Mad About the Boy

Mad About the Boy

July 13, 2019

Camp GoGo is a private camp that is open only one week a summer.  This is the week.

            Malcolm, my 11-year-old grandson is the only attendee and he received a full scholarship to attend. He’s very talented.

            Regular readers of this column know that my grandmother name is GoGo and I have two perfect grandchildren. Keira, the Princess of Boston, and Malcolm, AKA Mr. Smiles, live far away from me in the Kingdom of Massachusetts.  Our family works hard to traverse those 525 miles about a half dozen times a year . . . in both directions.

 But it’s not the same as being together, every day, one-on-one. At 525 miles away you miss so much.

I have to admit that when I go in the Boston direction, there’s no shortage of fun things for me to do in between the demands of the children’s everyday lives.  I get to shop, go to concerts, museums, dine out on exotic foods and meet my daughter’s nifty friends.

The kids? I see them after school, during or after soccer practice, play practice, singing rehearsals or bass fiddle lessons.  We attend church together and meet at the supper table. Their everyday young lives are whirlwinds.  My wind doesn’t whirl as fast as it used to.

This summer my breathless little GoGo voice tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey, dummy, you’re retired.  You have time now to have one of the kids stay after the July visit!”  I listened to the voice.

  And thankfully, their parents agreed. Realizing that Keira is now 14 and will slip through my fingers too soon in the future, I assumed she was the logical choice.  She had visited once, having flown here alone at age eight. But Malcolm never had, and he often visits with his retired New York City Grandpa.  I realized that before I lose him to strictly guy stuff, now was definitely the time . . . while he’s still a boy.  Without my job commitment, he and I could savor some total ordinary days, not just a few stolen hours.  And we could still throw in some fun, even if it’s not Times Square or Sushi Bar type of fun.

            While the whole family was still here, we played Scattergories – a fun thinking and word game.  In a family of dedicated game players, and we’re talking regular two-day historic war games here, Malcolm has always excelled at both the imagination and tactical aspects of game playing – as much as any adult.  But what I have been more impressed with is that although he sometimes wins, he has learned from this gamesmanship to be a gracious loser.  He’s easygoing.  He doesn’t whine.  He’s downright philosophical – and often funny about it. He smiles a lot. I took him everywhere.

            He manned the cat carrier as we took Finian to the vet for his annual checkup and shots.  He accompanied me to the physical therapist – and not just the waiting room. He mostly read his book but paid close attention to the technical stuff too. I was puffy-chest proud when I introduced him to Andy, the therapist.  Malcolm stuck out his hand and said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Just as we were leaving he thanked Andy for letting him stay and told him again, “It was a pleasure to meet you.”  Whew.  I was loving this kid more every hour.

He helped me select a few bushes I needed for the yard and then carried and loaded them.  He hefted the heavy 2-gallon watering can again and again across the backyard as we fertilized the gardens together. Each night that we ate at home, Malcolm set the dinner table, even lighting the candles, without being asked.  And he both loaded and unloaded the dishwasher.

 And just so this doesn’t sound like he has become an indentured servant, we did share some fun experiences this week. We picked strawberries together at an old farm. We saw two movies including “Jaws” on the big screen at the theatre. Jeopardy! watching is an every night routine for Malcolm so we watched the recording together even after “Jaws” pushed it past his bedtime.  Hey, what happens at GoGo’s stays at GoGo’s.

Malcolm joined me some during my dedication to Breakfast at Wimbledon screen time. We went to the Plaza for lunch and to Mayville for an afternoon on the Chautauqua Belle. Friday and Saturday – today -  wrap up the week at Niagara Falls including the Maid of the Mist, a fun dinner out and a hotel overnight near the airport.

He jogs every other morning on a route that he and his dad worked out as both safe and the right length.  He swims every other day, even remembering his sunscreen.  And he has spent many attentive moments with his furry, feline friend, Finian

Wade-a-minit!  Why does this perfect boy have to go home?  He could go to school here.

He’s absolutely no trouble and he eats everything  - even helping with the cooking process. (His favorite meal is lamb chops, Brussels sprouts and lemon cake.) Why don’t I call Jet Blue and cancel his flight to Boston?  I would LOVE him to stay.

 Oh.  Yeah.  Right.  His family. They like him too.  They’d get all crazy if he didn’t come home. Well it was a great thought.  It’s been a wonderful week that I don’t want to end.

As I write this he’s packing his suitcase upstairs.  I’m sure he’ll also plunk in his reading alcove with his current book – a true-life adventure about mountain climbing, another of the family’s hobbies.

Malcolm and I are heading this afternoon to visit an old friend whose quirky, fascinating house is in the woods. Back home, we’re going to make meatloaf together for our last dinner at GoGo’s. 

Yesterday we had ice cream after our Chautauqua Belle excursion.  A piece of blackberry pie was waiting in the fridge with his name on it for after dinner.  He hesitated.  “But that would be two desserts in one day and I really shouldn’t . . . .”

            “Stop,” I said.  “GoGo has different rules.  This is summer. It’s un-American not to eat ice cream on a beautiful, sunny day here in God’s country.”  He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders while grinning as wide as double butterscotch sundae. He got it.

 “And besides” I continued, “what happens at GoGo’s stays at GoGo’s.” 

Strawberry shortcakes are following tonight’s meatloaf.  Boy food is highly rated at Camp GoGo.

Back in the Saddle Again

Back in the Saddle Again

 

Marcy O’Brien

 

There are no more cowboys in our lives.

No, I’m not talking about the Dallas football team.  Real cowboys, the he-men of my childhood, have gone the way of buggy whips and Burma Shave signs.

When I was a kid, Gene Autry, the Singing Cowboy, was one of my heroes.  I don’t know why he was my favorite except that he might have been a good father figure in my single parent household.  After all, Roy Rogers had Dale, Trigger and Bullet while Gene had only his sidekick, Champion the Wonderhorse.  I sat in the dark theater mesmerized by his songs, his manly looks and kind smile. He was honest, good-hearted and stood for all that was right.  Plus he was sturdy.  I guess I was a teenager before I realized he was getting fat.

 I realized recently that my grandchildren know nothing about the whole cowboy schtick, but then again, I’m not sure my children did either.  We’ve abandoned the gunfighters and trail riders as heroes.  They’re hopelessly old-fashioned given the competition for a child’s imagination these days and frankly, we have politically corrected them out of our everyday society.

Depending on your age, think about Tom Mix, Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid, Zorro, Roy Rogers and my Gene. Then came Maverick, Wyatt Earp, Clint Walker and a whole rodeo-full of more names in the early 60’s. By the time Bonanza and finally Gunsmoke wrapped up, the TV cowboys were all over but the shootin’.  I still remember a grizzled John Wayne riding the trail in True Grit.

And yet, there have been occasional western flicks such as Kevin Costner’s Dances with Wolves and Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven that have meritoriously shown us the more serious side of the western frontier.  I find the newer “cowboy” films are more steeped in history and more apt to be psychodramas.

But Gene Autry reigned supreme in my childhood.  Although I was a girl with the usual dolls and dollhouse, being a tomboy meant I also had a fielder’s mitt and the most coveted toys of all – a holster and gun set.  I remember receiving the imitation pearl-handled cap guns for my autumn birthday. I was probably 7 or 8.  My mother was progressive – and she listened to my pleas.

That Christmas, Santa brought red cowboy boots . . . be still my heart. Very pointy, they were also a little big which presented a challenge - trying not to kill myself heading down our apartment stairway.  Santa knew they would need to fit for a while and the snows of winter gave me some growing time before I headed out to the O.K. Corral. 

The cowboy hat, fringed vest and chaps came later.  If you were going to face off against another buckaroo, it was more impressive to be fully rigged out, or so I thought.  The boys laughed at me. They simply wore their holsters over their jeans or corduroys and most didn’t even have hats.  The rottenest kid in the neighborhood did have a hat – a black one.  I knew from Gene’s movies that the black hats were the bad guys so it was easy to hate the creep even more after he showed up in that hat.  He teased me about my beloved complete outfit.  “None of that’s going to do you any good because girls can’t be real cowboys. You can’t shoot and when the Indians come, they go after the weak ones first and that’ll be you.”

The Indians never came.  And when I think about it, no one ever played the Indian role in the schoolyard or the backyard – only at Thanksgiving pageants.

I don’t know what triggered the first generational push away from playing cowboys.  Was it our growing sensitivity to guns?  That was certainly a factor.  World War II or Korea might have been an influence as boys who grew up playing with guns then had to use them for real.  And as a culture we began to realize the injustices committed against the native tribes in our earlier history.

As a child, all I wanted to do with my matching six-guns was shoot my rolls of caps, make as much noise as possible and show the boys that I could hold my own in their cowboy world.  We were not, of course, socially conscious.

And then came the space age.  Star Wars launched different toys for my children.  It took me a while to figure out that the games were the same – just the equipment and the language changed.  Space exploration replaced the Wild West, Transformers replaced the horses and wagons and light sabers replaced the cap guns. 

Jump forward a quarter century and the Star Wars resurgence dominates video games.  I think Gene Autry would be upset to think that young kids are sitting in their houses with their noses pressed to their cell phone or their trigger fingers moving rapidly over their Xbox controls.

I think he wanted us out on the plains, pretending to save the world from the bad guys and getting to know each other cowpoke to cowpoke, kid to kid.

His theme song still echoes in my mind some days:

“Back in the Saddle again. 

Out where a friend is a friend. 

Where the longhorn cattle feed

On the lowly gypsum weed

Back in the saddle again.”

It was a simpler time.  Sigh.

The Springtime Menagerie

The Springtime Menagerie

For the second time in the fourteen years I’ve lived in this house, we have a mouse.  I saw him a few weeks ago – in one fleeting dash behind the den sofa.

Finian, our year-old Maine Coon feline, has yet to earn his room and board by proving himself a hunter.  He’s more of a playground instructor . . . “c’mon, c’mon let’s run laps around the dining room, leap on the mantel and knock pictures off all the tables.”  A mouse would be merely a companion or just another toy to Finian – one with more moving parts. To his credit, he has spent many nights as a sentry crouched in front of the stove but he needs to show more SWAT team initiative. We have had two kinds of traps in three rooms – for four weeks.  This is one rascally, resistant rodent.

We continued to hear scrinchy, scrunchy noises in the nighttime, without sightings.

So it was no surprise when I heard a crash in the front hall, a few bangs against the hot water baseboard, and a lot of scrambling noises.

“Aha,” I yelled to Richard.  Finian finally got that mouse!”

I hot-footed it to the hall and stopped in the doorway. Finian was in full attack mode in the corner.  He was hopping around the narrow legs of the plant stand, repeatedly skulking forward, swiping at the corner.  Suddenly a tail, a brownish-red, fuzzy tail, stood up in the corner.  Definitely not the appendage of a mouse.  Then it swayed.  Finian was leaping frantically.

Dear Richard rounded the corner.  “It’s a chipmunk!” he roared.

Now before you read any further I must state a disclaimer.  What follows is adult content containing violence, profanity and nudity. It is not suitable for the faint of heart, members of PETA or any of our world’s devout Buddhists, all of whom ascribe to the sanctity of life.  If you are a member of any of the aforementioned, please discontinuing reading and turn to the Entertainment Section of this paper.

The reason for the ensuing battle?  I hate chipmunks. 

I am a gardener.  All gardeners hate chipmunks.  They eat our plants, dig holes and tunnels, and undermine garden beds, foundations, walls and steps. 

I learned years ago that removing them from the property and delivering them to a remote outpost at least two or three miles away, only slowed them down.  They pro-created at the drop-off spot and beat their way back home just in time to deliver the new litter.

I researched on Google.  Chipmunks deliver litters of four to five babies in both spring and summer. I’ve spent years fighting them and finally resorted to doing away with their populous villages by many methods – some fairly gruesome.

Back to the front hall.  I watched squeamishly as the skittering bushy tail tried to bolt from the corner, past Finian, before he ran into Richards right loafer.  Richard, shoe in hand, took a few swings at the speedy little devil, finishing him off on whack number four. He took the limp critter outside and into the bushes before I had to view him. “Oh, thank God,” I said.

“It wasn’t a chipmunk,” the Great White Hunter announced. “It was a small red squirrel.”  Aaaaaacckk! Even worse, I thought. Chipmunks undermine your yard but one of these little rotters will eat your wiring and burn the house down. Good riddance.

I consoled Finian for a few minutes and headed for the bathroom.  Returning a few minutes later, I came back into the hall to check on our kitty to be greeted by a streaking critter running at me, over my shoe and continuing on into the master bath. “RICHARD!!!!!!” was the loud shriek.

“What, what, what?” as he leaped up from the sofa.

“It’s another one . . . he went into the bathroom”

He entered with shoe in one hand closing the door behind him. Thump, Crash. Bang. Thump, thump, thump.  Big crash. Omigod. Thump, thump.

Finally, Dear Richard exited the bathroom with the dead prey in his outside hand so I wouldn’t have to see him.  The little redhead joined his brother in crime underneath the rhododendrons . . . and in the great hereafter.

I cleaned up the blood in the bathroom, reassembled the broken towel rack, and called a repairman to fix the hole in the wall.  But hey, #2 was where he needed to be – GONE.

All this mayhem happened so fast that we merely reacted. Oh, and by the way, to complete the details of the violence, no humans were injured during these incidents.  And the nudity wasn’t us – it was the shameless squirrels.

 I hope that two red squirrels are the extent of the invasion. In case we’ve only encountered half the resident battalion, I Googled and found, “10 ways to rid your house of red squirrels.”. 

First rule: Remain Calm. Yeah, right.

Second rule: Separate them from your pets.  I can’t imagine trying to separate any invading creature from Finian the Inquisitor.

Third rule: Give them a way out – an open door for example.  What? Let the cat out and the chipmunks in? I didn’t bother with the other seven rules.

A few days have passed and I haven’t heard loud scratching or seen any quick-moving lowlifes.  And it appears the mouse might have finally found his way out now that springtime is offering more edibles. We celebrated with wine on the deck – free at last from the invading marauders.

There were ants in Finian’s food dish this morning.

Hometowns Everywhere

Column June 2019

Hometowns Everywhere

As my firstborn left for college, a friend reassured me, “It’ll be okay.  Just make sure when she settles down that it’s a place you like to visit.”  She made it sound as if had a say in the decision.

Actually, my daughter and son’s chosen locales turned out rather well for my preferences except that I’m still jealous of all my friends whose grandchildren are here or nearby.

My daughter went to the Boston area for college and never came back. Since Beantown was my old stomping grounds, I had no objections when she and Ian chose to put down roots there.

When they eventually left Boston proper and all its sports, dining and cultural offerings, it was for home ownership and child-rearing in Lexington, Massachusetts, a mere 12 miles away. Yes, that Lexington ... the one always paired with Concord. The town with the Minutemen militia, the Battle Green, and the real-life tale of an old nag carrying a loudmouth silversmith who yelled, “The redcoats are coming, the redcoats are coming” all the way from Boston. Yeah, that Paul Revere. 

Each spring the re-enactors of that Redcoat/Minuteman kerfuffle take over the village green, including the arrival of Old Paul on his steed, surrounded by legions of muzzle-loaders. Visitors to the action jam the streets lined with homes from the 1600 and 1700’s. The biggest difference in the present day battle re-enactment is that communications are handled by cell phone. 

And, yes, I do like to visit Lexington – what has become my grandchildren’s hometown.

 I love the architecture, the ambience, the history.  My only complaint would be that Lexington’s latitude is 42.4473 North.  With Warren’s latitude being 41.8143 North, it’s understandable that my routine January trip (via Buffalo) can’t escape the same annual blizzards, blustery winds and snow banks, just like home. 

Following his sister’s footsteps, my son went off to his heart’s desire, Annapolis, and also never came back. He did, however, make a few more stops between leaving Warren and finally settling back into Annapolis three years ago. I think I can take a stab at the places he lived long enough to have a mailing address and often a lease or deed.  Let’s see, there was Quantico, Virginia, then Pensacola, Florida, followed by southern California, coastal North Carolina, Kuwait, Iraq, Washington, D.C., London, New York City, Hoboken, New Jersey, and back to Annapolis. One mailing address was for the extended time he was aboard ship floating atop the Atlantic. There were two or three addresses in North Carolina but none of them had the history, good weather, and amenities combination that he has embraced in Annapolis.

I have only happy memories of all the family visits to Annapolis during the four years that Bart saluted and crammed his way through the Naval Academy. If you’re not an overburdened midshipman, any day in Annapolis is a good day. So much to see, shop, explore and eat as well as the experience of being surrounded by the period architecture and charming narrow streets ... up close and personal. The downtown area of the state capitol – once the nation’s capitol – is walkably small. The Academy itself boasts beautiful vistas, historical museums and John Paul Jones’s bones. Every spring the grounds brighten with thousands of stunning red tulips.

Next door to the sprawling academy is St. John’s College, the third oldest in the country after Harvard and William and Mary.  Tiny St. John’s is an unlikely counterpart to the Navy’s bastion of 30 intercollegiate teams. St John’s, with only one tenth the student body, competes in four gentleman-type sports – crew, sailing, fencing and croquet.  Although the academy doesn’t officially field a croquet team, they do play St. John’s every spring at the annual lawn contest for the Annapolis Cup. The competition, both serious and all in fun, sports costumes, gentility and yearlong bragging rights.  “The Johnnies” have won 30 of the 37 annual matches against their big, boisterous neighbors - including last week’s sold-out festivities in front of over 5,000 ticketed attendees and 3,000 students. I’m going to have to add that to my bucket list.

And of course, the Annapolis street scene is always bustling, not just with tourists and midshipmen but with boat traffic at the City Dock, the center of the downtown. The surrounding restaurant scene spills into the street half the year, mixing with strolling visitors devouring ice cream cones. Bart lives a block from the dock, an ultra-convenient location for his morning water boarding as well as his thrice-daily dog walking.

But it’s that same dock that gives me heart tugs every time I wander across its wooden deck.  Although I know the wood has been replaced over the years, I stop and think that it’s the same type of planking that Kunta Kinte stood on, fresh from his slave ship crossing, as he was being sold to the highest bidder. It gets me every time. Nearby there is now a statue grouping of Alex Haley, descendent of Kunta Kinte, and author of “Roots,” with a tribute to his ancestor. I like the fact that among the dock, the statehouse, the schools and the residences there is enough history to appreciate on-foot ... perhaps even to make the ice cream lickers pause and reflect.

Yes, I have been lucky. Both my children have chosen delightful places to call home, but our entire family’s orientation toward history enhances our choices as extra added attractions on family visits.

Like many young families we took vacations aimed at history – Washington, Gettysburg, Antietam, Harper’s Ferry, etc. Annapolis opened my son’s eyes to his future the summer he was 8 and I think the annual treks to Boston somehow stuck a bit with my daughter. 

And I guess their personal history, formed here, nurtured here, is also part of the tug back home to Warren. It’s not just family and friendships. It’s also pride in the traditions of their hometown, its mentors, its kindnesses, and memories of a practically perfect childhood as a son, a daughter, of Warren.

 Everyone has their own roots to cherish, to call home.  Some of us really lucky adventurers are allowed more than one.