And my trip to Ireland wouldn’t have been complete.

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Two Short Hours at the Pool

Posted on July 3, 2015 by susanrray

Version 2I wasn’t excited when Daughter asked if I’d like to take her two oldest to the community swimming pool for a couple of hours. I remembered when my own children were about the age of these two Grands, and I treaded water the whole summer while they jumped off the diving board. I was water-logged, hot, and tired

  “Are they jumping off the diving board? The high dive?” I asked. Daughter read between my words and assured me that both Lou and David, ages 8 and 10 respectively, can jump from the low and high diving boards. I could sit on a lounge chair and relax. So I donned my cover-the-whole-body bathing suit, lathered my Grands and myself with sunscreen, and packed a bag. Water bottles. Granola bars. Towels. Sunscreen. A book. And off we went.

David said, “Gran, put your stuff on this picnic table. We’ll keep everything together.” My Grands helped me drag a metal and plastic lounge chair close to the table and before I’d even sat down, Lou was climbing the high dive ladder and David stood at the bottom. I wanted to shout, “Wait, I need to see you swim first!” I didn’t. They had jumped off this high dive three days earlier while their mother watched.

Lou looked at me as she stood on the very edge of the board, that seemed a mile above the water, and I plastered a smile on my face. She didn’t know I was thinking. “Are you sure you can to do that?” She waved and jumped. She surfaced before I had time to take a deep breath. My smile was genuine.

David walked to the end of the diving board, looked my way, threw a one-finger wave, and jumped. He too, quickly surfaced and I relaxed. Enough to step back three decades and notice that some things haven’t changed.

Two teenage lifeguards sat on tall wooden chairs. She twirled a red lanyard, attached to a silver whistle, around her hand. One direction, then the other. A rubber band encircled his open hand. He popped it with his fingers. Each occasionally shouted. “Walk! Don’t run!” “Move away from the ladder.” “No horseplay!” “Stay off the diving board until the other person jumps.”

A girl, about age 10, stood at the end of the high diving board. Then she turned toward the ladder. A woman, standing beside the pool under her, yelled, “You can’t come down the ladder. Jump! You can do it.” The girl’s curled fingers covered her lips. Her elbows tucked in her ribs. She turned, tiptoed to the end of the board, and shook her head. “I’m right here. You’ll come right back up,” the woman said.   The girl’s shoulders swayed. The woman called, “On three, go! Ready? One! Two! Three!” The children, waiting in the diving board line, screamed, “Three!” One step and she splashed into water. She raised her hand high when she surfaced and shouted, “I did it!” Everyone applauded.

A toddler ran toward the pool. His mother grabbed his arm and lifted him into her arms. Three young boys played chase in the water. “Look at me,” a young girl called just before she ducked her face in the water.

Under a huge maple tree, I soaked up the filtered sun’s rays. In the pool, I played ‘keep away’ and raced across the pool with my Grands. Never opened my book. And hated that two hours passed so quickly. I just needed another five minutes.

 

 

 

 

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Speaking Their Language

Posted on July 3, 2015 by susanrray

search “Gran, do you know where my Michelangelo is?” my Grand asked thirty minutes after I arrive for a week’s visit at his family’s home.

“No, but I’ll help you look,” I answered. “Tell me what it looks like,” I said. I was impressed that Dean who was almost 4 years old had a Michelangelo. Was I looking for a painting? A sculpture?

“He’s green. He’s got an orange mask,” Dean said. I nodded my head and frowned. “He’s got nunchuks,” my Grand explained. Nunchuks? Weapons?

“How big is Michelangelo?” I asked.

“Wait,” Dean said and held up his hand as if he were stopping traffic. He ran to his and his brother’s toy box and searched and then ran back to me holding an action figure that I’d seen Dean’s younger brother carrying. “It’s like this. This is Neil’s.”

“Oh! He’s a Teenage Mutant Turtle!” I said, feeling a bit silly that I didn’t realize that right away. I know the ‘turtles’ have been around for a long time. I don’t always remember their names.

“He’s a Ninja!” Dean said. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle to be exact. Dean and I searched his house. On the floor. In the toy box. And getting into the spirit of the hunt, I called, “Michangelo, where are you?”

“Gran, you can call him Mikey!” Dean said as he threw sofa pillows onto the floor. “I found him!” Dean held him with both hands and shoved him toward me. A six-inch tall plastic action figure with a broad smile showing a mouthful of big white teeth and wearing an orange shield and mask. And it had nothing to do with the Renaissance artist who sculpted David.

Dean sat in my lap and showed me how the tiny nunchuks fit in Mikey’s hand. “Aren’t there other Ninjas?” I asked. My Grand rattled off the names. “Leonardo and Raphael and Donatello.” He only had Michelangelo and there are lots of Ninjas, but these four are the most important. I mentioned that all these are famous artists and began to tell about Michelangelo. “I know. Mom told me,” my Grand said.

“I’ve got a Bumblebee,” he said and ran to his room. I didn’t expect a yellow and black flying insect and Bumblebee wasn’t. Dean put a good-looking sports car in my hand. “Bumblebee, that’s a good name for a yellow and black car,” I said.

“Look,” Dean said and he grabbed Bumblebee. He pulled and twisted movable parts and transformed the car into a fierce looking warrior robot. My Grand likes to play with balls and cars and play dough and blow bubbles and run outside, but he’s really into action figures and his and his brother’s birthdays were only a few days away.

I shopped for Leonardo, the hard-working, honest, fearless leader, and found a huge display of Ninjas. Leonardo hung front and center. Easy and fast shopping, except I needed identical Ninjas, one for Dean and one for Neil. Ffter searching through dozens of packages that kept falling off long metal display rods, I finally found and bought two Leonardos.

Dean jerked Leonardo out of his birthday gift bag and held it high above his head. “Look! He’s like Michelangelo! And you got Neil one, too! Gran, do you know where my Michelangelo is?”

I knew what I was looking for. Not a painting or sculpture. I’d become Ninja literate.

 

 

 

 

 

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