Earwigs

Earwigs… I did not know what an earwig was until I recently took it upon myself, once and for all, to identify the ominous looking insects that have been inviting themselves into my house each year, at this time of year – for the past several years.

Finally learning what they are did not improve their appearance either: long slim body, short leathery wings that look like little vests put on backwards, and a tail that resembles pincer-like forceps that look like they could inflict more pain than a pinch from my little sister. Supposedly they are harmless – unless you sit bare-assed on one (they are attracted to dampness; another good reason for men to lift the toilet seat – and maybe leave it up), or if you handle one long enough to anger it. I recoil every time I see one; Claudia yells, “There’s another one of those things!” followed by, “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!”

I’m only dwelling on earwigs now because they have impacted my life so much every time they move in; kind of like the friends or relatives that come to stay a while, but you would rather they go someplace else. If nothing else, the toilet paper and water consumption has increased significantly. It’s not because these alien looking things come out at night and scare the number-two out of us (I’m not sure about Claudia; she may have scorched her shorts a few times).  It’s because every time I hear the ‘There’s- another- one- of- those- things-kill-it-kill-it-kill-it’ alarm, I have to rip off one or two squares, snatch up the crusty little critter, roll it up into a spherical shroud about the size of a marble, and then send it on a watery funereal cruise down the sewer system beneath the streets of my home town. All of this trouble just to prevent one of these things from crawling in our ears backwards and eating its way through to the other side.

It’s strange how ones cranial contents behave sometimes; at least mine anyway. Now when I see an earwig, and after I have recovered from the involuntary recoil, I think of Charles Dickens. Mr. Dickens must have had a thing for earwigs because he tossed a few in several of his novels; Dombey and Son, The Life and Times of Nicholas Nickleby, and I especially like the reference in Great Expectations:
 ‘What a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long! There was an inhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I looked up into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a number of blue-bottle flies from the butchers’, and earwigs from the market, and grubs from the country, must be holding on up there, lying by for next summer. This led me to speculate whether any of them ever tumbled down, and then I fancied that I felt light falls on my face – a disagreeable turn of thought, suggesting other and more objectionable approaches up my back.’

This is kind of how I feel when I wander into the bathroom in the wee hours. As I return to my bed with chills running up my back, I shake, tremble, wipe my face, and flap my boxers – not out of fear, but to shake off any beady-headed hitchhikers that are hoping to sneak into my nice warm bed.

What scares me is the possibility of Claudia awakening in the middle of the night to the welcoming stare of one of these miscreant insects who has been lying in wait on her pillow.

She loves my peanuts

I received the following email message from Claudia Thursday morning:
“Morning dear!  I’ve washed many Kleenex tissues, many coins, even a pen knife or two; but today I had a first.  I washed 3 peanuts.  I do think it’s important to keep your peanuts clean, but isn’t this going a bit too far?  I hope you are having a good day!  I love you and your peanuts!  Me”

Sometimes it’s fun to share intimacies between ones self and ones soul-mate just for laughs, but one must be careful lest things are taken out of context.

The preceding night, we met with my siblings and their significant others at Logan’s Steak House to celebrate the 64th wedding anniversary of our parents. We had a very pleasant time together. We all ate well, and additionally consumed lots of peanuts ( a Logan thing) – at least I did. I also stuffed a few in my pocket for the trip home in case I got the nibbles. Evidently three peanuts were tucked safely away in the folds of my pocket and escaped consumption, and remained hidden through the next day’s wash cycle.

I know… it’s hard to believe that Claudia can be just a little “nasty” sometimes, but she can. Her discovery of the clean peanuts in my freshly laundered britches was just enough to tip her scales of common decency.

Of course a response was in order:
“I take great pride in keeping my peanuts clean… all three of them.”

I am quite fortunate to be married to someone who loves my  peanuts, and seems to enjoy keeping them clean.
I just love her!

Haleigh Mae

Haleigh Mae Lash - and Mom & Dad too

Okay. Today we’re going to have a short multiple-choice type quiz.

 

What significant event occurred today – February 17, 2009?
a.  Paris Hilton celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday
b.  President Obama signed his controversial $787 billion economic recovery package into law
c.  Haleigh Mae Lash was born
d.   All of the above

The correct answer is (c) Haleigh Mae Lash was born.  Although (b) could be perceived as having been correct, the key word was significant as far as I’m concerned. Duh on (a).

Haleigh Mae Lash is destined to be a very sweet girl because:
a.  She has a very sweet mother
b.  She has a very sweet father
c.  She has a very sweet sister
d.  She has a very sweet grandma
e.  She has a very sweet grandpa
f.  All of the above
Although the most logical answer would be (e), the correct answer is (f) all of the above.

Haleigh Mae Lash is a beautiful girl because:
a.  She looks like her mother
b.  She looks like her father
c.  She looks like her grandma
d.  She looks like her grandpa
This was a trick question. Remember, this is a multiple-choice test, so it is perfectly acceptable to choose more than one answer. The correct answer is (a) She looks like her mother and (b) She looks like her father.  I apologize to all who chose (d), which would have been acceptable had it not been overwhelmed by (a) and (b).

This concludes the test. Congratulations to those who got a perfect score, and congratulations to all of the family and friends who love this little family so very much; Josh, Jodi, Ali, and Haleigh.

 

Our world just got a little better today! thanks to:
a. Haleigh’s mother
b. Haleigh’s father
c. Haleigh
d. All of the above

Back on the snow horse

It has been thirteen months, plus a few days, since my accident with my Gilson snowblower. On December 15, 2007, I fired up the beast and wheeled it across the street to clear my neighbor’s driveway of the prior day’s heavy accumulation of snow. As I was about to finish the job (and to make a long story short) I stuck my hand into a place on the snowblower that I should not have, and was promptly relieved of about one-third of the middle finger on my right hand; the index finger was badly mangled also. Until today, the snow-blowin’-finger-eatin’ thing has been sitting in a back corner of my garage, scorned like a puppy that has chewed up the family Holy Bible.

I’m not sure how much snow we received last night, but it is claimed to have been the sixth heaviest snowfall recorded in the history of the weather record keeping system here. All through the night, the snow fell , the wind sighed, and I slept fitfully as Mr. Gilson called to me like some evil creature in a Stephen King novel from its place of banishment.
“Noslig, noslig,” it murmered.

This morning, after a hearty breakfast, and four cups of coffee to bolster my courage, I dressed warmly and marched outside to confront my old nemesis with the same determination that I felt the first time I climbed into a roller coaster cart. My hands were trembling slightly, but they kind of shake regardless, so that was no true indicator to me as to whether or not I was experiencing any anxiety about what might be happening in the next few minutes. Before I went outside, I thought I should let Claudia know – just in case she wanted to keep the phone handy – and was admonished in return.
“I hope you’re not going to try to use that snowblower,” she warned.

I gave her my tough-guy look and simultaneously thought to myself, Maybe she’s right. Maybe I could just wait until the next big snow and then get Mr. Gilson out. Besides, another year in the garage might just render the thing useless.

I grabbed my snow shovel, took one scoop of the foot deep snow, and quickly realized that it would take a very long time to clear my driveway – and possibly suffer a heart attack in the process.

“Noslig… noslig…” the beast whispers.

A few minutes later I am standing behind Mr. Gilson grasping the handles like an Amish farmer hanging on to his plow behind a pair of Belgian draft horses. On the second pull of the starter rope, Mr. Gilson sputters then roars. The deep throbbing sound of the six horse motor quickly allays my trembling hands, and soon the snow does fly. There is not much sweeter than two old friends turned enemies who have reconciled.

Oh how the time does pass so quickly when we do those things that provide so much  pleasure! Three hours later my driveway and sidewalks are clear – along with the same of several of my neighbors. I did refrain from clearing the street; saved it for the local street department plows.

 

A salute from Stubby

My Gilson snowblower is back in the garage now in a place of prominence, near the front door – ready for the next round of snow should it come, and I still have 9 2/3 fingers – counting my thumbs of course.

Syntax at the Wal-Mart

Several months ago, Claudia and I took Rachel on a shopping trip to Wal-Mart. There was a purpose; to find a certain toy that had captured Rachel’s fancy. Unfortunately the toy was not in stock, but we did find an acceptable alternative. As we were standing at the checkout while the attendant, Mary (or someone wearing Mary’s name tag), scanned our items, Rachel turned to Mary and said in her sweet little three-and-one-half-year-old voice, “Hi.”

“Hi sweetie,” replied Mary. “Are you doing some shopping today?”

Still leaning somewhat awkwardly, almost upside down, over the back of the shopping cart child seat Rachel answered, “Yes, my grandpa bought me a new toy!”

It was a cute, short conversation that was soon forgotten by Mary I’m sure, and it had faded from my memory as well – until recently when it suddenly resurfaced as I was reading a book authored by cognitive scientist Steven Pinker, The Stuff of Thought: Language as a Window into Human Nature. The Wal-Mart conversation was mindfully resurrected in a flash while reading that …Babies are born into the world not knowing a word of the language being spoken around them. Yet in just three years, without the benefit of lessons, most of them will be talking a blue streak, with a vocabulary of thousands of words, a command of the grammar of the spoken vernacular, and a proficiency with the sound pattern. Children deploy the code of syntax unswervingly… A few pages over, Mr. Pinker tells me that Language itself is not a single system but a contraption with many components. To understand how children learn a language, it’s helpful to focus on one of these components… the component that organizes words into sentences and determines what they mean… syntax.

Oh, the things we take for granted. I doubt that Mary, the Wal-Mart girl knew about this. I certainly had never given it any thought.

Over the past four years we have accumulated quite a few children’s books, from infants to now, beginning readers. One of the favorites has been Clap Your Hands, a little Sesame Street book that has a built-in Elmo (who is also three-and-a-half) finger puppet. The reader can stick his fingers in Elmo’s little arms and make them clap while singing “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!” Recently as I was slightly preoccupied with something in my office, three year old Alyvia loudly announced while descending the stairway behind me, “Yook pa-pa! I have the crapping book!”

“The crapping book?”

“Yes,” continued Alyvia as she wiggled Elmo’s little arms, “Elmo is crapping!”

Great syntax… needs a little work on the letter ‘L’.

Even little one-and-a-half-year-old Alizabeth has entered the syntax game, “Hi pa-paw… how are you?”

“I’m fine Ali, but my knees are a little weak just now, thank you.”

Thanks now to Steven Pinker, my throat constricts, my eyes water, and my nose starts running whenever I hear these bits of toddler genius. No, the word, genius, is not being lightly used. Mr. Pinker told me in another of his books, The Language Instinct: How the Mind Creates Language that The three-year-old, then, is a grammatical genius – master of most constructions, obeying rules far more often than flouting them, respecting language universals, erring in sensible, adult-like ways, and avoiding many kinds of errors altogether.

They listen, they analyze, and they put the words together – right before our ears.

As I was paying for our new Wal-Mart merchandise, Rachel turned to Mary once more and said, “I love my grandpa!”

I’m not a genius, I’m not quite sure even what a cognitive scientist is, but I do know perfect syntax when I hear it.

The tweens

About and hour after I have changed my mother’s catheter bag, I am placing my granddaughter on our Dora the Explorer toilet seat insert for the big potty. While Rachel and I wait for the Tinkle Fairy to visit, it suddenly occurs to me that at this point in my life I am dealing with both ends of the spectrum in my service to members of my family – between the very old and the very young. I am a tween.

A tween…? I don’t know where that word came from. It just popped in. It sounds kind of nice. It’s also exciting to think that perhaps I have come up with a neologism that would succinctly describe a boomer who is between the greatest generation and the yet to be tagged generation of my grandchildren. But my joy is short lived because, when having come back to my senses, I realize that I have heard the word tween before.

A tween is most commonly used nowadays to refer to children who are in the preadolescence stage of their lives; somewhere between the ages of 8 and 12. I passed that stage a little over 47 years ago.
A tween could be a hobbit between the ages of 20 and 32. I passed that stage about 27 years ago; but my ears didn’t start getting shaggy until around age 50.
A tween could be used to describe merely ordinary geniuses  – according to science fiction author Mark Clifton, Star Bright – hardy, har, har, har!…
A tweener falls somewhere between Generation X and Boomers. I’m a boomer; so I can’t be a tweener.

Hmmm… As soon as the Tinkle Fairy has come and gone, I think I’ll strap on my iPod, grab my cell, and text message a few friends and get their opinions on this.

lol

Tunes stuck in my head

It’s happened to us all. A tune pops into our head, sometimes for no apparent reason, and can remain there for a few moments or even a few days. We may enjoy it at first, but if it remains too long it can become maddening. A couple of tunes popped into my head a few days ago, they are still there, I know the reason, and I’m still enjoying them.

The first tune – This Little Light of Mine;  the reason -  Layla.

Layla is our fourth granddaughter, another little light in our lives that started to shine July 3, 2008. Amber and Brian are the ones who are responsible for turning on this little light and they have been pretty radiant themselves since flipping the switch. Layla is a little light, but not too light – she weighs nearly seven pounds.

As we were sitting in the waiting area at the hospital prior to her arrival, that song just popped into my head – This little light of mine - it’s still there - I’m gonna let it shine - it’s okay if it stays a while longer – this little light of mine – I listened to it on our Raffi CD in the car – I’m gonna let it shine – and it might even get stuck in your head too – This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine , let it shine, let it shine…

Oh yeah, the other song? Layla.

Layla, you’ve got me on my knees.
Layla, I’m begging darling please…

My kind of ride

This past weekend Claudia and I accompanied Rachel and her Mom & Dad on a trip to Holiday World; a not so quaint amusement park located in southern Indiana. One of the first things we discovered was that the three and one-half year old primary reason for going had grown about four inches in the past year. Last year, Rachel was about three inches shy of passing the “you must be this tall to ride” benchmark for stepping over the threshhold into the world of some adult rides – with an adult. This year the top of her pretty little head was a whole inch above the mark.

After a warm up ride on the merry-go-round, Rachel was ready for the big time stuff. So, she, her mom, and Grammy headed for the Spider ride. This thing looked like a giant Starfish with little spinning buckets mounted atop the end of each tentacle – and spin it did. Rachel gasped for breath, Mom squealed, and Grammy turned cadaverous. When the ride was over, Rachel said “Let’s do it again!” as Grammy made a bee-line for the Ladie’s room while trying to hold down her Hostess Crumb Cakes from breakfast. Fortunately, Grammy did manage to keep everything down; but she was also done as far as the rides were concerned – and she used to be quite the amusement park rider too.

Rachel rode just about everything allowable on the adult rides that day, and she always came off saying the same thing: “Let’s do it again!” She had a great time. She even enjoyed riding the shuttle bus that carried us to and from our place of lodging.

The next morning, as we were just kind of relaxing at the old camp site, Rachel asked me to take a walk – with her on my shoulders – another one of her favorite rides.
“I want to ride the bus!” she says from somewhere above my head.
“Okay, we can ride that to the park.”
“I want to ride the merry-go-round!”
“I’m sure you will get to ride the merry-go-round.”
“I want to ride the roller coaster!”
“Your mother was right. I think we have created some sort of little monster.”

“Tell me Rachel, what is your favorite ride?”

“I want to ride in Pop-paw’s car!”

“Now… that’s my kind of ride Boo-boo,” I replied while trying to catch my breath.

Big Sister

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!

Bird poop on the window

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.