Month: August 2026

Next to Monopoly and Battleship, Get Grandma is one of the family’s favorite games. No rules, no limits, play as often as you wish, whenever and wherever you wish.

Years ago, both sons-in-law began jumping out of closets when they realized I had a strong startle reflex and often screamed loud enough to pierce two time zones when surprised.

Grandbabies arrived in rapid succession and broadened the game by hiding on the washer and dryer behind bi-fold doors, lunging from behind the sofa, the shrubs, or the kitchen island.

It became the grandma version of the old “Dick and Jane” books. See Grandma jump. See Grandma scream. See Grandma run. Run, Grandma, run.

I am one of those fortunate people who can so focus on a task that I tune out everything around me. This gift has preserved my sanity, or what’s left of it.

When the entire family gathered for a long weekend in Tennessee, I was savoring the solitude of a morning walk behind the property and heard a bear roar. I screamed and flew up three flights of stairs on the back of the house, to discover a son-in-law on the top deck laughing.

The newest version of Get Grandma involves knuckle cracking. Three seemingly sweet, adorable school-age girls are expert knuckle crackers.

They were demonstrating their talents when I said, “Did you girls know that popping sound happens because the fluid in your joints make gas bubbles that pop? That’s right, girls, your fingers have gas.”

I had them now. For all of two seconds. They giggled and resumed knuckle cracking. I resumed my work in the kitchen amid knuckle-cracking that sounded like fireworks in slo-mo.

“That’s kid stuff,” I finally said. “Grandpa can crack his knees!”

They cringed, squealed and recoiled. I smiled.

Then the youngest one quietly said, “Did you know I can crack my nose?” She positioned her soft little hand over her soft button nose and flipped it from side to side while clicking her tongue. Her timing was so superb it looked like the real deal. Snap, crackle, pop—Rice Krispies without the milk.

“Your nose could stick that way,” I said.

She was unmoved. Soon they were all snapping, cracking and popping knuckles and noses.

A box arrived the other day with packing inside and I am now prepared to fight back—bubble wrap.

 

Five police cars with flashing lights blocked the southern portion of a major intersection. Broken glass, debris and twisted metal spread a hundred yards. Partial remains of a horribly disfigured SUV sat on a flat bed. A mangled sedan was on its side in the middle of the pavement.

News reports said an SUV with four passengers ran a red light at a high rate of speed at 3 a.m. and crashed into a sedan. Two dead, three injured, two critically.

I immediately wondered if any of those in the speeding SUV had heard a small still voice like I did years ago.

As a senior in high school, I was on the way home from a movie seated in the front passenger seat. The driver was a boy I’d known a long time. His best friend and the girl he was dating were in the backseat.

My friend made a left turn at a high rate of speed and laughed.

I heard a small still voice in my head say, “Tell him to pull over and let you out.” We were only blocks from my home. I could have easily and safely walked. But I didn’t want to look uncool in front of my friends, so I said nothing.

A second time, clearer and more forcefully, the voice said, “Tell him to pull over and let you out.” Again, I stonewalled and said nothing. Fifteen seconds later, he took another corner on two wheels and we slammed head on into a parked truck.

The impact shot me forward and I shattered the windshield with my head. I don’t remember being dragged from the car, but I do remember a woman with red hair crying, looking at me lying on the ground, and saying, “She’s going to die, she’s going to die.”

In the ambulance on the way to the hospital, an EMT kept touching my feet saying, “Can you feel this? Can you feel this?” The answer was no.

I spent some time in the hospital and missed almost two months of school. I was doing make-up work in the graduation line, but by the end of summer I had recovered and was fine. I was beyond fortunate. Once in a blue moon, a vertebrae that was fractured still yelps just to say hello.

I never talked about the small still voice because I knew I’d been a fool.

But I’m talking now. We have new young drivers in our extended family, with more waiting in the wings pining for their 16^th birthdays.

Take it from someone who foolishly thought it was better to look cool than to speak up and be safe. If you ever hear the small still voice, listen to it and heed it.

Ignore what anyone else might think—because that small still voice just might be the voice of God trying to save you from something horrendous.

Our nightly dinner routine goes like this: I cook dinner and the husband sets the table. Last night we had Panera napkins, the night before we had Subway napkins. We have a drawer full of cloth napkins, but he prefers to save those until we’ve used all the extras that fast food places stuff in the bag with our order.

Sometimes he goes to the garage and rummages through one of the cars in order to finish setting the table. At least we’re not blowing our retirement savings on napkins.

Being that the husband hails from the Waste Not, Want Not gene pool, we also have numerous tiny bottles of shampoos and conditioners from hotels. This is fortunate because the days of travel-size toiletries are in the rearview mirror now that many states have banned single-use plastic.

Most hotels now offer shampoo and conditioner in large dispensers bolted to the wall. The only way to take some with you would be to pump them directly into your cosmetic bag.

I didn’t think so.

Pocket packers, people who take more of the freebies than they need, have made life difficult for everyone. Ketchup packets within reach have become a rarity. You have to ask for ketchup at the counter. And say, “Please.” Sometimes you have to say, “Pretty please.” And endure a withering glare. How dare you want ketchup with those fries!

We were recently at a burger place that still had ketchup in a pump dispenser alongside little paper cups. It had been watered down so thin it couldn’t qualify as tomato sauce.

Straws are often under lock and key. You can still fill your own drink at some places, but you’ll have to get back in line to request a straw.

Understandably, fast food restaurants are storing condiments in time-locked safes to prevent pocket packing by customers.

I wouldn’t like it either if people came to my kitchen and tried to make a getaway with our essentials. Oh, that’s right. They do that all the time.

Hey Grandma, you gonna eat these?

Hey Grandma, could I have some cookies for the road?

Some people call ‘em grandkids; I call ‘em belly packers.

George Washington is literally in the “pages of history.” A book on the coffee table has money hanging out of it—not play money, real money as in a one dollar bill.

I know in an instant the book belongs to a 12-year-old granddaughter.

The girl is an avid reader. She won the “Reader Award” in her class three times last year which translated into three free pizzas.

The grand with the book oozing money was helping us rake leaves last fall when she suddenly disappeared. I looked all around and couldn’t find her. One of her sisters deadpanned, “Check the big pile of leaves in the front yard.”

She had hollowed out a big pile of leaves and was nestled inside, reading a book. She marked that page with a red maple leaf.

My choice in bookmarks largely depends on what is nearby: paper clips, sticky notes, rubber bands and junk mail. A grocery receipt can do double duty, as it not only holds my place, but reminds me what I bought for dinner.

I understand why the girl doesn’t always use real bookmarks. I often receive handmade bookmarks as gifts and they’re simply too pretty and special to lose between the cushions on the couch.

On rare occasions, I rationalize paying full price for a new release hardcover because I can use the flap on the book jacket to hold my place. So, it’s really like a money saving two-for-one.

But at this moment, my most pressing question is this: Does the girl with the George Washington bookmark mark all the books she reads with real money? She has started babysitting so it’s possible there could be 5s, 10s, maybe even 20s marking pages. Shouldn’t someone go through the bookcases in her bedroom and check?

I’ve volunteered for the job but haven’t heard back yet. Rumor is they don’t think I have shelf control.

Reading is in the girls’ genes—and her jackets, her purses and her backpack. She’s like her mother, who never left home without a book in her purse or backpack.

These days, her mom is in a book club, a book-to-movie book club and hosts readathons for kids.

Of all the qualities and quirks we pass on to our children, a love of reading may be among the best.

 

Years ago, when women only a few years older than I am now announced they quit cooking, I silently judged them. I would think to myself, “How in the world do you just stop cooking?”

I get it now. They were tired—tired of chicken, tired of ground beef, tired of pork and tired of salad after salad after salad.

If a judge were to sentence me for my previous lack of culinary compassion, I would beg the court for mercy. I’d tell the judge I’m willing to eat humble pie, but that sounds like it would involve cooking.

For me, the meal planning part of cooking is far more exhausting than the meal prep, which is why I now ask others what they are making for dinner and follow suit. It’s far more fun than flipping through recipe books and has a certain game-show quality about it.

On Wednesday, I asked our youngest what she was making for dinner.

She texted: “Switching things up. Taco Wednesday, homemade salsa and queso. We usually have Taco Tuesday, but this week it’s Taco Wednesday.”

I replied that you can buy salsa at the grocery.

She responded that she makes her own queso as well.

And to think we’re related.

The next day, I texted our daughter-in-law asking what was for dinner.

Her reply said their oldest son was making butter chicken thighs. It sounded good, but because of our age and cholesterol concerns, we’d probably have to forgo the butter part.

When a longtime friend and neighbor, who is an excellent cook and gardener, dropped by with a bag of freshly picked green beans, I asked what she was making for dinner.

She’d planned on warming up homemade zucchini quiche from the day before, but it was too hot to turn on the oven, so they were going to McDonald’s.

You never really know a person until you know their Plan B for dinner.

Perhaps I’d be more inspired to cook if we freshened up the kitchen a bit. The kitchen of my dreams is from an early Martha Stewart cooking show. She was making a fall dish and a hand came up from below the counter and began removing dirty utensils.

On Friday, I asked our oldest daughter what she was making for dinner. She said she was getting ready for a dinner party for nine.

I hung up on her.