Column

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.

 

We are past due for a review of basic manners and civic responsibility.

Such reviews used to happen every nine weeks when schools sent report cards home. At the bottom of the report card was a box titled “Citizenship.” Teachers placed check marks indicating “satisfactory” or “needs improvement” for categories like: courtesy, self-control, works well with others, and shows respect for rights and property of others.

As if the national headlines aren’t enough to warrant revisiting common courtesy and personal responsibility, I was again reminded of the need while scrolling through my NextDoor app, which is sometimes useful for knowing the best company in the area for cleaning dryer vents or removing trees, and recommendations for dentists and doctors.

But this day on my feed was a video of a little old lady walking her dog. She paused, looked over her shoulder and waited for a car to pass by, then shook the contents of her doggie’s plastic bag onto a neighbor’s driveway and scurried away.

A few days later, there was a video of a young man (or “little jerk” as the homeowner referred to him) stealing a bike from an open garage. In both cases, comments were filled with outrage along the lines of: “What’s the matter with people?” “Is that old lady crazy or evil?” “Doesn’t that kid have any respect for other people’s property?”

On the old report cards, citizenship was divided into two parts: citizenship as an individual and as a member of a group. Evaluation as an individual included: makes good use of time and material, depends upon self, shows self-control and does his best.

If I were wielding the black ink pen, I would give the little old lady “needs improvement” on making good use of time and material—although she did make good use of time as she was swift about dumping the doggie bag.

The young man stealing the bike might rate “satisfactory” in “depending upon self” as he worked alone; but he bombed in “shows self-control.”

It’s what you do when you think no one is watching that constitutes character.

Of course, these days we are so lapsed in judgment that some people enjoy recording themselves, or others, behaving like Cretans.

The outlook darkens considerably under “citizenship as member of a group.” The little old lady and bike thief both get “needs improving” for “respects rights and property of others.”

It’s interesting that the evaluations started with citizenship as individuals, followed by evaluation in a group. You can’t experience the stability of good citizenship as a group unless you first have it as individuals.

Where do people learn basic courtesy, self-control and respect for the rights and property of others? Where all learning begins—in the home and in the family.

Because there will be no report card coming in the next nine weeks evaluating our personal behavior, some self-evaluation on civility and citizenship might be in order in our homes and families. Satisfactory or needs improvement?

This is one of those situations for which you could never fully prepare.

We are waiting for a grocery pickup order. Our oldest daughter, who has been pulling carpet from stairs, is slumped in the driver’s seat riddled with exhaustion. I’m in the front passenger seat, offering commentary on the happenings around us, and three granddaughters in the middle seat of the SUV are downing dried fruit snacks that taste like the sole of your shoe.

Other cars have wheeled into numbered parking spots, received their orders, and peeled out. Our daughter says she hopes someone comes soon, as the order contains conditioner, and her hair is a wreck.

I suggest she lean her head out the window so they can see what a mess her hair is and maybe that will speed things up.

Just then, a soft voice from behind says, “Grandma, I need help.”

I look over my shoulder and the 11-year-old, the most peaceful, pliable one in the group, appears to be levitating.

She is in a plank-on-your-side position, her head extended toward one car window and her feet toward the other, hovering just below the top of the middle seats.

“I’m stuck,” she says, giggling.

“What do you mean?”

“I stretched over the seat to get something from the far back and I think the belt loop from my jeans is stuck in part of the shoulder strap.

“Girls, free your sister!” I snap.

Arms and legs fly, accompanied by shrieking, screaming and laughing.

“We can’t get her free!” one shouts.

I lunge between the two front seats and into the middle seat for a closer look. Her belt loop has slipped between a small opening on a plastic guide piece harnessing a shoulder strap to a middle seat. The weight of her body is pulling the belt loop impossibly taut in the plastic guide piece.

I announce that on the count of three I will lift her, which will take the pressure off the belt loop, whereupon her sisters should dislodge the belt loop from the plastic guide.

As planned, I lift her.

As not planned, I can’t hold her. I drop her. But gently.

More screaming and laughing. “Lift her again, only longer. We need more time!”

I lift her again and drop her again.

“What do you weigh, girl?”

“Seventy-five!” she says.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it feels like a whole lot more!”

The jeans have twisted and pulled so tight the child will probably have rug burn on the weight-bearing side of her torso.

We regroup and take another run at the mess. “I’ll put one knee under her, you two lift from your ends. It should lessen the tension enough to get the belt loop out of there.”

Everyone strained, moaned, groaned, carried on and bewildered the store employee confirming the pickup order with our driver. The belt loop was finally free and the child was tethered to nothing but gravity once again.

After we all calmed down and finished congratulating ourselves, we agreed the most amazing part of the ordeal was the strength of that denim belt loop in those jeans.

I wonder if they make them for adults.

 

Given the option—and social acceptability—the husband would wear his favorite shirt every day of the year.

The favorite shirt is a faded burgundy corduroy, old enough to vote, buy beer and maybe even apply for Medicare. The favorite shirt looks like large, angry dogs used it as a toy.

The shirt is miraculous. The miracle is that each time it goes through the wash, and I hang it on a hanger, it stays in one piece.

The collar alone may be one of the seven structural wonders of the world. Thread bare and disintegrating along the top, scraps of the collar remain more-or-less (mostly less) bonded by worn and ancient bits of fused interfacing. And you thought Gorilla Glue was powerful.

The shirt has an air of postmodern despair due to paint splatters, rips and tears and numerous places where it appears the wearer was snagged on barbed wire.

The elbows are fully aerated. The owner of the favorite shirt says that is why it is such a good work shirt. Thankfully, he doesn’t aerate the elbows on all his shirts.

I half-heartedly looked for a corduroy shirt last year, hoping to find a new one to use as a bargaining chip for retiring the corduroy relic, but nobody was making them. I’ve seen a couple this year, proving fashion does indeed go in 40-year cycles.

A Pinterest post featured ideas for repurposing old shirts. Like the husband would enjoy finding me crafting with his favorite shirt. “Look what I did to your favorite work shirt with the glue gun and sequins, Honey!”

Pinterest suggestions include turning old shirts into plant hangers or using them as macrame or yarn. The poster was female, and the post implied she was repurposing her husband’s old shirts. I’m assuming she is now single.

You don’t mess with a loved one’s favorite shirt. An old shirt, maybe; a favorite shirt, never.

There is a difference between the two. An old shirt is just that—old.

A favorite shirt comes with memories and history—oil changes, plumbing disasters, painting projects, cutting firewood from a fallen tree, laying a brick pathway with a four-year-old shadowing your every move, and pouring concrete for the kids’ basketball goal in the driveway.

Yes, the favorite shirt may be hideous. Yes, the neighbors may talk. Some may even leave cash in the mailbox. But at the end of the day, step away from the favorite shirt.

Don’t even think about it.

Don’t even ask about it.

You can live without a plant hanger a lot easier than a loved one can live without a favorite shirt.

 

We are enjoying the aftermath of an all-grandkid weekend: fatigue, muscle cramps and a blue bucket filled with cicada shells by the back door. We will rebound shortly. Thanksgiving sounds about right.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak—especially when you are outnumbered 11 to 2.

Our strategy is to wear them out before they wear us out. In intense heat, this means water, an inflatable pool, hoses, sprinkler heads, water blasters, water balloons, races and relays, whatever it takes. There’s nothing like blistering sunshine and high humidity to level the playing field between youth and age.

Step one is to borrow our daughter’s three-tiered inflatable pool because our pool has been trashed. She crams their pool in the back of their vehicle, hauls it to our house, where we drag it out of her vehicle, lug it through the garage into the backyard, unfold the monstrosity, then call for a search party to locate the electric pump.

The pump is in the driveway filling basketballs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The neighbors love our get-togethers.

Meanwhile in the backyard, kids are filling water balloons. It is going as planned; they are all expending energy.

Little ones howl that they don’t have any water balloons because the bigger kids are hogging the hose. Older ones, now armed with water balloons the size of watermelons, target beloved cousins as well as grandparents.

Balloons burst spraying dime-size metallic discs into the air like Roman candles on the Fourth of July. It is raining metallic confetti. The entire yard sparkles. We have a backyard with bling. I wonder if they can see this from the Space Station. It shouldn’t be long before the starlings and red-tailed hawks arrive.

Silly me. I put out a call for balloons and someone sent confetti balloons. I will absolutely return the favor.

Water balloons spiral out of control at the same time someone asks for bug spray, another yells she didn’t get sunscreen, another needs bandages and someone else wants me to look at a red welt on her shoulder from a water balloon.

“It’s not bad,” I say. “I’ll dig that confetti out later.”

We begin a game where kids divide onto teams and compete to pick up the most marbles with their toes from a large tub of water. This buys us four, maybe five, minutes – enough time to resume normal breathing.

Water balloons commence again. Someone in the pool yells that someone deliberately splashed them. Two starlings and a hawk position themselves in a maple tree eyeing the yard and perhaps some of the smaller children.

Somebody tugs on my shirt and asks, “When’s lunch?”

They’re gaining on us. We pull out the big guns—the frozen T-shirt contest. You drench an adult T-shirt in two cups of water, fold it into a square, place it in a plastic bag and freeze it for 48 hours. Each team must unfold the frozen T-shirt and put it on a team member.

They are expending incredible amounts of energy. Look at them struggle! They’re pulling, straining, and clawing at the frozen shirts. We’re gaining on them now!

Why, yes, I would enjoy a refreshing glass of iced tea while sitting in the shade.

It was a good day and an exhausting day.

They say I nodded off 10 minutes into the movie after dinner.

It’s been more than 10 years since the “other woman” came into our lives. She drives us both batty. Literally.

It’s not a love triangle; it is a triangle of animosity, tension and rancor. Her name is Jane. She’s the voice on our Waze navigation system.

We can’t live with her and we can’t live without her.

GPS Jane and my husband routinely get into it and then there I am, trapped in the middle, trying to negotiate peace. You can’t reason with either one of them.

My husband worked as a photojournalist nearly his entire career. Consequently, he knows every shortcut and side street in our city, state, three nearby metro areas and the four surrounding states.

He can cut two minutes off getting to a funeral home by taking side streets that run parallel to a main artery; three minutes if we cut through an industrial park. I remind him we are going to a funeral, not a fire.

It’s been years since we waited at a traffic light at a major intersection near our home. If the light ahead is red, we wheel into a Half Price Books parking lot, pass by Donatos, skirt McDonald’s and exit on a side street adjacent to our street.

We pull into our driveway and surprise – there is no press conference on the front step or NFL teams in the front yard ready for kickoff. But if there were, he’d be ready.

We don’t need GPS Jane in the car for local driving, but if we’re driving unfamiliar interstate with construction, I like Jane for backup.

Jane will give a directive my husband disagrees with, and he snaps, “Is she kidding?”

As if I can explain the process of live satellites and AI while we are navigating orange cones sandwiched between semis.

Secretly, I wish just once that GPS Jane would answer him herself: “No, I’m not kidding!”

I got to thinking it might be the woman’s voice he objects to, so I tested various voice options as the husband drove.

We auditioned Ben, Randy, Nathan and the Jonas Brothers. Nothing. We tried Shaquille O’Neal, 90s pop star, a UK Accent, an Aussie accent and Zombie.

Dog and Cat were the only possible maybes.

We returned to Jane. After all, she once led us out of the Smoky Mountains in thick fog with only three feet of visibility. We have history together, not to mention mileage.

We recently drove a couple hours south to a resort in a pastoral part of the state to celebrate a golden wedding anniversary with my husband’s sister, her husband and family.

GPS Jane led us on a narrow, hilly switchback under a dense canopy of trees with steep drop-offs for a long five miles. It would have been a desolate stretch were it not for five vultures in the middle of the road that had picked a dead fox clean down to the rib bones.

We headed home later that night and decided not to rely on GPS Jane. My navigator knew a state road would take a few minutes longer but get us back to the interstate. For my peace of mind, he even checked the Rand McNally Atlas we brought with us.

Jane was on mute the whole way home. It was nice to have the car to ourselves.