Grampy Lash

I was an only child for a while – six years and nineteen days to be exact, which is more than enough time to become really self-centered –  and it was pretty nice while it lasted. When I did get word that my only-child days would soon be over, I started praying for a little brother and dreaming about having someone I could play ball with and do guy things with.  I got a little sister instead.  I was a little shocked and disappointed at the time, but I got over it.  I eventually got over some of my self-centeredness and learned to love my little sister – still do – always will.  Six years later I got a little brother, which just goes to show that God does answer prayer.

Sometimes it was kind of lonely being the oldest sibling. I had friends who had older siblings and it sounded kind of neat.  Hearing some of the stories about their experiences with their older brothers or sisters – especially the ones about giving big sisters a hard time – sounded like loads of fun.  I was a pro at making life miserable for my little sister, so I just knew that I would have been really good at irritating a big sister.

This big-little sister stuff came back to me in a flash when I received this photograph of little Ali:

I wonder if this is how I might have looked when I got the word that I would no longer be the only one to have toys under the tree on Christmas, that I would waste many hours of my life waiting to get into the bathroom, that I would no longer be the only child.

Nah… I probably looked more like this:

I don’t know if I did a very good job of being a big brother, but I am sure that Ali is going to be a sweetheart of a Big Sister.

This is how I know:

Congratulations Big Sister! – and Mom & Dad too!

What are little girls made of?…

The past few times that Rachel has come to visit, we have gone through the same routine upon her arrival.

“Lets go upstairs pop-paw, and listen to some music.”

We have converted Rachel’s mom’s old bedroom to a make-shift playroom; complete with a small bed for overnight stays, a rocking chair, lots of toys and books, a CD player, and an assortment of Baby Einstein and Raffi music. Rachel’s favorite lately has been Baby Einstein’s Wake up and Goodnight.

“I want to hear Wake up and Goodnight!” she says while grabbing the “jewel case” that contains the currently beloved music that has managed to surpass Baby Bach in popularity – at least in the house. (For some reason she prefers Baby Bach when riding in the car.) She is three years old, cannot yet read, but somehow has come up with a method for correctly identifying the jewel cases and their contents.

I load the CD, Rachel presses the “play” button, then she turns to me with hands in the air and says, “Pick me up pop-paw.” I pick her up as she commands “Let’s dance pop-paw!” and the music begins to play. It is always a magical time.

sugar and spice…

The music starts with a “Tune-up and fanfare” that is Baby Einstein’s brief interpretation of Franz Schubert’s Symphony No. 8. We waltz, spin, then glide down the hallway to Claudia’s sewing room. She calls out, “We’re dancing Grammy!”, as we dance our way back to the playroom. Our hearts belong to her.

and all things nice…

Just as the first track begins to segue into the next, she suddenly lifts her head from its resting place on my shoulder and says, “I want to see the bird poop on the window!”

“Bird poop on the window?”

“Yes, on that window over there. It has bird poop on it. I want to see it.”

It is always a magical time.

That’s what little girls are made of.

Last night Mother Nature came a callin’ in my area code, and she wasn’t very motherly. She stomped through my neighborhood like a fourteen year old girl who had been denied something she wanted, but did not need. Sirens wailed, the stormtrakkers on the tube dazzled us with their latest meteorolgical visual aids while chattering continuously – taking little time to breathe; and then the satelite dish went out.

The rain came in torrents. The gutters on my roof quickly filled to capactity and flowed over the edges. The wind howled and seemed to screech at me, “Here’s something for you!”, then lit up my house with blinding flashes of lightning followed immediately with thunderous echoless booms that rattled the windows still filled with the lightning that had preceded it. Flash… sizzle… boom! “And here’s another one!” Flash-sizzle-boom!

This morning when I looked out into my back yard, it did indeed look as if someone had had a hissy fit out there. Big limbs, little limbs, twigs scatterd over the entire lawn. Some still dangled in the tree, but my sixty year old dutch elm had remained steadfast, appeared to stand proud and only slightly battered amidst its own clutter. As I surveyed this scene I thought to myself, I know what the wind meant. I also knew what I would be doing for the remainder of the day.

Later in the morning, as I sawed, snipped and stuffed tree debris into Sam’s Club yard waste bags, my two and-a-half year old Alyvia came for a visit. It wasn’t long before she joined me in the back yard. Strapped on her shoulders was a small back pack bearing a picture of – Backpack (Dora and Diego fans will know what I’m talking about). The see-through bag was trimmed in purple and matched her purplish-pink clogs. She sat herself down on the hard sidewalk, opened Backpack and withdrew a blank pad and an assortment of crayons. She crossed her legs at the ankles and settled into drawing and coloring. I settled back into sawing, snipping, and stuffing.

Moments later: “Here’s something for you pa-pa!” A drawing; squiggled lines, crooked triangles, red circles.
Flash… sizzle… boom!

We both returned to our work.

Moments later: “Here’s another one for you pa-pa!” Another drawing; squiggled lines, a crooked square, a green circle.
Flash-sizzle-boom…

 Now… I knew what the wind meant.