In her own inimitable way, my mother always greeted her kids on the 4th of July with Well, summer is half over….. . I don’t know how that landed on my siblings, but for me, it was like Death had walked into my door…..

Kaiya asked me the other day why my kitchen clock ticked. I explained that it had a minute hand, which I used for cooking and baking purposes. That’s often what makes a clock tick. When my mother would proclaim the summer half over, I began to hear that imaginary clock tick, like life had a minute hand.

The fact of the matter is that for my grandkids, the 4th of July means summer is about two/thirds over. They go back to school sometime in the middle of August. We never went back to school before Labor Day.

So, we are trying to find ways to enjoy what’s remaining of their summer. This weekend’s sleepover by Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole was one of the heading-towards-school activities. They enjoyed such Nana delights as breakfast-for-dinner, eating an entire watermelon…..

…..and having a Fat Boy ice cream sandwich for breakfast…..

What can I say? He saw Papa eating a Fat Boy as he was headed to bed the night before and wanted one at that time. I told him he had already brushed his teeth, but that he could have one in the morning. Hey! I’m the grandmother. It’s up to someone else to make the rules and pay the dental bills. I was only a little surprised that he didn’t forget my promise.

I was beginning to think that summer would be over and I still wouldn’t have a bed. However, yesterday our new king-sized bed was delivered. I washed all of my new bed linens and put them on our new bed. We moved our old bed to one of our guest rooms. Bill was putting on the new headboard when he realized he needed some smaller-sized help. He called in the Big Guns. Or should I say the Small Guns…..

How many McLains does it take to put together a bed?

Dagny and Maggie Faith were visiting Nana and Papa, and were happy to help. The truth of the matter is they were visiting Nana and Papa’s Netflix, because we learned recently that Death in Paradise was going to go off Netflix at the end of July. Yikes. We have a lot of episodes to watch before the end of this month. Priorities People.

Bill and I will be gone the remainder of the week visiting my home town of Columbus to attend a funeral of a beloved cousin. It’s not quite a quintessential summertime activity, but LIFE.

The good news is we will return in time to watch the remaining episodes of Death in Paradise and to enjoy our new bed.

Kaiya (or is it Mylee, or Dagny? doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to her nana.

“Nana.” Ten-year-old Kaiya and her sister and brother had a sleepover at our house Saturday night. She always starts her thoughts to me with a declaration. Nana-with-a-period. “I have an idea for your blog.” (Kaiya is one of my most faithful readers.) “You should write about how you can never remember any of your grandkids’ names.”

Hrmph.

Still, the girl is right. Pretty much no matter which of my grandkids’ attention I’m trying to get, I start out with the wrong name and work my way down the line. Not necessarily by birth order, but most often starting with Addie, the eldest. Even if Addie is not present and I haven’t seen her for days, I will start my roll call: Addie, er, Magnolia, er, Kaiya, er Dagny, before I finally get to the right name: Mylee. I generally don’t mix genders. Joseph, er, Alastair, er, Cole, until finally the correct Micah.

Kaiya would probably say that it’s a good thing I only have nine grandkids…….

I explained to her that while I might not say the correct name right away, I always get there in the end. It’s not that I don’t know their names. In fact, I remember the name of each of my grandkids, plus I know their birthdays by heart. And hers is coming up, so she’d better mind her Ps and Qs.

She really does have to cut me some slack. After all, I just had the one kid. I never learned the art many parents have of remembering multiple names. It was always just Court. Unlike many people, I never confused his name with that of our pooch Fritz.

I was reminded again yesterday morning at church that it seems as though four is the new two, when it comes to children. There are at least three families that attend 9 o’clock Mass at our church that have three kids and the mom is pregnant with their fourth. That’s nothing, because at our church in AZ, there is a family who has five children — all boys. She is pregnant with her sixth. Seeings as I’m not acquainted with the family, I don’t know details. This fact, of course, doesn’t stop me from speculating. Are they working on it until they get a girl? For the sake of this mother, who apparently has been pregnant for over 10 years running, may God please grant them a little darling girl.

But more important, do these mothers and fathers run through the gamut of names before they get to the correct name as well? And will the little Mesa baby — should she be a girl — be called names such as Justin, Henry, Joey — before they finally get to her little girl name?

But regarding my seeming inability to come up with the correct name on my first try, in my defense, at one point of the afternoon, I had four girls and a quick-moving 5-year-old boy running around my backyard. Even the sharpest tool in the box would get confused.

Every year my niece Maggie and her family visit Colorado around this time. They spend their time, of course, with my sister Jen. Last year, Lilly decided she wanted to set up a lemonade stand. As I recall, her sales were bleak, supplemented only by her Uncle Bill.

Yesterday, she gave it another go-around…..

A bit after I received this photo, I asked how business was going. What do you think? was Maggie’s reply…..

But, desperate times call for desperate measures. So Lilly called her brother Austin for marketing help…..

I haven’t heard the final sales count, but those kids make me smile.

Happy Birthday America
Since tomorrow (Thursday) is the Fourth of July, I am giving you my Thursday Thoughts on Wednesday. Tomorrow I will be celebrating with my sister and her kids and grandkids in Fort Collins. We do it every year, and it is the perfect way to celebrate the birthday of our freedom.

Eating American
Yesterday I had lunch with my eldest grandchild, Addie. Let’s have sushi, she said, not surprisingly. As we ate our sushi, she told me a bit more about her trip to Japan awhile back. I tried to eat everything Japanese I could, she told me, making me so proud. One of the things I understand the least is when people travel to foreign countries and eat American food. Eating like (and with) the locals is most of the fun!

American Homesickness
Having said that, however, when Bill and I had our three month adventure in Europe, we were mighty homesick on the Fourth of July. By that time, we had been eating European food for over two months. And it was America’s birthday. So I bought a package of the smallest weiners you can imagine…..

….and a package of “hot dog roll” (apparently they thought there was only one roll)…..

I bought a can of cannelloni beans, added Italian catsup and mustard, along with some pepperinco juice, and called it baked beans. Bill went on iTunes and bought I’m Proud to be An American, and we had our own celebration.

Asian Dessert
While Addie and I were eating sushi, she told me that she loved the ice cream she got in Japan. It got me to thinking about the frozen dessert that Alyx treats her kids to…..

Let’s have some Asian shaved ice, I suggested. So we went and picked up Maggie Faith and her bestie Leah and went to a place called Meet Fresh for a genuine Taiwanese treat. We ordered two shaved ice desserts, and had a cool and delicious bit of fun…..

Ciao!

I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for those lists that show up on Facebook and other social media. They’re always ridiculous. And yet, I find myself looking for the 29 reasons why you should buy a short-haired dog or the 37 most effective weapons to carry on an airplane. Seriously, sometimes I will get to about number 10 and think to myself, that is 15 minutes of my life that I will never get back. Now, if the list has to do with the British royal family, I consider that time to be well-used. How else would I know what Harry and Meghan got Prince George for his half-birthday?

The one that most recently caught my eye was the 39 fashion mistakes that make me look older. Interestingly, they don’t mention the fact that the biggest reason I look older is because I am older. Sixty-five-and-a-half, to be perfectly frank. Yes, I have age spots on my hands.

I got to about number 19 or 20 before I realized that none of the suggestions of things to avoid have anything to do with me. For example, one of the suggestions is that I should avoid wearing poofy, highly-teased hair. Not a problem…..

Another suggestion is to avoid overplucking my eyebrows. If you will look at the same photo, you will notice that is also not a problem. I lost most of my eyebrows sometime between 60 and 61.

I also shouldn’t think about wearing old clothing that has sentimental value. I could be as sentimental as a blushing bride on her wedding day, and I still wouldn’t be able to fit into clothing that is more than six months old. The other day Bill and I went through our coat closet. We knew we had coats in there that date back to when the Carter Administration. One coat in particular had great sentimental value. It was a nubby white coat with a fake fur collar that my father bought my mother when she was a young woman. I’m sad to get rid of this coat because it belonged to my mother, I said to my granddaughter Dagny, who was watching me sort the coats. She asked why I don’t wear it, and put it on herself. It fit her perfectly. That’s why, I explained.

The list included a warning about allowing your hair go gray. Dye it purple, it said. I have seen a lot of older women who have dyed at least part of their hair an unusual color (blue or purple seem to be common). I think they are courageous. I simply couldn’t take the chance that seeing me with purple hair would cause someone I love to have a heart attack. It might be Bill. It might be Court. It very well could be any one of my grandkids (except Dagny).

Their final suggestion was this: Don’t wear stretch jeans. The first sentence I read was Stetchy jeans are the most comfortable jeans to wear. I quit reading at that point. I didn’t need any further information.

Honestly, I’m not uncomfortable growing older. And I’m well aware of the danger of trying to dress too youthful. I have given my daughters-in-law permission to pull me into a private room and give me the what-to if they see me wearing a pink Forever 21 sweatshirt with tie-dye leggings. Now I’m going to give that same permission should they see me with my hair dyed pink.

The other day I was having lunch with my 14-year-old grandson Alastair. He was telling me about his upcoming trip with the Boy Scouts, a trip he is on now, even as I write these words. He and his troop are hiking and camping in the mountains of Colorado for two weeks. He was looking forward to the adventure. I don’t want to be around him when he gets home. I’m assuming there won’t be a lot of showers involved.

“I’ve already started saving my money for next year’s Boy Scout trip,” he said between bites of his monte cristo sandwich. I asked him where they were going next year that required saving for an entire year. Are you ready for this?

Southeast Asia! In 2020, his Boy Scout troop will be hiking around Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, and who knows where else.

“Will you camp?” I asked, thinking about the many men of my age who camped — albeit reluctantly — in Vietnam in the late 60s and early 70s when they weren’t much older than Alastair.

He told me they would probably mostly sleep in hostels. Isn’t that something?

Earlier this spring, his sister Addie went on a school trip to Japan. When she asked her parents if she could go, they said yes, as long as she could save up enough money to pay for half the trip.

“I already have the money,” she said, because ADELAIDE GRACE. It’s how she rolls. I assure you that Alastair will have a more difficult time saving the money. It burns a hole in his pocket, you see.

Thanks perhaps in part to the two separate sabbatical trips the family has taken — one six years ago when they drove an RV around the eastern part of the United States and one last summer when they drove an RV around the western part of the United States — those kids like to travel. So do their parents…..

Travelers, all.

When I was a teenager, and frankly, even when I was a young adult, I didn’t think I would ever travel very much. That was perfectly fine with me. I wasn’t particularly curious about how the rest of the world lived. I did have some desire to travel around the United States, and was lucky enough to be able to be able to visit some of the cities about which I was curious even before Bill and I got married.

On the other hand, Bill always had a yen to travel, especially to Europe. When his kids were younger, he was unable to make that happen. Ironically, two of his three kids tread on European soil before he made it over there. But we hadn’t been married very long when he started making plans to travel. I reluctantly went along with his plans because, well, I certainly wasn’t going to stay home alone while he’s  sipping champagne in Paris. That’s why, however, the blog I wrote when we traveled abroad was called The Reluctant Traveler. 

We first saw Great Britain, France, and Italy, with a quick visit with relatives in Switzerland. And then we took our big trip to Europe in 2008, where we traveled for three months and at least touched the soil of most western European nations. Ah ha, I thought. This is why Bill wanted to travel. It’s fun.

I’m happy that my grandkids are interested in seeing the world. I believe it’s important to see that not everyone lives as we do in the United States. However, though I have enjoyed my travel — and am glad for any opportunities my grandkids have to see the world — poet Henry Van Dyke’s words express how I truly feel when I’m on my way home:

So it’s home again, and home again, America for me!
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be,
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

You all know how much I love my scooter. I always proudly presume I’m the oldest person in the Denver metro area who rides a scooter.

The other day, I rode my scooter over to the nail salon to get a pedicure. There was a woman standing in front of the nail salon when I drove up. As I got off the scooter, she told me, “I haven’t gotten my scooter out today.”

I don’t personally meet many people who ride scooters, and no one in my age group.  So I happily remarked on just how much fun they were.

“I used to ride to work downtown,” I told her. “But now I mostly just drive it around the neighborhood.”

She smiled, and said she did the same thing. However, she went on to say that she used to regularly drive her scooter to Golden. Now, only people who live in Colorado will appreciate that Golden is a good 30 minute CAR drive from southeast Denver, and that’s taking highways.

I noted that she must have a larger engine, because my 50 cc engine only goes about 40 mph, and isn’t legally allowed on a highway. Nope, she told me. Hers is only a 50 cc also. She just rode up to 32nd Avenue in north Denver, and drove it all the way to Golden. I didn’t ask, but it probably took her an hour or more to get there. She understands, however, that an hour on a scooter is like an hour in heaven.

“That’s how I got 52,000 miles on my 2002 scooter,” she went on to say. (For reference, my scooter is a 2001, and I bought it new. I have 7,300 miles on my odometer. I’m apparently just an amateur.)

As we ended our conversation, I tentatively asked her if she minded sharing her age with me. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m 79 years old.”

So there. I’m just a youngster in scooter years.

Have a great weekend.