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You got any Strawberry Jam?

“Hey, Gran, you got any strawberry jam?” When my Grands ask this, they mean homemade Strawberry Freezer Jam and they know the answer is yes.  

            As long as I can slice and chop and stir and pour, there’ll always be strawberry jam in my freezer.  It’s a family tradition. Mom served homemade jellies and jams alongside hot Martha White biscuits, and her strawberry jam was my favorite.

            After I married, Mom gave me jars of strawberry jam for my birthday. It was a gift of work and love; she picked the berries from Dad’s and her strawberry patch and washed, chopped, and cooked. My children ate peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches so I get a bit sentimental when my Grands do the same.

            Last week as I watched twelve-year-old Annabel stir peanut butter and jam together in a bowl and then spread it on bread to make her sandwich, I remembered that both her mother and I had done the same at her age. And another Grand, age 10, takes PB & J sandwiches in his school lunch bag every day so he makes five sandwiches at one time and freezes them to have throughout the week. 

            Strawberry jam isn’t just for biscuits and sandwiches.  Have you tried it on cornbread?  That’s 10-year-old Lucy’s favorite.  Her older sister, Elsie slathers sour dough rolls with butter and jam.   Muffins baked with a spoonful of jam in the middle are a treat. A plain soda cracker topped with strawberry jam would probably be tasty – a bite of salty sweetness.

            Strawberry Freezer Jam could be called Congealed Strawberry Sugar since the ingredients are twice as much sugar as fruit and pectin.  One time to cut cost, I used a less expensive store-brand sugar and the jam never “set-up,” but it was delicious ice cream topping.  I learned my lesson: use name brand, high quality sugar. 

            But all pectin may be the same. Because only store-brand pectin was available where I shopped recently, I took a chance and bought two boxes.  Last week, I made six recipes of jam, four with expensive name brand pectin that I’d bought earlier, and two with the cheaper store-brand.  There’s not a smidgen of difference in the taste or consistency.  

            I’m sentimental about jam jars.  Store bought jelly jars and recycled grape jelly jars work well, but my granny’s snuff glasses with tin tops that Mom filled fifty years ago are my favorites.  Last week, my Grand teased me as she wiped clean the tops of the filled jars and put lids on them.  “Gran, what if someone thinks it’s snuff?” she asked.   

            Six recipes make a lot of jam – thirty cups!  All eight Grands, those who live across town and those who live an airplane ride away, eat it.  And jam in tightly sealed plastic containers travels well inside a suitcase.

            A day spent making jam is a day well spent.  It isn’t just about good eating for my Grands – it’s also reliving happy memories.

When Clothes Talk

“Hi, Gran, you look like Dad!”  Micah said.  I’d walked up behind my six-year-old Grand while he played with Matchbox cars on a track he’d made in the dirt.  He turned quickly and looked up to greet me.

             “Micah,” I said, “why do you think I look like your Dad?”  Son2, aka son-in-law, and I are about the same height, and he could wear my t-shirts, but his would be a bit tight for me.

            “What you’ve got on,” my Grand answered. “Doesn’t Dad have a shirt like that?” My t-shirt had a bicycle on it and because Son2 has ridden in many biking events, he often wears t-shirts with a picture of a bicycle.  I shook my head to answer Micah, and realized I was wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes, like Son2 wears most days since he’s been working at home during these months of the pandemic.

            Now, I love Son2, but Micah’s words that I look like him made me think about the clothes I wear. What other time in history would a child’s father and grandmother wear the same type of clothing?  I can think back one generation when my mom wore pants, but not jeans.  Her pants often had elastic waistlines and were made of stretchy fabric, and Mom wore long Bermuda shorts in the summer.  I never saw either of my grandmothers wear pants; even when Granny hoed the beans and pulled weeds from her flowerbeds, she wore a cotton shirtwaist dress. 

            History tells us that in the mid-1800s, women wore bloomers under dresses. By the early 1900s, women’s trousers appeared on high-fashion runways. During World War II, when more women entered the workplace, they wore pants for comfort. It wasn’t until the 1960s that pants became fashionable and popular for women.  And even then, we college students in the late 60s remember that pants weren’t allowed in classes.  I often wore my lightweight knee-length raincoat over shorts or pants to class.  

            By the early 1970s, pants suits, made of matching or coordinating fabrics, were poplar and comfortable.  The long tops were several inches above the knees and covered loose wide-leg pants.  And then the hippy revolution hit, with bell-bottom pant legs and jeans, and women began to wear pants everywhere.

My favorite jeans were bell-bottoms, wide legs that dragged so long that I almost tripped.  Now, like most women, I have several pair of jeans and I’ll keep wearing them.

            Who doesn’t have a collection of comfortable t-shirts?  We wear them to support sports teams, state our beliefs, and show where we have travelled.  But Micah made me think that I’ll wear other shirts when I’m out and about.            

The day I wore a t-shirt without writing or a picture and visited Micah’s house, his mother said, “You’re dressed up.  Going somewhere special?”  I didn’t tell Daughter that I was wearing a plain pink t-shirt because of something her son said, instead I said, “Yes, to visit with all of you!”

Weaving Away the Summer

“Gran, did you get more loops?” Lucy and Annabel have asked this question many times recently because these two Grands are weaving potholders.  Cotton, square potholders like many of us made when we were children.

            I’ve had a metal loom and a supply of loops for many years since our oldest Grand could understand over and under and his fingers were strong enough to pull a loop over a hook and his patience long enough to complete a project.  All our Grands have made one special potholder for their mothers, but after Lucy, age 9, made three in one sitting a few weeks ago, I casually said, “Maybe you could sell some of these.” 

            “How much?  Where?” Lucy asked, her eyes open wide.  I sent pictures and a text to two friends and they bought Lucy’s first for-sale potholders.  A picture couldn’t capture Lucy’s pride and excitement when she exchanged potholders for money. 

            Lucy and I made a deal:  she would make and sell potholders for $5.00 and give me one dollar to pay for supplies.  I’d advertise and drive her to make deliveries.  By the next day, she’d made five more.  I sent a picture of those to three people thru Facebook and all agreed to buy.

            Annabel, Lucy’s older sister, wanted to get in on the action so she began weaving.  When each girl had five completed, they sent me pictures and asked, “Gran, can you put these on Facebook and see if anyone will buy them?”   I did and offered in-town delivery. 

            Within hours, those ten potholders were sold and there were orders for more.  The girls were excited and I was a bit surprised.  To date, we have delivered twenty-six potholders and there are orders for twenty more.  

            I asked Lucy and Annabel, “Why do you like making potholders?” Simultaneously, they said, “Money!”

            Then Annabel added, “It’s fun to make them,” and Lucy said, “We get to talk to people.”

            Neither of the girls has a plan for their money, but each can tell you exactly how much they’ve collected.  “Maybe I’ll get something special with it,” Annabel said.  “I just like having it,” said Lucy.

            Making potholders wouldn’t be so much fun if the community center swimming pools were open and my Grands could go places and enjoy their normal summer activities. 

            Lucy’s answer sticks in my mind, “We get to talk to people.”  She and her four siblings have seen very few people since early March.  That Lucy likes to talk with adults, most she’s never met before, while standing outside their homes and while all wear masks, is a sign of the pandemic.

            Lucy and Annabel will remember this summer when they couldn’t go to the pool or have friends over to play or go to church or even go to the grocery store.  The summer when they had fun making and selling potholders.  What began as a way to keep Lucy’s hands busy one afternoon turned into a silver lining of the COVID pandemic and I’ll buy loops as long as my Grands weave.

For the Want of a Sucker

My five-year-old Grand is my ride-around town partner for drive-thru services. After making stops at the bank and the library, Micah and I went to the drugstore.  When I saw several cars in line, I thought the wait might be longer than Micah’s patience so I suggested that I take him home and I’d pick up my prescriptions later.

            “But Gran,” he said, “I want a sucker.”

            “Micah, I don’t think they have suckers,” I said. 

            “Why?” Micah asked.  I hope this question stays in his vocabulary forever and it always deserves an answer. 

            “Every drive -thru doesn’t offer suckers,” I said.

            “Oh. If they do, can I have one?” His hope for a sucker encouraged me to line up behind three cars.

            We sat quietly for a minute and then Micah asked, “Will you ask for six?”

            “Six? Why six?”

            “For my brother and sisters.  Wait! that’s not right!”  And then he began a ten-minute monologue, with many pauses, that required few responses.  Micah named his siblings.  “I need one for Lucy.  For Annabel.  For me. Is that three?  Did I say Elsie?  For Elsie.  How many is that?  Four?  Samuel probably doesn’t care.  That’s right. I need four.”   He had named his older siblings from youngest to oldest.

            “But if they only give you three, they’re for Lucy and Annabel and me. What if they only give you two?  That’ll be for Lucy and me.”  

            “Gran, do you like suckers?”  I do.  “So maybe they’ll give you one if you ask.” 

            “What if they give you only one?  I’ll eat it real fast before we get to my house. Wonder what kind they have? I like every kind. It doesn’t matter what kind they have.”

            Finally, it was my turn at the window. Micah sat right behind me in my van.  I rolled his and my windows down; he stuck his head out the open window.  After hearing my name and birthdate, the pharmacy clerk turned her back to us and I whispered, “I don’t see any suckers.” 

            Micah said, “Me, either, but maybe they’re hidden.”   I wasn’t surprised when the clerk said hello to Micah, but didn’t offer a sucker.  No, she didn’t have suckers.

            The clerk handed me my prescription and said, “You two have a good day.”

            As we drove away from the store, Micah said, “That’s okay, Gran.  I didn’t really need a sucker and nobody else will know that she didn’t give us any. Don’t tell them.”

            A lump rose in my throat.  My grandmother impulse was to buy a bag of suckers, but I didn’t. And I didn’t go to my house and get four suckers out of my chewing gum and sucker stash.

            Micah had accepted a disappointment, a seemingly small one.  Would it help him accept larger ones?  And what about not telling his brothers and sisters?  He protected them from disappointment. 

            My ride-around-town Grand is learning some life lessons that are learned through experience. And I thought we were only running errands.

Gran! Stop!

My Grand and I hurried out my back door.  Micah wore his backpack stuffed with all the things a 5-year-old needs for his overnight visit at Husband’s and my home:  pajamas, underwear, a shirt, pants, a Spiderman action figure, a small rubber ball, and a Lego catalog. I juggled a bag of library books, my purse, a letter, and a watering can that I’d put on a garage shelf before getting in the van.

            My morning to-do list was in my head. Put the letter in the mailbox. Go to the bank and return library books.  Take Micah home.  Stop by the grocery for milk and apples and bananas – surely I could remember three items.  I was startled when Micah screamed, “Gran! Stop!”  With straight arms and legs, like he would lay in snow ready to make a snow angel, Micah stood two steps in front of me.  He looked over his shoulder; I think to be sure I had stopped.

            Alarmed, I stood still.  Micah squatted, that position only kids can do.  Flat feet. Knees bent. Bottom touching his heels and almost touching the ground.  He bowed his head.  “I think he’s alive and I almost stepped on him,” my Grand said.  An earthworm lay unmoving on the stone patio.  “Doesn’t he know he should be in the yard?”

            I said that worms tend to crawl around more when the ground is wet and it had rained last night. “So you think he’s been here all night?”  Maybe.  Micah examined him closely.  “A little part of him is smashed, but I think he’s alive.”

            Using his nimble forefinger and thumb, Micah carefully picked up the injured worm and then slung him into the yard.  The worm landed on top of the grass. “Uh, oh,” Micah said and then gently picked up the worm and lay him on dirt, near a flower bed.  Again, Micah squatted beside the worm, watching closely.  I took a deep breath, for patience, and waited.      

            Finally, Micah stood and announced, “He’s wiggling. I think he’ll be okay.”

            Micah comes from a family, including me, who often stops to save worms that have lost their way onto hard surfaces.  Later that morning, I walked to our mailbox and there on our blacktop driveway lay a fat earthworm.  When I touched him, he coiled, to protect himself, but making it harder for my not-so-nimble finger and thumb to grasp him.  On the third try, I finally moved him to dirt and then watched as he burrowed into the ground.

            Micah’s command, “Gran! Stop!” continues to play in my head. It nudges me. To do the things I can – save one little living thing, meet a new neighbor, wash clothes for someone who can’t. To appreciate nature – take in the yellow forsythia, the budding leaves, the chickadees at the birdfeeder. To be patient – accept life as it is, know that physical and emotional healing takes time.  To be joyful – just as a young child.  Just as Micah reminded me. ####

Don’t Miss the Chance

I almost didn’t go.  Daughter called and invited me to join her family at Cane Creek Park.  “Some of us are riding bikes on the dirt trail.  Want to come and stomp in the woods with the rest of us?”

             I answered, “Thanks. Not today.  I’ve got to go to the grocery store, cook, and write a column.” I hung up the phone and continued writing my grocery list, checking the refrigerator and pantry.  It was 10:30 a.m.  I didn’t need food on the table until supper time and writing could wait.  How could I pass up time with Daughter, Son 2, and five Grands?  And I knew part of the reason Daughter invited me is because she knows I need time outside, among trees.  I sent her a text:  I’m coming. Where can I meet you?

           Two Grands, ages 12 and 14, waved at me after I got out of my van. As we walked on the paved trail, they shoved and tripped each other.  They laughed; I grimaced. “Enough,” I said.  “Ah, Gran.  We’re just playing,” Samuel said.  I suggested they play like that when I wasn’t around.  He threw his arm around Elsie’s shoulders and they walked arm in arm beside me.  Elsie asked, “Gran, is this better?”  Much. 

          After the two youngest rode one time around the two-mile trail with their dad, they raced to the wooden vertical climbing structures. Eight-year old Lucy, quickly climbed high and stood twelve feet off the ground.  “Come on, Gran. You try,” she said.  I took her challenge, but stopped only a few feet high.  

          Youngest Grand’s short legs didn’t reach the first step so he unsuccessfully clawed and tried to get a foot hold. (Family rule: you can climb anything if you don’t need help getting up or getting down.)  “Gran, let’s throw rocks in the water!” Micah shouted.  There’s something calming about watching concentric rings on the water’s surface.

         All Daughter’s family except Annabel, age 10, were ready to go home, and she agreed to walk around the lake with me.  We gathered fruits from sweet gum and sycamore trees.  We searched for sweet gum balls that had really sharp points that felt like needles. We rubbed cedar tree twigs between our finger to smell a real Christmas tree, the kind my dad cut for our house every December.

        As we walked, Annabel and I held hands. “I’m going to close my eyes.  Don’t make me fall,” she said.  I said that I’d keep her safe.  I led her diagonally across the four-foot wide path.  “Don’t go crooked,” she said.

      “Trust me, Annabel,” I told her.  She giggled.  I stopped and led her around me.  “What if I get dizzy and fall,” my Grand said.  I reminded her to trust me.  We zigzagged and walked off the path.  “Why should I trust you?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

        “Because I said I’d keep you safe and because I love you,” I told her.         To think I almost didn’t go.

My Grand Said

“Gran, your lunch looks like a dead mouse with a chicken on its head,” my 5-year old Grand told me while he ate lunch with Husband and me. How could half of a ham sandwich look like a dead mouse? I could stretch my imagination to see a chicken created from five triangular pieces of cheese.

“Jesse, have you ever seen a dead mouse?” Husband asked.

“No, but it’d look exactly like what Gran’s eating,” he said. Looking at his plate where I’d created face features using grapes and tangerine segments, Jesse said, “I like teeth and eyes, but I don’t like hair so I’m glad my guy is bald like Pop.” He giggled, ducked his head, and lifted his eyes to look across the table at his Pop.

There are several Jesse quotes in a little book entitled “The Grands Said” where I’ve collected things our grandchildren have said.

When he was four, Jesse put his face against the window of the van on a dark night.  Those of us who could see by the headlights were talking about a small animal that had run in front of the van. “I can’t see! Somebody turn on my outside lights!”

Recently, on a cloudy dark night while Jesse and his family traveled in their van, Jesse again stared outside. “It’s splish-splash dark,” he said. His mother repeated splish-splash dark. “Yeah, it’s really dark.”

A few minutes later, Jesse’s older sister asked, “Jesse, do you mean pitch-black dark?” (Siblings often interpret.)

“Yeah, pitch-black, splish-splash dark,” said my Grand.

While eating ice cream, Jesse stopped, put his spoon in the bowl and his hand over his face. “Oh, I’ve got a cold mind!” he said.  His cold mind was like other people’s brain freezes.

When Jesse, then 4, spent the night with Husband and me, he didn’t like the plain yellow pillowcase that was on his bed and asked for the Star Wars pillow. He looked at the flat pillow case made from fabric with Star War characters and asked, “How do you blow it up?”

Yesterday, I underestimated my Grand’s vocabulary.  He and I sang “She’ll be Coming Around the Mountain.” On the second stanza, I sang, “She’ll be driving six white horses when she comes.”

Jesse yelled, “Gran! Stop! How could she ride six horses?” Drive, not ride, I explained. “How could she do that?” I described a big wagon, like his red wagon but the size of his family’s van, and maybe with a top. Someone could ride in it and guide the horses with long leather straps attached to the horses’ bridle. “Gran, don’t you call that a carriage?” Jesse asked.

Jesse was barely four when he dumped about 50 colored building blocks on the floor. He sorted them by color: red, green, orange, blue, yellow. Then he made stacks by color, largest to smallest.  Sitting tall and straight, he looked at me and said, “Look, Gran, I’m really smart.”

My young Grands make me laugh just by what they say. What gifts!

When Grands Visit

One of the greatest joys of being a grandparent is when Grands visit, especially without their parents.  That’s when we grandparents can spoil, and our children can’t tell us that they never got to do the things the grandchildren are doing. 

            Husband and I invited five Grands, ages 5-14, to spend a few days with us while Daughter and Son 2 took a mini-vacation.  We see these Grands often and one spends the night with us each week so we know their likes, dislikes, and personalities.  We also know their energy levels and melt-down points.

            Our Grands took over the second floor.  Beds and blow-up mattresses were claimed or assigned.  Honestly, when one Grand spends the night, everything is packed in a small backpack. For four nights, they brought backpacks, duffle bags, armloads of stuffed animals, books, iPads, reading lights, four scooters, a basketball, and a bicycle.  

            Husband and I had a plan: divide and enjoy.  (Yes, divide and conquer came to mind, but joy was our goal.)  Husband took three to the gym to play basketball; I took two shopping at a store where $1 buys a treat.  Some played UNO and Qwirkle.  Three made flour and salt play dough and one spent thirty minutes adding food coloring to get the perfect purple, which eventually became the perfect chocolate brown.  And each had a thirty-minute Wii (video games) playing time. Day 1 was a success.

            Day 2 we took a field trip to the Chattanooga Creative Discovery Museum. Early morning, I packed breakfasts and snacks while older Grands helped the youngers dress and get out the door into the van.  As we traveled all were quiet, listening to an audio book and munching on biscuits and grapes and drinking juice.

            The museum was packed with activities for all ages and people of all ages.  Again, Husband’s and my plan to divide and enjoy worked.  Across the way I held up two fingers; he’d held up three.  Everyone within sight.  Another good day ended when we arrived home and our Grands piled out of the van and grabbed scooters to ride and balls to throw for outside burn off energy time.

            I planned Day 3 to relax:  play games, read, make peanut butter play dough, and maybe cookies.  I realized it’d be a long day when our Grands energy levels registered at the top of the chart and mine was barely above 0.  The Grands chose candy as Bingo prizes; that was fine with me.  The day ended with pizza and a movie. I was the first one asleep.

            By 9:00 a.m. on Day 4, one Grand had her belongings packed and asked, “When will Mom and Dad be home?”  This last day passed quickly.  After suppertime we loaded my van to take our Grands and all their stuff home to their parents.  As I backed out of our driveway, Micah, the youngest yelled, “Gran!”  and then in the sweetest voice he said, “Gran, I love you.” 

            Suddenly, I wasn’t so tired.  So harried.  Like I said, it’s a joy to have Grands visit.

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Dear Camper

Dear Ruth,

            How I wish I could hide in your suitcase and go to camp with you!  A week in the woods.  I’m happy for you and I know you’ll have a good time.

            Last week you were exited and said, “This will be the first time I’ve ever stayed overnight without some of my family!”  You are brave.  You know only two people at camp – a boy your age and a girl who is a family friend and a counselor in training.  So you get to make new friends.

            When I was your age, 10 years old, I went to 4-H Camp in Crossville.  Recently, I received a Facebook friend request from a woman I met at camp all those years ago.  Many people who I first knew as fellow campers were fellow students at Tennessee Tech years later.  One of the girls in your cabin might become a long time friend.

            What fun I had at camp!  My favorite activity was swimming and it wasn’t just because I got to play in a huge pool.  There was a snack bar at the pool and I discovered something I really liked. Fritos! We sometimes ate potato chips with a sandwich at home, but I hadn’t eaten corn chips.  I could hardly wait to get to the pool and while other campers ran to jump into the water, I headed to the snack bar and bought a small bag of Fritos. I ate those chips one at a time.  First, licking off the salt, then putting a whole chip in my mouth and letting it crumble as it dissolved.  Even now, when I eat Fritos, I think of the 4-H camp swimming pool.

             I really liked the end of a camp day, near sunset.  Everyone stood in lines outside the mess hall (aka dining hall) while the American flag was taken down and folded.  We were quiet and reverent and it was a peaceful time. I hope you sing the same song I sang: Day is done, gone the sun from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest; God is nigh.

             I didn’t like walking at night from my cabin to the bathhouse where the potties were, but I carried a flashlight and a light stayed on in the bathhouse all night. I especially didn’t like a stomachache that made me cry.  That happened because I was homesick.  Years later when your mom was homesick, I knew how she felt.

            I liked target shooting and crafts and square dancing and short hikes in the woods and throwing horseshoes and skit night and cabin pillow fights and most camp food.  (I was glad peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were available for every meal.)  I liked wearing my favorite clothes and my mom wondered why most of the clothes that she packed in my suitcase hadn’t been worn when I got home.

            Have fun at camp!  When you come home, let’s go to lunch so you can tell me all about your week.

            Love forever,             Gran

Colorado’s Natural Playground

For a week, Husband and I explored parts of Colorado with Daughter and Son and their families. “First stop tomorrow is the Poudre River,” Son announced and the Grands giggled. 

     “Did Uncle Eric say pooter?” eight year-old Elaine asked, then she put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

            “Actually, it’s the Cache La Poudre (pronounced pooh-der) River and you’ll like it.  It’s a good place to throw rocks.” After breakfast the next day, six adults and eight children, ages 4-14, loaded into three vehicles.  One carried bicycles on top so Son 2 (aka son-in-law) and the four older kids could ride the Poudre trails and the rest of us prepared for a fifteen-minute walk along a dirt path toward the river.

            Carrying water, snacks, sunscreen, and insect repellant, we adults walked in front and back, and the two youngest cousins, Ann and Jesse, held hands as they walked.  Ann, who has visited the Poudre River many times, said, “We get to walk on the wiggly bridge!”

            Six and eight year-old cousins Neil and Elaine paired up and rocked the wooden suspension bridge from side to side.  “This is more fun than walking!” said Elaine.  She and Neil hopped across the bridge.

            The Poudre ran full and swiftly. Its shoreline was covered with rocks, from small gravels to rocks big enough to sit on.  A large willow tree with exposed roots and low branches grew beside the riverbank.  The Grands immediately threw rocks in the water and challenged each other.  Who could throw the farthest?  Whose rock made the biggest splash? Who could throw five rocks at one time?  And Elaine and Neil often said, “Watch me throw this rock in the Pooter,” and then laughed.

            After a bit, the four kids wandered from each other.  Jesse, age five, found a walking stick and walked the tree roots, nature-made balance beams.  Four-year-old Ann collected the shiniest, tiniest rocks.  Neil and Elaine threw leaves and sticks in the river and then tried to hit them with rocks. 

            Husband and Son skipped rocks and all four Grands counted loudly the number of skips across the water’s surface.  The kids were determined to find perfectly flat rocks and master skipping.  Over and over they slung rocks into the water and when one skipped, even once, all celebrated with applause and cheers.

            Another thirty minutes passed before Daughter and Daughter 2 declared it was time for snacks and water and a second sunscreen rub down.  Afterwards, Jesse used his stick as a shovel to dig softball size rocks from the ground.  The same size rocks lay on top of the ground, but with Ann’s encouragement, Jesse dug several and then together he and Ann made the biggest water splashes or so they claimed.

            A different trail from the river led us through marshland and the Grands stopped and squatted to watch ants scurry around a huge anthill.  Back at the parking lot, we met the bike riders and our eight Grands talked at the same time.  All were sure they’d had the most fun.  They were wrong.  I did, but I didn’t tell them.

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