Well, it is with a fair amount of fear and trepidation that I’d like to make an announcement.
Before your mind starts to wander too far, I am not pregnant. That would cause mind-boggling fear and trepidation, and would, in fact, be a miracle.
This is “Not That Big a Deal” which is also the name of my new blog. Yes, friends I have “bitten the bullet, jumped in with both feet, leaped into the breach” and it scares the crumbs out of me. But, I enjoy making people smile and laugh and forget, even if just for a little while, their troubles. I think it’s something we all need now and then. I really do believe that “a good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything.” So, here I go…
My blog link will be posted on facebook and twitter tomorrow and, hopefully, every Friday after that. I hope it does its job. I hope it makes you smile.
…Some have changed a lot. Fortunately, we still have some men and women from the Greatest Generation to remind us of what was important then. To remind us what is still important now. They are the men and women that give us a definition of what has come to be one of my favorite words, perspective. They are men like Mr. Harland.
My week began on Monday. I know that Sunday is supposed to be the beginning of the week, but somehow, for me, Sunday is always the sweeping grand finale full of church and family and relaxing afternoons and the beginning of the week is Monday. Most Mondays I am distracted with thoughts of school preparations and what I will teach those eager little minds that have been put in my charge. Okay, maybe not so eager, but still my responsibility, and so my thoughts are full of students and classes on Mondays which, at my age, can be pretty distracting.
This particular Monday, was the beginning of a very busy week. Aside from school preparations and classes, we were hosting two luncheons, one birthday party for my 86 year old Dad, and attending a “Faces in History” school presentation in which our grandson, Sawyer, was to be George W. Bush. A busy week, I realized maybe a little too busy when on that Monday morning while thinking of all that would be happening, I put a scoop of my dog’s canned dog food into my breakfast smoothie. It was disgusting. Fortunately, I did not drink it. Not a good beginning, but I knew Mr. Harland was coming to class that Tuesday and that thought made everything better!
Mr. Harland is the grandfather of, D, one of my middle school history students. D introduced me to Mr. Harland through his Genealogy Project paper, a 3 – 4 page paper that he got a little carried away with. D’s “paper” ended up being a small “book” at about 50 pages. When I read it, I understood why. It was the story of of D’s history and that included his grandfather, Mr. Harland. After reading D’s “paper,” I asked if Mr. Harland could come share with our middle school history class. He did. He was so good, I asked him to come to my high school history class. I admit I read them the riot act before he came, but soon realized I didn’t have to.
Mr. Harland is almost 84 and stands as straight as an arrow. He began with perspective. He was born in 1937, that meant that when he was a boy, some Civil War veterans and Orville Wright (of the Wright Brothers) were still alive. My students were intrigued. When he brought out some of the toys from his childhood, he had a captive audience.
He had a few of his toys from before WWII. A motorcycle that was made of cast iron that landed on my desk with a thud. A sturdy metal car made with rubber wheels that was still perfectly intact despite its age.Then he brought out a toy car made during the war. It was a tinny little car with wheels made of cardboard because all of the rubber and good metal went to the war. He spoke to my pandemic era students of lives being changed by rationing and everybody doing their part for the war effort. He shared about his days of being let loose in a neighborhood where everybody knew and looked out for everybody else. Days when moms were home all day and communicated to their children by blowing a whistle, each mom having her own unique signal and every kid knowing what each mom’s signal was. He shared his special decoder rings that he’d sent away for and the stock from his Red Rider BB gun. He shared his life.
Personally, my favorite part of his story was the story of where he lived. Mr. Harland grew up in a two story home. His aunt and his grandfather lived on the second floor. His parents and their seven children, one of which was Mr. Harland, lived on the first floor. Both floors had one bathroom and two bedrooms. One bathroom, two bedrooms, nine people. And then he asked the obvious question. “Where did we all sleep?” His parents had one bedroom, some siblings had the other, a few of his siblings slept in the attic, and that left Mr. Harland. His “bedroom” was a roll-away cot in the living room that was folded and stored each day in his parents bedroom. And then he shared my favorite part, he went to sleep every night with his Dad sitting six feet away from him, reading the newspaper and listening to the radio. It was nostalgic and my kids, whose minds I am always eager to fill, loved every minute of it. He ended with some of the best advice, enjoy your childhood, do everything with passion, and realize that choices made now will determine how you live later.
I often think about the times and places that I remember. Life, even a life born well after WWII, seems very different compared to life now. And though I sometimes think it, not once did Mr. Harland say that those were the “good old days.” Not once did he give any indication that he thought those days were better, only that they were different. Perspective. It can be a wonderful thing. It is a very big deal!
Recently, my husband and I went “home” again. Not the home we share “now,” we go there everyday. This is the home we shared “then”…
After a brief apartment stay, this was the home we first lived in after we were married. The home we bought with Cliff’s sister and brother-in-law, because neither of us could afford one on our own. The home we brought our babies home to and the home we raised them in until they were almost all teenagers. The home our children shared with their 6 cousins, three of them the same age as they were. The home of movie nights, maze tag, Grandpa Howard days, and long hikes up to the top of Tourne Mountain. The home of 13 people, 2 bathrooms, a dog, a cat, some hamsters that could eat their way through glass, and a couple of bedrooms with no closets. The home where all the neighbors knew there were 9 children living in that house and none of them went to school. They had no idea who belonged to who, but welcomed us to their close-knit, mostly-related, neighborhood just the same.
Cliff’s sister, husband and 6 children lived upstairs with a mudroom downstairs and the closed in porch. We lived in the rest of the downstairs. Now, they live in the whole house having bought it from us when we decided to move to Florida. There are only 4 people living in it now. Much of it is different, but much of it is the same. The home is no longer “ours,” but the memories will always belong to us. Precious memories never really go away. They settle in the recesses of our mind until they are recalled by a certain smell, a particular song, or in our case, a visit.
Now, before I become overwhelmingly nostalgic, let me say that going “home” can also lead to other things, like not realizing how much or in what way certain things have changed. Aside from visiting and staying with family, we also made plans to share a dinner with some old friends. I set everything up for them to meet us in Boonton since we had to borrow a car. I’d Googled and found that the old Boonton Train Station, a place we had driven by on numerous occasions had been renovated into a restaurant. It was close to where we were, had a good menu, and looked like a nice place. So, I asked our friends to meet us there that Friday night and they agreed. When we arrived at my sister-in-law’s I, very fortunately, mentioned that we’d be eating out on Friday and then I told her where. She was quiet for a moment, almost contemplative as she told us, “I think that’s a gay bar.”
I guess it’s kind of weird, but I almost thought of not telling our friends and meeting them there anyway. I thought it might be kind of exciting and really funny. After all, I’d never been to a gay bar and my sister-in-law did say, “it may have changed.” But, my conscience got the better of me and so, I turned to Google. Google confirmed that it was indeed a gay bar, in fact, it is the only gay bar outside of Bergen County or New York City! And, of course, I found it. I texted our friends and told them we should probably change our venue. They laughed and agreed. We met at a very nice restaurant; the type that New Jersey is famous for, the quintessential New Jersey Diner. It was a wonderful time of catching up and, for at least two of us, an opportunity to compare hearing aids. You know you’re old when you have a good time comparing hearing aids. Strangely enough, the two of us that wear them, are the two loudest in the group. I’m thinking we probably made ourselves deaf.
The following day we thought we would walk up Tourne Mountain for old times sake, that is until I realized that where we live in Florida is mostly flat and I was fairly certain that my dear husband, though he loves me, would not want to carry me piggy-back up a mountain for a mile. Especially since, as he says, we are in the same wrestling weight class. Not that we wrestle, but that’s what he says. And so, we walked “through” the park without walking “up” the mountain. That night was spent with all of my sister-in-laws family. Five of the six kids, three of those with spouses, and a few children thrown in for good measure. No worry of our location and what we might encounter, as it was their dining room. Good food, good fellowship, great family. The stuff that life is made of, always. Because everything else is just really not that big a deal!
We’ve now been living in the world of CoVid for approximately 357 days OR 51 weeks OR 11 months and 23 days. Not that I’m counting or anything; but, that’s a long time. You can learn a lot in all of that time, especially when, for a good portion of that time, you aren’t really going anywhere. Here are some things that I have learned…
Crocheting can be hazardous to your health.
There is, of course, the ever present danger of sitting on your crochet hook, which I can tell you from experience may not be “hazardous” but it is certainly not comfortable. My crocheting began with an epiphany of sorts that all of those young couples in our church, with not much else to do, would be “busy.” And so, I made baby blankets. Then, I discovered velvet yarn and decided to make Christmas presents for my daughters. And then, one of my grandson’s saw one of the Christmas presents and he wanted a blanket, too. And, as any good Nana knows, if you make it for one you have to make it for all. There are seven of them. I ended up making a total of approximately 25 blankets. That’s a lot of crocheting. In fact that is so much crocheting that I may have injured my shoulder…Okay, I did injure my shoulder. I may also have given myself Carpal Tunnel, though my Chiropractor seems to have that part under control. The shoulder is still a bit of a problem. Why have I been crocheting so much?
British Detective Shows are intriguing.
It seems that British people are fairly fond of murder. Their murders are different from ours. Ours are usually gory, psychopathic murders. Theirs are usually accidental where, in some cases, you actually feel kind of sorry for the murderer. Endeavour, Broadchurch, Grantchester, DCI Banks, New Tricks…we’ve seen them all. We are currently watching one called Unforgotten. We’ve learned a lot from these shows. We’ve learned that a DCI is a Detective Chief Inspector. A DS is a Detective Sergeant and a DSU is a Detective Superintendent. The “Met” is not the Metropolitan Opera for Brits. The “Met” is the Metropolitan Police. CID is their Crime Investigation Department. And the phrase, “Any joy?” is a way of asking if someone has heard any good news. If someone “tops” themselves, they’ve committed suicide. Who knew? We’ve also decided that the Brits spend an awful lot of time in Pubs and they seem to be very fond of their “pints” and wine. I guess with all of that murder they need an outlet.
Refined sugar, coffee, and regular milk are no longer my friends.
This has been difficult. What can be worse than being in the middle of a pandemic and realizing that the three ingredients of your favorite morning beverage are no longer friends with your insides? Not much. Even worse, I can’t even have them as individuals and refined sugar is one of my favorite ingredients in almost any food. There has been some “joy” (see above for translation) in all of this. I lost 12 pounds. I’m not sure where it went, but I’m pretty sure I don’t care. Life goes on. I now drink tea with honey and Lactaid milk. It’s my lot in life and as Phyllis Diller once said, “It’s not a lot, but it’s my life.”
I can now cut hair, trim a beard, and the cut funny little hairs that grow out of an old man’s ears.
Let’s face it, Italians tend to be hairy people. When your father is an old Italian and can no longer go to his even older Italian barber, his semi-Italian daughter needs to step up and learn a few things; especially when the funny little ear hairs have grown long enough to be a part of his beard and, quite possibly, are interfering with his already diminished ability to hear. How did I learn to trim a beard you might ask? And I might tell you…YouTube. It was actually kind of interesting and Dad seems pleased with the results! So, all is well and maybe, I have the beginnings of a new career as an ear hair remover!
Finally, I have learned that living through history-making times is difficult. I think it always has been. But, if we look back at others that have lived through historic times, I’m pretty sure we, like them, will be okay…Because in the light of all eternity, it’s really not that big a deal!
Throughout the course of my life, I have been blessed with not having to face many challenges. At least none that I paid much attention to.
I was born in 1959. My generation all played outside pretty much everyday. We drank out of the hose and swam in pools and lakes. We played in the woods and played on swings and ran through the poisonous fog of the mosquito sprayers. There were days that we slept with our front door open and only our screen door closed to let in any breezes at night. Our windows were always open. We walked to school and to the candy store. We rode bikes and played Little Kiddles. We were kids.
We were in the midst of the Cold War and later Vietnam, but most of us were really too young to understand and didn’t face those challenges directly. We faced the normal challenges of childhood, making new friends, attending a new school, learning math concepts that we didn’t want to learn from teachers that we didn’t really like. These were our challenges.
Recently, life has been challenging. Pandemics will do that. But, we can see an end and through it all, life has not been that bad. Though the pandemic has touched us all and caused some of us tremendous loss, it will be over some day. Hopefully, sooner rather than later.
We are currently in the midst of Black History Month. Every year at school, my history classes participate in a Tournament to see who is The Most Fascinating Person in American History. Students choose a name out of a hat, give a presentation to the class, and they vote. The winner moves on on a Tournament Board, similar to College Basketball’s March Madness. The kids love it and they’re learning about people in history that they might otherwise have never known. We have winners for the First and Second Semester and then students vote between the two. There have been various winners over the years, Martin Luther King, Jr., Abraham Lincoln, FDR, to name a few. This year was different though. This year the winner of our First Semester board was Jackie Robinson. When his name was chosen, they didn’t really know who he was or what he’d done. They do now. They know the challenges that this man fought for himself, for his race, for a sport, and really for us all. It’s good to read about people that have faced challenges. It gives us perspective.
The following is an article posted by Guideposts. If we allow ourselves to really think about all this man went through, I think we will all understand what being challenged really means. I hope you enjoy this…
Guideposts Classics: Jackie Robinson on Facing Challenges
In this story from August 1948, Hall of Famer and American hero Jackie Robinson recalls the challenges he faced in breaking baseball’s color barrier.
by Jackie Robinson
I’ll never forget the day Branch Rickey, president of the Brooklyn Dodgers, asked me to join his baseball organization, I would be the first Negro to play in organized baseball—that is, if I were good enough to make the grade.
Mr. Rickey’s office was large and simply furnished. There were four framed pictures on the wall. One was a kodachrome snapshot of Leo Durocher, the field manager of the Dodgers. Another was a portrait of the late Charlie Barrett, one of the greatest scouts in the game. A third was of General Chennault. And the fourth and largest smiled down one me with calm reassurance, the portrait of the sad, trusting Abraham Lincoln who had pleaded for malice toward none…
This was the never-to-be-forgotten day when our Marines landed on the soil of Japan, August 29, 1945. It was a hot day with venetian blinds shutting out the sun, and the Brooklyn clamor of Montague Street mingled with the noisy traffic around Borough Hall.
From behind his desk the big, powerful, bushy-browed Branch Rickey, who seemed a combination of father and boss, mapped out to me his daring strategy to break the color line in Major League Baseball.
I was excited at the opportunity. It was a tremendous challenge. But was I good enough?
“Mr. Rickey,” I said, “it sounds like a dream come true—not only for me but for my race. For 70 years there has been racial exclusion in Big League Baseball. There will be trouble ahead—for you, for me, for my people and for baseball.”
“Trouble ahead,” Rickey rolled the phrase over his lips as though he liked the sound. “You know, Jackie, I was a small boy when I took my first train ride. On the same train was an old couple, also riding for the first time. We were going through the Rocky Mountains. The old man sitting by the window looked forward and said to his wife, ‘Trouble ahead, Ma! We’re high up over a precipice and we’re gonna run right off.’
“To my boyish ears the noise of the wheels repeated ‘Trouble-a-head-trouble-ahead…’ I never hear train wheels to this day but what I think of this. But our train course bent into a tunnel right after the old man spoke, and we came out on the other side of the mountain. That’s the way it is with most trouble ahead in this world, Jackie—if we use the common sense and courage God gave us. But you’ve got to study the hazards and build wisely.”
I’ve never forgotten that little story. It helped me through many of the rough moments I was to face in the future. I signed my contract that day with a humble feeling of great responsibility. I prayed that I would be equal to the test.
“God is with us in this, Jackie,” Mr. Rickey said quietly. “You know your Bible. It’s good, simple Christianity for us to face realities and to recognize what we’re up against. We can’t go out and preach and crusade and bust our heads against a wall. We’ve got to fight out our problems together with tact and common sense.”
To give me experience and seasoning, Mr. Rickey sent me the first year to play with the Montreal Royals, a farm club for the Brooklyn organization. I was the cause of trouble from the start—but we expected it. Pre-season exhibition games were cancelled because of “mixed athletes”, although the official reason was always different.
Some of my teammates may have resented me. If so, I didn’t blame them. They had problems enough playing ball without being a part of a racial issue. I tried hard not to develop “rabbit ears”, a malady picked up by all athletes who are sensitive to abuse and criticism shouted from the fans.
One of my top thrills was my opening game for Montreal at Jersey City. The pressure was on and I was very nervous. But during that contest I slapped out four hits, including a home run. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better start.
But as the season began to unroll game after game, my play grew erratic. I was trying too hard. I knew I had to keep my temper bridled at every turn. Guarding so carefully against outbursts can put a damper on one’s competitive spirit.
Every athlete at some time or other likes “to blow his top.” It seldom does any harm and acts like a safety valve. A hitter in a slump may drive the ball deep to the infield, then leg it to first sure that he has beaten the throw. The umpire calls him out. With this the frustrated athlete jerks off his cap, slams it on the ground and thunders all his pent-up irritations at the umpire. The crowd roars its approval or dislike depending on whether the player is on the home or visiting team. The umpire merely turns his back, and the ball player after giving vent to his unhappiness, trots back to the bench feeling much better. It’s all a part of the game.
But I didn’t dare let loose this way. Many would have dubbed me a “hothead” and point to my outburst as a reason why Negroes should not play in organized baseball. This was one of the hardest problems I had to face.
As the season rolled along, however, the players became accustomed to me. My play improved. When the season ended, Montreal had won the Junior World Series. I admit proudly to winning the batting championship of the league with an average .349.
On April 10, 1947, Branch Rickey made the announcement that gave me my greatest thrill. I was to join the Brooklyn Dodgers and become the first Negro to compete in the Major Leagues.
To add to my regular problems of bucking the expected publicity and criticism from the usual quarters, I was placed at a strange position—first base. At Montreal I had played second base.
It was Montreal all over again, only this time the pressure was much greater, the competition keener, and the stakes tremendous. It wasn’t a question so much of a colored athlete making good as a big leaguer, but whether the whole racial question would be advanced or retarded.
I prayed as I never had before.
As a first baseman I had many fielding shortcomings. I worked hard to iron them out and both fans and players by and large were rooting for me. This encouragement was a big factor in helping me improve my game.
Again I faced the same problems. An opposing player drove a hard grounder to the infield. When he crossed first base his spikes bit painfully into my foot. Accident or deliberate? Who can tell? But the first reaction of a competitive ball player is to double up fists and lash out. I saw a blinding red. It took every bit of my discipline to bridle my temper. But when my teammates rushed to my support in white hot anger, it gave me the warmest feeling I’ve ever felt. At that moment I belonged.
That year the Dodgers won the pennant. I was thrilled to know that my efforts were considered an important factor in winning. But I also cherished another triumph. Baseball as a whole had come to accept the Negro. From now on the colored ball player, to make the grade, will simply have to be a good enough player. As Mr. Rickey says, a champion is a champion in America, black or white.
This story first appeared in the August 1948 issue of Guideposts.
People are different. We come in different shapes and sizes. We come in different colors. We come with different personalities, different likes and dislikes, different ways of doing things. We’re different and that’s what makes life interesting.
When our kids were younger, we used to watch nighttime TV all huddled together in our bed. We did this because my sister-in-law, her husband and their 6 children, lived upstairs and our living room was below the kid’s bedroom. Kids, being kids, are naturally loud and even more so when there are 6 of them sharing one room. So, we migrated to our bedroom and made cozy memories as a family.
One of our favorite shows was “Boy Meets World”. One of my favorite episodes was when they portrayed the four teenage characters as senior citizens. In that episode they were all having lunch in a diner, dressed like they were in their 80’s and talking like they couldn’t hear and had no teeth. Their conversation went something like this… “So. How’s the fish?” “Niiice…” “What?” “Who? “They want you to take the rolls!”
Some of us in my original family, the one minus my husband, kids, and grandkids, have hearing problems, namely, my Dad, and myself; though my sister in NJ said she doesn’t hear well either. Dad’s hearing loss was due to many years of working around very loud, heavy machinery. Dad was a mechanic. So, his is not hereditary. Mine and, most likely my sister’s, was a gift from our Grandma Moon. Nothing to do with the outside world. When I went for my first real hearing test to see if I actually had hearing loss, the doctor assumed that I’d gone to a lot of loud, heavy metal concerts in my teens. I told her I’d only been to two concerts in my life and I was pretty sure that the Osmond Brothers and Johnny Cash didn’t exactly qualify for the “heavy metal” category. She agreed and asked about older close relatives with hearing loss. That’s when I first realized it was my Grandma. Grandma Moon lived with us and our daily afternoon tea times consisted of all of us girls, Mom, my sisters and I, shouting so Gram could hear us even with her hearing aid.
I first realized I was probably losing my hearing when our first grandchild, our only granddaughter, started speaking in her adorable, little, high-pitched voice and I couldn’t hear her. Around that same time, I began teaching middle and high school classes and realized I couldn’t hear most of the boys either. And so, I bought and began wearing hearing aids, every single day. I love them. My Dad, who will be 86 this March, has a pair of hearing aids that he got from the VA. He doesn’t wear them every single day. He doesn’t wear them at all. He hates them.
Erma Bombeck once said, “If you can’t make it better, you can laugh at it!” A wonderful truth. Case in point…
The other day Mom came up with a brilliant idea to communicate better with Dad.
“What about this, Rox? What if Dad and I learn sign language?” Mom is 80. Dad will be 86 in March. I was going to laugh until I realized Mom was serious. All I could picture is Mom trying to sign to Dad and Dad thinking Mom was having some kind of an arthritic seizure. And so I told Mom I didn’t think it was a good idea. “What if I get a small chalkboard and write things out to him?” “No, Mom, I don’t think that will work either.” We decided she should just move closer to Dad when she talks. Problem solved…at least for now.
One of the perks of hearing loss is that, since I don’t hear very well, I sleep very soundly. Rain, thunderstorms, hurricanes, sonic booms (remember I live in Florida)…no problem. My husband, on the other hand, is a very light sleeper. The hum of a fan can keep him awake. Personally, I consider his excellent hearing to be somewhat of a curse at night. He may not agree, especially when he’s trying to talk to me from across the room and I am already hearing aid free. I always try to guess what he’s saying. I never get it right. Our conversations usually end up sounding something like this.
“Do you find your key?” “Yeah, I have to pee.”
“I’m feeling much better.” “I know, I brought my sweater.”
“Do you think you can cut my hair soon?” “What happened to the chair in the room?”
You get the idea. Further proof that getting old is not for the faint of heart. But it sure can be fun because, depending on how you look at it, it’s really not that big a deal!
First, I’d like to apologize for last week’s post. Though I posted it in full on my blog, it ended abruptly when posted and, as my Fairy Blog Mother said, “so did 2020.”
This week I am copying a post that I received on facebook from the Accidental Talmudist called The Silent Holocaust Hero. Here it is in full, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. A little history, a lot of goodness in humans during difficult times…something we all can use! Thank you for reading my blog. I appreciate each and every one of you! Many thanks to accidentaltalmudist.org
I have hair. A LOT of hair. It has been decided, by my mother years ago, and more recently by my husband and I, that I have too much hair for my face.
It was, kind of, always this way. When I was a little girl, I was given a pixie so my mother could continue to care for my siblings and retain her sanity without having to deal with my hair and it’s almost too many to count cowlicks.
Have you ever thought about the origin of the word “cowlick”? I know its definition is “a tuft of hair that grows in the wrong direction,” but where did the word come from? According to Google, “The term ‘cowlick’ originates from the domestic bovine’s habit of licking it’s young, which results in a swirling pattern in the hair.” Hmm…I may need to have a talk with my Mom.
But, I digress…
Since moving to sunny, very humid, Florida, I think it’s safe to say my hair has grown. Now, of course, everybody’s hair grows vertically; but, not unlike my body, my hair has grown horizontally. It has grown horizontally to the point that, when brushed out, I have a good old fashioned, 1970’s “fro”….Remember Rosanna, Rosanna, Danna?
And all through our home…the boys, oh, the boys…how they run, how they roam!
Our family is unique in many ways. One of those ways is that both my husband and our son own UPS Stores. My husband’s is in the town we live in, our son’s is the next town over. Not only that, our oldest daughter, Rachel, is the manager of my husband’s store. Christmas, as you can imagine, is unbelievably busy. Everyone is working everyday. Eric pulls in Kylene, his wife, for a few days; our granddaughter, who blatantly expresses her hatred of work, goes in to earn some extra cash; and I am put on Nana duty.
I don’t mind Nana duty, it’s fun and it’s gotten much easier now that the boys are older. This week I only had Eric and Kylene’s two boys, Colby and Sawyer for two days. Of course, if Colby and Sawyer are here then Rachel and Thomas’ two boys, Caleb and Gavin, have got to be here, too. Four boys, lots of noise, lots of guns, lots of hide and seek, and me. I turn down my hearing aids and let them loose. The only room off limits is my bedrooom. Everything else is fair game. The only catch, they have to clean up after themselves. In years past, Nana duty was much different. In years past Nana duty went like this…
December 16, 2015 ~
~Day Two is now over. ‘Twas as easy as can be. I’m enjoying my days of my four boys and me. This day brought new fun and at least one surprise. A giant, fun fort that lit up all their eyes. But that was not all, no there’s more to be said. Fat Cat found a lizard, it wasn’t quite dead. I squirted the cat, which released the poor guy. I put it outside, but it was missing one eye. “Stella puked in our fort!” was another new phrase. But that wasn’t the worst of Day Two’s fun time ways. “My sock’s on the wrong foot!” “I have to go pee! Quick Nana, come into the bathroom with me!” The pee-pee dance was in full swing as I came to assist. As I helped on my foot I could feel a few ‘drips’. “I got some on my pants and my underpants, too.” I had no heart to tell him it was also on my shoe. And so ends Day Two, it was really a blast. Just a fun, busy day and it won’t be the last!
Five years later, I still enjoy Nana duty because, after all, it’s really not that big a deal!
I’m not gonna lie, there have been times throughout this year when, in my head, I can hear Barbara Walters saying, “This is 2020”. I can’t help but think that she was somehow warning us all those years ago. Every week she said the same thing and did we listen? Nope.
Thanksgiving preparations this year began with a decision to divide and celebrate in smaller groups. We did this for our three elderly family members, who were somewhat uncomfortable with our normal gathering of 24. Being considerate of us, they had said they’d stay home. Being considerate of them, we divided into three, much smaller celebrations. It was still Thanksgiving, just not what we’re used to. But, this was just the beginning…