Tops and Bottoms

You’re probably thinking, based on the title, that this might be about fashion and advice on style.  Since I know I don’t have a great sense of style I would be the last person to write about anything to do with fashion.  I have no clue what season or color palate I am except I know I like jeans and loose-fitting shirts.

My title might lead you to think this could be about boobs and butts.

I don’t often think about boobs and butts, but (no pun intended) since it’s been mentioned, as far as boobs go, well, I do have two aging ones.   Speaking for myself and from what I’ve heard my sisters mention, it would appear that aging boobs are like birds in winter…..they tend to head south.  Nope, this isn’t about boobs and butts.

Believe it or not this is about my youngest grandson.

He’s a very considerate 3 year-old when it comes to using the toilet.  He always puts the seat down when he’s finished.  He also puts the lid down but I’ve learned that’s not out of consideration but for his own purpose.

He uses the toilet lid as his work bench so he can set the bathroom soap dispenser on top.  Each and every time he uses the toilet.

I think placing the soap dispenser on the toilet lid gives him better leverage for a stronger pumping action.  He’ll fill his hand with soap to the point the soap sometimes runs out of his hands and onto the toilet lid.  I’ve explained that he only needs a little bit of soap to wash his hands, however he believes more is better.  After filling his hand with soap he goes to the sink where he’ll rub his palms together under cold water.  A quick pat of his hands on the towel then he comes to me with hands that are still wet and soapy.

The first time this happened I took him back to the bathroom and showed him how to properly wash his hands.

I pumped a dime size amount of soap onto the palm of his hand, then showed him how to wash his hands.  I held his hands under warm running water, rubbing his palms together then showing him how to wash the tops bottoms of his hands  by rubbing the palm of one hand on top of the other hand.

We have a routine now.

I’ll give him a few minutes to do his business then ask through the closed bathroom door if he’s done.   He’ll yell “no” which means he’s got the soap dispenser on the lid of the toilet.  That’s my cue, so I knock on the door before going into the bathroom.

“I’m get’in soap” he’ll say, standing by the toilet while pumping soap into his hands and onto the toilet lid.  Adjusting the water in the sink I’ll wag my finger at him in a “come here” motion.  With a last look at the soap dispenser, he walks to the sink and immediately starts washing his hands while always saying something about why he put the soap on the toilet lid.  I don’t say anything about the soap, just remind him “tops and bottoms”  while he washes his hands and then help him dry his hands on the towel.

The soap dispenser goes back on the sink until next time and I wipe the soap off the toilet lid if necessary.  My toilet lid is always very clean by the way.

I once forgot to wipe the soap off the toilet lid after he had been in the bathroom.  When I sat on the toilet lid to clean the cat’s litter box my butt slid a bit on the lid.  White soap on a white lid can be easy to miss if you forget.

I guess a butt did play a small part in this tale after all, however, here’s where the idea and title for this story came from.  A simple comment by a three-year-old little boy,  nothing profound or news worthy, but it made me laugh.

The other day I was standing at the bathroom sink, with the door open, washing my hands after cleaning the cat’s litter box.  The little guy walks by, sees what I’m doing, and pauses to look at me. “Tops and bottoms Grandma” he says with a serious look, then continued on his way.

I’ll take that as proof that males do listen to the women in their lives.  Sometimes.

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any content in any manner without the express written permission of the owner….me.

 

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Nothing But The Best For Me

This is a story I posted a couple of hears ago under the title “Nothing But The Best for Grandma” but Hubby made me realize this didn’t just pertain to my grandchildren.  It’s relevant to anyone who gives hugs.  

While we were growing up there weren’t a lot of hugs and kisses, at least not that I remember.  I truly can’t ever remember hearing “I love you” from Mom or Dad.  When bedtime came we’d say “goodnight” but that’s all I remember.  As a result I was never very good at sharing my feelings or showing affection, at least I think that’s why.

It wasn’t that I didn’t feel things or love deeply, I did and do but I it was not very easy for me to show my feelings, especially to those I cared about.  It felt uncomfortable to me.  I still have a tendency to hold back when it comes to showing affection, an old habit that’s so damn difficult to break.

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize this until my boys were grown and the grandchildren started coming along.  I like to think I have been able to learn from my mistakes so I try to say “I love you” more, give hugs at every opportunity and offer words of encouragement whenever possible.

One weekend, a few years ago, our grand-daughter and her brother were up for a visit with their parents.  It made me smile watching them come into the house and sit down to visit with the grandparents when what they really wanted to do was go play with their cousins who live next door.

I’d watch them as they sat with us in the living room trying to be interested in visiting with the old folks when they’d much rather be outside playing.  After sharing small talk with them about school and stuff, usually after about 5 or 10 minutes  I’d casually say something like “wouldn’t you like to go play”? and they’d be off like a shot racing to get outside.

When it came time to go home they came in to say goodbye to us.  My grandson hugged me first and then his sister gave me her hug with both arms wrapped around me as I held her close.  Her Mom (with a smile) asked “Why don’t you hug your Nana like that”?

“Because Mammy doesn’t want….” and she hesitated to finish her sentence.

I’m going off point for a minute to let you know I am called Mammy, Ma, and Grandma by my grandchildren.  When our youngest grandson came along and started talking he called me Baba.  I have no idea where that came from except that is what we called my Dad’s mother.  The little guy has since switched to Grandma like his brothers.  Whenever the grandkids call on the telephone I know who I’m talking to by how they address me.  That comes in handy now that the grandsons are getting older and their voices are changing.

Now back to my story.  I answered my daughter-in-law’s question for my grand-daughter.

“I don’t want half-assed hugs”.

My grand-daughter then spoke up and told her Mom that Nana didn’t ask for better hugs.

You see, my definition of a half-assed hug is when someone hugs you with one arm, a light touch, basically draping their arm on your shoulder with their face lifted away from you like they’re giving an “air kiss”.  You get the feeling they’re looking at or thinking about something else.  As in leaving quickly.  It’s an action without thought or feeling.

The first time my eldest grandson gave me such a hug I told him I didn’t want a half-assed hug.  I told him I deserved a real hug, the best he could give me.  He laughed, as did his cousins who were present at the time, and he gave me a real hug.   As each of my grandchildren have, on occasion, done the same, I will call them out on it telling them I deserve the best hug they can give me.

The other day, my husband was leaving to run an errand and he gave me a hug goodbye….a half-assed hug.  I called him out on it.

“I’ll have to have A (our 3 year-old grandson) give you lessons on hugging” I told Hubby.

“What do you mean” he asked, obviously in a hurry to leave.

“That was one of the worse half-assed hugs I’ve ever had” I told him.

You see, when our youngest grandchild hugs you, it’s with both arms wrapped around your neck; he’ll pull you close holding you tight for a few seconds then give you a nice big kiss on the cheek.  He puts 110% into any hug he gives you.  You can actually feel his whole being is focusing on you and the hug he’s giving.  I hope he never out grows those hugs.

Hubby promptly gave me a proper hug, smiling as he did so, and not forgetting the kiss on the cheek.

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Nothing but the best for me.

 

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any conte

 

It’s Time For Acceptance

I have been struggling with something for quite a while, not speaking much about it, holding it close and trying to come to terms on my own.  It has been a lonely, difficult and painful struggle.

I’ve been praying for help with acceptance and yet a part of me feels as if I’m giving up.  My nature has always been such that when I know something is wrong I dig in and keep at it until it’s made right.  Like a dog with a bone, don’t try to take it from me….I fight.

At least I used to.

I retired for a number of reasons, one of which was that I was discouraged.  It was feeling like the legal system wasn’t about accountability and justice but “let’s make a deal”.

That fact became crystal clear in a very personal matter and that’s part of what I’m struggling with now.

Sister #3 died unexpectedly May 10, 2016.  The fact that she died, while painful, is not what I’m struggling with.  Death is a part of life after all.  It’s the reason she died that I’m still struggling with.

She was hospitalized for difficulty breathing and coughing up blood.  At admission her oxygen was at 84 or 85% and she had a heart rate of 124.  It took four days on oxygen for her levels to reach 95% and she felt so much better.  At that point her oxygen was decreased to see how she’d do.  Overnight, just sleeping, the next day her levels had dropped to 93% but that was good enough to get her discharged.  It didn’t matter that with no activity, just decreasing the oxygen, her levels dropped.  She was discharged.

At her visit with her primary care provider three days later her oxygen levels were at 91%.  Still decreasing, but not much was said about that, maybe because she had an appointment with a lung specialist five days later.

She met with the specialist.  An oxygen reading was taken.  We don’t know what the first one was, but she told my sister they had to rub her hands to warm them and then took another reading.  That reading showed her oxygen was at 85% and her heart rate was 132; eight days after her discharge from the hospital for the exact same issue.  The doctor told her he’d schedule a sleep apnea test and a Cat Scan for two to three weeks later and she was sent her on her way.  He he did not tell her she needed to return to the hospital or even prescribe oxygen to use at home while waiting for further tests.  Two simple actions that I, as a lay person, would consider reasonable care.  She trusted the doctor.

She collapsed two days later, not living long enough to have those tests done.  She was 59 years old.

This is where I’m struggling.

We filed complaints with the State’s Office of Professional Medical Misconduct.  That agency’s website’s definition of medical misconduct included “abandoning or neglecting a patient in need of immediate care”.  How much more immediate was an oxygen level of 85% and a heart rate of 132?

The results of our complaint?

We received a letter before Thanksgiving advising that upon completion of the investigation there was not sufficient evidence to bring a charge of medical misconduct as defined by the State’s Education Law.  The letter stated the investigation was closed.  However, a permanent non-public file of the case will be maintained for future use as needed.

Translation: because no other complaints had been filed against the doctor our complaint becomes a non-public record for future use in the event there is another complaint.  How many average people know anything about this Agency?  We didn’t until a lawyer suggested we file our complaints.

And that brings me to the legal system; justice and accountability.  I picked up my sister’s records from the Attorney’s office the other day.  The bottom line came down to dollars and cents.

Because my sister was on Social Security disability for a diagnosed mental illness and wasn’t a wage earner, there wouldn’t be a value to pursuing a wrongful death suit.  Wrongful death is basically based upon the potential value of the lost wages of the individual.   Also, because she had difficulty with drinking in the past, that fact together with other issues would make a malpractice lawsuit lengthy and expensive.  The defense would use those issues….defending which would prolong the legal process.  The expenditures for a legal action would probably exceed any potential award.  This was the advice provided by the attorneys we spoke with.

If there had been a finding of professional medical misconduct that would change things but no other complaints had been filed so no finding of misconduct.

The last attorney, while very sympathetic, also declined to accept the case.  A recommendation was provided in the event we wanted to seek yet another opinion.

A life lost and it comes down to dollars and cents not accountability.

This is the one and only time in my life I have wished to be wealthier, to have the money to pursue something that requires a good deal of money.  Accountability shouldn’t come with a price tag.

As I said, during this whole process I’ve been praying for acceptance because a part of me still feels like I’m giving up.  I asked Sister #4 what the difference was between acceptance and giving up.  She said acceptance is knowing you did everything you could; giving up is bitching about what happened but doing nothing.  In my mind I know we’ve done all we could but my heart still aches with trying to understand how this could have happened especially in this day and age.

My husband reminded me that my sister was a very loving, kind, generous woman, always there to help whoever needed help despite all she had to deal with personally.  Her non-public record is there, waiting to help the next family.  I pray there will never be a “next time” for anyone else.   What he said is so true and I’m trying to take solace from that.  I’m trying to let go of the feeling that I’m giving up, to hold on to what my husband and sister said.

It hasn’t been easy, but I’m hoping that with the writing and mailing of my final letter to the State Agency and writing and sharing this story, I’ll be able to finally let go of the heartache and anger I’ve held on to for so long and focus, instead, on the memories and the love we all have for our sister.

To accept.

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any content in any manner without the express written permission of the owner….me.

 

 

Lessons From Dad

Dad was one of 13 children.  I know they didn’t have much in the way of material things and I’m not sure how much affection was shown while Dad and his brothers and sisters were growing up.  I would guess, based on things I remember about Dad while I was growing up, that there weren’t a lot of hugs and kisses.

I think my grandparents probably had to work so hard just to survive that there was only time and energy for the bare basics. What was yours was yours as long as you could hold on to it.  I’m no psychologist but I know those growing years and the events that happened helped shape Dad’s character and personality.  Looking back now as an adult and remembering bits of conversation between Dad and his siblings I can understand how he came to be who he was.

I remember one time when Dad and a couple of his brothers were target practicing using shotguns and he decided I was old enough to learn to shoot.  He handed me a 12 gauge, showed me how to load it, told me to tuck it in tight to my shoulder and aim; if I didn’t it would kick and knock me on my rear.  I didn’t tuck it in and down I went on my rear just like Dad said.  I think he knew that was going to happen and that they would all laugh, including Dad.  I didn’t like being laughed at and I didn’t want to do it anymore, but Dad told me to get up and try again.  He had me keep at it until I could handle that shotgun and hit the target with accuracy.  I learned not to give up.

Bills were always paid first, a little set aside for savings, and groceries bought with what was left.  Dad called the bit of savings his “tuck”.  If you wanted something and couldn’t afford it, you saved for it or went without until you could pay for it.  More often than not it was go without.  As far as Dad’s “tuck” went, that was generally his to use for what he wanted, be it a new gun or coon dog.  While we lived in the city, Mom would sometimes work outside the home at part-time jobs for extra money.  Once we moved to the country, however, having only one car meant Mom worked in the home exclusively so she had to work within Dad’s budget and manage with whatever money he gave her.

I applied for my first job the day I turned 16, was hired and started work that weekend.  I worked 5:00 am to 2:30 pm every weekend, on holidays and summer vacations.  If needed, I worked double shifts.  I also paid room and board.  I did not mind one bit.  I was becoming an adult and learning to provide for myself, and the money went to Mom. I learned that nothing is free.  If you want something you work for it.

Whining didn’t get you out of doing something you didn’t like.  There were lots of things my sisters and I hated doing like picking rocks to clear an overgrown yard so grass seed could be planted.  It didn’t matter to Dad.  If he said pick rocks we picked rocks or whatever else needed to be done until it was finished.  You don’t give up or do it half-assed (Dad’s words). There was no such thing as “I can’t” or “I don’t want to”.  You did what needed to be done and you did it the best you could.

There was one exception that I can remember.  Dad would butcher chickens and we kids had to help clean them.  He’d butcher the birds outside but the worse part was the cleaning of the birds was done at the kitchen table.  A large pot of water was brought to boil on the kitchen stove.  Dad would dip the birds in the boiling water and then we plucked the feathers.  Dad would then burn the pin feathers off over the flame of the kitchen stove.  The stench of burnt feathers and chicken entrails is not pleasant and the odor would linger for a while in the kitchen after we were done.  At some point I decided I wasn’t going to do this again. Dad told me “If you don’t help with this you don’t get to eat chicken”.  That was fine with me.  “I won’t eat chicken” I told him and after that I didn’t help with cleaning chickens again. Dad’s rule about not eating if you didn’t help held and I was alright with that.  I learned about choices and consequences.

Sometimes Dad would take us with him when he’d run his coon hound at night.  We always looked forward to going with him even though he’d stay out for hours at a time.  That is probably why we were only able to go with him on weekends.  Often one or more of his brothers would join us.  One night in particular stands still stands out in my memory so many years later.

We were at another Uncle’s farm; Dad, Uncle Nick, myself and another sister but I don’t remember which one. We were all together in an open field surrounded by woods on both sides and there was enough moonlight that we could see the valley below us as the mists started slowing forming.

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It was late Summer/early Autumn and in my mind I can still see that night sky.  It was so clear and the stars so bright you felt you could reach up and touch them.  The night air was a mix of warm and cool breezes and carried the sound of Dad’s dog baying in the distance.  I can remember the chirping sound of peepers all around us, and the earthy scent of the surrounding woods and the fresh-cut hay from the field we were in.

I remember how we sat together on the ground in that field just being there in the moment.  Dad and Uncle Nick were talking, sometimes in Russian, and it felt so comforting to be there with them.  I wish I had the right words so anyone reading this would be able to feel that moment the way we did and I still do.  I remember laying down on the ground, looking up at the night sky and eventually falling asleep to the sound of Dad’s and Uncle Nick’s low voices.

I learned that it’s the simple moments in life that make the best memories.

 

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any content in any manner without the express written permission of the owner…me.

SBD In The ER

 

I have permission from the young man in question to use his name for this story but I think I’ll keep him anonymous, at least for now.

It was a very rainy, windy, chilly Sunday and Hubby, who hadn’t been feeling well for a couple of days, decided he needed to visit the Emergency Department at our local hospital because his symptoms weren’t getting any better.   So off we go and I’m fully expecting to be spending several hours waiting.  Surprisingly, that wasn’t the case and we were taken in to an examination room almost immediately.

A certain 15 year-old young man we know volunteers in the ER Department at this hospital and he happened to be volunteering this particular Sunday.   I saw him before he saw us and watched the smile brighten his face when we walked in and then leave his face when he realized we were there for a reason.  He followed us into the exam room and Hubby  assured the staff it was alright.  He watched as Hubby was put through the process of evaluation, EKG, blood draws, needles inserted, concern about Hubby evident.  I assured him it would be fine.

I asked him about his day and he said it had been kind of boring but he shared a few things that he had done, rather pleased that he now knew his way around and specifically where the lab was so he could take samples there as needed.  He then left us to take Hubby’s blood samples to said lab.

When he returned to the ER Department he came back to Hubby’s room.  I asked him more questions about his volunteer duties and he was happy to tell us all about his responsibilities.   Some of  his other duties included changing bedding and wiping the beds down then replacing linens, including pillow cases, giving us a demonstration of his abilities as he explained.

Putting a pillow in a pillow case is simple right?  Well not if the pillow has a tendency to stick so I showed him how I was taught when I went to Learn Practically Nothing School many years ago.  He liked what I showed him saying it was much easier than his method.  Hubby called it the hand sock method.

Food is something that is always a topic of interest to a teenage male so of course he had to tell us what he had for lunch.  That day it was meatloaf from the hospital cafeteria.  We had it on good authority that the meatloaf was really good but not the gravy.

He was standing there, happily chatting away  when suddenly Hubby asked what that awful smell was.  Our young visitor started laughing and that was the only clue we needed.

“You didn’t, did you” Hubby asked him and our young visitor just laughed harder as he started moving towards the door to exit the room.

“No, don’t move, hold still, don’t move” Hubby told him but he kept moving towards the door which meant the invisible, noxious, anal odor followed in a trail behind him, permeating further into the room.  IT WAS BAD.  I think that walk to the lab stirred something up.

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“I hope that meatloaf tasted better than it smells” I said which only kept  him laughing harder.

“I can’t believe you dropped a SBD” I told him and  by the look on his face I knew he had no idea  what I meant.

“Silent but deadly” I explained and by this time we are all laughing.  I will admit it took my mind off the reason for our visit to the ER and  helped eased the tension I was feeling.  I wouldn’t recommend this as a regular means of easing tensions in the ER though.

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At this point his….a nurse entered Hubby’s room from the door on the other side of the  room, coming in behind our young Volunteer and walking right smack dab into the odor.

“Oh (name omitted) no, you didn’t” she says and also immediately starts laughing.  I actually think she recognized the scent as soon as it hit her in the face.  I mean,  I saw her wave her hand in front of her face as she backed out of the room the way she entered, obviously not wanting to stir the air any further and spread the toxic waste out into the hallway.  It would have decimated everyone at the Nurses’ Station and we needed them to help Hubby.

She returned in a flash with a can of scented air spray, finger on the nozzle as she re-entered the room, waiving the can all around and quickly clearing the room of all foul lingering emissions.   All of us were able to breathe easier.    It worked and luckily before anyone else entered the room saving them from the remains of hospital cafeteria meatloaf.  She was a hero and no one at the Nurses’ Station would ever know it.

“Stay away from that meatloaf” I told our young Volunteer as he and his…..the nurse left us, still laughing I might add.

“That was definitely a (family name) ass” I told Hubby.  “Yeah” he answered, wiping tears from his eyes.

I’m not sure if they were tears of grandfatherly pride or his eyes were still stinging from the fumes.

Hubby recovered from that episode, suffering no long-lasting effects from his exposure to recycled hospital cafeteria meatloaf.   Hubby’s other issue was dealt with and he was able to return home for recovery.

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I believe someone should warn the hospital staff about that meatloaf so they’re aware  how potentially dangerous it can be to their noses.

I decided to protect the identity of the young man in this story and I did a fine job of it if I do say so myself.  This is social media after all and everyone reads everything here.  And I believe his school is safe as long as meatloaf isn’t on the menu.

 

 

 

 

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any content in any manner without the express written permission of the owner….me.

 

 

 

Trick Or Treat

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I have always enjoyed seeing the kids dressed up in their costumes at Halloween.

Store bought or home-made, it makes no difference to me what costume they’re wearing.  I enjoy seeing the kids dressed up as vampires, ghouls, witches, or whatever their imaginations make them.

Unfortunately last year only two Trick or Treaters visited our home.   A Storm Trooper  and a Soul Sucker; at least that’s what he said he was when he turned to his Grandfather and told him not to worry, he wouldn’t suck his soul.  He was dressed all in black with a very spooky green face.

I remember one year a 1950’s teenage girl visited or so I thought.  When I answered the knock on our door I saw a tall, blonde haired girl wearing the tight sweater, neck scarf, poodle skirt, ankle socks and saddle shoes of a 1950’s teenager.   Next to her was a little Witch.  I sensed her reluctance and wasn’t sure why.  When she came into the porch I could see the effort taken with her makeup.

Blonde wig, bright cherry red lipstick, foundation, rouge and even false eyelashes all true 1950’s style.  It was when I noticed that one of her, uh, headlights was on high beam and the other on low beam and the very masculine hairy legs I realized my 1950’s visitor was a 15 or 16-year-old male.  He had done such a great job with his costume and makeup that I couldn’t help but laugh

“Trick or Treat” he said, his hesitation evident as he slowly held out his bag.  Grinning, I happily dropped several candy bars into his bag.

“I love your costume and your makeup is really good” I told him.

“My Mom helped me” he said, relaxing a bit.

“Are you alone” I asked him.

“I’m with my little sister” he told me pointing to the little Witch waiting on the step behind him.

“Well I really like your costume, I actually thought you were a girl”.  I was trying to think of a way to let him know part of his costume needed a bit of a lift.  Finally, I just pointed at the low side and lifted my cupped hands up and down.  He looked, saw the droop and laughed with me as he made the necessary adjustment.

The sad part was that he thanked me for being so nice.  Evidently a lot of the folks he visited that night with his little sister thought it necessary to take him to task for being too old to be Trick or Treating.  I told him not to worry about it.  Those people were the ones too old to appreciate the spirit of the holiday.   Unfortunately, I also remember having that same conversation with other teenagers in costume and trick or treating on Halloweens through the years after that.

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When I was a kid during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s and we still lived in the city, our costumes came with those plastic masks that often made seeing and  breathing difficult.   You’d see a lot of kids move their masks up to rest on their heads between houses.  If it was a cool evening the warmth of your breath made moisture collect inside your mask but who cared, it was Halloween.

Accompanied by Mom, we would carry pillow cases as we went from home to home collecting our treats and goodies.  It was always fun having people try to guess who you were.  At that time, the neighborhoods were full of people who knew each other.

The streets were busy with kids of all ages going house to house, the air full of young voices calling out “trick or treat”.  I can still remember hearing the crunch of fallen leaves on the sidewalks as we kids rushed to get to the next house, yelling out each other about who had the most goodies.  We would readily accept home-made treats because we knew the person offering the treat.  Looking back I realize it really was a time of innocence when kids were allowed to be kids.  If I close my eyes I can still see the tree-lined streets and all the homes with porch lights on letting kids know they were welcome.

When my sisters and I returned home after all our trick or treating we’d plop down to sit on the kitchen or living room floor and dump our goodies into a pile in front of us.  We’d busily sort through our candy making different piles of all the candy we had received.  Sometimes we’d make deals with each other to trade candy we didn’t really like for something else.  You know, five pieces of this for two of those.  Mom would check through our stuff and then we’d be allowed to eat a piece or two candy before going to bed.

Sleep didn’t come immediately because we’d be busy whispering to each other about the fun we had and how long our stash of candy would last.  Sometimes someone would help themselves to some candy that wasn’t theirs and that would lead to…lets just say “disagreements”.

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When I saw this picture online I was reminded of those silly childhood ditties we used to say.  “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat”.  I think we would actually sometimes say that and then be reminded by Mom it was “trick or treat” or home.  We quickly remembered our manners.

My husband and I moved our family to the small town where we currently live October, 1981.  My husband would take our boys out every Halloween, walking with them up and down our road, and the main road through Town.  Porch lights would be lit on almost every home as neighbors passed out treats to the kids, and there were a lot of kids at that time.  I stayed home to pass out candy and I loved checking out each and every costumed visitor.

It was probably two or three Halloweens before I found out why my husband never minded walking the boys through Town.  Evidently there were some homes where the kids received candy and the Dads were offered liquid libation to “take off the chill” of the night.  Everyone enjoyed Halloween.

I shouldn’t admit this but my favorite part of the evening was when the older boys (always nameless) would burn the dummy and start the bonfire on the corner of our road and the main road in Town.  The first year I witnessed the bonfire I was shocked that they’d do something like that.  My husband, having grown up in the area, just laughed and told me not to worry, just watch.   He was right, it wasn’t delinquents causing trouble it was just neighbor kids up to a little mischief.

It was always after trick or treating was done for the evening and I quickly realized the boys were always careful about what they used for their bonfire.  I would watch out my windows or from our front porch, waiting to see when they would start this yearly tradition.

One year an old picnic table disappeared from our back yard and became part of the pile.  We never heard or saw anything when they took it but realized it was used when we saw the bonfire.  Those Halloween bonfires always reminded me of stories of ancient times when people celebrated Samhain with bonfires.

The Fire Department was always ready for the bonfire; probably because some of the members participated in this Halloween event when they were younger.  The Department would let the bonfire burn for a bit and them come put the fire out.  It was expected every year and as our boys became older and could Trick or Treat on their own I’m sure they too became part of that Halloween tradition.

I also always enjoyed driving to work the next day and seeing the trees and bushes covered in toilet paper, sometimes so heavy the trees looked snow-covered.

Times and people change.  There are no more toilet papered covered trees and it has been many, many years since there was a Halloween bonfire.  Unfortunately, in this day and age that’s probably a good thing.

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Sadly, last year I turned our porch light off about 7:00 pm as no more Zombies, Princesses, Ghouls or other creatures stopped by for a visit, no voices calling “trick or treat”.  I don’t know where they’ve gone but I miss them.

My porch light will again be on this Halloween…..just in case.

Have fun, be safe, and watch out for things that go bump in the night.  You never know who or what you might meet on this special night.

 

 

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any content without the express written permission of the owner….me.

Look Ma, No Hands

Grandchildren are delightful creatures.  No matter how miserable your day is going, when they show up at your door or call you on the telephone the day has just gotten better.  Now that my grandkids are getting older and very electronic savvy instant messaging counts too; Grandma just has to be able to keep up with them.

They see the world through young, unbiased eyes and share that delight with you.

The other day my youngest 3-year-old grandson was spending the day with me and we were watching “his show” which is the BabyTV channel.    I make it a point to talk to him about what he is watching be it numbers, colors, nature segments, shapes, etc.   Grandma Monkey came on and was teaching her Grandson Monkey about other monkeys that happened to have tails.

“Do you have a tail” I asked GR#7.   “Nope” he answers, “I have a pee pee, do you have a pee pee Grandma”?   How can you not smile?

My grandkids are getting older and in November #4 will join the ranks of teenager.  They don’t do or say the wonderful, funny and sometimes inappropriate things they used to when they were younger.  They also don’t always share everything with me as they did when they were younger and I miss that.

Like the time one of my grandsons told me that he discovered when he blew on their dog’s butt she would lick it.

“Why did you have your face at the dog’s butt” I asked him.

“She had hair hanging from there” he told me.

When I was able to stop laughing I suggested that perhaps he should think of a better way to remove hair from that area of the dog.  Later, I thought about our conversation.  I could see where that would sound reasonable to a 10-year-old.  I can remember blowing hair out of my eyes.  Truth be told he probably just didn’t want to put his hand near the dog’s butt.  Face is ok but not the hand.  I understand.

I remembered the time I was walking our Boxer for bathroom reasons.  He squatted to do his duty and then I noticed something hanging from his butt.  It was one of my knee-high stockings that he obviously thought would make a great snack.

He kept turning around in a circle trying to dislodge the stocking but he couldn’t shake it free.  It took me a moment to figure out how to help him since there was no way I was using my hands.  I told him to sit, I put my foot on the stocking and then turned him loose.  Problem solved without using hands or blowing on his butt.

This same grandson likes to watch television with the closed caption on.  When I asked him why his answer was simple.  “The book’s always better than the movie”.

Grandchildren are good for the soul.

 

 

All rights reserved.  I hope you enjoyed my story but please remember it’s my story so no using or copying any content in any manner without the express written permission of the owner….me.