Does Mr. Collins know my Grandson?

Child Development

As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.

Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.

They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.

The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.

~Billy Collins~

( Picture of my oldest grandson at three years of age. He's seven now.)

When I was Very Young....

I love old, children's books. They hold more than stories and poems. They are the keepers of memories and all the ghosts that held them. They are the long ago keepsakes of childhood..., when you were tucked into bed, with your favorite doll or stuffed animal and someone started to read from them about a magic world, so different and wonderful that you found yourself wishing you were there. The characters were alive and you thought you knew them personally..., that they were peeking at you from inside your toy chest, hiding in the closet or waiting under the bed to dance around you after you went to sleep.
I had a huge imagination when I was very young. I was an only child for seven years and my imaginary world had no limits. I made up stories and placed myself into every book that was read to me. As I got older and started reading on my own, these books became companions that were always there and that I could count on.They were some of my best friends.

This little book was one I remember well. When We Were Very Young by A.A. Milne was one of my favorites and probably the reason that I love poetry so much now. This book is not with my childhood books. Maybe it got lost or worn out..., or maybe it was a library book that my mother returned. I don't know. But I found it at a used book store, recently, and it is so familiar to me that I know it was a part of my life long ago.
The book was first printed in 1924 but this reprint was in Aug of 1950. I would have been 6 yrs. old. I love this book. It's red cloth cover is decorated with illustrations by E.H. Shepard. They were called "decorations".
Alan Alexander Milne (1882-1956) was a noted English playwright who decided to write a book about a boy and his bear. Christopher Robin (his son's name) and Winnie the Pooh (one of his son's stuffed animals) became so successful that his other work paled in comparison. He was annoyed that the children's books were the only really successful books that he was able to write, but he continued writing these stories because they made a lot of money.

After he died his widow sold the rights ,to the Pooh character, to the Walt Disney Company. Royalties from this sale, and part ownership of the copyright, were used to fund a fellowship program for writers in United Kingdom universities.
There is a poem in this book that is called Puppy and I~ it's one of my favorites. I will leave you with the last stanza....

...I met a Puppy as I went walking;
We got talking,
Puppy and I.
"Where are you going this nice fine day?"
(I said to the Puppy as he went by)."
"Up in the hills to roll and play."
"I'll come with you, Puppy," said I.

********

Please drop by Colorado Lady's blog for more Vintage Things and related sites.

"Speak to us of children"

This weekend our two boys came up to celebrate their birthdays. They are five years apart, but their birthdays are only 3 days from each another. Since we couldn't get together in a couple of weeks, on their birthdays, we decided to celebrate early. One will be 40 yrs. old and the other 35 yrs. So... that means that their Dad and I are...., um.... old. How does this happen? It seems like just yesterday that we watched them graduate from College. Where did all those years go? Those little boy years of not quite knowing what you're doing, but acting like you do. The years of sickness in the middle of the night, the tooth farie and little league. At some point you stop washing their little bodies in the bath tub and they start taking showers. That happens about the same time that they stop talking in complete sentences: Just yes/no answers and "Oh Mom." Could it have been so long ago that our youngest came home, in tears, because someone told him there wasn't any Santa Claus?...., and the reality, on his sad little face, that this also meant there must be no Easter Bunny either. That's when I started wondering about the wisdom of adults.

Now they're the adults. The oldest is head of the computer support for a large university in the bay area and the youngest is a manager for a health insurance company near Sacramento. We're so proud of them.

Now I have two grandchildren to love and play with. It's almost like "going back", only not as much work. It's way more fun to be "Noni and Papa", and we get to babysit any time we want to

and then......., take a nap.



I'm reminded of THE PROPHET by Kahlil Gibran



Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, and

yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the

house of tomarrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children, as living arrows are sent forth.



....there is more, but this will do.

You CAN return to Paradise

Recently, I had a comment on my 'This is all I have to say" post. I mentioned where I grew up and Jan, of Little Pink Houses (see My Favorite Sites) wrote that she had also been raised in the Pleasant Hill area of California and we went a little crazy reminiscing about places we remembered. She is a lot younger than I am, but we recalled so many common places, in what was then, a very small town.

Back then, there were lots of farms and country roads. We all walked to school and never worried about strangers. Life was innocent and and, for me, a very safe place. I walked 5 miles , in the snow, to get to school every day..... Ok, I threw that in for my grandkids. It was more like 2 miles and, to my unending regret, it rarely snowed in Pleasant Hill. Once, in the late 50's, we did have snow. It was a BIG DEAL. Dad came home in the middle of the morning and took Mom, my sister and I for a ride up near Mt. Diablo just to play in it. I can still remember the excitement. It was gone by late afternoon. What we did have in winter were heavy frosts. All the way to school we would make fun crunchy noises walking across everyones lawns. We didn't have sidewalks so it was the street or the lawns,; and crunchy lawns were much more fun.

The 2 mile walk to school ended when they built Strandwood School in a field at the end of my street. I was going into the 6th grade that Fall and we were the first graduating class in this brand new school. I had one year of getting up late, eating a leisurely breakfast and worming my way to school and then, bam! JUNIOR HIGH(2 miles away, again)....... My sister, on the other hand , started kindergarden the following year and had 7 delightful seasons of walking to " the school at the end of the street". I know you're reading this, Sis. Just had to get that off my chest.

These photos are a big part of my memories of that time. When I visited my Mom last month( in the same house you see below) I took pictures of some old snapshots in an album of her's. They turned out well and then I touched them up a bit on Picasa, my free photo storage program that makes any photos better. If that sounds like an advertisement, it is. Picasa downloads from your camera , organizes photos, lets you change them and manipulate them as you wish. You can blog, email, print, export and delete ( I love the "click and it's gone" option ). You can crop, straighten , add text , etc. and the photos make your blog look really good. Picasa is a FREE software application owned by Google. Check it out at : picasa.google.com.
Until I can afford one of the photo programs I hear about, I'm just fine with Picasa. Maybe I don't need more. Some of the programs you buy are, from what I here, very complicated. This computer is enough stress for me.

This is all I have to say...

Getting Poison Oak is sort of like a tick bite: You don't notice until it starts itching and swelling. This is hard for me to write about. I have a personal history with this plant, so I feel I owe some folks , that don't know about P.O., a fair warning. Take a good look at the second photo below. This is P.O.'s finest hour( or month, or season). Here in California we have the oak version. In the east, I believe it's poison ivy or poison sumac. What's in a name, anyway...., it's all nasty stuff.

There's a story, on my husbands side of the family, about friends who came to visit my husband's grandmother. She lived on a ranch in Mariposa, Ca. when she was a child . Now, if you know anything about the Sierra Foothills, you know that what survived after the Gold Rush wasn't the miners. The miners didn't leave because the gold ran out. History has it all wrong. The real reason they left was the rattlesnakes and ( yes, you guessed it ) poison oak. Anyway, his grandma's family had friends visit from the "City". They loved being in the country and decided to take a walk. Later, they arrive back at the ranch with a lovely bouquet of wildflowers and ( you guessed it, again) poison oak. Needless to say, they all came down with horrible rashes and they didn't come up to visit again.

My personal history dates back to childhood summers in the Napa valley, where my parent's families lived. I grew up in one of the first housing tracks in the Pleasant Hill- Walnut Creek area of California . We had lots of walnut trees and mustard grass and sometimes a wayward possum or raccoon, but at my grandma's house up on Atlas Peak, in Napa, there were rocks, rattlesnakes and scorpions the color of dirt... and ( that's right) poison oak all over the place. I loved my grandma's place. It was the complete opposite of where I lived with my parents. This dusty wonderful realm was my retreat from the perfection of my regular childhood. Summer's up there were free and wild. The dogs and I (and sometimes grandma when she was feeling good) would hike all over the property and down to the creek where I could pretend I was Princess of the hills. It was a magic place that still lives in my memories. I couldn't wait for Mom, Dad and Sis to come and get me, though, and I'd be so glad to see them. I loved coming home to a clean house and good food, and friends..., and my family. Then, when I was home for less than a week, I would start itching. How I got this stuff practically every year of my young life was a mystery. Grandma always showed me what it looked like and how to avoid it like the plague, but every summer I would come home and break out with a case of P.O..... just before school started. I can still smell the calamine lotion. It was always my number one fashion accessory during the first weeks of school. So, my long history with P.O. makes me an expert and I always like to warn people when they visit us...before they pick a bouquet for our dinner table. Looking back, I think it was the grandma's dogs. I played with them all the time. They would run all over the place and surely through the P.O. bushes, as dogs will do.

After Marrying the Prospector, I was always trying to prove I could be the outdoor partner that he love. So, P.O. became a part of my life. I have ended up in the hospital because of reactions to this plant. Prednisone is on my list of favorite drugs for fast results. You would think I'd learn my lesson: But do you know where some of the best gold is? In the tree roots next to streams and rivers. ...; and can you tell the difference between any old tree root and a P.O. tree root?...., No!
Such is life.

Still.... take a good long look at the photo below. Avoid this plant at all cost. Next time we discuss Rattlesnakes.

Haiku for a two year old

<<<^>>>

A child falls from
painful lives into darkness.
The creek was lovely.

<<<^>>>

In memory of Andrew Bailey
(found dead in a creek behind Kmart in Martell, CA.
Palm Sunday 2008)

<<<^>>>

"Blessed are the pure in heart..."

TO MY DAD: on his birthday

I KNEW THIS MAN WHEN

I remember you!
The young man
That lifted me so high above his head
That I had to catch my breath and breathe.
Didn't you read me Sunday morning comics on your lap?,
Tuck me in bed at night
And rub my back when I was sick?

You were the man who
Taught me how to make a bed,
Wash the family car and
Ride a bike.

You were young, handsome and tan.
(Mom said it was the "Indian in you.)
You were the first man
I ever fell in love with.

Was it so long ago, when you taught me
How to drive a car and waited, not so patiently,
For me to come home from a date?
Was it you who held my small hand
When I crossed the street?....
Then gave my hand, in marriage,
On my wedding day.

Do you remember
When you brought my old teddy bear
To the hospital
After my cancer operation?
Bravely joking with me;
Telling me everything would be OK.

Where did you go?
Could this old man be you?
Lying so still, so quiet, breathless
And beyond the boundaries of life,
Where I cannot follow.
Where are you now?
Do you know that we're here?

I loved you young man.
I loved you...old man.
But you knew that, didn't you?
So it's Ok.
I'm sad, but it's Ok.


My father would be 94 years old today. He died last year and didn't really know who he was anymore because of Alzheimer's disease. He was not an easy man to live with but my mother always loved him. He worked hard and took good care of his family. I miss the man he was.

******