Entertaining the Grandchildren

A large strawberry moon rose above the trees shadowing the youngsters chasing the lightening bugs. Their loud frantic voices brought the old dull neighborhood to life again. We heard a harrumph from the old man across the street. He still works so he is not yet 65, but he has lost his youth to the daily life of the job. We have been retired for about 7 years and have begun our next passage. We have a fast Camaro- my retirement gift to my husband. Travel is high on our list. We have been to New England, North Carolina, Kentucky (numerous times) Bowling Green, Ohio, Florida. And Arizona. I have been to Italy 3 times myself. Then there are the repetitive trips to doctors from Cleveland to Clyde to Mansfield that always include stops at Hobby Lobby or some antique store  Antiques are cheap now because this generation wants stuff easily thrown out in the trash. No treasures or keepsakes for them  
My 10 year old granddaughter who is one of the firefly catchers has a malfunctioning phone and her concern is about photos never printed and videos in a cloud.
Today I have five grandchildren guests ages 3,5,7,8,10. For compensation, they are supposed to help me carry and sort items for a garage sale. The 3 and 5 year old are most cooperative, the 10 old girl is begrudging with her help, always worrying about the actions of the 2 older boys who are tired and sly about avoiding assistance. The little girl comes to talk as I unpack boxes and to give me smiles and kisses. 5 year old boy does lots of shopping in the Scooby Doo section and finds numerous items he might need at home. The 3 older kids find the music and proceed to blow horns and beat a loud tune out of the xylophone that no baby ever played.
I do not remember any adult entertaining us as kids. The closest we came was one winter when my Uncle Harold visited us at Jackson. He was a teacher and knew lots about motivating children. On that trip he taught us how to cut paper houses and glue them with a mixture of flour and water. We made whole towns.
Now most adults plan events for their kids or grandkids. Mine have been here 4 days, and we have done the following: painted sharpie shirts, played with water guns, learned Yahtzee (on 2 consecutive turns I rolled Yahtzee), played croquet, shopped in my collection of small found objects, made found object robots, caught lightening bugs, twirled sparklers lit by Gary's torch, watched Pitmasters with Gary, shopped at my barely set up garage sale, had popcorn and Zootopia night, visited their cousins home one evening, made dozens of octopus with sculpey clay and had a science day with Aunt Leah. They always needed something to do. Don't get me wrong that they are not creative. I am constantly amazed by their humor and opinions on life. They are not very open to reasoning yet.
The planned activity regimen here is totally my fault. I want them to experience simple things that they create themselves. To learn self worth. And all of this is sprinkled with my stories and my love for them.

Summer Ages

Summer will never be the same. Last Sunday, as Gary and I drove to the lake at Huron, we drove past Valley Beach Swim Park south of Norwalk. As I looked over the hill thru the trees, I saw no sign life, of the crowds that packed the place on a hot afternoon. The large pool had little water, and the surrounding grass beach was uncluttered. We wondered if it was closed. Then today, I googled the name and found the posting from March stating that they would not reopen in 2016.

Kids and families have been going there for 61 years. My family belonged for 20 of those years. When the girls were little, I usually met my sister Carol and her 2 children there. We sat at the water’s edge while the kids played on the small slide. As the girls grew, every Saturday or Sunday after chores, at around 12:30, we dressed in suits, gathered towels, a quilt, snacks and drinks. And assorted pool toys although the park provided tubes and balls. Often we included friends of the girls which involved picking them up. I have since thought how easy those mothers had it to have their daughters occupied for the afternoon. They probably took naps.

We always sat on the west side grass to avoid looking into the sun. As soon as we spread the quilt for me to lay on, the girls were in the water. I usually had a book to read and a beer or two to pass the time. And in those days, I was a smoker. As soon as I was settled, I heard the “mom call”- “ Watch me jump off the dock”. I did the wave, shaded my eyes and watched for hours as they jumped and slid and paddled across the pool in the tubes. Snack time usually came during the hottest scene in the romance I was reading. They ate chips, pretzels, and granola bars. No apples or good foods. They needed energy. The second snack break required a trip to the concession stand for a popsicle that promptly ran down their arms and dripped on my quilt. They were sent into the water to wash off and with the warning that we would be going soon. Potty breaks meant crossing the bridge to the restrooms. And at 6, they went alone without fear. I watched as they dawdled on the bridge to see the stream flowing underneath and to spit.

As they swam and played, I watched the crowds. Many were regular members like me. Most sat in the same area each time. I watched their children grow from year to year without knowing their names. Visitors respected each other’s space.  One man chose to wear a speedo type suit. He stood at attention with arms crossed guarding the actions of his children. We referred to him as ”Dick”. Lots of laughter.

The weather was always a consideration. If it showered, swimmers ran out of the water for shelter. When we heard thunder, guests packed up quickly for home

Our stay was usually from 1:00 pm to 4:00 pm. At my final wave, I gathered equipment and waited for them with towels and money. Before we left, they always needed a candy bar for the trip home. Usually a KitKat bar. Chocolate for sure that would melt and make a last mess. As I walked to the Blazer, they trailed behind me with towels half over a shoulder and half dragging in the dirt of the drive looking like sad little urchins.

Isn't it funny how things work out

When I draw or paint my brain relaxes. Otherwise, most of the time it feels jumbled and breathless. Usually, I live on the edge of saying the wrong word or jumping in with a wrong decision. Any conversation interruption stops my thought process. I used to have a witty sense of humor with quick comebacks. Cant even recite a joke now. The jokes now come when I use an inappropriate or off the wall word in conversation. We look at each other like “where did that come from?”. My brain is also full of random information gleaned from being a voracious reader of fiction and apparently a set of encyclopedias somewhere along the way.

The status of reading has certainly changed in my lifetime. When we were kids, my parents thought we were just reading to get out of chores or being lazy. Reading was a lifeline for me. I went to different places and times. Not everyone was like Willard, Ohio. My travels led me to ancient Rome and Egypt. I was on the battlefield with Molly Pitcher and at horse farms with Justin Morgan. The Swiss Family Robinson tree was my home.  I fell in love with Rhett Butler.

But still it wasn’t cool to say that reading was one of your hobbies.

Today, the news is full of stories about the decline of books, libraries and reading in general. The public is concerned about the next generation being able to read. I worry about their overall education. So many things and places that young people do not explore in books. Everyone cant visit Timbuktu, but they can at least know what it is. Kids are required now to read a preset number of minutes for homework. My grandchildren still like to learn a new word. Rarely do you see anyone at the airport with their nose stuck in a book, oblivious to the crowds glued to iphones.  Will they eventually speak in the msg dialect?

I am now unable to read books because of confusion and focus. I miss the being lost feeling. But God as chosen for me to try art. Do you remember the pictures in TV guide to draw for art school scholarships? My drawings were always a little off. Now I use that to advantage in abstracts. But along the way, I trained to draw what I see. And that everything in the picture doesn’t have to be in the painting. And no, the painting doesn’t really look like the picture. It is a painting! The artist has his own unique vision.

My current project is titled “Waiting for Jesus”. It is one of a group series to celebrate the days of Holy Week for a local church. I chose Saturday or Black Sabbath as some call it. Yeah, like most of you, I thought that the Saturday after Good Friday was for coloring eggs and shopping for Easter clothes and candy for baskets filled at midnight. This assignment has led me through Isaiah in the Old Testament to the Gospels in the New to find out what happened with Jesus on Saturday. That was/is the Jewish Sabbath and all followed the traditional rules for the day. I could not find that anyone had mourned at the tomb for Jesus. But many awaited his anointing and resurrection- all who are captives of Satan until Jesus proclaims their freedom.

The process of the painting helped me realize my own captivity and that all I had to do was reach out to Jesus for salvation. Praise God for leading me here. And I have no trouble reading His book.

Material Baggage

Throughout our lives we collect a lot of material baggage. We save toys from childhood, souvenirs from vacations and even old rugs in case we need them. And if we don’t save the stuff, our mothers do. I am starting to admire people who change out their décor and just dispose of the used items. I save it for garage sales or ebay or sometimes Gary saves things in the garage instead of taking to the garbage. He has 3 lamps awaiting repair.

I am a garage and estate sale addict and attend the monthly flea markets in the area. You savers are appreciated by me. For me, the old things spark a memory of a time gone by. I am always on the lookout for any memento that reminds me of my mother or grandmother.

Since genealogy is another hobby, when I see old papers, letters, bibles, or cards, my interest is piqued. I used to think that ancestor photos and documents were the only important part of compiling a family history. Now I can see how the stuff used and left by people can tell stories of how they lived. At a recent sale I picked up a Masonic bible, a lamp with the tag still on it, and some artwork. The bible had the homeowners name along with other members. The lamp was purchased in Chicago at Marshall Fields. One piece of art was a straw picture from Mexico, another a signed and numbered lithograph. From the bible, I learned that the man was probably a businessman since he was an officer in the local Masons. The lamp indicated that they may have travelled to Chicago and that she was interested in fine things. “Good friends” had given them the Mexican souvenir in 1953. What a long time to keep such unusual décor. One piece of art was a winter scene painted on cardboard and signed in the corner by the lady of the house. A bible that I did not purchase had her maiden name written on the owner page.

Sometimes I pick up some ephemera at auctions or flea markets, then try to track down a relative on Ancestry who is interested a piece of family memorabilia. I always wonder why people sell letters and family photos at sales. Did no one in the family want such precious items? Well, you just can’t keep everything. And often the younger generation has lost track of who the photos belong to. The names of friends and relatives that grandma and grandpa knew easily get lost with time and distance from the past. Unless a younger family member takes an active interest. For instance, when I visited my grandmother, we went through the old photos box and she told me names and stories about the ancestor. I related to them through her and now through the pictures. On her death, my Aunt took possession of the boxes of family valuables and pictures. That usually happens in families. One daughter takes care of those items, and the possession and knowledge should be passed down. Photos and family memorabilia is not shared enough. For instance, my aunt has no children. I hope she has made an arrangements in her will to pass it all to someone who will be responsible with them. Pictures used to be precious but now everyone can take numerous shots with the Iphones and save in the cloud. Where do those go when you are gone from the cloud? And many never print those digital images to share. From our children we receive an annual family shot and the infamous school pictures. And a few from relatives as Christmas cards.

As pictures become less important, some “little thing” from grandmothers and aunts become more precious and can tell something about them. I received a gold pocket watch from my mother engraved with her uncle’s name. He drowned in 1925, two years before her birth. The uncle was her father’s twin brother. She cared for the watch like it was worth a million dollars. I think she treasured it so because it made her remember the uncle and thus her father. Grandmother gave her the watch but the story of how she came by it was lost. Perhaps my grandfather acquired it upon Uncle Romain’s death and Mother thought of it as “Daddy’s  watch”. After Mother passed, I searched for Romain’s son of the same name. He lived and died in Bellevue, and we never knew until my internet research. He left no survivors. I like to think that he would have enjoyed having something of his father.

My sister cherishes a small depression bowl belonging to our great grandmother Howard. From grandmother, it is passed to the oldest granddaughter in the family. So it travelled to Mother then Brenda and now to her granddaughter, Brittaney who will understand its meaning.

When I was a young girl we had a basket that we used to gather potatoes. One day years later, I viewed it sitting forlornly in the garden mud and asked my mom about it. She told me that my dad’s mother had made the basket. At my interest, she gave it to me and I have cared for it over the years. I imagine my grandma Margaret making the basket out of necessity as it is made from hand hewn thick wood strips. It is not a fine piece of basketry as those made by the Cherokee Indians and artisans.

When the family was dispersing my grandmother’s household, I was given hats belonging to her and her second husband, Callie. Grandmother’s was a straw hat with red plastic cherries. I still see her coming from the garden with a basket of beans wearing that hat. Or walking on the beach at Daytona. Callie had been gone for over 30 years and still she kept his hat. It deserves to be saved another 30 years by me as I remember him passing the day at Burning Fork rocking under the shade tree in the front yard. As we sit on the front porch watching all the cars in a hurry, catching a random wave or honk. No, I do not wear the hat yet but I drink an occasional beer there.

Already, I tell my girls which of our stuff is important to the family. Some books are old and valuable, but they will need to be checked to see what little item I have stuck in there. A common habit. And our will designates specific dispersals. We have instructed them to pass on that stuff they don’t want. I hope that my paintings and Gary’s hand mades will be treasures.

If you see either at the auction, please save.