Grandparenting and the Illusion of Dignity!

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    Grandparenting in the Geezer Age:   Or, Losing One's Dignity?!...  
                                          Um...  If Indeed One Really Ever Had Any Dignity!!??

There are those abroad in the land who insist that human beings possess or should possess some actual dignity, a kind of dignified demeanor.  Especially, I suppose, those who strut about in expensive suits purporting to be your "Average Top-Flight Business Executives."  As for me, any pretense at having ever had any actual dignity was expunged at a quite early time of life.  Allow me to elucidate...

My elder brother was large and strong vs. my somewhat smaller stature, and only a year separated

This is a slightly exaggerated
image of one having been shot
with an arrow, causing the leaking
of one's complement of dignity!

our ages.  He punctured me with steel-tipped darts, once shot me in the leg with a blunt-tipped arrow and frequently "flipped" me into walls when practicing his jujitsu!  (Possibly the bloodletting that resulted caused the draining of ill humors, including any quantity of dignity I may have possessed!!)  My reward was a quarter a flip, if injured in the process (bruises and scars included with no additional fees paid!), and if I promised not to "rat on him" to mater and pater.  I'm not sure if those episodes constitute a "an early loss of any hope of a dignified persona," but there's more, and far more recently...  that is, here in the present, in the time of "GeezerHood."

During a recent trip to the warmer climes of the southern tier, I was cavorting in a swimming pool with my grandchildren, the issue of our elder daughter.  I was floating on an orange, buoyant noodle, having decided to assume the character of an adventurer.  I announced to the grandchildren, "I am Emilio de Leon, bold voyager, and I have just traversed the Atlantic Ocean from West to East on a Flotation Noodle.  Am I in Espana?  El gente de Espana," I proclaimed, "Estoy Aqui!"

In a swimming pool with
grandchildren, having been
pressed into service as an
elevator!  The image below
attempts to illustrate the
challenges of being an
elevator, and being choked,
 to the great amusement
of grandchildren!  

At which point, the children spat mouths full of water into my noble visage, and then commanded in unison, "Go back where you came from, you silly old goat!"  I of course demurred, and then tried speaking to them in French, in case I was mistaken as to my destination on the shores of the European continent.  

"Where are the cheering throngs?" I asked in my best accented French.  (Où sont les acclamations des fouls?)  More jets of expectorated pool water struck my noble countenance, once alight with victorious pride, now awash in mock rejection and humiliation!

"Go away," the children shouted gleefully!  "Go back to your own side of the ocean."  Finally, I "identified" the children as the fabled "Spitting Barracuda" of the Eastern Atlantic.  At that point their determination became unstoppable!  Oh my!  What fun we had on that lengthy and prune-skinned occasion!

During the previous year, with another set of grandchildren, progeny of our younger daughter, I was coerced into service in the self same pool as an elevator.  "Going down," I would announce as the children ordered me into character.  "Second floor -- foundation garments, ladies' frilly frocks, pumps, stockings, millinery..." the final words a choked and gurgling gasp as the "elevator-traveling" children pulled me under the surface.

Are all grandparents so employed by the offspring of their own children?  I've often been a horse -- to most an almost cliche grandparental role -- but also, and quite frequently, a helicopter, a robot, a fire-breathing dragon, a sword-wielding villain, a pack mule, a bovine...

As at least one of the grandchildren has grown older -- the eldest of four -- the expectations of grandparental interaction have changed appreciably.  He, now 11 years old, is a remarkably talented, self-taught juggler.  Though he craves an audience for his art, it is hardly a chore for the watcher, but rather a pleasure to witness his skill and talent.  Just as often, because he's a Harry Potter devotee and much attracted to the "Mario" electronic games, he urges his grandparents to sit with him as he displays his magic wand collection or translates the images in Mario books to the actions of the games themselves.  He also has recorded the musical "overlays" that accompany the games, has entire CD's devoted to "Mario Music."

And here's another example.  July 3rd has become a cherished family gathering day, all of us together to witness the spectacular fireworks show at Milwaukee's Lakefront.  There's lots of idle and play time between arriving in mid-afternoon until the skies go dark and then wild with loud and colorful explosions!  Our two granddaughters, ages 5 and 7, have developed a ritual of

The first-born grandchild
(at left) with his "Baba,"
the name he conferred
upon her even before he
could speak in sentences!

placing small stickers on my sunglasses until the lens are totally obscured.  At other times during the afternoon, they climb upon me, strike me with illuminated wands and other light-up souvenirs, and then all four of them sit on me, one 7-year-old on my throat, the others on various parts of my torso.  Unable to move, my groans of discontent and choked pleas of mercy drive the four of them into convulsions of mirth.  It becomes a prolonged source of glee (with a bit of pushing, jockeying for a better position!).

One of our granddaughters, the older of two, has a most remarkable gift for and sense of humor.  She has often placed a stuffed moose on my head; the moose has large floppy antlers.  She proclaims, "There's a moose on your head" or, "There's a flying moose on your head!"  The phrase has become so popular with the grandkids, my daughter made a T-shirt for me that sports the aforementioned legend, along with an appliquéd moose.  

I could go on, but it may be time to put this episode to bed, perhaps along with a pair of grandchildren who are spending the night.  I love my grandchildren with all that's in me, and my interaction with them may have nothing at all to do with dignity, or the lack thereof, but merely with my own devotion to absurd behavior, a kind of reversion.  So, what the hell, who says one cannot go on being a cow or an elevator, a robot, an aardvark, a reviled visitor to foreign shores.

Sometimes, one simply cannot resist the urge to misbehave, or to adopt various obtuse roles just to join in the fun, to entertain.  I mean, it isn't that long until the grandchildren enter their teenage years and beyond.  Then, when we grandparents behave like silly imbeciles, our grandchildren will look at us with self-conscious displeasure and announce, "OMG...  Why does he have to act like that...  and in front of my friends...  so embarrassing!"

Until that happens, I will endeavor to play the fool, to be myself and to enjoy the moment and

the silliness that pervades their youthful deportment until they, our grandchildren, become more "grown up" and dignified as adolescents and adults (I hope they never actually lose their senses of silliness!!).

Special Notes:  1.)  None of that which my sweet, wonderful grandkids do to me, as described herein, is mean-spirited or discouraged by the perpetrator of this post.  It's all in great fun, and actually encouraged, often precipitated by my own words and deeds.  I thoroughly enjoy their funny and guileless behavior.  Cards and letters, Email as well, may be sent in care of this medium, anytime!  2.)  No pelicans or other creatures were harmed in the making of this blog posting.  Thank You! 

(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude:   The perpetrator of this blog extends unending thanks to our beautiful, talented and endlessly creative grandchildren, without whose support and silliness this writing would not have been possible:  C, age 11, almost 12; S, age 7, more than almost 8; L, age 7, age 8 in fewer than four months; S, age 5-1/2!  B and P, among many others, of course, are enormously grateful every day of our lives to have them in our lives!!)

Humbly Submitted 07-18-15 -- Joel K.

                





             

       

   

"You're Perfect, Honey!"

Memoirs of a Geezer!

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    "You're Perfect, Honey..."

If I understood the architecture of pedestals...  for example, "plinths" and "dado's" (if those are correct terms!), I'd erect one and put her up there, along with other immortals previously cast in stone, plaster or bronze.  Maybe a slightly wobbly one, as none of us is perfect, with the possible exception of her children.  At least that's the modifier she ascribed to them continuously, constantly throughout her lifetime.

Gigi (given name,
Virginia) in her
favorite pose.

With all the mountains and landfills of stuff and detritus that's available on the Internet, one wonders if included is a survey on how our society, in general, regards fathers-in-law and...  more particularly, those oft maligned but entirely memorable MOTHERS-in-law.  Mine was an absolute treasure among the troves of them, past and present.  She left some years ago, but left us with delightful stories and recollections.

As a young suitor to her only daughter among four children, I was nervous; I was shy.  On one of the very first encounters with the family, I came to call, knocked on a screen door, the primary door having stood wide open.  "Hello," I called.  "Anybody home...  hello!"  

"Honey, say, 'Say Beep' "!  It was her voice, a bit raspy, the voice of an older woman, a fun-loving sprite.  

"What?" I quizzed, bewildered, a bit more nervous that I had been a moment ago.  

"Say, 'Say BEEP,' honey!"  

"Um...  Beep," I echoed, tentatively.  At which point I heard people "beeping" all over the house.  I sort of "got the idea," eventually.  I met brother John in a closet.  Brother Jimmy was under a bed.  I met brother Bob in the bathtub, just standing in the tub, not bathing!  "Good lord," I said inside my spinning brain, "What the hell kind of goofy family is this?"  

We all stood around chatting, laughing.  At some point I heard, "This isn't fair.  No one's found

Gigi (at left) with her sister,
Lilian, always referred to
as "Sister"...  as "Original
Auntie" by the rest of us.  

me yet!  I can't stay in here when all of you are having fun!"  It was the soon-to-be mother-in-law.  She was hiding but hadn't as yet been found.  I then went into the basement, as directed, to find the father in his workshop.  "Say Beep," I said stupidly.  

"I don't play ' Beep'," he said loudly, angrily, glaring at me as if I were a feckless home invader with a skull full of defective or dead brain cells.  I went back upstairs and announced, "He doesn't play 'Beep'," amid consuming laughter.  Having planned it, the family enjoyed my discomfort.  

Friends and family members called her "Gigi" (the "i"- sound short, pronounced as in the word, "rig").  My mother-in-law was a funny woman, and she was great fun, full of adages and platitudes, many voiced at entirely inappropriate moments.  For example, my wife and I were seated at her kitchen table discussing family matters or children, something mundane.  At some point Gigi announced, "To thine own self be true, Honey!"  My wife and I stared at one another, and then at her.  I said, "And now, back to the conversation."  Her comment was completely out of context.  She seemed not to care.  

At another point on that same occasion, Gigi asked her daughter, "Honey (her favorite term of endearment!), how long have you been with me?"  

We'd better explain!  This is a
cartoon image of an exemplary
Mother-in-Law on a pedestal...
used here for symbolic purposes.

"What..." I said.  "Is she a valued employee, soon due for a gold watch?!"  Gigi laughed heartily.  She could laugh at herself, a rare gift, and indicative of a rich sense of humor, perhaps a richer "sense of silly."

She knew her own mind.  (We were glad somebody did!)  My wife's brother, Bob, was over at the family home one evening when my wife and I were visiting as well.  He was a Milwaukee policeman and about to go on duty.  Bob's assignment on that occasion was to guard a prisoner.  Gigi said to him, "Honey, Mumma's going to pack you a nice lunch -- a picnic! -- for you and the prisoner.  I'll make some nice sandwiches; I'll wrap them up pretty with chips and cookies and napkins, maybe something to drink.  Won't that be nummers, Honey?  You and the prisoner will have such a nice lunch together."

Bob was becoming agitated.  "Mother!  I'm not taking a picnic lunch to a prisoner, a hardened criminal...  He could be a bank robber or a murderer.  I won't share a picnic lunch with some felonious jail bird!"  

She ignored him.  "And I'll put in some nice fruit.  Do you think your prisoner likes apples or oranges, Honey?  Should I pack in some nice cloth napkins, gingham?"  Bob's ears grew purple with frustration.  His eyes grew wide and his scalp moved back an inch or two, something his rubbery face and head did when he became truly annoyed.  He objected vigorously.  She pressed on.  He eventually walked out carrying a full basket of food that included gingham napkins, and lots of "nice" cookies for the prisoner.

Gigi enjoyed Manhattan cocktails daily, after 4PM.  She taught her grandchildren how to make them using the family's preferred brands of whiskey and sweet vermouth.  "Now put your finger in and stir twice.  Then carry the glasses in to us...  just look straight ahead when you carry, Honey, and you won't spill."

Gigi always made her Perfect
children smile!  That's her
Perfect daughter
(pictured above...)

She objected to marriage vows that "pledged" an unequal balance of power to the man.  She was a feminist, an exemplary mother and grandmother, loving, generous, honest, always a powerful advocate for her "perfect" children, and grandkids, too, of course.  She had 10 of the latter, and shared her time and her love with them equally, and with remarkable generosity. 

Wonderfully idiosyncratic, she was a terrific cook and baker, but seemed always to guard her best dishes and baked goods.  She'd hold back certain ingredients and measures when divulging her recipes, a bit maddening to those who requested them.  When my wife would ask a simple, single question, for example...  "how much flour?"  Gigi would answer, "Now Honey, go to the market and look for the baking aisle, then try to find Hodgson's Unbleached Pre-Sifted..."  

"Mother, please, for pity sake, I only asked how much flour, not a guided tour of the grocer's baking section..."  Her mother would then continue to provide a full set of instructions, from starting the car, buckling up, which market to patronize...  The amount of flour would forever remain a mystery.  Gigi took the secrets of her best recipes to the grave!

It's been more than 20 years since she left us, but we continue to tell her stories and cherish her memory and her extraordinary gift for making us laugh and giving us joy.  In my geezerhood, I hope I can be a fraction as good a father-in-law (father and grandfather too!) as she was a glorious and memorable mother-in-law...  mother and grandmother too.  And, oh yeah, try to remember, Honey's, "A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss!"  (She'd insert that nice little platitude into her conversation constantly, though it never actually fit the context!)  

Humbly Submitted 04-15-15 -- Joel K.