Susan Writes

Family Vacation – Not as expected

Posted on July 14, 2016 by susanrray

Recently, I heard a friend lamenting that her grown children are so busy there’s no time for a family vacation. I suggested a weekend getaway, like the couple of nights Husband and I spent with our college-age children many years ago. But I warned that her vacation might not go exactly as she expected.

When Daughter and Son were college students, there was a narrow window of time between their summer jobs and the beginning of fall semester. I was happy that they would spend a weekend in Atlanta with Husband and me. We planned to go to a Braves game and eat good restaurant suppers, but I was most looking forward to family visiting time.

Returning to Atlanta brought back memories of two previous trips to Turner Field and the many nights we’d watched the Braves’ televised games. During a night baseball game, we reminisced about where we sat when Dale Murphy played first base and how Son had wanted to eat everything offered at the concession stand.

We stayed in a two-level condo with a kitchen and living room so we could eat breakfast in and have a place to gather. While watching Saturday Night Live, we agreed that we’d sleep in and make our own breakfasts.

I awoke first, made coffee, set out banana bread and fruit, and then curled up on the sofa to read a book until everyone else got up. Son came down the steps first, poured his morning Mountain Dew, and we talked a few minutes. Daughter joined us. She poured orange juice and sat on the couch beside me. This was perfect: my two children were all mine. I got up to freshen my coffee, and when I came back into the room, Daughter and Son both held paperback books in their hands.

I asked a question and got short responses. My attempts to start a conversation fell flat. My children kept their eyes and attention on their books while I talked. Then Son laid his book on his lap, looked at me, and said, “Mom, all our lives you wanted us to read and now we are.”

Daughter added her two cents worth. “Yeah, all those times you took us to the library to get books paid off.”

Son added, “Remember how we could keep a light on late at night as long as we read? Well, it worked, Mom. We just want to read our books now.”

My feelings were a hurt. I swallowed hard. I’d read aloud as I rocked my babies. How many times had I stopped whatever I was doing to read to them when they were toddlers? I read their school assignments with them. And those times we traveled all day in the car to the beach for family vacations, I read aloud or we listened to books on tape. I was determined my children would like to read.

I wiped a few sentimental tears. Together we shared reading time – each with our own books and that felt good. When Husband came downstairs, he was quiet and we continued to read. Eventually, the spell broke and then we talked about the books we were reading.

I don’t remember the book titles. But I realized grown-up children sometimes do exactly what we parents teach them, but maybe not at a time we’d choose. And family vacation time? Although what happens isn’t always as expected, it’s good to be together.

Filed under: Books, Reading, vacation | Tagged: books, children read, reading, vacation | Leave a comment »

Fresh Corn from Farmer’s Market

Posted on July 14, 2016 by susanrray

Husband and I bit into ears of fresh corn. Peaches and cream. White and yellow kernels. Our first corn this summer and bought at Cookeville’s Farmer’s Market.

“It’s kinda’ crunchy. Maybe next time I’ll cook it a little longer,” I said.

Husband wiped his chin with a napkin. “This is about perfect.”

Yes, about perfect. There’s nothing like fresh from-the-field veggies and once again, I’m so thankful to those who grow crops and bring them to town to sell.

What’s the better way to eat corn on the cob? By the row or around the cob? Chomping from end to end by rows, I eat every single kernel. But some prefer to rotate the cob and start eating at the thicker end saving the most tender and smallest kernels for last.

Anyone use corn picks? Plastic, yellow, and shaped like an ear of corn, the corn picks I used as a kid are hidden away in the back of a kitchen drawer. And now bright colored holders with threaded prongs to screw into the cob or stainless steel corn holders are available to buy. Most times I forgo the picks. I really don’t mind a little corn juice running down my arm.

Butter? Salt? Butter for me, please, and roll the ear on the butter. The hot corn glides and the butter melts between kernels. Afterward, I’m left with a strange looking stick of butter, but it still spreads on hot cornbread. Salt? It depends on the sweetest of the corn. Really sweet corn just needs butter.

I grew up eating sweet yellow corn. Husband likes white Silver Queen. But neither of us are corn snobs – we like it all. The fresher, the better. The moment an ear is pulled from the plant, its sugars begin to change into starches. If you like that starchy flavor, cook corn several days after it’s been picked.

Did anyone else’s mother boil corn for twenty minutes? It was well done. A bit chewy and starchy. To cook a few ears, I cut off the silks with scissors and stick the shucks and all in the microwave. Two minutes per ear for tender, crunchy kernels. Or try grilling corn in the shuck with the grill cover closed for about 15 minutes, turning the ears about every five minutes. Roasted brown kernels and delicious.

It’s easy to take off the silks and shuck warm microwaved corn. I saw an online video showing how to cut off the stem end and push the cooked ear of corn out of the shuck. It takes practice and patience and I haven’t mastered that trick. I slice off the thicker end and easily remove shuck and silks together.

As I’ve been writing this column, I’ve wonder why we say ‘ear of corn?’ Nothing about corn looks like an ear. According to Wonderopolis, a national nonprofit organization to help adults and children learn together, ear comes from the ancient word “ahs” which meant husk of corn. So did the word ear mean corn before it referred to an organ for hearing?

I buy the freshest, sweetest corn offered at Farmer’s Market, even though the price, $5.00 per dozen, has increased this year. That’s only forty-two cents per ear, a serving, and I’m quite happy to pay. I’m really glad the farmers plow the ground, plant seeds, hoe plants, gather corn, haul it to town, and spend days selling it out of the back of their pick-up trucks.

Summertime is even better when eating a fresh ear of buttered corn.

Filed under: Food | Tagged: corn, Farmer's Market | Leave a comment »

Patriotism at Its Best

Posted on June 29, 2016 by susanrray

The 4^th of July. Our country’s birthday, when Americans are most patriotic. We hold parades and concerts and backyard picnics. We wear red, white, and blue. Eat watermelon. Decorate bicycles with crepe paper streamers. Watch fireworks.

I’ve been right in the middle of such celebrations, but the most patriotic event I’ve ever attended wasn’t to celebrate our country’s birthday. Ten years ago, Son and Daughter-in-Law met Husband and me in Colorado Springs, Colorado, for a long weekend visit. It was mid-July, time for the local rodeo. Since we didn’t have Friday night plans, a real western rodeo seemed like a fun evening.

As we got out of our rental car in the parking lot, we laughed that we weren’t dressed appropriately. White tennis shoes, wrinkled blue jeans, and tee shirts identified us as tourists. Other people wore spit-shined cowboy boots (many with silver spurs), long sleeve western shirts, and jeans with knife-sharp creases. Black, brown, and white cowboy hats with rolled side brims put Husband’s and Son’s caps to shame.

We bought our admission tickets, took a few steps into the arena, and I had one of those frozen-in-place moments. The arena was pristine. The rusty-brown colored ground in the center ring had been smoothed in a circle pattern. And America flags flew from white posts around the ring. It was the beauty of the flags that stopped me.

As we made our way to grandstand seats, cowboys stepped aside and tipped their hats. An usher led us to open bleacher seating and suggested we sit high so we could take in the show at its best. People already seated moved closer together to make room for us and nodded a welcome.

At dusk, floodlights dimmed and everyone stood. Riders on horseback and dressed in military uniforms presented the American and Colorado flags and two others I didn’t recognize. The horses raced around the arena and then stopped dead still in the center. Old Glory rose above the other flags. All hats were held over hearts.

A traditional rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” was sung, and not just by the singer holding the microphone. It seemed that every person standing sang. The red and white stripes waved. I wiped tears of pride.

I knew we were at a real rodeo. What I didn’t know was that the Pikes Peak or Bust Rodeo, which began in 1937, supports the military. Rodeo proceeds support service members and their families in the Pikes Peak Region. Colorado Springs is home to the United States Air Force Academy, U.S. NORAD/NORTHCOM (home to the American and Canadian joint forces), Air Force Space Command, Shriever Air Force Base, Peterson Air Force Base, and Fort Carson. The community is proud of its partnership with the armed forces.

The Facebook page for the Pike’s Peak or Bust Rodeo recognizes the event’s volunteers.

“What makes the rodeo work is the over 300 community and military volunteers who give their time to ensure we provide our community with a great rodeo. More importantly, it assures we can continue our tradition and #1 purpose of giving back to our military and their families. That’s what it’s all about and why we do what we do.”

And no doubt, that’s why a rodeo that we just happened to take in was the most patriotic event I’ve ever attended. It recognized the courage and sacrifice of our men and women in uniform.

And, oh yes, the barrel racing and bareback bronc riding were the two most exciting competitions.

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Filed under: Holidays | Tagged: 4th of July, Colorado rodeo, patriotism, rodeo | Leave a comment »

Cleaning Out: A Dreaded Chore

Posted on June 22, 2016 by susanrray

Husband said, “It’s going to be really hot tomorrow. Too hot to be outside. How about we clean out and sort stuff at the store basement?” His words pierced my heart. My stomach. The basement where we’d banished stuff for 35 years. Stuff too big to stick under a bed or hang on the garage wall or fit on a shelf in our home storage closet. And stuff I couldn’t emotionally let go, but didn’t have a current use for.

“Can we do it in two hours?” I mumbled. I’ve purposefully avoided the basement for years. Husband regularly takes things to and from there, but I’ve held to an old theory: out of sight, out of mind.

“Probably. We’ll make three piles.” Everyone knows the piles. “Keep, trash, sell or give away.”

My inner voice said, “How about you just take care of it? I don’t care what you do with stuff.” But I heard myself say, “Okay. Sounds like a plan.” I knew it had to be done sometime and some work is planned for that space so it’s logical to clean it out.

The next morning, I awoke two hours earlier than normal. I thought of stuff. What about Granny’s quilting frames? The ones that hung in her bedroom for decades and she used to quilt the many, many quilts that my family and I love. Long wooden boards that haven’t been used in forty years. And my big blue bike, my 10^th birthday present? And what’s there from my children’s childhood?

“I’m not looking forward to this,” I told Husband as we sipped coffee.

“Me, either. It has to be done.” We agreed the sell and give away pile included stuff that Son and Daughter would get first dibs on. That took off some pressure.

Thankfully, the first items we came across were easily sorted. Sell or give: draperies from a previous house and a baby-kicking musical toy that none of our Grands liked. Trash: a baby bed that doesn’t meet safety standards. A county fair stuffed animal that a live animal had obviously made a home in. A basketball with a slit.

I spotted wheeled toys. Keep: A red toddler tricycle and Son’s childhood bike. Give away: my blue bike. I rationalized it hasn’t been ridden in 40 years and no one rides bikes like it and it might end up being trashed. Trash: Big wheel with wobbly wheels. If it had an odometer it would’ve logged 100,000 miles.

The sell or give pile grew. University of Georgia beanbag. Hot wheels plastic carrying case. Quart canning jars. Pepsi Coal hanging lamp. Kitchen chairs. Golf clubs. And much, much more.

After two hours, we hauled a small truckload of stuff to the Putnam County recycling and garbage center on Dacco Quarry Road. Slinging trash into dumpsters felt good. Almost cathartic.

At home, sitting on the back porch swing, I dusted 100-piece jigsaw puzzles boxes. My Grands will laugh at Popeye, Mickey Mouse, and Road Runner. I sorted through my deceased parents’ Christmas tree decorations and divided them into three stacks: one for each of their grandchildren.

A chore I’d dreaded is done and lighten my emotionally attachments. Daughter wants my blue bike and the kitchen chairs. Son wants his UGA beanbag and my dad’s golf clubs. A friend took canning jars. Everything isn’t out of the basement, but it’s all sorted.

Granny’s quilting frames will fit under a king size bed or hang as art on a bedroom wall. And Son and Daughter get to sort boxes labeled ‘School Memories.’ It’s their stuff.

Filed under: Everyday Life | Tagged: cleaning out, storage, stuff | Leave a comment »

Learning to Swim

Posted on June 16, 2016 by susanrray

Last week I took two of my Grands for a swim lesson. I watched them splash and kick and laugh and thought of my childhood days in a much different pool. It wasn’t a huge pool and didn’t have a big area of ankle-to-shoulder-deep water, like the one my Grands were in.

In Pickett County, during the 1950s, the only public swimming pool was at Star Point Dock, now Star Point Resort, on Dale Hollow Lake. And no one had a backyard pool. At that time, Ted and Gwen Mochow, good friends of my parents, owned Star Point.

I contacted the Mochows’ son, Mike, to confirm a few details. During the week, guests who stayed in Star Point cabins and the motel used the pool. On weekends, it was available to the public and admission was 50 cents. We swimmers walked through a footbath, about two by four feet in size, to sanitize our feet with a disinfectant before getting in the pool.

The concrete pool was divided into two sections: one for non-swimmers, one for swimmers. The non-swimmer side, where the water was about four feet deep, I knew well. I clung to the side and walked around the edge of that 10 x 40 foot pool (my best guess of the size) and I never wore a life jacket or water wings or any flotation device. I gripped the concrete, hand over hand, all the time watching my older brother and friends in the huge deep pool, on the other side of a concrete divider. My goal was to jump off the diving board (no aspiration to dive) and swim in the ten-foot deep water, to the steps. I could imagine myself climbing up those metal steps, onto the narrow concrete deck.

My family wasn’t a water recreation family. Occasionally, on a Saturday afternoon after we’d finished weekly chores – cleaning house, burning trash, mowing the yard – Dad took my brother and me to the pool, but he never got in the water. Mom didn’t swim, and she was happy to stay home and watch a baseball game on TV.

The only times both Mom and Dad were within the metal fence pool enclosure at Star Point pool were when the Mochows invited us for family cookouts and swim parties. Ted and Gwen were skilled swimmers, and they organized water games and contests. Even Dad swam and played. Gwen finally convinced Mom that for safety she should learn to swim, and so when I was about 10 years old, Mom and I took swimming lessons together.

Side by side we lay prone in the water, held to the pool’s edge, and kicked. We blew bubbles. We bobbed our heads in the water. And eventually, I swam. No fancy stokes. No side breathing. I kicked and used an arm stoke well enough to accomplish my goal. Swimming in the deep swimmer’s pool was just as big a deal as I thought it’d be. And Mom’s backstroke qualified her as a swimmer.

Now, my young Grands are overcoming the discomfort of water up their noses and learning to enjoy the water, with confidence. Elaine, age 5, told me, “You know what, Gran? I flapped my arms like this (she flapped like a bird) and moved all by myself. And I can touch bottom a long way.”

Pools and teaching techniques have changed. But my Grands will soon know the same success I felt the first time I climbed up the metal steps out of the swimmer’s pool. And I’ll celebrate with them.

Filed under: Children, Grandchildren, sports, Water Fun | Tagged: learning to swim, swim | Leave a comment »

Best Lap Sitter

Posted on June 9, 2016 by susanrray

“He’s our best lap sitter,” Son said. My almost three-year-old Grand spots a lap and climbs or crawls or rolls into it. While Son sat on the floor, Neil ran to him and plopped in his daddy’s lap and leaned back. Son hugged Neil tightly.

I’d noticed that Neil seemed to have built-in radar for his mother’s lap. She sat on the couch to fold clothes. Neil climbed into her lap. She sat to repair a pair of glasses. Neil climbed into her lap. It’s said that a mother’s lap is the safest place on Earth, and I agree, but Neil likes all laps.

After Son talked about Neil being a lap sitter, I watched my young Grand that day. Husband held Annie, Neil’s one-year-old sister, on his lap as he read a book aloud. Neil ran into the room and immediately scrambled to sit beside Annie, but he never said a word and Husband kept reading. And my Grand didn’t move until Husband stood up.

I sat in the floor with my legs crisscrossed while Annie crawled around me, picking up toys and tossing them aside. When she got almost out of my reach, I lunged and held her ankle. Neil ran to me. “I’ll help,” he said and wrapped both arms around Annie, pulling her toward me. Then he plopped onto my legs.

Lunchtime, only Neil and I sat across the kitchen table from each other. The others, Neil’s parents and two siblings and Husband, had finished eating, put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and moved on. Neil enjoyed every bite, slowly. One bite, chew. Minutes later, another bite. No need to rush this boy with his food. I was happy to sit with him.

My Grand placed his flat hands on each side of his plate, leaned toward me, “Gran, I’m going to sit in your seat!” He jumped from his booster seat onto the floor and then picked up his plate and set it beside mine. He climbed onto my lap, wiggled to get comfortable, and fifteen minutes later finished eating his peanut butter sandwich and strawberries.

After lunch, I sat in a rocking chair and held Neil. He crossed his arms across his chest and curled his legs, making himself small. “Rock, Gen,” he said. (He’s working on saying Gran. Sometimes it’s Grannie. Sometimes Gigi, his other grandmother’s name. Sometimes Gen or Gran.) I rocked slowly and he scrunched his closed eyes.

“Neil, afternoon rest time in about five minutes,” his mother said. My Grand pulled himself into a tighter ball and turned his head toward me. “Mama, I’m asleep,” he said. Then he peeked, his eyes a narrow open slit, and looked up at me. “Shhh. I’m asleep.”

I rocked and wrapped my arms around Neil. He wrinkled his nose and squinted several times, as if to be sure I was looking at him and agreed that he was asleep. A few minutes later Neil’s mother said, “Neil, wake up, and come with me. It’s time to sleep upstairs in your bed.”

“Shhh. I’m asleep,” he said. His mother gently lifted him into her arms and my Grand flutter his eyelashes and said, “Good night, Gran.” I let him know I would be ready to rock with him after his nap.

I hope Neil never gets too old to be a lap sitter. Hugging and reading and talking just naturally go with lap sitting.

Filed under: Grandchildren | Tagged: Grand, Grandchildren, lap, lap sitter | Leave a comment »

FOR SALE

Posted on June 2, 2016 by susanrray

It’s sell-your-stuff season. Garage sales. Yard sales. Estate sales. Those sales where you price toys that were on your children’s must-have Christmas lists and then never played with. Stuff passed down from parents and grandparents and you’ve replaced with bigger and better. Stuff that matched the living room when the walls were painted Morning Sky Blue. Stuff you collected and your children dusted and they hope to never see again.

I’m not good at garage sales. Selling or buying. One time Husband and I spent weeks cleaning out closets, drawers, stacks here and there, and set up tables and hanging racks and put prices on items and then for two days I watched people come and go and haggle about such things as a fifty-cent price for a perfectly good handmade breadbasket that I bought for $12 from a beach hawker. And I sold Son’s Millennium Falcon because his interests, as a college student, were elsewhere and he said it was fine to get rid of it. Well, it wasn’t. My Grands who are Star Wars fans would treasure that vintage 1980’s Falcon.

And a few times I’ve been enticed by newspaper classified ads and set out to shop. Invariably, I see stuff exactly like I have. And I buy stuff I don’t need. Standard-sized handmade pillowcases embroidered with flowers in variegated colors. Somebody’s grandmother made these and two sets were priced $1.00. I stacked them with the cross-stitched pillowcases my Grandma Gladys made.

I’m touched by what my friend Jo shared when she was in the midst of emptying her grandparents’ house and sorting through their stuff and her parents’ stuff. “My one sad thought about yard sales: it almost seems disrespectful to put a love one’s belongings in a sale. Going through Dad’s things has brought to my attention the tubs of nothingness my kids will go through some day. It feels good to empty my own tub and set the clutter free. So I do have mixed emotions about it.”

Mixed emotions. Happy to get stuff cleaned out. Sad to give up family belongings.

But Jo had a good idea. “My kids will find a tub one day that has a couple of their Grannie’s articles of clothing she sewed and a very old dress of their great-grandmother’s. Naming the tub makes it more valuable, you know.”

Isn’t that a great idea? Chose a few things. Store and label those with the name of the person who owned them and then give away or sell the rest. The writer in me says to include a short biography and at least one story about the person.

And Jo finds a silver lining in her yard sale. “The best part of a yard sale is visiting with neighbors that usually just pass by and throw their hands in the air. We family members might as well enjoy sitting together in Grandma’s yard and hope folks are happy with their finds. Grandma would love knowing so many of us are there and that stories will be told about her.”

I’m working on my attitude and checked out the classified ads. Section 515 in this paper. A yard sale offers toys and games from the 50’s and 80’s. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a Millennium Falcon. Even if my Grands don’t like it, I will.

But I’m not yet inspired to gather my unused, outdated, chipped, worn, torn, and no-longer-wanted stuff and put it out to sell. Maybe, someday. But not this selling season.

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Filed under: Everyday Life, Money | Tagged: garage sale, yard sale | Leave a comment »

Stories Told at Cemeteries

Posted on May 26, 2016 by susanrray

I was just a young child, about 6, the first time I remember walking in a cemetery. I tagged along with Dad and Granny, Dad’s mother, to place flowers on Granny’s parents’ graves. Mom had cut yard flowers –roses, iris, snowball blossoms – and arranged them in a vase. The Rich Cemetery, a small and private graveyard, had been a part of Granny’s parents’ farm, near the Moodyville community in Pickett County, when the land was deeded to be a cemetery.

Then Mom and Dad took me to Lovelady Cemetery to decorate the graves of Mom’s grandparents. The one thing I remember: walk around the graves, not on them. As a child, I certainly didn’t want to step on dead people. I didn’t know anybody buried in either cemetery. My parents’ grandparents were just as removed from me as the person buried in a grave marked only by a triangle-shaped limestone rock and thirty feet from the other graves in the Rich Cemetery. Those visits to cemeteries were carefree, outside times.

In 1974, my maternal grandfather died suddenly from a heart attack and was buried in the Lovelady cemetery next to his parents. A few years later Dad’s mother was buried in the Story Cemetery in Byrdstown. But I never regularly visited cemeteries until after Mom’s death in 1991. That’s when I began making the ‘decoration rounds’ with Dad. How I cried and hated to stand beside Mom’s grave. But during those yearly trips I’ve learned more about the people whose graves I walk around.

A black man named Toby was buried in the unnamed grave at the Rich Cemetery. He was a slave before coming to Pickett County in the late 1800s. He didn’t have a family, lived around town, and died about 1912, the year Dad was born. My Granny’s brother-in-law requested that Toby be buried in the family cemetery, and about ten years ago my cousin had a stone, with Toby’s name, placed at his grave.

Dad’s favorite uncle is buried near his grandparents. Uncle Scott was a farmer and sold corn to other hog farmers. He put most of his money in the local bank in the 1920s and lost it during the Great Depression of the 1930s.

Aunt Doris, Mom’s sister, and I went together to the Lovelady Cemetery one Memorial Day. We secured a silk arrangement on top of Papa and Grandma’s headstone and then she laid a single red rose cut from her flower bush on her grandma’s grave. Aunt Doris explained that Grandma Bertram would go to cemeteries on Decoration Day and say that all she ever wanted on her grave was one pretty fresh flower. Aunt Doris also said that because Grandma Bertram valued reading and education, she opened a community lending library in her home long before a public library came to Pickett County.

Mom and Dad chose burial plots in the Story Cemetery, near their home in Byrdstown, more than a year before Mom’s death. One day during Memorial Day weekend, Husband and I will clean the headstones and place flowers on graves at three cemeteries in Pickett County.

I’m glad to have this way to honor parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and a great uncle. Some I never knew and some I knew well and loved. How I wish I’d written more notes to remember the stories of their lives.

Memorial Day. A time to pay tribute to those who came before us. A time to share stories. And I’ll cut one pretty fresh flower for great-Grandma Bertram’s grave.

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Filed under: Memories, Stories | Tagged: cemetery, Memorial Day | Leave a comment »

Overnight with Grands

Posted on May 19, 2016 by susanrray

Son asked, “Think you and Dad could handle our three for 24 hours?” Translation: Will you stay overnight at our house with our three children?

“Yes, we’ll be glad to!” I said. We grandparents are happy to have Grands to ourselves. So Son and Daughter-in-Law planned a one-night, mini vacation. The main concern for Husband and me was we don’t know our Grands’, ages 1, 3, and 5, routines and likes and dislikes since Son’s family lives 1,000 miles away and we don’t see them as often as we wish.

Thankfully, their mother wrote good notes. Snacks: apples cut in slices. (Peeled for Dean. Unpeeled for Neil.) Strawberries and white cheese sticks. (Whole for Dean and Neil. Small pieces for Anne.) Details for meals, rest and bedtime routines, phone numbers, even a letter giving Husband and me authorization for medical care. Our Grands’ parents thought of everything. Well, almost.

The only mention of Baxter, their ten-year-old, ninety-pound boxer, was about his food. About 5:30 p.m. – 1½ scoops. Morning – 2 scoops. Baxter knows Husband and me well. Before the Grands were born, he was first to welcome us. Baxter still hangs his head over our laps when we sit down, and he brings us his raggedy Oscar the Grouch stuffed toy to throw. We know when he stands by an outside door he needs a potty break and where he sleeps.

Baxter is a well behaved, loving dog and practically cares for himself, but that night he didn’t understand the plan. So we’d be close to our Grands during the night, their parents insisted we sleep in their bed. At bedtime, I awoke Baxter from his nap on his blanket in the den. He stumbled, half-asleep, out the backdoor and drank water after he came inside. Husband called for him to follow us upstairs to our one-night bedroom and his every-night room. He turned his head from side-to-side before slowly going up the steps.

“Get on your bed, Baxter,” Husband said. I closed the bedroom door. Baxter stood next to his bed on the floor and then walked around the bedroom. “Maybe he can sleep in his crate tonight,” I suggested. He refused to go into his crate in another room and followed Husband back to the bedroom. “Let’s get in bed and maybe he’ll get on his bed,” I said. Baxter stared at Husband and me as if to say, “You shouldn’t be here.” We didn’t leave and finally Baxter lay down.

Whew, everyone in bed. I prayed that all slept through the night. And everyone did, except Husband and me. Baxter’s snoring and scratching and thumping against the wall were sounds we weren’t use to.

When our Grands’ parents came home, Husband and I reported that we had fun and all went well. Just as planned. The children ate well, played happily, sat in our laps for bedtime reading, brushed their teeth, and went to bed just a little later than their normal time. And I rocked one-year-old Anne longer than usual at bedtime. Everyone ate a good breakfast: fruit and yogurt.

Later, I told Son that Baxter didn’t go to bed as expected and woke us during the night. “Oh, yeah,” Son said, “We don’t always keep him in our bedroom with the door closed anymore. He makes a lot of noise. Maybe we should’ve told you it’s fine for Baxter to sleep on his bed in the den.”

Yes, maybe. But Baxter’s nighttime noises were my excuse for an afternoon nap. Why else would I have been so tired?

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Filed under: Grandchildren, Pets | Tagged: dogs, Grands, Overnight, Pets | Leave a comment »

What’s Your Favorite Color

Posted on May 11, 2016 by susanrray

What’s your favorite color? If you didn’t answer immediately, you haven’t been around young children recently. I wish I had a dollar for every time one of my Grands has asked that question; I could send at least one of them to the finest college.

Why is favorite color so important to little kids? Maybe because color names are among the first things we teach children and they learn to differentiate by color. Clothes. Food. Cars. And claiming a favorite color is a simple ownership that makes you unique.

I’ve made the mistake of analyzing my Grand’s question. My favorite flower color is yellow – forsythia, buttercups, roses, even mums. My home decorating color is green. Most of us are either green people or blue people, and I’m green. I like to wear black, white, bright blue, and red. Once when I gave such details an older Grand said, “Gran, just say a color!”

And I’ve learned to stick with that color. More than once, I’ve chosen a color only to be corrected. “No, Gran, you said yellow is your favorite. Not red.”

Last week Lucy, six days shy of being five years old, rode in my van with me, and I spotted an unusual truck. “Look at that truck. It’s purple and green. That’s strange.”

“Not really,” Lucy said. “Purple is Elsie’s (her big sister’s) favorite color and green is Mama’s. Did you know that Gran?” I didn’t. “Purple is my favorite color, too. Did you know that?”

“I thought orange was your favorite,” I answered. Actually, I hoped it was because I’d just sewed the buttons on her orange housecoat that I made for her birthday gift.

“Well, orange is really my favorite and purple is my favorite too because it’s Elsie’s favorite.” Made sense to me.

When Elsie was five years old, her favorite color was green and I asked her why. “Look around, Gran,” she said. “Green grass, green trees, green everywhere! Get it?” At that time her older brother was seven and he told her to look at the sky. Blue was his favorite color; it covered everything.

I’ve learned that there’s no time more crucial to remember favorite colors than at mealtime. Once, I served milk in a blue plastic cup to Daniel, age 4, and he immediately said, “That’s not my cup. It’s Henry’s (his little brother’s.) Mine’s orange!” A quick swap and both were happy. Other times, serving the wrong color cup to a toddler age Grand has incited a meltdown.

Last Christmas when all eight Grands, and their parents, were here with Husband and me for several meals, I memorized favorite colors. Orange for Daniel and Lucy. Blue for Henry and Annabel. Green for Elsie. No cups for two: one nursing baby and one used his sippy cup. I handed Samuel, then 10, a yellow cup. “Hope yellow is okay, Samuel,” I said.

My oldest Grand’s mouth dropped open and his shoulders slumped. “Really, Gran? It’s all the same milk, right? What difference does the color make?” But ever attuned as the oldest child, he added, “I hope you have two orange cups or Daniel and Lucy won’t be happy.”

How quickly one grows up and favorite colors aren’t important. I’m thankful I have five pre-school age Grands. Life is entertaining when a conversation begins with, “What’s your favorite color?”

Filed under: Grandchildren | Tagged: color, favorite color | 1 Comment »

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