Gridder grandpa, Fall 2010

Gridder Grandpa, Fall 2010

 

The year had three seasons in 1950: baseball, football and basketball. It was a time before kids had travel teams, when Cardinal caps were worn only by real Cardinals, when the two-handed set shot was in and though the drop-kick was going out of favor, placekicks were still done with the toe.

 

My favorite thing in all of life in those years was playing baseball in the backyard, after dinner with my dad and brother. I was the pitcher and dad, choking up on the bat, tapped out flies and grounders to me and brother John, an outfielder a few paces behind, and me. 
    

Sixty years later, I am a grandpa. As I walk through my door today I notice that there is a message on my phone. I press the button and listen.

 “Papa, can you come over and play football with Mike and me bye”

It is grandson Eddie, age 6 and Mike is a play date friend. I arrive shortly and immediately begin to explain the various rules of football: the goal lines, out of bounds, four chances (called downs) to score and … I notice that their interest seems to wane so I forgo things like line of scrimmage, declaring if your kicking on fourth down (kid games only), and laterals versus the forward pass … etc.

Even so Ed interrupts my abbreviated explanations and calls out the teams, “Mike and me against you and Johnny.”

“OK we’ll kickoff,” I announce.

Johnny (age 4) is standing at my side protesting with some words, but mostly screams. I think he wants to hold the ball so I address him directly, “We’re kicking off, John, OK you kick, and I’ll hold it.” The yelps continue so I surmise that that wasn’t the issue. Finally I relent, “OK you hold,” I say, “I’ll kick.” This should be good, I think. 

 

I give John the ball to hold for my kick. He immediately takes off running, dashing about like “Wrong-way-Corrigan.”
 

“Hey, John! Where are you going? We have to kick,” I shout as Ed and Mike take up the chase. Well this, ... it’s like football, I reason.

“Hey! You guys,” I yell. This doesn’t stop them, but the four-year-old trying to elude two six-year-olds is doomed. Brother Ed soon wrestles John to the ground, trying to grab the ball. Johnny resists, screams some more and manages to heave the ball onto the neighbor’s yard.

“OK, OK” I say, trying to restore order. 

I go retrieve the ball.

Eventually a "game" gets going. It’s now me alone against Mike and Ed. Johnny has quit. He is sitting on the swing set which is fine with me.

Ed and Mike are both first graders. I'm a retired teacher. Age 70. 

It is a little surprising, the effort that I must put forth to tag them. Though the game has been ruled two-hand touch, neither Ed nor Mike stops running when I touch them with both hands. They don't even bother to claim "one hand" when I do tag them. Instead they just continue on, tear away, race the length of the field, and shout “touchdown,” raising their arms in celebration. 

Fine.  I change from touch to grab and hold.

I score touchdowns too, but don’t celebrate. I am, however, much pleased with my ability to dodge these just beyond toddler characters –  age six -  and am not the least bit self-conscious that in the end I win the game, something like 30-24, by my count, which I keep track of in my head, but out of modesty don’t broadcast. My victory, may I say, was mainly the result of quite impressive swivel-hip running on my part, against the obviously out-classed six-year-olds. I know my adversaries are only six, but the swivel-hipping was enough to get me thinking about that nineteen yard run I had against Lafayette College, fifty years ago - when I was out in the open, why didn’t I do a swivel-hip then? Doubtless I was even better at it then and so I think about it sadly now, that perhaps I could have gone all the way on that November day in 1961.  

Back to reality - I am especially fond of Mike’s compliment on my performance. He offers it in a tone of what I feel is genuine reverence. I quote: “You’re really great!” is what he says, and more than once, starting after my third touchdown run. I secretly hope that he tells his mom, who I secretly have a crush on, albeit thirty, or more, years my junior. 

 

The next day I literally, cannot walk one step. Baker’s cyst it is called. I looked it up online. It’s a major flare-up and it feels like a golf ball size knot behind each knee.  

 

A Life that is Blessed, Morning rituals - September 2010

A Life that is Blessed, Morning rituals - September 2010

 

I am at my daughter Ashley’s home. I am the hired-hand, the morning transporter of the three school children, ages 4, 6, and 8. I also feel a responsibility to help with any and all pre-departure tasks, which vary, depending on the day. 

 

Ashley is in the backyard, standing with her arms folded below her ribs, glaring at a small dog on the grass in front of her. The dog and Ashley appear to be in a stare-down contest. I hear Ashley say, “Go!” The dog, his name is Max, doesn’t blink. Finally Ash says, “OK, forget it.” She picks up the rabbit sized dog and tramps up the deck stairs into the house. I follow her in. I can see that she is hurried. It is early morning. She is a teacher, special education, and needs to get going. 

Inside, Johnny, age 4, is not happy. Crying? He is protesting going to his pre-school. The summer with mommy at home is still fresh in his mind. From the sound and the redness of John’s watery eyes the crying does not appear to be fleeting. Ashley is carrying breakfast to the table. She flings over a flap edge of the tablecloth, half uncovering one side of the Magic-Marker blemished bare wood table and sets down a plate of pancakes for Eddie (6) and two flakey pop-tarts for Johnny.

Eddie, big brother, always alert to little bro's business, inquires, “Why did you give him so much icing on his pop tarts?”

OK - Pop tart? Had my mom mentioned a pop-tart to me as a child I would have conjured an image of a sour soda. You know soda pop? But that’s beside the point. OK, point being: Pop-tarts are purchased ready-made - with icing. Anyway ...

Ashley counters with, “That’s not so much icing.”

My thought: "Why does Eddie care?"

Eddie’s breakfast is pancakes, filled with chocolate chips. Like wheels on suitcases, chocolate chips in pancakes is a recent phenomenon, and like the wheels, did not require the brain of a rocket scientist to invent. Ed smothers his pancakes with syrup made of High Fructose Corn Syrup, Water, Cellulose Gum, Salt, Artificial Flavors, and Natural Flavors, Sorbic Acid, and Sodium Benzoate, (Preservatives), Caramel Color(seriously?), Sodium Hexametaphosphate. In other words, not food – or ... somewhat like pop-tarts.

Back in the 1940s, my brother and I used to refer to syrup in large doses as “Enough to sink a battleship.” It must have been the WWII influence because I don’t hear that phrase today. 

Ashley is preparing a small tumbler of liquid Motrin for Emma (8) who is suffering the trauma of what is called a pallet expander.
       
Motrin ingredients – Active: Ibuprofen 100mg (NSAID)* in each 5 mL (1 tsp)
 Inactive ingredients -  acesulfame potassium, anhydrous citric acid, FD&C Red #40, flavors, glycerin, polysorbate 80, pregelatinized starch, purified water, sodium benzoate, sucralose, sucrose, xanthan gum
Hmmmmm - inactive? Guess it could be anything, and can’t hurt you as long as it’s inactive.

Anyway, a pallet expander - to a child this would be best described as a miniature medieval torture device. I’m guessing that it is a recent invention like the chocolate chip pancakes but it may have taken an actual rocket scientist to dream this one up. It’s supposed to correct tooth alignment, something like braces (more or less). Depending on the personality of the child a side effect of the pallet expander is starvation. The good news is that 8 year olds are still able to kiss other 8 year olds with pallet expanders. This is an improvement over braces, where there was the prospect of locking braces – albeit no known cases in modern history.

Ashley places two glasses of liquid in front of Emma, one fruit juice the other milk. Emma is sitting sideways at the table, a bit pushed back. I recognize this posture from the antics of my own children a generation ago. It’s the “I’m not eating” protest posture.   

Why is it that many children do not want to eat? More to the point – do not want to eat anything you want them to eat. Has anyone figured this out? I think it has something to do with the knowledge that eating is the one thing that they control entirely. That has to be it.

I don’t know what Eddie eats (his paper plate is already in the garbage), but John has begun whimpering again and is now hauling his plate of pop-tarts toward the garbage container under the sink. Dad intercepts him here, holding John’s arm. Johnny begins to slowly tilt his plate, slanting it like the bed of a dump-truck.  The fact that Johnny is turning the plate ever so slowly and looking at his dad’s eyes impresses me because it distracts his father’s gaze. Just as the tart is about to slide off dad recovers.

“Johnny!” What are you doing?” He grabs the plate and the pop-tarts.

I go into the other room, look out the front window. I hear a fight developing over the TV remote, between Emma and Edward. I walk into the TV room knowing there is no solution to this problem.

I had it first. I was watching this. No you weren’t. Was too. As I said - no solution.

I try to think of an enforceable rule. OK you get it today, she gets it tomorrow. That never works. Nobody wants it tomorrow. So I think to myself, “Forget it. Nothing will work.”

Instead I say, “OK, give me the remote. No more TV!”

It’s a miracle. Emma goes upstairs to brush her hair. Ed opens a book. They both seem to accept my edict. That’s it, that’s all you have to do? Be stern (difficult), be fair (no such thing) and try your utmost to speak calmly (difficult). Most important, do not care about the result – ever - and don’t get your hopes up is all I can say.

It is still early but I announce that Ed and Emma should get into the car. “Get your backpacks. Get your shoes on.” I get Johnny on the couch and begin the shoe business. His feet do not cooperate. Were I a parent of young children today I would NOT have children take shoes off when they come in the house - ever. Keep them on until you go to bed. Put them back on in the morning as soon as you get out of bed. “Shoes are either under your bed or on your feet. That’s the rule!” Emphasize this. Probably it would never work, but it’s a good idea. No?  Or you could sleep with your shoes on. That might be even better.

Emma and Eddie start trudging to the car. Dad says he will take Johnny.  

On the way to school I am told that I drive too slowly.

“Why do you?” Eddie wants to know. "Because I have precious cargo," I say. Not sure if Eddie gets it.

At school I watch them trudge up the walkway, Ed with backpack, Emma, with a small suitcase on wheels. It is my favorite moment. They book in - post haste – with focused urgency like a commuter late for a train. The scene warms my heart. 

Summer Night in July

Summer Night in July

 

It is a very warm, humid July night in NJ. The children, five grand-kids, are in Grammy’s
condo wrecking havoc – loudly. I offer a fix. I will take them up to the play area for fun and games. Everyone thinks this is a good idea. So moments later I am marching up the road, pointing for the tennis court/basketball court. The five children, ages 4 through 9, precede me.

 

We start out with a baseball game.  First base is a puddle, second a flattened tennis ball can, and third, Johnny’s shirt. The basketball goal support is the backstop, with home plate in front. I never get up to bat in the baseball game but do my share of dashing about on my sore seventy year-old knees, chasing fly balls and grounders and then trying to tag the speeding  runners.  Trust me, it’s, surprisingly, an effort.

After numerous innings we, thankfully, switch to a basketball game. Here, it’s me against all. My thought is that I’ll show my jump shot skills but let them win. I enjoy a large height advantage, something like two feet, so I effectively control the game. Somehow I manage to lose by more than I plan, primarily because the long distance jump shots that I heave up in a futile attempt to inspire admiration are all inaccurate – arthritis in the wrist is my excuse - and so I surrender and lose 11 – 5 (or 22 – 10).  My left wrist aches.  Johnny, age 4, tells me I stink at basketball.*

Back at my own home at evening’s end I am in front of the TV watching a documentary about baseball in the 1950s.  There is a replay of the old Who’s on First? Abbot and Costello skit I actually laugh out loud. Moments later I literally cry watching Willie Mays and Roy Campanella and Kurt Flood talk about their beginnings in the days of severe racial prejudice.

 

* OK, couldn't let this pass: Fifty-plus years ago I was leading scorer and player-of-the-year in Orange County, NY Village League (tiny schools) high school basketball. 

 

So, "stink at basketball?" No way. Just saying.

1, 2, 3, 4 ... when you're dead, infinity - March 2010

1, 2, 3, 4 ... when you're dead, infinity - March 2010

 

With the grandchildren, as with my own children, I often feel overwhelmed with a feeling of love for them. I try to contain the feeling at times - don’t know exactly why - but more often let it go and say "I love you" whenever the mood strikes.

So invariably a few times per day I can be heard asking Johnny, “John – how much does papa love you?”

John varies his response. He either gives back a number or recites the learned answer, “Too much.”

Today it’s the numbers.

“Ten,” he says.

“More than that,” I say.

“A hundred.”

“More than that.”

“A billion.”

“Nope more.”

“A thousand hundred.”

“Still more,” I say.

“When you’re dead?” he says.

John is four. In recent months he has asked when I would be dead. Mostly this was after we rode past the cemetery on Ridgedale Avenue. I think I responded with something like “A long time.” So I’m guessing that he figured that the answer to ‘when I’d be dead’ was something bigger than 70, which he knows is my age now. Then he put two and two together and calculated that “when I’d  be dead” was indeed a very big number, and therefore a good answer to “How much does papa love you?” Smart huh?

To John, the “when you’re dead” number is, obviously, a real number, nothing imaginary like the square root of a negative two. I don’t know where it fits exactly in his counting sequence but just last week Johnny and I were in the grocery store and he pointed to some cookies that he wanted.

 

“Too much money,” I said.

 

“How much are they?” he said.

 

“Lots.”
 

"How much," he pleaded.
 

"Lots," I repeated. 

 

So he guessed, “When you’re dead?”

 

There was a mother in the aisle with us and she let out a gasp, then laughter. “Did she get it?” I wondered. 

I’m not sure that, without our experience together, I would have connected the dots relative to John’s words, but it seemed that the young mother did. Or perhaps she was only responding to the sound of the phrase itself. Four-year-old in the grocery store talking to old grandpa – and he shouts, “When you’re dead.” Sort of funny, no?

Or, my take: adorable.

The fossils - March 2011

The fossils - March 2011

 

Johnny asked me yesterday, “Papa, did the fossils kill Jesus?” At age 4+, he’s in his last year of Catholic pre-school. 

 

“Fossils?” I say.

 

“Yes, the fossils.”

 

What? You mean fossils, those imprints in rocks - of insects and leaves?”

 

“No not fossils – fossils”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Not fossils, fossils, there’s an ‘A’”

 

“You mean Pharisees?”

 

“No fossils. with A”

 

“Oh – apostles!”

 

“Yes. Did they kill Jesus Papa?”

 

“No they were his friends.
 

"Who killed Jesus?"
 

" … ahhh … bad people, not the apostles.”

Super handy power mower mechanic guy - 2011

Super handy power mower mechanic guy - 2011

 

A power lawnmower, vintage 2007 has a starter cord that you yank to get it going. It also has a choke, usually a rubber bubble-ball that is pressed to send gas into the carburetor (carburetor, is that right?). So on Sunday when I got out to mow the lawn, I press the bubble and yank the cord, except that the pull of the cord meets with a stronger than usual resistance. I try again and again. It seems to be getting more difficult. Finally it won’t budge at all. I step back to rest. I look at the mower, trying to contemplate its age - then I mentally divide the cost - I guess $175 – by the 3 years I’ve owned it, and arrive at a little less that $60 per year. “Ok, maybe this mower is shot,” I think, “Time for a new one.” 

I give it another try. I pull the cord again. Now it’s completely, frozen (not the right word, I know), tangled or knotted maybe. Several more tries and finally I give up. If I could take it apart, I could probably see the problem and untangle the cord if that’s the issue, which it most likely is – I guess. I look over the mower and notice some screws/bolts holding the various pieces together. I go inside and look for wrenches. I locate ratchet wrench set in a box with a handle and a number of round wrench fittings. 

 

None of the wrench fittings fit the various bolts. 

 

I see another box. More individual wrench fittings, no handle though. Seriously? How does the handle disappear?

OK, back to the mower. There’s a plastic guard cover. I loosen two screws and remove it. OK. The next candidate for removal is the part that contains the wheel that the pull cord wraps around. I look for bolts, screws and spot maybe four, maybe eight. The only wrench fittings that fit are the ones with no handle. I spend a good half hour trying to find the missing handle. No luck.      

I decide to wait until tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes. I’m at the mower again. I locate a ratchet screwdriver with fittings that work for some of the screws/bolts.  

 

After much labor – loosening screws in positions that only a career mechanic could access – I manage to lift off the top. Whoops – the whole cord assembly comes off with the top too. OK – wow. Though all I have done is remove eight screws, I am quite proud of myself. Thus I start imagining an ultimate triumph. I've actually fixed a broken lawn mower.  I begin to construct my successful super-handyman story as I continue dismantling the mower. Whom will I tell?

Holding the removed assembly in my hand I tug the cord. No resistance. Hmmmmm. I peer down at the mower, see the flywheel (is that the name?). There’s a brake pad pressing against the flywheel. I immediately deduce that it is this that is keeping the flywheel from turning. Then it hits me. With my hand I clamp the safety handle and the brake pad disengages. Then it hits me again. The reason that the cord could not be pulled – way back when - is that I was not holding down the safety handle – something I have done for - I multiply 25 lawn mowings per year by 3 years and come up with 75 -  so that’s for each of the past 75 uses of the mower.

OK, so I didn’t really have to take apart the mower. You see – the flywheel is locked by a brake-pad whenever the safety handle is not clamped snug with the push-handle. Everyone knows that.

Perhaps not all mowers are constructed like this (this is a guess), however I suspect they are. Face it - dumb me. Still I feel somewhat mechanically inclined. Actually, I’m pretty much super handy about things. I just took apart a whole mower.

Ok, moving on, I'll admit that putting mowers back together is not really my forte.  Witness that I spend the better part of the day on this task and succeed – mostly – save for one extra bolt and one rather large hard rubber washer – where did that come from?

I try to start the mower – the ultimate test.

 

It starts. Cool! I feel accomplished – somewhat. There is a bit of a clanking sound. The extra bolt, or rubber washer, I deduce, belongs somewhere, and needs to be put back in. The clanking is mostly noticeable at startup. I go into the garage and look for the washer. I give it fifteen minutes. I can't find the washer. Back to the mower. I start it up again. Still going, but a definite clanking.

I tell myself that it is God’s will. If He/She wanted to stop the clanking then … well you get the idea. 

Stories D'Amour

Stories D'Amour 

Nothing we (speaking for myself) like more than to tell someone one of our love stories. Young or old, they’ve always popular, especially with the one doing the telling. Don’t know if their popularity increases as we age, but it seems certain that the thoughts of past love does not diminish. To an extent I think that it may even grow, as it blurs. Perhaps, however, there are not as many people around to listen. That’s another thing.

Max, my father-in-law, had a favorite love story. Right before Alice Shrade died she told her daughter, “Call Max Dopson and tell him I died.” Alice was Max’s high school girlfriend and Max came to NJ to live with his daughter when he was ninety. He lived to 96 and in the six years he and I logged a good many hours together, riding in the car, long walks, breakfast, lunch, you name it, just the two of us, to and from on various excursions. I probably heard the “Alice Shrade Story” (among others) a dozen times.

Obviously it made Max feel wonderful the he was remembered. And it was a love story that I enjoyed hearing as well. And could I just take a moment here to apologize to Max for, more than once, blurting out the punch line? Sorry Max.

Max would start the story – no segue required – “You know Alice Shrade, she was my girlfriend. She passed away. And when she died, you know what she said to her sister …?” This is where – a couple of times – I would butt in,  “Yes I know – ‘tell Max Dopson’.”

“Right,” Max would say.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” I'd say.

 “Yes, that she thought of me.”

 And so we would continue our drive, rolling along the road, life’s highways, we the living.  

 I liked Max’s Alice Shrade story, enough so that I thought perhaps I should think of a person or two to tell of my passing (I was born in 1940). Not so much that they would be informed, but if they were anything like Max, or me, despite some sadness, I think that it would make them feel good and perhaps some day they would tell the story to their grandchild, the story of how I thought of them, right before I passed away. Something nice to leave someone - no?

 It sure made Max happy ...  to be remembered so.