What are we doing next?

Kids can wear a guy’s butt out.
Here I sit, on Dec. 29, wondering what next year will bring, but being satisfied that I don’t know and, indeed, can’t know. Oh, I confess that I often lament, in the throes of one crisis or another in life, that I wish I could time-travel six months into the future to see how I resolved my problems.
But I know that’s impossible, except in movies, such as the “Back to the Future” series or “Peggy Sue Got Married.”



I’m no Johnny B. Goode, and I’m no Michael J. Fox, so I know I could end up like Biff, buried in manure, six months hence.



And I’m no Peggy Sue, so I don’t get the chance to go back and start over.



So what if I can’t time travel like Marty McFlighe or Peggy Sue? That’s the way life is, and like another song says: Some days, you’re the windshield; other times, you’re the bug.
It takes patience, and that’s something kids often don’t have. Witness the fact-based jokes about “are we there yet?”
I’ve been encountering a variation on that theme of late: We’re not even done with one activity, and the grandsons are wondering what we’re doing NEXT.
We can be in the middle of a trip to the park, and one will chirp: “What are we doing NEXT?“
We can be halfway through a movie, and one will whisper in the darkened theater: “Where are we going NEXT?”
We can be barely started on an adventure at the zoo, and one will say, plaintively: “What are we doing NEXT, Papa Mike?”
Usually, my plan is to take a nap to recover from whatever it is we’re doing THEN, because they’ve already worn my butt out.
I guess their inquisitiveness isn’t as bad as mine, wanting to know what conditions will be six months from now, and they’re just asking about six minutes from now.
So, although I’m curious about what 2009 will bring, I know I can’t predict it. This time last year, for instance, I had NO idea that I’d have another grandchild by now.
Well, I guess I have one jump on that scenario: My daughter Annie is with child, and the new arrival is expected July 3 or 4. Although she doesn’t know yet whether the stirring in the womb will turn out to be a girl or a boy, I’m lobbying for a July Fourth arrival date.
I have suggested to her that she and Kevin could name the lad or lassie after one of my favorite holiday movies, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” She spurned the idea, just like YouTube did my attempt to show you Jimmy Cagney singing the movie’s signature song. Well, YouTube didn’t spurn it, but somebody did; something about violating terms of use.
So I’ll have to be patient and forgo this blog’s musical signature motif.
Now, what should I do NEXT? I’ve got to rush and get it in, because I know for sure I won’t be around in the year 2525.



How ’bout those Nebraska boys’ hairdos? WhattheHELL were we THINKIN’?

Happy New Year to you all, whether you’re earthbound or a time traveler.

Oh, speaking of the New Year, I just remembered what I’ll be doing next: Playing in my annual Payne Stewart invitational golf tournament, complete with plus fours, on a course overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, on New Year's Day.
Well, if you MUST ask, I've never WON it. I suppose that makes the golfers among you smug. So be it. But if you live Up North, and you happen to be reading this on New Year's Day, I urge you to look out the window and cast your gase upon the snow and the ice. If it happens to be an uncharacteristically warm day, it'll be dirty, filthy slush.
THAT's why I golf here in Florida every Jan. 1: Because I CAN, even if I can't WIN.
Not that I'm trying for the last word, but nah-nah-nah-nah-naahhhhhhhh-nah.

Three Little Wise Men, and a Mum One

MY MUSES, on 2007 Christmas card: The Triumphant Trinity tallied Vincent, then 6; Luke, then dangnear 2; and Jack, nearly 4.


WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES: The Fab Four features Vincent, now 7; Luke, dangnear 3; Patrick Michael, a few pounds over 4 months; and Jack, almost 5.


Today I turn, as is my wont, to my own private trinity for words of wisdom as another big religious holiday sneaks in amid the flocked trees and stocked shelves: Christmas.
Lest my invoking a TRIO causes your head to warp into a devilish Linda Blair spin, let me exorcise your mind of thoughts that it’s slipped my mind that the former shamrock on this stem of grandkids is now a four-leaf clover.
I haven’t forgotten what child is this infant: It’s Patrick Michael, who was born Aug. 12, with cooing and lowing and all the trappings, although there was no manger and no cattle breathing steamy air to warm this swaddled bundle of joy. (After ALL, this IS Florida, for one thing.)
Since the sprout who is the youngest in the quadrangle can’t even talk yet, let alone spout theological wisdom, I can defer to a young singer, whose name just happens to have “Christ” as a root, for a Christmas song.
I bet you thought Christina Aguilera just popped onto the singing scene, full-throated and, uh, full-bodied, such as she displayed in her grinding performance in another Fab Four’s bodice-busting, lusty rendition of “Lady Marmalade” from the movie “Moulin Rouge” with Lil’ Kim, Mya and Pink “rounding” out the quartet, with Missy Elliot as narrator.
Well, since that’s too racy for a Christmas Column, check out what child is THIS from the Aguilera Archives:



Who knew then that she would become a rising star to top the tree of a presidential performance just a few years later:



Back to the Grandfather Clause Archives: I’m looking for childish words of religious wisdom, but I’m not ignoring Patrick. Although he has developed quite a paunch, his vocabulary is lacking, at 4-plus months. So I’m going with the elders in my temple: Vincent, Jack and Luke.
Vincent, at 7, has been a visionary from birth. He imagines things he wants to be, and WILLS them into existence.
I was not surprised, then, when he asked Melissa a couple of months back: “Mommy, why do adults have to SEE something before they believe it?”
I think they were talking about heaven, or God, or both, and she explained to him that those are elusive concepts for many people, but you’ve just gotta believe.
I’m amazed at Vincent’s optimism and his belief system, and I hope and pray he doesn’t lose them to cynicism the way so many of us do. Best prayer I’ve thought of so far: “Dear God, please give the lad the everlasting faith of a Cubs fan.” And just to make sure God’s listening, I might ask Harry Caray to give me a plug:



Jack’s also a believer, but he’d like to see God NOW, for a very practical reason: One day, he decided to draw a picture of God and ran into a calligrapher’s conundrum.
“Mommy,” the 4-year-old said, exhaling in exasperation. “Why can’t I SEE God? I don’t even know what he looks like. What color of shirt does he wear?”
Michelangelo, he ain’t, and he obviously never has seen the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or he would KNOW what God looks like.
Luke’s no Michelangelo, either, but he DOES have an appreciation for God’s brush strokes. One day, he beheld a sunset (or sunrise, I can’t remember) and observed: “God painted the sky pink today.”
So there you have it, on this holy holiday: My trinity spouting theological wisdom that I can appreciate more than all the theologians you could fit on the head of a pin.

Now that I’ve weighed in with the innocents, here’s a touch of the sinful side that provoked God to send his son to redeem our evil ways. I know many people find the term “Xmas” offensive, but since I mentioned Aguilera’s lusty side earlier, this video illustrates how she can put the X in Christina, and in Xmas. (It’s here for historical purposes, to illustrate evolving musical genres, of course). WARNING: If you’re taking heart medications, you should consult your doctor before pushing the button:



Don’t blame ME for that. I would rather have showed you her “Genie in a Bottle,” in honor of the boys’ grandma, Jeanne, whom they call GiGi, but I was barred from copying it.
But in keeping with the season, let’s close with her matching the holiness of the saving moment:



With that, I quote another child from the literary world: “God Bless Us, Every One.”

Keep inheritances close to the vest

I don’t have the wherewithal to leave much to those who wish me bon voyage when I cross the River Styx. It’s not that I’m mean, it’s just that I don’t have the means.
One thing I have done is collect several pocket watches of various designs, featuring golfers, dinosaurs, trains, etc., with an eye toward bequeathing them to the kids and grandkids, each geared toward their interests.
I have kept the collection close to my vest because, well, I wanted it to be a surprise. But the thought finally occurred to me that that was dumb, because it would cheat me out of seeing the looks in their eyes when they behold the array. So I have started showing them the watches.
Jack, of course, gravitated to the watches with dinosaurs on the cases and wanted one right away. I told the 4-year-old that he would get one when I’m gone, then realized quickly that you don’t worry a young child about death.
He got the message, though, saying immediately, “Do you mean when you’re DEAD?”
“Oh, no,” I said, backpedaling like a tyrannosaurus Rex was on my tail. “I mean when you’re older.”
“Like when I’m 6?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Maybe when I’m 8?”
“Maybe.”
“How ’bout 15?”
The bartering banter continued, but you get the drift. But the glint in his eyes made me think of that great line in “The Godfather,” when Vito Corleone advises son Michael to keep his friends close, but his ENEMIES, closer. I think I should keep all my grandsons close, but Jack, closer, so he doesn’t decide some day, while we’re angling for some sunnies, to give me a push so I’ll sleep with the fishes.
After all, he IS Italian. But come to think of it, all the grandsons are. Not Sicilians, mind you, but here's the link to explanations of those familial principles. (I searched YouTube high and low for the "enemies" scene, to no avail, and the Luca Brasi fishwrap, reference, includes his death scene, which I figured was too graphic for such a benign column as this.)

http://www.sicilianculture.com/godfather/quotes.htm


Continuing the gift-giving, and death, themes, a couple of days later, GiGi mentioned to Jack that it was her mom’s birthday, although her mom, nicknamed Honey, had died a few years before.
Jack thought for a few minutes, then said, “Well, it’s a good thing Grandma Honey’s dead, because you don’t have to buy her a present.”
I’m sure he was looking at it from a practical point of view, that GiGi would have all the more money to spend on HIM. And, from my practical point of view, we don’t have an address of where she’s sleeping with the fishes.
Of course, my goal as a grandfather is that the boys have fond memories of this IRISH grandfather, that I kept them close out of love, because that is my way.

Kids see a lot of nose hairs from down there!

Kids have a whole different perspective on life.
On the downside, at least from my view of their view, is that they see a lot more nose hairs from down there than I would care to behold. But I won’t delve further into that potential peril of brush fires (especially among smokers!).
Speaking of fiery rings, the combustibility of nose hairs has NOTHING on the searing possibilities of love. Speaking of rings of fire, how ’bout the late Johnny Cash’s teaming up with Willie Nelson, whose snarled locks could face a real scorching if somebody stoked a toke too close to his hair!



Back to the issue at hand: kids’ perspectives. When something has changed, or appears to have changed, from their vantage points, their little minds rev up to rationalize the new reality.
Thus it was the other day, when a guest was holding little Patrick and 2-year-old Luke rushed over excitedly.
Reaching up to touch his little brother’s toes, he exclaimed: “Patrick’s legs are getting LONGER!!!”
From his perspective, they were longer than they had been the day before. The reality was that the guest is shorter than his mom. That’s no small feat, as Melissa isn’t much taller than a blade of grass (fresh-cut Augustinian, and as slender as Kentucky blue, despite having had four children).
So, the fact of the matter is that Patrick’s legs hadn’t gotten longer; rather, the fact was that a shorter person was holding him put his feet closer to the ground.
But Luke’s observation elicited a smile from me, who gets that close to the ground only when he’s wrestling with me, and whose perspective has become jaded after years of life among adults.
That little angel often makes me grin, and enjoy that groundedness of innocence. Which brings us back to Willie.



And THAT brings us full circle, as we started out talking about kids' perspectives because they're so close to the ground.

So I'll go trim my nose hairs so at least their view of me won't include a gnarled bunch of brush.