Month: October 2023

For six years running, our brood has met up for a long weekend somewhere in the fall. Such intense togetherness not only builds character but creates a wonderful treasury of embarrassing stories to repeat at holiday gatherings.

This year, unpacking at a lake house in Michigan that we rented for three days, a five-year-old grand opens her little suitcase and screams upon discovering roaches covering her clothes. Her mother lunges forward and sees the roaches are plastic—but fantastic lookalikes for the real thing.

Rolling my bag into the room where my husband and I will stay, I notice a six-foot snakeskin draped across the bed pillows. I turn to our 12-year-old grandson lingering in the doorway and say, “Rat snake? I like it!”

Clearly, he had hoped for a more terrifying reaction. He forgets I helped raise his father.

“Why not put the snakeskin with your plastic roaches?” I ask.

The yard behind the house slopes to a lake with a narrow ribbon of sandy beach. Trees ring the lake with crimson, yellow and orange splashed against a deep blue sky.

A son-in-law and herd of kids race down the hill and into the cold water for a polar plunge. This is followed by screaming, chest thumping and fist pumping.

The youngest ones prefer adventures with more sedate adults in a pedal boat trolling close to shore, collecting tiny shells that look like former homes to miniature snails. These treasures will be found throughout our stay, piled on kitchen counters, the dinner table and beside every bathroom sink.

There is a steady back and forth of pedal boats and kayaks leaving and returning at the water’s edge. It is the first time kayaking for one brave soul. She recently turned 8, is diminutive in size, but undaunted in spirit. She watched the others come and go when we were here several years ago. Now it is her turn.

She straps on a life jacket, climbs in a red kayak, grasps the paddles and someone gives her a shove. Just like that – she’s off. And that’s exactly how it will happen. The younger ones will watch the older ones spread their wings, leave home, fan out, and then do likewise. No doubt that day will arrive with jaw-dropping speed.

On our last afternoon at the lake, four of us are out in kayaks, myself and the older grands. They glide through the water with grace and speed.

Day draws to a close, the sun sinks and twilight yields to dusk. A dad voice on shore shouts, “Time to come in.”

I catch myself before shouting back, “Can’t we stay out a little longer?” I’m the classic over-indulged birthday girl who doesn’t want the party to end.

I can’t contradict one of the dads, but I can paddle slower, soaking in the sights and sounds, etching them into my memory.

We returned home and have resumed our regular routines. But each day I find a part of me still on that lake as evening falls, gazing at the strapping young adults paddling in front of me, silhouetted against the last remnants of light, gliding, gliding, farther and farther away.

I don’t know when that day is coming, but I do know this: Today is a good day.

Someone once said, “With age comes wisdom.”

Then someone else immediately said, “Yeah, but sometimes age comes alone.”

My experience is that with age comes usefulness.

A granddaughter, anxious to pass me in height, frequently “measures up” with me by standing nose-to-nose to see who is the tallest. She “measured up” the other day and announced, “I now come to the second line on Grandma’s forehead!”

I knew there was a reason I don’t get Botox. It’s good to feel needed.

One day, helping first-grade English-as-second-language students with reading, I could see that the little Burmese boy following my finger as I pointed to words was intently studying the back of my hand.

I lifted my hand with aging skin, pointed to it and slowly said, “Wrinkles. Wrinkles.”

He repeated after me, “Wrinkles.” He grinned from ear to ear and his eyes lit up learning a new word.

It is wonderful to be helpful, although this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

I’ve always had curly hair and it has become even curlier with age. Recently, a granddaughter asked, “Grandma, if you let your hair grow really, really long, would it hang down straight or just get bigger and bigger?”

The latter, darlin’. I’ll cite Dolly Parton on this one: “Big hair puts you closer to God.” How wonderful to be consulted on something like the potential trajectory of curly hair.

I think.

With age also comes the distinct advantage of not only having read a lot of history, but of having lived a lot of history.

No, I did not personally know George Washington, Abe Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, or help build the Panama Canal, but I can tell you about telephones that hung on kitchen walls, milkmen who delivered milk to your front door, ketchup that came in glass bottles, record players, June, July and August heat without air conditioning and a summer job I had in college doing data entry that fed into a computer so enormous it took up an entire room.

Due to age, I am frequently the go-to person for an assist on Jumble word puzzles. Far be it from me to ruin the cloud of adulation by explaining I excel at Jumble because I have made so many typos over the years that every misspelled word looks vaguely familiar.

By far, the greatest laurel of “maturing” is having rushed around like a madwoman to get a meal on the table for a large group, being seated at the table and hearing a gentle voice say, “You’re a good cook, Grandma.”

Then another and another and another says, “You’re a good cook, Grandma.” It may be that I am a good cook, but it also may be that no one at the table wants to be outdone. If competition is the means by which I am showered with praise, then so be it.  I accept.

 

 

I never dreamed my life would one day intersect with a two-time Super Bowl champion, but it does.

Patrick Mahomes. Who knew we had so much in common?

He plays for Kansas City; I lived in Kansas City.

His favorite color is red; my favorite color is red.

He has curly hair; I have curly hair.

We both do a lot of screaming and jumping up and down whenever the Chiefs play.

Some days I almost wonder if we were separated at birth. Yes, there is that 40 year age difference.

He likes Subway; I like Subway. Judging from how often I see him in commercials, Mahomes spends a lot of time in Subways. We have a Subway in a strip mall nearby. I glance in the window every time I pass by just in case he’s there.

Mahomes also enjoys talking about insurance, mainly State Farm. What are the odds? We talk about insurance a lot, too. Mahomes has an old mind for a young guy. I’m waiting for when he partners with Vanguard to promote IRA accounts and does a two-minute humorous tutorial explaining RMDs.

Fist bump! Blow it up!

I’ve long bought Red Gold ketchup. We live in Indiana and Red Gold is a local company, but I may be wavering. Hunts is looking good. When you can trust a guy on colors, football, subs and insurance savvy, he could be onto something about ketchup as well.

Get ready for this: If we need to watch a game on ESPN, we open our (drum roll, please) DirectTV app. Guess who does commercials for DirectTV?

High five, baby!

Whodathunkit?

Mahomes also does endorsements for Head & Shoulders. Is this insane, or what? A blue and white bottle sits in the linen closet as I keyboard!

Our cell phone carrier? Yep. The one Mahomes does endorsements for— T-Mobile. What are the odds?

Everywhere he is, we are; and everywhere we are, he is.

Tell you what, I like his mom, too. Day one, she lined out a member of the press corps saying her son’s name was not Pat, but Patrick. Love that woman.

Mahomes also endorses Hy-Vee grocery stores. The young man has good taste. Hy-Vee is primarily a Midwest grocery chain. Whenever we venture back to Kansas City, I always find a reason to wander through a Hy-Vee. It’s usually to buy briskets to throw in a cooler and take back home. Well, that and a chance to see Mahomes.

Hy-Vee produce sections are works of art. Store lighting is fantastic and they have high ceilings. You could throw a football from the deli area clear over to the dairy case and have a clear pathway. (Just an idea, guys, take it or leave it.)

We’re not in sync on everything. I don’t wear Adidas shoes, drink Essentia water or have any Oakley sunglasses. Maybe with a few more endorsements I could be persuaded.

Speaking of endorsements, I know a columnist . . .

There are two types of people in this world: those whom mosquitoes consider an all-you-can-eat buffet and those whom mosquitoes find repugnant.

I have a body that mosquitos love. I suppose it is nice to think your physical being is still attractive at this age, even if it is to insects.

I only became a mosquito magnet two years ago. Prior to that they’d loop me once or twice, then beeline for a better smorgasbord. I used to think the people mosquitos feasted on complained excessively.

Now that I have become one of those people, I think such people are brave and strong and admirable. Mosquito magnets unite!

For the past four nights, I’ve awakened with my ankles itching madly from mosquito bites. We have grands that scratch mosquito bites until they bleed. If I thought that would stop the itching, I’d do it.

I stagger from bed and begin hunting for the After-Bite, hydrocortisone and Benadryl topical cream. It’s a “hit ‘em with all you got” approach. It helps. For about 10 minutes.

Recently, I attended an outdoor event and made the mistake of wearing strappy sandals. The mosquitoes went for the bottom of my feet. I tried scrataching the bottom of one foot with the shoe on my other foot. I glanced around and realized everyone could see everyone else’s feet under the tables. I was the only one playing footsies with myself.

I saw a slab of concrete and thought if I could just drag the bottom of my foot across it, the itch would settle down. It was a possibility without opportunity.

A Pfizer study found that mosquitoes are drawn to three types of people who have a high metabolic rate and emit more carbon dioxide: those who are pregnant, working out, or drinking alcohol.

My last pregnancy was 38 years ago. I drink alcohol about once a year. I do work out. Wouldn’t it be something if mosquitoes forced me to quit working out? Oh well.  A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.

Yesterday, two mosquitoes followed me inside. I have a touch-screen laptop where you can trigger functions by simply touching icons on the screen. One of the mosquitoes landed on the screen. I tried to smash it with my finger and accidentally sent some financial records to the trash.

The mosquitoes high-fived each other and laughed.

“We’ll see who’s laughing when I quit working out!” I yelled.

In the meantime, I’m covering every inch of skin, wearing long pants, a long- sleeved shirt with the collar pulled up around my neck, socks, tennis shoes and a hat. I have sprayed one kind of insect repellant on my skin and another on my clothes. I smell like a tiki torch and look like one, too.

My husband just asked where I was going.

“Outside,” I said.

“Feeding the mosquitoes again, eh?”

Nine months ago, my brother retired. If you want to get technical, he went to lunch and never went back.

Now he is launching a second career. We only know about this because my sister-in-law was with him when he filled out a preregistration form at an eye doctor’s office.

My sister-in-law is a saint.

The form asked for his occupation. He entered “consultant.”

My brother has never worn a white shirt and tie to work, sat behind a desk, or chatted up CEOs a single day in his life. Such a job would kill him. It wouldn’t be particularly healthy for those around him either.

As he filled out the registration, my sister-in-law asked exactly when he became a consultant. “Just now,” he said.

She asked what he does as a consultant to which he replied, “Whaddya need?”

He also said he would not further discuss the nature of his consulting until they first agreed on a fee.

A consultant is someone who has expertise and experience in a field, or numerous fields, and is willing to share insights and suggestions with others in need of advisement.

Upon hearing my brother has become a consultant, I realized that for years now, I, too, have benefited from the expertise of a consultant who shall remain nameless. Much of the time, I don’t even have to ask for a consultation; ideas and suggestions just roll like the mighty Mississippi.

Fortunately, my consultant does not charge a fee. Then again, if my consultant did charge a fee, I would refuse to pay it and maybe all the unsolicited consulting would screech to a halt.

Doubtful.

As one good consult deserves another, I often counter-consult with my own suggestions, insights and commentary on projects my consultant is working on, ideas on how he might improve what he is doing. All of this is offered without him even having to ask for a consult. That’s just how willing and eager I am to be of assistance.

There is a lot of consulting and counter-consulting that goes on in this house, and neither one of us would be willing to pay one thin dime for all the free advice.

I mean consulting.

Naturally, my sister-in-law’s concern was what would happen if the doctor looked at my brother’s “occupation” and inquired as to what sort of consultant he was. On second thought, she knew it wouldn’t go far because he would first require the doctor pay a consulting fee.