By Bob B.

This week I have driven from North Platte, NE, up to Bismarck and Minot, ND, and it occurred to me that it was only 3.5 months ago spring was trying real hard to blossom but we were still dealing with snow and freezing temperatures. Since then, spring arrived in all its glory and has since matured into a wonderful summer in spite of the frequent thunderstorms which have their own kind of beauty.

As I was driving this week I noticed how prevalent the color golden yellow is in nature. As far as I could see, rolling hills were covered with the bright yellow of flowering ragweed accenting the green of the prairie grass and occasional tree. It made me think of how as spring emerged, so did the the wild daffodils with their refreshing yellow blooms reaching up from the tender mat of new grass announcing the change from winter. Next came the golden yellow carpet of billions of dandelions over the darkening green of the stronger grass below. The dandelions have given way to the yellow daisies and wild yellow snapdragons lining the roads and highways. Soon, the brilliant yellow of sunflowers and golden yellow of mature corn will dominate the dark green fields of corn and sunflower stalks.

I realized that there is a progression of intensity of the colors green and golden yellow as spring becomes summer and summer becomes fall. This realization made me wonder why Mother Nature so liked green and gold among all her other wonders and it led me to the one obvious conclusion: God must be a Green Bay Packer fan! Go Packers!

Nana’s Note: Let it be known that Nana’s Whimsies doesn’t necessarily support Bob’s hypothesis. After all, the beautiful orange and blue sunsets prevalent in the west and midwest indicate the probability that he is a Bronco’s fan.

If you look up the word “fearless” in the dictionary, you will NOT see my face. In fact, if you’re looking at a thesaurus that shows antonyms, there I will be, timidly smiling. I don’t swim because I’m afraid of water. There is nothing that could make me go onto a roller coaster that climbs more than three feet (as my brother would say, “it’s just a matter of time.”)

Sky diving? Nope.

Parasailing? Not on your life.

Ziplining? Let’s get serious.

But 13 years ago, for some inexplicable reason, I decided I wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle. In fact, I didn’t just want to learn to ride a motorcycle, I decided I wanted to buy a small motorcycle so that I could ride alongside Bill on his gigantic Yamaha Road Star. I can’t exactly tell you why, but somehow it seemed like a good idea at the time.

When I told Bill my plans, it’s safe to say he was pretty surprised.

“A motorcycle?” he asked.

“A motorcycle,” I confirmed.

In his gentle and calm, but firm, manner, Bill was able to convince me that a motorcycle wasn’t a good idea for me, but that perhaps I might want to consider a motor scooter instead.

A scooter. My only experience with scooters was seeing them on our trips to Italy, driving crazily around the streets of Rome, sounding like giant mosquitos. For all intents and purposes, there were no scooters to be found – at least in Denver. They simply hadn’t made their way across the Atlantic Ocean, or if they had, they hadn’t made it to the Colorado mountains.

I began doing some research, and decided I wanted to buy an Italian scooter, and I was leaning towards a Vespa. After all, they came in such pretty colors and you could buy a matching helmet. I considered pink. You think I’m kidding.

A scooter store had recently opened. Bill and I headed down to Sportique, and I sat on a Vespa. I immediately realized that my legs were so short that the wide body on that adorable scooter was simply uncomfortable given my narrow leg span. Dang.

But the nice salesman, surprised to see a middle-aged woman interested in a scooter, steered me to an Italian scooter with a narrower body called a Scarabeo Aprilia. I sat down and fell in love.

One test drive and $2500 later and I was the proud owner of an Aprilia scooter. Bill drove it home for me as I was too timid (remember that picture in the dictionary?).

Later that afternoon, he took me to a nearby almost-vacant shopping area with a big parking lot, set out some coffee cans, and gave me driving lessons. Flashback to my dad giving me driving lessons in the parking lot of Ag Park in Columbus when I was 15.

Now, 6,783 mile later, I still ride that scooter nearly every day during the summer. When I first got it, I bravely rode it 15 miles each way almost every day to and from work downtown. Now I mostly ride it around the neighborhood – to and from the grocery store, over to the grandkids’ houses, back and forth to the library. It costs me $3 – $4 to fill it up, and I get in the neighborhood of 60 mpg. Nice.

Every spring when Bill gets it going again after its long winter’s nap, I feel completely and totally happy as I ride. I love the feel of the wind in my face; I love to zip around the corners; I am delighted when I see the looks on the faces of people who realize they are looking at a 60-year-old woman driving this adorable navy blue scooter.

Now, of course, there are scooters everywhere you look. I sat at a stoplight recently and saw three others besides me at the same light. But I know that, for once in my life, I was ahead of the curve.

My sister Bec, who really IS fearless, always tells me she can’t believe I won’t ride a roller coaster but I will ride a scooter. Of course I realize the chances of an unthinkable accident are much, much higher with the scooter than with a roller coaster. Still, I’m very careful, and my scooter doesn’t make me feel like tossing my cookies.

By the way, here is what I look like to you when you see me on my scooter…..

Here is what I look like to me when I ride my scooter…..

Yep. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Roman Holiday. Need I say more?

Nana’s Notes: Baby Bird Update. I’m sorry to say my friends that the baby bird is nowhere to be seen. The mommy bird spent all day yesterday looking for him where he had last been seen. I fear he was washed out in the fierce rain. Such is nature. Very sad.

After not hearing much from our bird friends as of late, the last couple of days have brought DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA to the ornithological world in our back yard.

The evening before last, Bill and I were enjoying a glass of wine in the backyard, quietly talking about our day. Suddenly, from somewhere very near to where I was sitting came a distinct CHIRP. Somewhere on the ground, someplace from which there should be no CHIRPS. Perhaps I heard wrong.

CHIRP.

Nope. There was definitely a chirp coming from behind the loveseat. I peered under the seat and saw hidden way in the corner a tiny little baby bird – a house finch, I think, though it was hard to tell since it was all fuzzy gray feathers and yellow eyes. He (or she) was huddled against the house, quietly shivering, and occasionally letting out a soulful CHIRP.

Drat, I thought. This is the part about nature, and about having birds living in your backyard, that I heartily dislike. I suspected this little bird had fallen out of his nest and would die of starvation over the next day or so. Only the strongest survive, I reminded myself. That’s the way it’s meant to be.

It reminded me of a bird saga we had a couple of years ago at our house in Arizona. It was prior to our spending the entire winter in Arizona, so it was February and we had just arrived for a short stay. The day after we got there, I spotted a few little birds on the ground at the bottom of the tree in our front yard. One was dead, but a couple of them were walking around. I began calling my family and telling them they couldn’t stop by until I gave them the go-ahead because I didn’t want them bothering the baby birds. We learned from our neighbor that they had been watching mockingbirds build a nest, lay some eggs, and then watching the eggs hatch. A short time later, the mommy bird started kicking the birds out of the nest. It was time to learn the ways of the world. Some did, and some didn’t. Only the strongest survive.

But back to our little birdie.

I checked on the little fellow yesterday morning and he (or she) was still huddled against the house, but this time making no sound. I assumed the worst, and reminded myself to tell Bill to dispose of the little birdie corpse before the grandkids find him (or her). It made me very sad.

I was working on dinner last night and Bill was sitting outside reading. Suddenly he called me to the window and told me we wouldn’t be able to sit in our usual spot for our glass of wine. “Why?” I asked. “Because the little bird’s mom keeps flying to and from the tree with food for the baby bird,” Bill said.

Well, friends, nothing could have made me happier. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I actually teared up. The mommy bird had not forgotten about the baby, who was still alive. Perhaps he (or she) had fallen from the nest; perhaps Mommy had given him (or her) a little push. But she was not going to let her baby starve. Last evening we watched as the mother bird flew back and forth with dinner for her baby and I was very pleased….

….until last night, about 10 o’clock, when it began to rain. And then it rained harder. In fact, we got a good ol’ fashioned gullywasher. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it rain so hard. It quite literally came down in sheets of rain, and for a good half hour or so. The street in front of our house looked like the Nile River.

That doesn’t bode well for the little bird, I fear. But perhaps he (or she) will be one of the strongest who will survive. As Mylee would say, “Dum, dum, duuuuuum.” We shall see.

As an aside, in the middle of the storm, likely because of the rain, my car (which I had left out of the garage) began sounding its alarm. That made all of the neighbors really happy. As I scrambled for my car keys, it suddenly stopped as quickly as it had begun. All was well. Until 3 o’clock, when it happened again. So in the middle of the night, I ran downstairs to the garage, moved things around so my car would fit, and moved my car into the garage and tried to think just how I was going to make it up to my neighbors. Sigh.

In 1969, the NCR Corporation invented thermal paper. Designed to replace papers requiring ink printers, thermal paper offers quick printing that is crisp and clear and doesn’t require changing ink cartridge after ink cartridge. Inkless printers, having fewer parts, don’t jam as often so they’re more cost effective.  Isn’t technology grand?

Except now, here it is 15 years later, and we are being advised that the ubiquitous thermal credit card receipts are DANGER, DANGER, DANGER. Do not touch them as the BPA will enter your skin and, I don’t know, something bad will happen.

Similarly, maybe six or seven years ago, spray-on sun screens became popular. Finally, a sun screen easily applied to children who worry exactly NOT-AT-ALL about sunburn and who want nothing more than to get into the swimming pool or out onto the playground! Mom, Dad, Grandma or Grandpa can apply sun screen to all of the kids very quickly and effectively making it much more likely that we will do so.

Except now we are told spray-on sun screens are a no-go. Too risky we are advised. Back to the 10 minute lotion application process per kid. All this while we are learning that more and more kids have a Vitamin D deficiency because most of the Vitamin D we get is from sunshine. And, according to singer Bill Withers, there ain’t no sunshine when you’re slathered in sun screen every second you’re out of the house. I think that’s how the song goes.

Hard to keep up.

Eggs were good for you. Then they were bad for you. Then they were good for you again. I think that’s where we are right now, but I better fry one up really quick before it changes. And if I’m frying it, should I use……

….butter or margarine? In the later part of the 20^th century, oleo was the only way-to-go. Now the fear of dreaded transfats has alerted us to the fact that perhaps all-natural butter isn’t so bad after all. Some municipalities are even passing ordinances prohibiting the sale of transfats. Don’t get me started on the idea of a city council telling me what I can EAT…..

Same with red wine. Depending on which research study you believe, a glass or two of vino rosso can be extremely good for you, or it can flat out kill you. How do you know what to believe? Well, that’s a dumb question, really. Of course you believe the “good for you” camp. How can anything that tastes so good possibly be bad for you?

If coconut oil so bad for you, why is it sold in health food stores?

While I’m sure that overall we are safer, happier, and healthier now with all the FDA restrictions on food, it was easier, if more dangerous, to eat back when I was a kid. Frosted Flakes were “Grrrrrrrrrreat” despite the sugar. Soft, white Wonder Bread built strong bodies 12 ways. Hostess Twinkies were filled with good ol’ lard and sugar, making them much tastier than the more recent versions.

Thank goodness for bicycle helmets as I believe they make our children safer on bikes (though I don’t recall a lot of kids running around with bandages on their heads when I was riding a bike in the 1950s – plenty of scraped knees, however). Same with seat belts. When I talk to fellow baby boomers, we laugh about how our parents placed their toddlers in the little car seats with the steering wheels that clipped onto the front seat. Nearly all of us recall standing up in the front seat of our parents’ car or sleeping on the ground in the back seat during family vacations. Believe me when I tell you that I don’t purport we return to those days. I am a committed seat belt user, and have been since driving my first car that had a seat belt (which happened sometime in the late 70s, no sooner.

In fact, I’m not taking an editorial stance on any of these issues, more just making an amused observation. In our efforts to be safe and to keep our children safe, I hope we don’t forget to have fun.

By the way, there are research studies that show that people who smoke, drink wine, alcohol, and coffee, and use marijuana are less likely to get Parkinson’s disease. Hmmmmm.

Keith Richards

There is nothing that makes me more joyful than watching and listening to my various grandchildren play in my back yard on a sunny summer day. And throw in a great-niece and a great-nephew, and my cup runneth over!

This past Thursday, Addie and Magnolia joined Kaiya and Mylee playing at our house. The splash pool was set up, the sand box was uncovered, and the games began. About noon, they were joined by visitors. My niece Maggie, who is visiting from Arizona, arrived with 3-year-old Austin and 5-month-old Lilly to join in the festivities.

The kids had a blast. Here are Magnolia, Mylee, and Austin playing in the fort….

My Saturday smile came, however, sometime mid-morning when I was putting sunscreen on all of them (And let me just say that I am reading now that spray-on sunscreen is supposedly unsafe; however, you will have to pry it out of my hands in order to get me to go back to the lotion. Hold your breath sweet ones as I spray!)

I wasn’t sure if Addie and Magnolia had sunscreen already on, so I asked Magnolia if she needed sunscreen.

She literally rolled her eyes, and in her best Valley Girl voice, she said, “Um, no? It’s a back yard…..”

I guess you are exempt from sunburn in a back yard. Who knew?

Have a good weekend.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the Fourth of July always granted my mother the opportunity to pronounce that summer  WAS HALF OVER. Blah.

But since the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I too am starting to feel the need to reach for a brown paper bag in which to breathe so that I don’t hyperventilate as I consider fall looming ahead. Target did, after all, have their back-to-school items out. I thought it was a good time to consider what I like best about summer.

TOP TEN BEST THINGS ABOUT SUMMER (in no particular order)

I am a big fan of daylight savings time. I love the long days. It makes me happy that when I arise at 5:30 a.m., it is light outside. Even more, I love that at 8:30 or 9 o’clock, the sun is just starting to go down. I can see the length of the days diminishing, and I’m not happy about that.

Fresh fruits and vegetables  provide one of summertime’s greatest delights to me. Obviously there are fresh vegetables all year long, but I love the artichokes when they’re in season and the corn-on-the-cob coming to you fresh from the farmers’ fields. I love the big baskets of blueberries and strawberries at a cost that doesn’t make you scream and with an actual, well, flavor. I make cucumber salads and serve platters of fresh tomatoes sprinkled with salt and strips of basil, swimming in olive oil. Vegetables doused in flavored oil and grilled send me straight to heaven.

Another thing that sends me straight to heaven when it comes to fresh fruits and vegetables is canning. I love to “put up” the wonderful peaches that will come to me late this summer and the pickling cucumbers that should be showing up soon. I noticed from a Facebook picture that my daughter-in-law Lauren made what looks like strawberry jam. I’m hoping some gets into her suitcase to bring to Denver in a few weeks.

Summertime brings the obvious added benefit of having more time to hang out with my grandkids. Not only do I get to spend time with the ones who live near me, summer almost always brings a visit from – or to – the grandkids in Vermont. We are eagerly awaiting an upcoming August visit from our Vermont family. In the meantime, I enjoy watching the kids play in my backyard, taking them to the parks, setting out my big splash pool or turning on the sprinklers and letting them run around until their hearts are glad. So is mine.

I love to hike, and of course that doesn’t have to be limited to summertime. But I’m not a cold-weather hiker, so I like to either enjoy the mountains in the summer or the desert in the winter. We had many a happy Estes Park, Colorado, family vacation when I was growing up and Rocky Mountain National Park is still one of my favorite places to enjoy nature. I don’t get up often, but I love it when I do.

I love the flowers that bloom all summer long here in Denver. I enjoy all of the flowers in the neighborhood as I take my morning or evening walks. Every year I plant colorful petunias in my flower bed at the edge of my patio, and I am embarrassingly happy to sit there in the evening and enjoy them. Sometime mid-August, they start getting pretty leggy and less pretty, so I enjoy them while I have them.

And speaking of sitting out on my patio, I do enjoy sipping gin and tonics in the evening. Now there is absolutely nothing to forbid me from drinking gin and tonics all year round. But for some reason, nothing tastes better than the intermingling bitter flavors of the gin and the tonic when they are icy cold and you are done for the day. That’s when I can enjoy my flowers.

As well as my bird feeders. Another summer delight is that I put out one bird feeder that attracts small birds, mostly house finches. They mostly don’t mind coming to dine while we sit out and enjoy the end of the day. I must say I enjoy my birds at both houses – Denver and Arizona. I will enjoy them here until late August, when the mice start coming to enjoy the spillage in preparation for winter. Then the feeder might need to be put away.

Several years ago, we redid our patio so that it runs along the entire width of our back yard. Under the honey locust tree we have a table and chairs where I love dining al fresco during the summer months. This season has featured a lot of afternoon thunderstorms, but we still have managed some outdoor dining.

My circadian rhythm is such that I am happier and healthier when I am subject to a lot of sunshine. I mentioned the longer days earlier in this post, but in addition to the longer days, I love the extended period of sunshine and the warm weather. My body depends on it. My doctor has told me before that she can see the physical difference in me in the summer from the winter.

The good news is that, despite my mother’s dire warnings, there are still many days left in summer. We have some fun activities ahead (though a looming jury duty summons could possibly put a dent in those plans; I’ll know very soon) that will put the star on my summer.

And what’s more, I have to admit that Colorado does have some pretty autumns!

Well, in my world, it doesn’t say “Ringading ding ding.” It says, “Let’s go get us some kind of good grub at the McLain’s.”

In fact, I toyed with calling this post Eat, Prey, Love. But since the What Does the Fox Say song has been running through my mind for two weeks now, (and isn’t that a dubious substitute for, say, prayer?) I ran with it.

Our back yard hasn’t been Wild Kingdom for the entire 22 years we’ve lived in this house, but it has been quite active for the past 10 years or so. We regularly see hawks circling, raccoons have been known to prowl around at night, and there are coyote warning signs in every park within a 20 block radius. And we live in an established neighborhood right in Denver! Crazy. At least there are no rattlesnakes to be found as there are in newer outlying suburban neighborhoods.

But our major wildlife attraction is the group of foxes who think our back yard is their playground (and I have learned that a group of foxes is called a “skulk.”) Almost daily we find some sort of a doggy toy that they have swiped from a yard in which a dog lives (“Stop swiping Swiper.” Sorry, an unforgiveable Dora the Explorer reference – inevitable when you have young grandkids.)

As of late, however, it has morphed from playground to a Fox Buffet Restaurant, offering such delicious goodies as bunny rabbits, squirrels, mice, and crows. Nearly every morning when I arise at 5:30 or so, I look out my bathroom window into the back yard only to see one, two or (yesterday morning) three foxes with some sort of dead or nearly-dead animal in their mouth, shaking it vigorously back and forth. Pleasant start to a day.

And yet, interestingly, at the same time that the foxes are turning squirrels into smoothies in the back of our yard, there are squirrels trying to figure out how to access the bird seed in the feeder in the front of the yard. I try to remind myself of two things: 1) this is nature; and 2) squirrels’ brains are the size of a walnut so they aren’t exactly quantum physicists. Still, bunnies are smart enough to stay out of our yard. Just sayin’…..

I’m frankly happy to see the foxes again this year, as they have made themselves rather scarce the last couple of summers. Two summers ago, on a bright Sunday morning, I glanced out my bathroom window as I was getting ready for church. I saw something lying in the back corner of the yard.

“Bill, come look,” I said. He couldn’t figure out what it was, so as soon as he got dressed, he went to check it out. I watched from the window. I saw him walk back to the area, stop dead in his tracks, and turn around and head back.

“Well,” he told me when he returned to the bedroom. “That is a dead fox. In two pieces. A body and a head. What more could a homeowner ask for on a Sunday morning?.”

So we proceeded (and when I say we, I mean Bill) to scoop the carcass into a garbage bag, call the city for a pickup, and move it to the side of the house where the people who have jobs I wouldn’t want to have could pick it up.

We decided that was the summer that spoils went to the coyotes.

So while I could live forever without Eat, Prey, Love, at least the foxes are extraordinarily pretty. And at least they aren’t coyotes. And since I believe in the natural order of things, I’m going to presume that at this point in time at least, the coyotes are murdering foxes elsewhere. And, as Martha Stewart (who never saw a fox shake a bunny to its death in her life) would say, “That’s a good thing.”

A number of years ago, when I was still getting a paycheck to write, my company featured me in a little series they had in their employee newsletter as part of an effort to get to know just who is sitting in the cubicle next to you. One of the questions they asked everyone was, “What is one thing about you that most people would be surprised to learn?”

Hmmm. That’s kind of a hard one since I didn’t want to mention I eat food that I’ve dropped on the floor even if it’s been more than five seconds or that the back seat of my car is shamefully dirty with everything from crumbs dropped by grandkids eating Fruit Loops to papers that I tossed in the back seat of my car sometime during the Carter administration.

And then it hit me. I will tell them that I like NASCAR. No one would guess that. Particularly since it’s not actually, well, wholly factual. It’s partially factual. I can tolerate Bill (who truly LOVES NASCAR) watching it on television, and even try to engage a bit. I love listening to the announcers, all of whom sound like they just got in from hauling hay or are getting ready to do so. They’re so darn happy about the sport. And I find it interesting to see the drivers crash into a wall, spin around 60 or 70 times, hit two or three other drivers, roll to a stop, and hop out of the car like they were making a quick run into Target.

But here’s why I felt like I could say that I liked NASCAR and not get struck by a bolt of lightening for lying. I grew up watching stock car races with my family.

There was a dirt oval racetrack just east of our town that ran stock cars every Sunday. It was called Skylark Raceway. Dad and Mom took the family to the stock car races many Sunday nights to watch the races and root on our very favorite driver who drove the Number 1 car – a purple car with Mighty Mouse painted on its side. The driver, whose name was Willie Hecke, was either loved or hated, depending on your perspective. Our family universally loved him, both because he usually won, but also because of that doggone Mighty Mouse on the side of his car. Who couldn’t root for Mighty Mouse (“Here I come to save the daaaaaaay!” MM would sing as he saved Pearl Pureheart who was seemingly endlessly being tied to a board that was going through a sawmill.)

Anyhoo, back to Skylark Raceway. We were an odd lot, certainly not your typical race fans. But we all loved those stock car races, and apparently so did our parents. On the Sunday nights that we stayed at home, we could still hear the faint sound of the cars racing as we sat on our front porch wishing we were there.

The seats were benches, the concessions were rudimentary (though I’m sure beer was among the offerings), and oh-my-heavens, was it ever dusty. Remember the dirt track? As darkness approached and the lights went on, you could see the dirt in the air and imagine it going into our lungs. We didn’t care. Our  beloved Mighty Mouse was winning the modified jalopy race once again. Go Mighty Mouse! We would just take a bath when we got home.

Dirt Track

Not a dirt track.

It’s quite a leap to go from Skylark Raceway to the fancy race tracks on which NASCAR races today. Still, I must admit that, while I couldn’t tell you Jeff Gordon’s standings (Bill could), I still get goosebumps when I hear those engines fire up.

By the way, I recently read that Willie Hecke died suddenly of a massive heart attack in 1985 sitting in a racecar waiting for the green flag to wave. An awesome way for our beloved Mighty Mouse to go to that great race track in the sky.

Every so often, my grandmother would invite some of her friends over to her apartment. All of them were Swiss and spoke Swiss. The women would sit in Grammie’s front room, each with their own handicraft project. The sounds of talking and laughing and gossiping – all in a language we couldn’t understand – along with the clickity click of knitting needles filled the air.

Grammie’s front room had two sofas. They each leaned up against one of the walls. Because the backs were slanted, a tunnel of sorts would naturally present itself. My sister Jen and I simply couldn’t resist. So while these women were talking, sipping coffee, and clickity-clicking their knitting needles, Jen and I would secretly slip behind one of the sofas to eavesdrop.

Now, as I said, they were speaking entirely in Swiss, so eavesdrop is a funny way to put it since we couldn’t understand a word they said. And yet, that’s exactly what we would do. Listen in to their conversations. Funny.

Later on, after they had all left, Jen and I would open up the drawers of the big cabinet in which Grammie kept all of her paraphernalia for her handicrafts. We would each carefully select a pair of knitting needles and take them over to one of the couches. We would sit there, clicking the needles against each other (no yarn) and speak back and forth to each other using our own gobbledegook, pretending all the while that we were speaking Swiss. As I write this, I simply can’t think why we thought that was fun. However, we certainly did.

I would venture to guess that when any of my siblings and my Gloor cousins think about Grammie, she is knitting or crocheting. I have a cedar chest full of baby clothes she knitted for me – sweaters, caps, booties, and hats. I’m sorry to say Court never wore a single one of the items. For one thing, (God bless her sweet and tender heart) they were always kind of oddly shaped. Very long sleeves, for example. And the booties were enormous – big enough to fit a 5-year-old. But I love every single one of the items and haven’t – even after all of these years – been able to throw a single one away. I’ll leave that for my kids and grandkids.

When I was in high school, Grammie made me a beautiful afghan in a pale yellow. It was too pretty to keep out, I thought. So I put it in my cedar chest. I have tried bringing it out throughout the years, but I always put it back because I’m afraid it will get dirty or torn. Isn’t that silly? I need to get a grip and proudly display it.

All this is to say that I inherited my love for crocheting from Grammie. I have made afghans for my grandkids, my friends, my family, and anyone else I can

Afghan in Jen’s living room.

think of. I really have simply run out of recipients for my afghans.

I recently made an afghan for my 5-year-old grandson Joseph for his birthday. Joseph and his family live in Vermont, and we frequently communicate via Facetime. One of Joseph’s favorite things is to eat Oreo cookies with his papa on Facetime. They will each dip an Oreo in a beverage (milk for Joseph, coffee for Papa) and enjoy its chocolaty taste together. So when I spotted the instructions for this Oreo afghan, it was immediately a must-do.

The afghan took considerable time, but I enjoyed every minute of it. When the work became tedious, I would picture Joseph’s face when he opened up the package and saw all of those Oreos!

As an aside, despite the fact that Grammie was a voracious knitter and crocheter, I never learned to knit, and she was not the one who taught me to crochet. I was taught by my Aunt Myrta – my dad’s sister – who patiently worked with me as I learned to make a crochet stitch. My first projects were potholders made out of granny squares.

I used to wonder why Myrta taught me to crochet instead of Grammie, but now that I’m a grandmother, I know the reason. As my granddaughters have gotten old enough to crochet, I find I simply don’t know how to teach them. I have to get over that as I would love to pass along the skill to them.

By the way, I have a vague recollection that at one point in his youth, I taught Court how to crochet. He made a scarf. I wonder if he remembers.