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Muddy Pond Field Trip

Posted on October 11, 2012 by susanrray

I’m not sure if I load up my Grands in my van and go on Field Trips for them or for me.  As a retired teacher, I remember field trip days as fun days, and I choose places I want my Grands to know about.  Museums.  Fire department.  Post Office.  City Hall.  Cookeville Performing Arts Center.  Emergency Management Agency.  Cane Creek Park.  Pet stores.

My Grands don’t always like my choices, but they were excited about going to the Muddy Pond General Store.  That is, until they announced that they’d take their own money to buy Legos, and I told them that this store probably didn’t have Legos.  We were making this outing because they’d read When I Was Young in the Mountains, and they didn’t know what a general store looked like.  As we drove through Monterey and toward Muddy Pond, I stressed that we’d compare and contrast (teacher words that naturally flowed and I explained the meanings) a general store with the stores where we usually shop.

My Grands had $2.00 each to spend.  “What kind of toys do they have?” asked three year old Ruthie.  I didn’t know what kind of toys – if any – the Muddy Pond store would have.  I explained that most general stores sell everything that a family needs.  And this store would be like that.  Food, clothes, tools, pots and pans.  Everything that everyone in the family needed.

“If they have everything, they’ll have toys,” said Ruthie.

“If they don’t, it’s okay,” said Lou, age 5.  “Momma said they’d have sprinkles and we can buy some.  But she said we can’t buy candy.”  Spoken like a reigning Sprinkle Queen.

We made mental lists of goods displayed on the shelves.  Peanut butter.  Tomato sauce.  Plastic bags of flour, sugar, noodles, cornstarch.  A whole aisle of candy.  Kitchen goods – knives, plates, pots, pans, dishcloths.  Oil lamps.  “Come back here,” David, age 7, called.  “I found the toys.”  Crayons, coloring books, small metal tractors and cars.  “Let’s go upstairs.  I bet they have more stuff.”

Lou looked through a rack of long-to-the-ankle dresses.  “Do they have my size?”  I explained that many women and girls who live in Muddy Pond wore this type of long dress every day.  “Even when they play outside?”  Ruthie asked.  We tried out the hand made wooden rocking chairs, stood on stools, admired the quilts, and my Grands rocked on the rocking horses.  They found hand carved wooden boxes that Lou and Ruthie thought would be perfect for keeping private stuff.

Back downstairs, near the check out counter, we found the sprinkles.  Packed in small plastic boxes and every color of the rainbow.  My Grands spent their money on red, green, and yellow sprinkles, and I couldn’t resist the homemade peach fried pies and peanut brittle.

“Well, what do you think?”  I asked when we were all buckled in our seats in the van.  “Is the general store like the stores where you usually go?”  I forced a discussion identifying the differences and similarities.

After several minutes of silence as we journeyed on the unmarked paved country road, Lou said pensively, “You know what I think?  I think what they need is different from what we need.”

And that’s why we take Field Trips.

 

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When? How? Why? Will you?

Posted on September 27, 2012 by susanrray

“When can I open my first bag?”  my Grand asked.  Just like all five year olds, she likes surprises, and her mother had packed five bags for her to open while she rode with her Pop and me to the beach.  A five hundred mile car ride.  Her mother’s suggestion was that my Grand open a bag, filled with snacks and quiet sit-in-your-seat activities, to mark each hundred miles, 100 to 400, and one for whenever I thought she needed it.  She needed it to mark twenty miles travelled.  And her question was the first of many that my Grands, ages 3, 5, and 7, asked during a week’s vacation with their parents, baby sister, Pop, and me.

How big is the beach?  How much water is in the ocean?  How far is it across the water to land?  How long would it take to get there?  In a boat?  On a plane?  Where did all this sand come from?  How far can we see?  When do the waves stop?  Do shrimp have bones?  Does a starfish have meat?  What lives in those little holes on the beach? Will the dolphins swim close to us?  How come high tide isn’t the same time as yesterday?  Why don’t we have little tiny frogs at home?  How long does it take a monarch to get to Mexico?  Do we get a special treat (such as ice cream) every day while we’re on vacation?

Some answers were easy, some a guess, and some required research, and all were answered to satisfy each Grand’s curiosity.  I don’t intend to repeat the answers – except a few.  I answered that starfish do not have meat, but they do.  They are best eaten after they’ve been boiled, and several should be served since there is only one small bite of meat in each.

Those little holes in the sand?  I’d assumed they were critter holes, and I was wrong.  I googled coastalcare.org and learned that while some tiny sand fleas jump into them, these holes aren’t homes for sea life.  They are formed by the rising tide.  As waves crash onto the beach, the airflow under the sand is so strong that air is pushed above the surface and makes small openings.  They are often called ‘nail holes’ because none are larger than the diameter of a large nail.

Of all the questions my Grands asked, my favorites required no thought, no research, and a simple one-word answer.  “Gran, do you want to jump in the waves with me?”  “I’m going to make a blueberry sand cake with drippy icing.  Wanna’ help?”   “Gran, will you come play with me?”  I couldn’t get out of my beach chair fast enough.

I hope my Grands never stop asking questions.

 

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Summertime…..A Good Visitor

Posted on September 20, 2012 by susanrray

I’m not finished with summer.  I want more warm days to play in the swimming pool.  “Watch me, Gran!”  my oldest Grand says.  He runs the length of the diving board and jumps into deep water.  “Did you see me?”  he says as soon as his mouth breaks the water’s surface.  Of course.  I applaud and promise to watch as he dives underwater to pick up a toy that lies on the bottom of the pool, four feet deep.

“Swing me around, Gran.  Really fast,” says my five-year old Grand.  She adjusts her goggles, twists the water wings on her arms, and tightens her closed mouth.  I hold her hands and rotate in a circle, around and around and around.  When I say I’m dizzy, she says, “I’m not.  I’ll throw the ball and let’s see who gets it first.”  She dog paddles and holds the floating ball high in the air.  “Did you know I can swim really good on my back?” I watch as she lies on top of the water and kicks across the pool.

“Gran, hold me.  I don’t want to get my face wet.”  My three-year-old Grand locks her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck.  As I walk into water deep enough to reach her chest, she tightens her grip.  I remind her that earlier in the summer, she put her face in the water and blew bubbles.  “I don’t want to.  You can,” she says as she buries her face in my shoulder because her big brother and sister splash water close to us.

It’s not just fun in the pool that I don’t want to end.  I’m not ready to give up late afternoon pontoon boat rides and sunsets at Center Hill Lake.  And I’ll miss my smallest bird friends.  A hummingbird feeder hangs outside my kitchen window, but now it’s time to take it down and encourage the hummers to head south.  I haven’t eaten all the locally grown watermelon and cantaloupe and yellow squash I want, and I need at least one more mess of fresh green beans.

I like hosta plants with green leaves, not wilted yellow and brown leaves.  My knockout roses are knocked out for this growing season, and the blooms of my red impatience flowers are drooping on the end of long thin stems.  I like long days with sunrise at 5:30 a.m. and sunset at 8:00 p.m.  Plus, I’m not ready to give up comfortable summer clothes – shorts, tee shirts, and flip-flops.

The backyard deck is my favorite summertime room.  It’s where I listen to the songs of night creatures and greet the day with my first cup of coffee and eat lunch with my Grands and read in the late afternoon and cook on the grill.

Just like a good guest, summer comes for a visit.  Then leaves while I’m still having fun and promises to come back.  I’ll be ready.

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Fun with My Youngest Grand

Posted on August 30, 2012 by susanrray

Last summer my youngest Grand liked being swaddled in a blanket.  He ate and slept.  I changed his diaper and rocked him.  Then he ate and slept, ate and slept, just like most newborns.

This summer my Grand and I play.  We sit on the floor.  I toss a small plastic alphabet block into the air.  He runs under it, picks it up from the floor, and puts it in my hand.  I balance the block on his head.  He laughs and tilts his head back, trying to see the block.  I stack red and blue blocks.  One, two, three, four, five…he swipes his hand across the tower and the blocks tumble onto the floor.  He laughs.  “Heh, heh, heh, heh.”

My Grand chooses Machines at Work from the book basket.  He turns the pages faster than I can read.  “Bulldozer, backhoe, digger.  Ker-plop, the dirt falls to the ground,” I say.  He echoes, “KER PLOP, KER PLOP!”  Then he’s up and walking.

My Grand is constantly on the move.  If he wore a pedometer, I’d have proof that he surpasses 10,000 steps a day.  He circles the kitchen table.  Through the living room.  Around the coffee table.  Down the hallway.  Outside he mows the concrete patio with his toy lawnmower.  He pushes anything and everything, even a water play table, without the water.  He picks a geranium leaf and rubs it between his fingers.  And he bangs two landscaping rocks together.

It’s lunchtime.  I eat a chicken sandwich.  He has chicken, sweet potatoes, and kid-sized pasta.  I put small bites of all three on his high chair tray.  He picks out and eats he pasta, pushes the chicken and potatoes to the edges of his tray, and says “Mmmmmm,” meaning ‘More.’  Next time, I’ll offer pasta last.

As my little Grand sits facing me on my lap, I sing Pat A Cake.  He slaps his legs and in his own language sings along.  He stretches his arms high to ‘throw ‘em in the pan.’  His hand touches my nose.  I say “Bonk.”  He laughs and touches my nose again.  “Bonk!”  Again and again and again.  The game ends when he slaps instead of touching.

His momma and daddy wave good-bye and say, “We’ll be back in a little while.  You and Gran have fun.”  My Grand flings his body against the door and wails for three seconds.  I pick him up and hug him and gently kick a roll of red duct tape across the wood floor.  No more wailing.  My Grand runs to the rolling tape, picks it up, brings it to me, and then walks, as fast as his fourteen-month-old legs will move, back to the exact place where the tape stopped.  I roll.  He fetches.

My Grand and I play.  Just like grandchildren and grandmothers are suppose to.

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Facebook – Not Just for the Young

Posted on August 23, 2012 by susanrray

“Really, you do Facebook?” a friend asked.  Really, I do.  But I was skeptical when I first heard about social networking websites.  I thought such things were created by and for young people, not those of us who are considered over the hill.  My introduction to an online social network was listening to three young teacher friends while we ate lunch together.

“Did you see my Facebook post last night?”  Julie asked.

“No, what’d it say?”  Ann asked.

“I saw it,” said Cindy.  She turned to Ann.  “ Julie wanted to know whether she should wear her new walking shoes or her old ones when we walk after school today.”

“I’d wear the new ones.  What’d you tell her?”  Ann asked.

After listening quietly, I had to speak up.  “Wait.  I don’t understand.  Why’d you ask something like that online?  Couldn’t you all just talk to each other?”  The three laughed.  They insisted they were talking to each other.  “Is that the kind of thing people put on Facebook?”  I said.  For the rest of lunchtime, they told me what their friends had recently written and described pictures that had been posted.  I shook my head.  Some of it sounded like an old-fashion party line gossip.  But I did want to see pictures of a friend’s new house.  That was about six years and ­­­530 friends ago.

I’ve been pleasantly surprised by a few friend requests.  “Are you the Mrs. Ray who taught 4th grade in Sparta a long time ago?”  Von asked. He linked me to other friends who were my very first students.  Now I know about Abby’s children and grandchildren and Caroline’s success as an elementary school teacher.  Another former student is a stand-up comedian.  As a 6th grader, he shared a joke at the beginning of most school days, but he never learned the names of European countries.  I laugh every time Monty posts a picture of himself on stage at one of his shows.

I like that our daughter’s friends, girls who slept on our living room floor at slumber parties twenty years ago, let me peek into their lives.  And I’m glad that our son’s friends, now grown-ups and daddies, share pictures of their children.  Birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings – all are celebrated among FB friends.  Pleas for prayers for those who are ill circulate quickly.  Pictures of newborns, less than an hour old, announce births.

Skimming and scanning, I make my way through Facebook posts.  I’m hooked.  In fifteen minutes, I know what’s happening with friends and family who live near and far.  I skip past reposts and long quotes.  I read personal updates.  I marvel over pictures of sunsets, hummingbirds, and old barns.  I take virtual trips to Italy, the Great Smoky Mountains, and the beach.  And then I see the best pictures of all.  Pictures of my Grands.  So I linger, longer than fifteen minutes.

Yes, I do the online social networking thing.  And I’m pretty sure that the creators of Facebook never imagined how much this grandmother would appreciate their invention.

Filed under: Everyday Life, Family, Friends, Technology | Tagged: , | 1 Comment »

Three Little Words

Posted on August 23, 2012 by susanrray

Three little words.  When my two-year-old Grand shouts them, I punch my patience button.  Another three little words.  When my two-year-old Grand shouts them, I celebrate.

Ruth ran to the kid shoe basket that sits beside her family’s kitchen door.  Her mother had just announced, “Let’s go outside.  Everyone get shoes and jackets on.”  Ruth threw shoes onto the floor.  “Get your brown Crocs.  You can slip them on yourself,” said Mother.

“New pink shoes!”  Ruth said.  New pink shoes with Velcro straps across the top.

“Then you might need someone to help you,” Mother said as she took lightweight jackets off the coat rack.  My Grand’s older brother and sister quickly put on their slip-on shoes and their jackets and ran outside.  She sat in the floor holding her new pink shoes.

“Here, Ruth, let me help,” I offered.  I pulled a kitchen table chair close to her and sat down.

“My do it!”  she said.   Three little words.  I punched my patience button.  Her mother raised her eyebrows, nodded to me, and went outside, carrying Ruth’s jacket.  My Grand shoved her toes on her right foot into the left shoe.

“That shoe goes on your other foot,” I said.  She jerked the shoe off with such force that it flew over her head.

“My get it!”  With a shoe in each hand, she sat on the floor and placed her shoes directly in front of her feet.  “Like that?”  I agreed, like that.  One top strap on each shoe was loose.  Two other straps were fastened securely.

Ruth tried to shove her feet into her shoes.  Her brow wrinkled.  “If we loosen all the straps, it’ll be easier, “ I suggested.  If Ruth heard me, she ignored me.  I sat on my hands so I couldn’t pick up both shoes, loosen the Velcro straps, slip the shoes onto my Grand’s feet, and fasten the straps.  Her brother, sister, and mother were outside in the sunshine.

Ruth pushed and rocked her feet until she finally had both shoes on.  She stood, looked down, and wiggled her toes.  “This right?” she asked.  Yes, her shoes were on the right feet.  She bent over, from the waist, and fastened the loose Velcro straps.  She stood straight.  Hands open and stretched high over her head.  Feet apart.  Eyes twinkling.  “I DID IT!”  she shouted.  Another three little words.  Time to celebrate!  I lifted her onto my lap for a two-arm hug.

“Outside!”  Ruth ran straight to her mother.  “I DID IT!”  She looked at her feet.

Mother clapped her hands and hugged her daughter.  “Now, let’s put your jacket on.”  Mother held the jacket for Ruth to slip her arms into.

“My do it!”  Ruth said.  I watched as her mother laid the jacket on the ground and reminded her daughter to lie on top of it, slip her arms in the sleeves, and then stand up.  I reset my patience button.  I didn’t want to miss the next celebration.

My do it!  I DID IT!  My two-year old Grand shouts three little words.

Filed under: Family, Grandchildren | Tagged: , | 1 Comment »

Who’s the Tomato Queen?

Posted on August 23, 2012 by susanrray

June declared that her mother is the Queen of Tomatoes. I really don’t like to argue with friends, but June didn’t know my mother when she and Dad grew a huge vegetable garden.
Mom served tomatoes every meal. Sliced, with eggs and bacon for breakfast, on a BLT sandwich for lunch, and chopped in coleslaw or quartered for supper.
Mom canned tomato juice, whole tomatoes, and tomato soup with vegetables. No tomato – not even a green one – went to waste. At the end of the growing season, green tomatoes were sliced, coated with cornmeal and fried. Fried green tomatoes. Delicious. And if there were too many green tomatoes to fry before the first killing frost in the fall, Mom picked them from the vines. Then she wrapped them, individually, in a torn piece of old newspaper and laid them in a single layer on a cardboard tray. The green tomatoes were stored, with hopes that they would ripen, in the darkest corner of the basement. The unused coal bin. And when those tomatoes turned light pink or red, she cooked them in spaghetti sauce or with Salisbury steak.
June said that her mother, Nell, buys home grown tomatoes from neighbors. “Searching for, talking about, and preserving tomatoes all loom large in my mom’s life each summer. She would never consider serving a meal of fresh summer vegetables and hot cornbread without luscious, fresh tomatoes.” Nell handles each tomato with special care. Wrapped in tissue paper. “Each Christmas she collects used tissue paper –all colors – and cuts perfect squares. She gently wraps all tomatoes, one by one, and places them on small trays and stores them on the floor under her bed.” There an air vent provides the perfect storage temperature. Nell’s tomatoes go straight from under her bed to the dinner table. (And all these years I thought my kitchen counter was the perfect storage place for ripe tomatoes.)
At the end of the season, Nell buys whatever tomatoes she can find. Red and green and all shades in between. She even travels fifty miles from her home in South Pittsburg to Pikeville to buy the best green tomatoes around. She wants to serve homegrown tomatoes as long as possible. It’s a sad moment when she announces, “These are the last of the home grown tomatoes.”
Nell’s goal is to serve tomatoes for her family’s Thanksgiving dinner. If she can keep them until November, that accomplishment comes with bragging rights. June said, “Although we are thankful for the turkey and fixings, we always talk about and wonder how long those tomatoes stayed under Mom’s bed. My mom truly is the Queen of Tomatoes.”
Does Nell’s wrapping each homegrown tomato in squares of Christmas tissue paper and sleeping with tomatoes under her bed trump my mother’s growing and canning and storing tomatoes? Maybe. How about this? June’s mother is the reigning Tomato Queen and my mother was the former queen.

Filed under: Everyday Life, Family, Food | Tagged: , | 2 Comments »

Happy Birthday

Posted on August 9, 2012 by susanrray

I’ve never received so many birthday greetings. Or in so many different ways. More than six months ago, the government sent congratulations. An introductory paragraph stated, “Now that you are approaching …..” I stopped reading. I chose to not be reminded of the number that followed.
Every insurance company that offers Medicare A, B, C, D, and XYZ supplement programs mailed good wishes, or condolences, depending on my attitude the day I opened the mail. And then their representatives called. In their friendliest and most caring voices, each offered to stop by for a short visit, at my convenience, to discuss health care. I coined an official response “I’ve made my decision about health insurance for the rest of my life. It’s signed, sealed, and delivered.” That ended our budding relationships.
Finally, the end of July rolled around, and my birthday, with its looming number, could no longer be ignored. And, to be honest, I like celebrating birthdays, mine and everyone else’s. Thanks to the post office, Mark Zuckerberg, Ray Tomlinson, and Alexander Graham Bell, good wishes arrived. In my mailbox, on Facebook, through email, and over the phone.
A really good friend, mailed a card that read, “I know it’s your birthday, but I’ve forgotten your age!” Bless her heart. Wish I could. A Facebook post that read, “Happy Birthday to a sweet young lady that I had at 4-H camp for many years,” took me back to bunk beds, horseback riding, and jumping off a high dive. And I liked the e-card with the dancing bear that sang, “Each year is just a number. Count the friendships you hold in your heart.”
I got birthday wishes from my Grands. One-year-old Grand, 1300 miles away, giggled and kissed his computer screen. When I said, “Let’s pat a cake,” he clapped his hands. So I sat on my couch at my house, and he sat on his daddy’s lap at his house, and together we patted and rolled and threw tiny imaginary cakes. As we said good-bye, I caught all my Grand’s birthday waves and kisses. Thanks goodness for video chats.
After eating birthday cake at my Grands’ house that’s across town, my seven-year-old Grand announced, “Gran, we have a surprise for you.”
“It’s outside. Don’t come out yet,” his younger sister  said. My Grands ran back and forth from the outside picnic table to inside their house. They rummaged through their school supplies. “Don’t let Gran come outside!” they screamed.
Finally, I was invited to unveil the surprise. Two bath towels covered the picnic table and my present. Garden stepping stones. One made by, or for, each Grand. With handprints, names and ages. And decorated, kid-style, with colorful stones. Treasured gifts! “Look up, Gran! There’s your card.” A blue paper waved from a tree. Four-inch tall green letters had been scribbled from one side of the paper to the other, “Happy Birthday, Gran!” No numbers. No reminder of age. No “Now that you are approaching……” Just a piece of construction paper taped to a tree limb. A keepsake birthday card.

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