Channeling Ma Barker and James Cagney

Sometimes it’s tough to be a role model, especially when one has been known to have a lead foot, on occasion.
That’s why I don’t go more than a half-mph over the speed limit when I have my grandson charges with me. I wouldn’t want their mom to think I didn’t practice safe driving when they’re buckled in the back seat.
Not so, her. Well, perhaps that’s harsh. Melissa drives with ultimate care. Far be it from me to besmirch her, or her driving acumen. She drives accident free, which is more than I can say for me.
On the other hand, perhaps I should let her record speak for itself. And, the other day, her Parnelli Jones impression could have put her in the slammer and the boys, with foster parents, were it not for Jack’s advice from his booster seat.
The official version is that a deputy pulled Mom over with all her brood buckled safely in their respective seats, although baby Patrick was wailing at the top of his lungs because he rebels at the harness.
As the deputy approached the car, Jack could have played Clyde to her Bonnie and urged her to peel out.
Or the just-turned-5-year-old could have channeled James Cagney and said, “You dirty RAT, mommy, don’t let the copper take you ALIVE, Ma!”
Of course, even Cagney sometimes denied having said that:



Besides, Jack’s not the grapefruit-in-the-face type.



Depending on the situation, Jack can be a prevaricator or a peacemaker. On this occasion, he took the higher, and wiser, road and advised: “Do whatever he says, Mommy. Do WHATEVER he says!!”
I don’t know where Jack got such street smarts, but they stood her in good stead when the copper told her she had been going 57 in a 45.
Thank God for her, John Law stretched the thin blue line when he saw the crying baby and the other three lads and cut her a deal. The warning got her out of a possible $240 fine, but she still was on the hook for not having her current insurance card along for the ride on the wild side.
Talk about the wild side: If she doesn’t lighten up, she apparently could be on the road to perdition, like Ma Barker and HER boys.



Oh, I know she won’t take that route. But still, she keeps floating the story line that there’s no WAY she could have been going that fast. She claims she thought she might have had a burned-out taillight when she saw the copper’s lights.
In FACT, she’s replayed it in her head and in conversations, and contends to this day that there’s no way she could have been going that fast after just leaving a stoplight.
With a weak alibi like that, and setting such a lame example, she shouldn’t be surprised when her boys get into mischief and trump up an excuse or deflect the blame to somebody else.
Mayhaps Jack will go out like Cagney in “White Heat,” rejoicing even at the point of death: “I made it, Ma: the top of the WORLD.”



Jack looks sooooooooo threatening with a gun, no?

New Spin on the Caboose’s Lot in Life

Perhaps Vincent’s status as an inveterate train buff inspired his journey on a philosophical track the other day.
For years, I have regaled the now-7-year-old with tales of the days when EVERY train had a caboose. That knowledge makes him pay particular attention on the rare occasions when we see trains with cabooses.
And it’s a sad thing, indeed, that cabooses have gone the way of the model T, largely because of the usual things that doom such relics: automation at the expense of tradition and jobs. Fortunately, some cabooses have a second lease on life, including this entire TRAIN of cabooses:

Speaking of cabooses, Patrick Michael came ’round the mountain when he came. And he WAS a surprise when around the mountain when he came, because we all thought Luke was the caboose.

We thank the boys for that musical interlude with the notation that it’s pretty certain that Patrick IS the caboose for sure.
And that’s what turned Vincent into a philosophical locomotive the other day.
No sibling rivalry there, as he told his mom how much he enjoyed watching Patrick grow from a bundled infant into a wonderful little baby with tons of personality. (For some reason, the 7-month-old has taken to sitting on the couch and growling, like a bear or, perhaps, like Jabba the Hutt.)
Enough about “Star Wars.” Back to Vincent, waxing eloquently about the youngest star in : “Mommy,” he told Melissa, “ I really enjoy watching Patrick as he learns to play with things, starts to sit up, gets his first teeth,” etc., etc.
It’s sad, though, that Patrick “will never get to see those things.”
Ba-da-BUMP. How heavy is THAT, that a 7-year-old realizes the implications that Patrick never will have a younger sibling? How sensitive! How caring; how humbling to me, an adult who rarely utters such an introspective gem (heck, it took me several seconds to catch the point when Melissa related the story to me).

Hygiene 101: Wash Apples Because . . . Although Even Washing an Apple a Day Won’t Keep My Digressions Away

The financial meltdown that has roiled talk of a reprise of the Great Depression hurled me into the vortex of a flashback the other day.
No, not to the REAL Great Depression. How old do you think I AM? I wasn’t even alive when that Depression knocked the nation on its heels with wounds that never healed for some. But I’ve heard stories and read books.
Granted, I’ve got some older friends, such as an English wiz who still is sharp enough to continue to mold youths’ minds in her native Texas. But having ancient friends doesn’t make me old, too. Truth be told, I don’t even know how old Becki is, although I’m SURE The English Maven is not as old as the The Bard. (Even if I did know, I wouldn't risk a pound of flesh by spreading such foul whisperings abroad.)
I also would venture to guess that she’s not as old as, for instance, The Alamo, Pilgrim, as The Duke might address James Stewart’s lawyer/teacher Ichabod Crane-like character in the great film, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance:
.
Even if the modern-day English pedagogue were as old as The Alamo (another great Wayne flick, by the way), I know better than to mess with Texas.
Hie Thee, speaking of Shakespeare engenders thoughts of age, anon:
“Crabbed age and youth cannot live together
“Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
“Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
“Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare;
“Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short;
 “Youth is nimble, age is lame;
“Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
 “Youth is wild, and age is tame.
“Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.”
But WAIT, this crabbed youth is taking forever and a day (as Shakespeare would say, in taming a shrew) in this digression from The Depression.
So ENOUGH about Rebecca of Sunnybrook Ranch, who is not a shrew, anyway, but a fine, upstanding woman of high repute. Teachers get a bad enough rap without my piling on, too. If I don’t drop the subject, my friend very well might say, “Et tu, Brute?” Besides, like the bumper sticker says: If you can read this, thank a teacher.
Like I said, ENOUGH about her, more about ME. I was sitting at a railroad crossing a couple of weeks back, listening to the clickety-clack and finding the sway of the train cars mesmerizing, when I time-traveled to a similar scene when I was about 10, also waiting for a train to pass.
“See what I’m talking about?” my stepmother said. “THAT’s why you should wash apples before you eat them.”
She motioned toward two hobos standing in the door of a cattle car, watching as the panhandlers (the variety from my native Nebraska, not of Texas, Oklahoma or even Florida) passed by the world.
“HUH?” I replied.
“See those tramps?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, it’s just like I told you: The tramps urinate all over the apples the trains are carrying,” she lectured with a conviction that I suppose Ms. Becki uses when she teaches about Dante’s Inferno. “And THAT’s why you have to wash apples.”
I didn’t challenge her theory, because, well, I was only 10 and I didn’t know much about gypsies, tramps and thieves because that Cher song hadn’t even been written yet.

By the way, gypsy wagons, motorized by the time I was a lad, looked exactly like the one in Cher’s salute.
But I digress even more from my original topic, as I am wont to do but seem more want to do than usual in this episode. All I knew at the time was that, when so-called gypsies camped outside of town, store owners were more vigilant when groups of them swarmed in.
Besides, calling hobos tramps seemed rather harsh for the rail-riders who, after all, might be considered the homeless of yore. I suppose that even that analysis is flawed, as many hobos opted for that lifestyle by choice, while many these days are mired involuntarily in the homeless state.
Rarely, if ever, will you find a song that lionizes hobo life like, John Lee Hooker’s Hobo Blues.

So that’s the hobo lifestyle, but I don’t see any evidence that they relieved themselves on produce on the trains.
Even if it were true back then, and even if they still Remember the Alamo in Texas, the rail-riding hobo lifestyle has long since gone the way of the Model T. And I suspect trucks deliver more apples than trains do.
However, I still urge my grandsons to wash apples and other produce before they partake of the fruits of farmers‘ labors.
Today, the concern is pesticides and herbicides used in growing the food. And I would venture that they are at least as many deposits hobos used to do to taint those Delicious cargoes.
So wash your apples. OR, as we say in Nebraska: Warsh your apples.

What’s With Little (and Big) Boys’ Fascination With Full Frontal Nudity?

What’s it about full frontal nudity that fascinates men? Well, actually, it starts as boys, I guess.
And I’m not talking about full frontal nudity of the opposite sex, as you might suspect. Fer CRYIN’ out LOUD! What do you take me for? This is a GRANDFATHER column; if you’re looking for triple X, you’ll have to go elsewhere.
I’m talking about LITTLE boys. It’s only later, in DREAMS, that big boys envision scenes like the “Song of the Sirens,” from “Brother Where Art Thou.” Ooo-la-lahhhhhh!



Fortunately, the movie also provided salvation for such wayward thoughts:




Enough about salvation. Let’s get back to my conundrum about full frontal nudity. It’s more about exhibitionism, and the proclivity of youngsters to parade around in their birthday suits.
Take Jack, f’rinstance. After swimming, he’s fond of running around the house nekkid. He’s young enough, at 5, that it’s kinda cute, except for the stunt he pulled the other day.
He decided to do somersaults on the couch. And THEN, he decided to stand on his head on the couch. Not the most appealing picture, I assure you.
Little brother Luke’s something of an exhibitionist, too, as he darts through the house in his birthday suit after bathing.
Speaking of darts, that rhymes with farts and, well, this is a frisky column anyway, so I might as well share a discussion we had in the back yard today. I don’t know WHO brought up the topic, but I asked Jack and Luke if they’d ever farted under water.
“Oh, NO,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t ever do that.”
Luke, who used to pronounce the function as “shart,” smiled mischievously and said, “Well, we fart in the bathtub!”
Jack nodded in agreement, adding hastily, “But we never fart in the pool. They have people watching for that. It’s ILLEGAL to fart in a pool.”
Dunno where these lads get their sense of law, but I suppose it’s a good deterrent.
At least it’s a comfort to me that the only bubbles I’ll see in the pool are from the water filter.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside: Snow in SoFla

Global warming doesn’t stand a chance, even in South Florida, when 20 kids go flaky over a February “blizzard” in the back yard.
Oh, I know there’s some history geek out there saying, “HEY, it hasn’t snowed in South Florida since the ’70s, and that was only a dusting.”
Well, the wag would be correct, only because he wasn’t at Jack’s fifth birthday party, when the Iceman Cometh, bearing even finer crystals, of snow.
The partiers, mostly 4- to 8-year-olds and many of whom never had seen snow, gathered like clouds over Kilimanjaro
as the Snowman backeth up his truck to unload his frosty mound. Their roars of delight could have rivaled a Super Bowl frenzy as he sliced open the enormous box, and their echoes no doubt helped jar loose the avalanche.


Avalanche (Video)..Incredible! - More amazing video clips are a click away

Once the snow piled high, the youngsters’ reactions were as varied as snowflakes, and you know they say no two of the white crystals are the same.
Of course, Jack climbed atop the mountain and proclaimed: “I’m king of the world.” Obviously coached from “Titanic” obsessed adults, but what the heck. Besides, he was king for a day, at least, as his wish was to have a snow-themed party.
Other reactions ranged from avoidance to snow angels, and everything in between:
* The chuckers, who took globs of snow ranging from fist size to basketballs and tossed them at unsuspecting victims.
* The divers jumped in both feet first (how can you DO that, both feet first; seems like it should be one or the other).
* The players, like Jack’s little brother Luke, who retrieved a bucket and shovel from the sandbox and proceeded to build snow castles.
* The slippers and sliders, whose unfamiliarity with the phenom left them spread eagled as often as not.
* To a child, they didn’t realize how cold they’d get with snow caking in their sneakers and the cold sneaking through the gloves Melissa had provided each child.
Thus, the hot chocolate was a welcome comfort to them. I confess, I had thought that Mom was bonkers for planning so much hot chocolate, but the Sunshine State Snowkids went through JUGS of the stuff.
Not to mention the marshmallows around the fire pit. Amazing how a little snow can transform even Florida into Minnesota for a day.

Is This a Claw Machine I See Before Me, Its Money Slot Teasing Me? Come, Let Me CLUTCH Thee! I Have Thy Prize, Yet I Have It Not, So Ye Tempt Me Still

This noble prize-winning columnist is going to tell you a secret, maybe two or three.
But before that, I must draw to your attention, if I've hypnotized you lo, these many weeks, that I just subliminally planted in your brain an enhanced image of moi. Noble prize-winning columnist is so close to Nobel Prize-winning — indeed, the letters match — that I bet you slowed down and wondered: Did he really win a Nobel?
I thought of that the other day when a columnist referred to himself as a prize-winning newspaper editor. Sooooooo, I wondered, what did he win? The lottery? A bet? A golf tournament? A Nobel Prize? Maybe he just won a toy in a claw machine.
Which brings THIS prize-winning columnist to the secret I promised to reveal: My name is Mike, and, although I sometimes do noble things I’m addicted to claw machines.
But I win a lot of prizes playing them, so that justifies my path on the road to perdition, right?
At first, my family was amused, to the extent that both son Brendan and stepdaughter Melissa bought me toy claw machines a couple of years back. Coincidentally, ironically, without even communicating.
They became less amused when the toy machines fed the monster, fueled my addiction, plunging me into the depths of my pockets in search of quarters whenever I spied a claw machine out of the corner of my eye. (Oh, there were other advantages: Vincent, Jack and Luke and I have had lots of fun trying to snag the candy I put in the toy machines. When we hit a losing streak, we eventually just upend the machines and eat the spilled candy to our hearts’ contents. That makes the dentist the winner when he sticks his claws in our maws.)
To my credit, I use my addiction to help the less fortunate. A couple of Christmases ago, I was able to give a bunch of stuffed animals to a group that provides presents for the less fortunate. And my grandsons have enough stuffed bears and dogs and reindeers and Santas and frogs and snakes to last a lifetime.
To my discredit, I DID reach the point where I let the machines control me rather than I, them. I hit bottom when I spent 10 hard-earned bucks and walked away from a machine empty-handed. Actually, that might have been fortunate because my palms were so sweaty they would have wrecked the toys, if I’d have won.
I knew, when my family started whispering about the need for intervention, that I would have to mend my ways. And I would have to do it alone, because nobody has invented Claworette gum, and mine seems to be such a rare malady that cancer, heart disease, hangnails and other diseases have priority when it comes to research grants.
I’ve made progress in controlling my passion, though. My epiphany came during a trip to a store of a global retail chain I otherwise shun. I went on a streak in which I snagged a baker’s dozen prizes for less than 15 bucks over a two-day period, during trips to that store for items I didn’t need or articles I made up that we did need.
Here comes another secret: The key to my success was that this particular chain has machines in which you can drag the claw even after you drop it, so you can maneuver the item you want into better position for the NEXT try. It makes it more like a pool game, in which you have to plot the carom and try to make the toy land in a vulnerable position.
And THAT, my friends, turns it into a game of skill, rather than chance. Most claw machines out there are called that because they claw the money out of your pockets, your bank account, your children’s trust funds. Why, they can clear you out faster than the recent stock market patterns have decimated 401(k)s. They make Bernie Madoff seem like a Ponzi piker when it comes to schemes.
These days, I stick pretty much to the claw machines in this particular chain. Even though this column is all about revealing secrets, I won’t reveal the chain’s name because that family already has more money than God and it can buy its own advertising. (Let The Boss take it on for hitting a sour note with it.)
Besides, now, it’s got a competitor. I found a user-friendly machine in a grocery store the other day. I approached it dubiously, as the claw didn’t look like it was big enough to retrieve the size of stuffed toys it held. (That’s the trick many claw companies use: small claws with toys that are too heavy to lift, or even grasp.)
Imagine my surprise, though, when I won a large cowboy bear on my first try. OK, call it a fluke: The claw got caught on the bear’s lasso, and barely kept it aloft long enough to plunk into the prize chute. The next time I went to that store, I tried again, and bingo, got one on the fourth try. The next time, another.
I can just hear you challenging me: Yeah, SUCKA, betcha spent a ton of money. Nope, impossible, because part of my recovery is limiting myself to no MORE than 2 bucks a session. Well, sometimes 3.
No more spending ’til I win. Rather, I’ve developed the character, the integrity, the inner strength, the intestinal fortitude, the guts, to just walk away.
Also part of my recovery is to preach the perils of the machines: PLEASE, if at all possible, don’t get addicted like I have. But if you do, and you MUST, limit yourself and follow these additional secrets:
* Don’t get all jazzed if you see a machine newly filled with toys. That’s the worst time to play, because the toys are all scrunched together and impossible to retrieve. (By accident, I think NOT. That’s how the house stacks the odds.)
* Don’t let the machine beat your psyche. If you come up empty several times, analyze each loss and see how that knowledge can lead to success. Remember, it’s like pool now: Think three steps ahead, to get ahead of the claw, to outthink it, to plunder and pillage its contents.
* If you’re fortunate enough to find a machine that will let you drag, use that to your full advantage. Best method is what I call toppleganger: Topple your pick the first time, and then go gangbusters to get it on the next try.
* Similarly, don’t lose heart if you actually grab an item but the claw drops it when its thisclose to the chute. Instead, determine the odds of getting it on your next try. But have the courage to walk away.
* ALSO, don’t get frustrated if the claw drops a toy into the chute, but the toy gets snagged on the edge, ready to drop. THIS IS THE ONLY TIME it’s acceptable to go over your limit. DO NOT WALK AWAY. If you’re out of money, get some somehow, some way, even if you have to knock an old lady down and grab whatever change clanks out of her purse. Because the key then — I guarantee this, because it’s worked twice for me — is to play one more time. But don’t try for another toy; instead, just clunk the claw down on your prize, and it will loosen it from the machine’s grasp.
So, to return to the beginning: I think deserve the Nobel Prize, because I demystified the claw machine, and I was noble enough to share some of the secrets to solving its mysteries. That’s my contribution to peace.
As for me, I think I’ll buy some stock in claw machines.

Kids Keep Grass from Growing Under Feet

The grass on the knoll behind The Fab Four’s house may not have long for this world, but that’s a good thing, in my book. It shows that Melissa and Skip have their priorities straight.
Oh, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t as green as anybody else on the block: They recycle and conserve whenever possible. But with rambunctious lads of 7, 5 and 2-3, they know it’s important to get outside and exercise and just be boys. (By the way, the 2-3 age is Luke’s reaction to his recent third birthday — could be his feminine side just won’t let him let go of his youth, so he says he’s two-three.)
That exercise is good for building strong bodies eight ways, as Wonder Bread used to trumpet. If that jolts people who thought it’s TWELVE ways, here’s some Wonderful history: In the 1950s, Wonder was one of the sponsors of “Howdy Doody,” which used to start the show with Buffalo Bob posing this question to the kids in the Peanut Gallery: “Hey, kids, what time is it?”
Well, let’s check vintage footage:



Bob seemed to try to buffalo the kids because he quizzed them on nutrition, too, before answering: "Wonder Bread builds strong bodies eight ways. Look for the red, yellow and blue balloons printed on the wrapper.”
Within a decade, though, the company had expanded its nutritional hype to 12 ways. I’m not sure how many ways it builds strong bodies these days, but it’s still got red, yellow and blue balloons.
I tried to find footage of Buffalo in a Wonder commercial, but the closest I came was a Tootsie Roll Pop commercial. I’ll justify using it here because Tootsie Rolls are one of Luke’s favorite candies, and he’ll eat a Pop, too, if you twist his arm.



I guess I Grandpa got nostalgic ’bout the good old days because watching the boys slide down that hill with wagons and skateboards today, trampling down the St. Augustine, reminded me of the days when Grandad was a lad.
Our P.F. Flyers wore base paths in that grass, which took years to recover into a respectable lawn, after we had grown enough to need full-sized diamonds. But that’s because my dad figured it was more important to let us play our daily baseball games than to cultivate a lawn like the neighbors.
In OUR case, it was really a hoot, because that family really did have the nicest lawn on our side of the tracks, and even the three girls who lived there weren’t allowed to set foot on the lawn. The dad even roped it off so nobody would walk on his precious Kentucky Blue.
So those girls, along with every other kid in the neighborhood, played in our yard, although we occasionally ventured to the vacant lot across the street, too.
As an aside (this whole column is turning into an aside), I didn’t know ’til just now that the P.F. stood for Posture Foundation. I guess P.F. Flyers didn’t work as well when we got to our teenage slouch years, eh?



Back in the day, when the garage was our backstop, which is why the siding cracked, we’d really have to wallop a ball to make it reach the bushes out by the sidewalk. One OVER the bushes was a home run. Seemed like a HUGE yard back then, but now, it seems like a postage stamp.
Anyway, back to the point: The grass on the The Fab Four’s knoll will sacrifice its life in the interests of youthful energy and playfulness, just as the grass under the swing set has, and the blades that gave up their ghosts soon after the sandbox was installed.
As I said, the kids’ playing is the proper priority. They’ll have fond memories of acts of derring do and tree climbing long after they’ve moved on to adulthood. Then the grass will get a second lease on life,
Some day, soon, when baby Patrick joins the back-yard hooligans, I wouldn’t be surprised if he told his brothers they have some ’splainin’ to do about where all the grass went before he got a chance to make his dent in the earth.