Fancy Dancy
Bill and I were eating lunch the other day at a burger joint. As we awaited the arrival of our food, I noticed the ketchup bottle sitting on the table in front of me. Fancy Tomato Ketchup, the label proudly boasted. It occurred to me that I had noticed the word fancy on other ketchup bottles. What, I wondered, had to happen to ketchup to earn the word fancy on its label. I’ve never seen fancy mustard or fancy dill pickles. So when I got home, I looked it up. It turns out that the word fancy is given to ketchups with “higher tomato solid concentration.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but it seems the ketchup lobby had a lot of pull at some point in its existence…..

Pumpkinless
My faithful readers know that I annually, around this time of year, have my pumpkin spice rant. You might wonder why I haven’t expressed my frustration about All Things Pumpkin, and here it is October already. It might be that I am mellowing in my old age. However, I swear the pumpkin spice craze has peaked and is on its way down. I didn’t see one single bottle of pumpkin spice Pepto Bismol this year.

Now That’s Big
In Wednesday’s blog post, I mentioned that Maggie Faith had been to our house and had enjoyed rice krispie treats and an orange soda as her after school snack. Her mother commented that it didn’t take a lot of imagination to understand why she likes to come to Nana and Papa’s house after school, given the treats offered. She added that Maggie had told her that the rice krispie treats were “as big as her head.” I want to go on record as saying that the rice krispie treats were absolutely not as big as Magnolia’s head. They were considerably smaller. Papa’s fist, perhaps…..

Freshen Up
Starting this morning — perhaps even as you read this blog post — our painter will begin doing what he does best — painting. A large portion of our house will look shiny and new in a few days. When we bought the house, I told Bill, “I like the house, but I can’t live with this paint color.” Well, I did, for 26 years.

Batter Up
Sorry to all of my loved ones who are Cubs fans, but GO ROCKIES.

I believe that days go slow and years go fast
And every breath’s a gift, the first one to the last. – David Frasier, Ed Hill, Josh Kear

I love those particular lyrics from country artist Luke Bryan’s song Most People Are Good. I’m not certain I agree with his notion that most people are good, though I hope he’s right. But I certainly believe that days go slow and years go fast.

Yesterday I was making my almost-daily run to the grocery store. As I was leaving, I overheard my favorite cashier — a man who has worked there for probably 15 or 20 years and whose line I will choose any time it’s practical because he’s so darn nice — express surprise at the time of day.

“Can you believe that it’s already 10:30?” he asked a fellow employee. “I hope the rest of the day goes as quickly as this morning has gone.”

I remember very well having that type of joyful reaction when a workday seemed to fly by. It was one of the reasons I always preferred being terribly busy rather than terribly bored. I had instances of both when I was an employee. Time seems to go faster when you’re busy.

Anyone who has grown children understands that the years fly by. We can remember when our kids entered kindergarten, made their first communions (Court looked so cute in his little blue sport coat and probably hasn’t touched a rosary since that day)…..

…..received special awards, graduated from college, got married, all like it was yesterday. Which is interesting, of course, can I can barely remember what actually happened yesterday.

The point is that the years just fly by and before you know it, your kids are grown. You look in the mirror and you can hardly recognize the person looking back at you. It’s the one thing I tell mothers and fathers of newborns: even though they tire you out and can make you crazy, enjoy every single minute with your children.

Grandchildren duties have kept me busy the past few days. There is truly nothing that makes me happier than spending time with our grandkids. Time with them is precious, because I know that before the blink of an eye, babies…..

turn into this…..

Addie was the bell of the ball at her high school homecoming.

So I am happy to take Cole to school and pick him up. I get to be the first one to listen to his stories about school. I sat with my friend Connor during Circle Time! And taking care of Maggie Faith after school for a while makes my heart soar. She’s my Death in Paradise-watching buddy, and a fan of my rice krispie treats…..

Not much better than a rice krispie treat and an orange pop at Nana’s after school.

Enjoy every single day! Your babies will be having babies before you know it.

The other day when I watched Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole for the afternoon, I brought them to their home following dinner. This was the same night that he requested that I draw a horse for him. It was nearing bed time when he sat down next to me on the sofa.

“Nana,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear he was hungry because he hadn’t eaten a lot for dinner.

“What are you hungry for?” I asked him. I might be able to scrape together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or heat him up some mac and cheese in the microwave.

He was quiet for a few moments. Finally he spoke.

“Crab,” he said.

He was hungry for crab. Oh, wait just a moment while I run to the store and buy you some Dungeness Crab Legs.

I laughed out loud. And then he ran off to the kitchen. In a moment or two he returned. In one hand he had a package of cooked imitation crab sticks. With his other hand, he was munching on a crab stick.

How does this child come up with these notions? And he will always make me smile…..

Hmmmm. What could I ask for that will really flummox Nana?

Have a great weekend.

I was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 years old when I could no longer ignore the advertisements for Art Instruction Schools in whatever magazines I perused. I knew in my heart-of-hearts that I had the chops to be accepted to that school and become a great artist. What’s more, I was certain I could get the scholarship that they dangled in front of my face.

So I did as the advertisement instructed. I drew Tippy the Turtle…..

Remember Tippy? I’m sure you do. Art Instruction Schools advertisements were ubiquitous. They were in children’s magazines and in any adult magazine that a child might pick up with curiousity. Maybe not Playboy, but certainly McCalls or Good Housekeeping. I think there were other options to draw, but Tippy spoke to me.

I got out a piece of paper and a pencil, and I carefully copied Tippy. I filled out the necessary paperwork, folded it up, found an envelope and a stamp, and put my drawing in the mail.

Perhaps you will recall the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie watches the mail every day for his Orphan Annie secret decoder ring. Well, that was me. Every day I would sort through the mail, eagerly awaiting word on whether or not I had been accepted to this art school.

At long last, the eagerly-awaited correspondence arrived. Lo, and behold, I HAD BEEN ACCEPTED! It was disappointing to learn that I hadn’t received a scholarship, but it didn’t matter that much. Once Mom and Dad learned of the talent that their second-born child possessed, cost of the program wouldn’t matter. After all, Art Instruction Schools promised that there were jobs galore for those gifted few who qualified for their education.

Unfortunately, Mom didn’t quite see it the same way as I. And not being of the School of Gentle Childrearing that now exists for our grandkids, Mom said something like, “Don’t be ridiculous, Kris. Art Instruction School is nothing but a racket. Anyone who applies gets into their school and they charge a fortune for the art classes. And YOU DON’T HAVE TALENT.”

There went my art career. Not to mention my self esteem. Parents didn’t really worry about self esteem in those days. But dang it anyway.

The other evening, I was watching Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole for a few hours at their house. Cole came up to me, pencil and paper in hand, and asked, “Nana, can you draw me a horse?” My Art Instruction School acceptance immediately popped back in my head. I had another chance to display my artistic ability.

“I would be happy to, Cole,” I told him, Googling how to draw a horse even as I spoke. Here’s what came up…..

I can do this, I thought. I know I can. Here is what I drew…..

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I drew, but it certainly wasn’t a horse. Look at the back left leg. What the hell is that? Look at all the legs, for that matter.

About this time, Mylee wandered into the room, and asked me what I was doing. I explained that I was drawing a horse for Cole. She peeked over my shoulder at my drawing. She was quiet as she studied the drawing. Here was her assessment, word-for-word: “It’s actually not too bad, Nana. But the head is a bit…..awkward.”

That was certainly nicer than what my mother would have said.

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it.
My hair.
I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy,
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty,
Oily, greasy, fleecy,
Shining, gleaming, streaming,
Flaxen, waxen,
Knotted, polka-dotted,
Twisted, beaded, braided,
Powdered, flowered, and confettied,
Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied! – From the 1970s musical Hair, Gerome Ragni, James Ragni, James Rado, and Galt MacDermot

Every Sunday at 9 o’clock Mass, Bill and I sit behind the same family. It might be a Catholic thing, but in every Catholic church I’ve ever attended, people sit in the same spots every week. This is so true that whenever Bill and I attend Mass at an unfamiliar church, I always wonder just whose seats we are taking. Because I am certain there is someone giving me the evil eye from a few rows back because we’re in “their seats.”

One of the members of this family is a little girl who is maybe 2 years old. She has been an only child, but as the weeks have gone by, we have watched pregnant Mom get larger and larger. Tick tock.

Yesterday the family arrived uncharacteristically late. And the first thing I noticed is that the little girl’s hair was different. She always wears it with part of her hair pulled into little pony tails on each side. That’s the way she was wearing it yesterday, except that the pony tails were pretty loose and oddly close to her face, while the back of her hair didn’t appear to have been combed at all.

And then I noticed that Mom was no longer pregnant, and there was a baby seat occupied by a brand new baby. Brand new. This past week sometime. God bless those parents for venturing out to church.

But then I understood the little girl’s odd hairstyle: Dad had stepped in to do her hair while Mom did that thing that new moms do with teeny tiny new babies: tread water and try to survive.

This little girl is always pretty, well, let’s say busy. It doesn’t bother me a whit, and I completely understand why they don’t go to the Cry Room. Children have to learn to be good at Mass, and sitting up front is one way to keep them interested. Except that the only thing this little girl was interested in yesterday was flipping her head back and forth and up and down and spinning around because her pony tails were so loose. The loose pony tails were a barrel of fun to flip around. At one point, as Dad was holding her new little sister, she appeared to be preparing to plant a sweet kiss on the top of the baby’s head. Instead, she flung one of her pony tails in the baby’s face. Because why not?

It got me to thinking about dads and little girls’ hair. I remember when my brother was newly single and the father of two little girls with long blond hair. I assume he struggled for a while trying to keep the girls’ hair under control. By the time they came to visit the first time after his divorce, he had discovered a hair implement that involved wrapping it around the hair and then flipping the hair back through it. As I recall, their hair looked pretty darn cute. I assure you that it was the only hair style they ever wore when they were with their father.

Lack of hair knowledge is not limited to fathers, however. I gave birth to one child, and he was a boy. The only thing involved in managing his hair was getting it buzz cut once a month or so. So when I am responsible for the hair of any of my granddaughters — all of whom, I might add, have long hair — I am stumped. This is what they look like when their mothers do their hair….

It’s better now that they’re all older and can mostly take charge of their own hair, but man alive, when they were little, I discovered I was completely incapable to doing anything to their hair beyond basic low pony tails. And I’m afraid they looked pretty much like the little girl at church.

I learned recently that Mylee gave me away to her other grandmother. “Mylee told me that you aren’t good with hair because you only had a boy — her dad,” she said with a smile.

True story. But at least my granddaughters didn’t use their misguided pony tails as weapons. At least I don’t think so.