Grandpop Pops Corn the Grand Old Way

Steam was rising as Vincent and I squabbled, but not because the disagreement itself was heated.
Rather, the verbal jousting was because the now-7-year-old lad, a tad over 4 at the time, quibbled to bits with me over the ingredients for a late-night snack during a sleepover at our house.
I suggested popping corn the old-fashioned way. Always game for an activity, not to mention popcorn, he readily agreed. He headed to the cupboard to snag the microwave popcorn, while I headed to the cabinet to retrieve my old-fashioned, hand-crank popper.
I told him to put the Pop Secret back, because we were going to step back in time. He looked puzzled as I intoned The Judds' song, “Grandpa, tell me ’bout the good old days … ” I suppose even somebody who knew the song would have been puzzled at my tune-challenged rendition, so I'll give you a break and give you the REAL McCoy:



Back to popcornpalooza: Vincent watched intently as I poured oil and salt into the pan but looked even more confused when I poured in the kernels.
“What are those?” he said.
“That's popcorn,” I replied.
“They look like nuts,” he responded.
“They're popcorn kernels,” I persisted.
“Well, they look like nuts,” he insisted.
“Kernels.”
“Nuts.”
Oh, nuts: You try to win that circularly cacophonous collision of world views.
But like I said, the argument itself wasn’t steamy, but the steam soon hissed from the lid as I turned the crank and the kernels built pressure toward bursting. That’s about the time it dawned on me that he was puzzled because he never had even seen real kernels . His only popcorn experiences had been with pre-packaged microwave corn or the big buckets I buy at theaters. (It wasn’t all that long ago that popping for the large bucket earned free refills, but that bubble seems to have burst with real estate and everything else monetary these days, reducing my stock in theater corn faster than my 4019(k).)
Well, that night, Vincent was able to time-travel to see how grandpa did it in the good old days.
When I die, I think I'll leave him that old popper so he can show off someday, when one of his own grandkids approaches him and says, “Grandpa, tell me ’bout the good old days …”
He, too, will be able to demonstrate that there is a kernel of truth about the good old days.
Similarly, not long ago, I was rummaging through a closet and ran across another relic: an old record player. I resolved to take Vincent, then 6, Jack, 4, and Luke, 2, on a spin down memory lane, back B.C.D, as in Before CD’s.
It would be a slow spin, because the only albums I have in those musty old boxes are the big 33-and-a-third rpms.
But Vincent and Jack surprised me, and spoiled my surprise, when I cockily pulled out a big, black disc and trumpeted, “I bet you don’t know what THIS is.”
“It’s a record,” Jack said nonchalantly.
“How do you know?” I said, as deflated as a beach ball that had landed on a piece of sharp coral.
Vincent chimed in that their pre-school teacher played platters on a little record player.
Sigh, so records aren’t yet a foreign concept to that generation, but I bet eight-track players would be. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of them; never did.
We still had fun with that old player, as I carefully put the platter on the turntable and set it spinning. I demonstrated how to put the needle down, ever so gently.
The lesson was lost on Vincent, though, when he asked how to change songs, and I said I would move the needle. He tried himself, scratching it across the record in the antiquated “seek” mode we take for granted these days.
Gently, I took his hand and said, “GENTLY, because the needle will scratch the record.”
It’s sad that one generation’s advances wipe out previous ones’ fond memories. Well, not in EVERY case. I can’t say as I miss outhouses all that much. My experience with them was limited, but I do recall how uncomfortable they were on a cold winter’s night. Even if you didn’t have to sit down, it wasn’t much fun bundling up to trek out into the snow to commune with nature. And I’ve grown accustomed to other comforts, in addition to Charmin Plus (with ALOE!), such as air conditioning, automatic transmissions, multi-CD changers, cell phones and texting. Well, scratch the texting like the needle on an old record. I have gone textual only a couple of times because I just can’t get a handle on it.
On the other hand, it’s sad that some day, kids won’t know the fall-off-the-fork, melt-in-your-mouth texture of a slow-cooked roast. Or even the days before computers, when we relied on directions to get from point A to point B. Everything is point and click these days.
For instance, one of Vincent’s delights is our trips to the hobby shop, where he toy trains transfix him. Occasionally, he’ll con me into buying a train book or snag a free catalog that he will pore over until it falls apart.
One day, he was bugging his mom to go to the hobby shop. Apparently, he assumed she didn’t know how to get there, even though they have to drive past the shop to get to our house.
“Just call Papa Mike,” he said. “Ask him for the address, and you can Mapquest it.”
I guess that puts a whole new, modern spin on the saying that the pleasure isn’t in the destination, but in the journey.
If only we could Mapquest our lives as easily, eh?

Maybe It's Time for THE TALK

Love triangles are challenging enough when they back a guy into a corner, but it appears that a quadrangle just might help a fella wriggle OUT of a corner.
I always had figured that Vincent, a 7-year-old who has been blessed with sultry, lady-killing good looks, would be the Class Casanova of his clan. Serious and thoughtful, he projects a come-hither look into a camera that would have melted the celluloid back in the days before digital. And some day, I suspect that that same Hud-like visage will melt the hearts of the ladies swooning at his feet.
His 4-year-old brother, Jack, also is a handsome devil (lest you think this is blind bragging on my part, I must inform you that they are step-grandkids, so I can’t take credit for their looks). But Jack’s devil-may-care approach to life and his fondness for snakes, snails and dinosaur tales had led me to believe that he would just as soon see a girl squished under a tyrannosaurus rex as give her the time of day. Even though he makes friends easily with girls, I still doubt that they will become a priority for him anytime soon.
The gaggle of girls who have taken a gander at Jack at preschool are another matter. They had tried to elbow each other out of the way to get close to him several times previously, but they apparently got into such a dust-up the other day that it could have rivaled the latest bodice-ripper on a bookstore shelves.
This particular time — perhaps it was preschool mating season, for all I know — the coquettish covey’s quest for attention from the laid-back lad escalated toward a full-scale, fur-flying furor. With their claws extended and teeth bared and manes flared, acting more like ferocious lions fighting for turf and a lair of lionesses calmly waiting for the winner, they loudly proclaimed their intentions to marry Jack.
Perhaps I exaggerate, but I can only relate what I heard, more or less.
“I‘m going to marry Jack!” one said.
“No, I’m going to marry him,” another proclaimed.
Still another: “I‘m going to marry Jack!!”
As the struggle approached biblical proportions, God’s gift to wimmin decided to intercede. Jack raised his hands, probably similar to Moses’ gesture when he parted the Red Sea, and invoked the wisdom of Solomon, proclaiming: “Girls! Girls! GIRLS! You can marry one of my brudders!”
The teacher nearly died laughing, and apparently the hubub subsided, with no injuries to body, mind or heart.
The thought occurred to me that, if Jack starts pimping his brudders, the boys might need The Talk sooner than expected. And, although Vincent likes to pal around with girls, the only girl whom 2-year-old Luke is interested in these days is Mommy.
And baby Patrick, well, let’s just say Mommy’s his priority, too, because his mother’s milk speeds him on his way to his other two talents: sleeping and dirtying diapers.
I guess that makes him the closest of the Fab Four to being a couch potato, so there aren’t going to be any girls fighting for HIS attention in the long run, if the youngest of the Italian stallions doesn’t change his ways.
Something tells me that’s all in good time, my pretties.

The Four Boys of the Apocalypse

I had trouble handling just three horsemen, so what are my chances with four? That may seem as if I am branding one branch of grandsons as Conquest, War, Famine, and Death like the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Not so. Rather, it refers to the fact that grandkid visits sometimes have left our house in a mess of apocalyptic proportions when they were just the Triumphant Trio: Vincent, Jack and Luke. Oh, there were trademark examples of each of the four horsemen:
* Conquest: I considered it a conquest when I could get all three boys to nap at the same time. That was an elusive goal, partly because of their diverse napping styles.
Vincent, who rarely naps now that he is 7, was the most pliant, often taking three-hour naps with me as a toddler. Those were the good old days, because he kept his head nestled on my arm and wouldn’t let me get up, so I could justify those lazy afternoons.
Four-year-old Jack’s resistance to naps includes doing somersaults and other antics to stay awake, while 2-year-old Luke mimics that technique but usually eventually slips to sleep after a prolonged period of procrastination with gymnastic gyrations.
* War: With three boys under 7 knocking around the house, there are bound to be dust-ups, and there are. I have found a balance in the battles, though, with a 2-year-old sometimes landing a punch that can collapse a brother five years his senior.
* Famine: This is a remote possibility, as we keep a hearty supply of foods that I believe boys need to build strong bodies 12 ways: candy and ice cream. But once in awhile, we run out of the preferred flavor, and the squawking would make you think we were starving them. (Sometimes, enough ice cream drips on the couch to feed a starving Third-World nation.)
A couple of weeks back, Vincent said, “Papa Mike, WHY do you have so much candy around?”
“So you boys can have some when you come to visit,” I replied.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you that for years!” he said.
Talk about hyperbole. YEARS? He picked up an exaggeration gene somewhere.
* Death: Obviously, this is the least likely to occur. The boys do nothing but enrich my life, unless I die in a fall after stumbling over a toy. On the other hand, substitute the last two letters in death with an “f,” and it might apply. Sometimes, the chaotic cacophony they create could be the deaf of me.
In short, the Triumphant Trinity presented challenges galore. Now that adding infant grandson Patrick makes four, you might think I should cinch up my saddle to avoid a fate of even more apocalyptic proportions.
Perhaps, but I’m taking Vincent’s lead to a more optimistic approach and assume that they will carry me. Indeed, 7-year-old Vincent guaranteed as much when he was just a tad over 2.
We live close to railroad tracks, which spawned a tradition for Vincent and me tracing back to when barely walked. When he would hear a train whistle, he would leap into my arms and I would run the block to the tracks so we could watch the train roar past.
The tyke became a fanatic about those trains and developed an uncanny knack of hearing whistles far off, allowing us time to trek to the train. The first time he stayed overnight with us, I heard a train whistle in the middle of the night. (Well, 2 a.m., but that’s the middle of the night for some people, right?)
Like a church bell calling people to worship, the whistle prompted me to utter a prayer, as well: "PLEASE, God, don’t let Vincent hear that whistle!”
God either didn’t hear, or she was just in a frisky mood, because there was Vincent at my bedside, tugging on the covers and saying, “Papa Mike, I hear a train, too.”
“I do, too, Vincent, but it’s the middle of the night.”
“We should go see it,” he insisted.
The plea in his eyes forced my hand, and my body, out of bed as I swept him up in my arms, bolted down the stairs, unbolted the door and loped toward the train. He was delighted as he watched it barrel by.
As for me, I realized what a pickle I would be in if a police officer saw me standing there, in my shorts, with no ID, holding a diapered toddler in the middle of the night. Fortunately for me, no officer drove by, and we had set a precedent of going train spotting, even in the middle of the night.
As time passed, and Vincent got heavier, my strides grew slower and my breathing, more labored. But that didn’t sway Vincent’s nocturnal missions. One night, when it was particularly dark, he nearly cut off my breathing because he was clutching my neck so hard.
But he assured me: “It’s dark, but I’m not scared, Papa Mike.”
As I breathed harder, I said, “You sure are heavy. I can hardly carry you.”
He put his hands firmly on my cheeks, looked me straight in the eye and promised: “Don’t worry, Papa Mike. When I’m older, I’ll carry YOU.”
Awwwwww. That’s why I’m sure that I might be able to keep up with all four of them, when Patrick gets past the eat-poop-sleep (mostly sleep) stage.
Forget the Four Horsemen; I’d rather look at them as The Fab Four, with no apologies to The Beatles.

Grandkid chatter

Feel free to send me your anecdotes and/or observations about your grandkids or grandkids you know. Or your own kids; like my Uncle Frank used to say, ALL kids are GRAND. I'll try to post as many as I can. I would appreciate being able to run your name, too, but if you'd rather NOT have your name published, please note it. Otherwise, I will assume I have your permission.
OR, of course, you can skip the me as the middle man and post comments as you see fit.

Old Dog Learns New Tricks

Imagine my surprise upon discovering that my grandkids teach me most of what I need to know as a grandparent. And here I thought I would teach them.
After all, I’m the one who is full of the wisdom of experience, while they are empty vessels waiting to be filled with the ways of the world.
Instead, I have found that their innocence and inexperience are the very teaching skills from which I can learn at this point of my life, which has pivoted around journalistic deadlines, multi-tasking, and, well, an OCD tendency to let the tasks direct me rather than vice versa

I was naïve enough, and egotistical enough, to believe that I had a good sense of important values. Then the boys took me to school on some values I lagged in, such as goal setting, optimism, flexibility, courage, patience, persistence, and the pivotal priority that people should be the most important focus of my life

So, this old blog dog has learned new tricks from the lads, such as

* Goal setting: Perched on one branch of the family tree is Anthony, a 16-year-old who has been an athletic juggernaut in baseball and, to some extent, soccer. A fan of sports of all sorts, he surprised me when he decided to play football in high school. He had not taken to the gridiron previously. His build was slight, and I had assumed that he wouldn’t like the smackdown nature of the sport

But he set the goal to play football, and he transformed his slight build into one of might. He persistently pumped iron to pack muscle onto his skinny frame, sans steroids, of course. (And now, he even dons boxing gloves on occasion.) I don't have a photo of him handy, but if he's like all the other kids these days (from 9 to 90, actually) he probably has a MySpace page or some such somewhere out in cyberspace.

* Optimism: On another family tree branch are 7-year-old Vincent and his brothers, Jack and Luke (in the photos accompanying this installment, the top one, courtesy of Hardage Photography, was taken when Vincent was 3+ and Jack, 1+; in the second one, the tot holding the flower is Luke, at about one and a half). Vincent's forte is optimism. He envisions a goal and harbors unswerving faith that he will achieve it, such as his belief that he would get a train set for Christmas. After his mom explained that it would strain the family budget, he countered, “But Santa can bring it, and you can get me something else, cheaper.” His optimism was rewarded when his parents, or Santa (I can’t remember which), found an eBay deal on a train set

Even more optimistic was his secret Christmas wish to have a baby join the clan, against all odds. His parents didn’t even know about it, PLUS, the rule at his house is that Santa gives each child two presents. When Melissa and Skip discovered a month after Christmas that there was a surprise bun in the over, Vincent reacted by saying, repeatedly, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it

He finally explained the object of his disbelief: “I can’t BELIEVE Santa finally gave me three presents

His optimism was rewarded with a new brother, so I have to add the recently born Patrick to Vincent’s family tree.

* Flexibility: This trait could apply to the physical demands I sometimes face because of 4-year-old Jack’s penchant for roughhousing, such as the time I was napping on the floor and he did a WWE raw leap from the couch onto my stomach.
But I’m referring instead to his mercurial changes in interests and moods. We can be in the middle of one activity, and he’ll jump ship without warning to another. One minute, he can be delighted with the smallest thing, and the next, devastated over the tiniest slight

* Courage: Luke’s overcoming some serious health challenges has made the 2-year-old an inspiration. He has endured several painful, and just darn inconvenient, therapies to take the upper hand in his life

* Surprise: Patrick, well, he was a surprise just by showing up. And since he’s but an infant, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. (Or maybe he could teach me how to scan his picture to post it here

So there you have it, the pedagogues in my life. One of the most important values I have learned at the feet of my grandchildren is the value of time. Not the value of time spent at work, which I held dear in my youth as justification of my existence. But rather, time spent with them. (Not that I didn’t do plenty of camping and fishing and hockey-team ferrying and soccer coaching with my own kids, but grandkids are different animals, you know

I saw evidence of this at Jack’s preschool the other day. The teacher had had students list things that make them happy and sad. For sad, he said: “When there’s nobody to play with.”
Often, he wants to play with me, and I have to remember that

Just a couple of weeks ago, Melissa said the boys were hoping I would take them fishing. I alibied that it was too hot, and that the lake was too high, and tossed in a couple of other trumped-up reasons. After hanging up the phone, I felt guilty for making excuses instead of exceptions

So I got some worms. And we fished. More than that, we CAUGHT fish. But most important: We spent time with each other.

I’m hooked on my teachers.