Photo replay

Bubby requested a special Skype session with Grandma and Grandpa this past week, specifically to show us the caterpillar he made at day camp.

June 10, 2010

Today's question:

What is the best part of your Sunday routine?

My answer: When Jim and I sit at opposite ends of the dining room table and peruse the newspaper while sipping our morning coffee, swapping sections as we complete them.

Jumping for joy

It was thirty-six years ago this month that my parents, six siblings and I arrived in Colorado by station wagon from Minnesota in search of a new life, one that might keep my parents' rocky marriage together. I was a preteen and pretty excited -- and scared -- about the new venture. The house my parents purchased in advance wasn't yet ready, so we stayed a week or so in one of the log cabin motels dotting the highway of the tiny mountain town we'd call home.

Across the highway from our cabin was the motel office, and outside the office was the motel's coin-operated trampoline. The trampoline itself wasn't operated by coin; it was the length of the jumper's turn that was dictated by quarter. For 25 cents, a kid could jump to his or her heart's content ... for about three minutes. Then the timer would ding and the next one up would plop in his or her quarter and jump for joy. Bouncing past the bell would result in jeers from the others in line; when there were no other kids in line, the motel owner or his progeny (not much older than my siblings and me) would come outside and menacingly enforce the rules.

Despite the limited access to quarters for a family with seven kids -- and a fear of the crabby motel owner and his kids -- it was the beginning of my love affair with the "tramp," as the trampoline became affectionately called by those lucky enough to become well acquainted with it. When our time at the cabin was up, we reluctantly bid farewell to the motel tramp ... and rejoiced upon seeing the tramp nestled in the ground in the backyard of our new neighbor.

It took us a while in our new digs to feel comfortable enough with our neighbor -- a family of five that included three awesomely hip teens that made me shrink in their presence -- to knock on their sliding door and ask for permission to jump. It was okay to do so, our new friends living near the tramp house assured us, as long as the resident teens weren't jumping themselves. For several months, my siblings and I encouraged our friends to do the asking, as we were the new kids in town and figured we were less likely to get a "yes" from the tramp owners.

We soon learned that regardless of who initiated the request, permission flowed freely and the neighboring tramp was ours to enjoy for hours on end. My new friend and I bonded as we bounced, competing against one another in seat wars, back wars, games of add-on. We'd acquiesce to the older siblings when they showed up -- including our older sisters who had become best buds as well -- as they were much more fluent in trampe-eze. Even my older sister, just as new to the sport as I was, had quickly become a pro, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, performing front flips, back flips, swan dives and one-and-a-halfs.

I longed to be as good as the older kids. I'd peek out the window and watch the resident teens expertly enjoy their trampoline, then put some of their moves into play when it was my turn. Little by little I mastered the front flip, back flip, swan dive and, finally, after a few terrifying turns, the satisfying slam of my stomach on the mat when I successfully managed the derring-do of a one-and-a-half. Double flips soon followed. Never before had I felt so in command of graceful moves, a graceful body.

In hopes of maintaining neighborly relations, my dad eventually purchased a trampoline for our own yard. No longer would seven rug rats be knocking on the neighbor's sliding door, begging to jump. We were thrilled to have our own tramp, but it wasn't the same. It was new and stiff and didn't bounce as easily and as high as the in-ground beauty next door. But we and our friends jumped ferociously, purposefully in hopes of breaking it in, all the while doing our best to ignore the screaming and crying and fighting we could hear through the windows, evidence that it was Mom and Dad's marriage that had been broken, irreparably.

After the divorce, my dad got custody of the tramp. Custody of the kids was a far less desirable affair for him, so with few kids in residence and even fewer visiting, the tramp was never fully broken in. It was eventually sold, and we kids moved on, grew up, never dared to look back.

Except that the lure of the tramp couldn't be forgotten. Luckily Jim -- who also had frequented the coin-operated trampoline in town, long before I ever knew him -- fondly recalled the joy of jumping as much as I did. So together we purchased a trampoline for our daughters.

The girls and their friends spent many a summer day bouncing away and several summer nights attempting sleepovers on the tramp, usually ending in mid-night scrambles into the house because of scary neighborhood noises or dampness from the dew soaking their sleeping bags.

My daughters had their own versions of bouncing bliss that included front flips, seat wars, add-on and a game I never really understood dubbed the Uncle David Game, concocted during an extended visit from my brother. The girls never mastered the swan dive or the one-and-a-half -- at least not that I ever saw. Not because they weren't capable but because I had become an overprotective mom and although I wanted them to experience the incomparable joy of jumping, I worried endlessly that one poorly executed flip would break their neck resulting in certain death or at least paralysis, so I limited the tricks they were allowed.

I myself wasn't allowed to do much jumping on the new tramp either, not out of fear of a broken neck but out of fear of how my bladder may perform, battered and bruised as it had become by three pregnancies in rapid succession. So I'd jump carefully only now and then, do a few knees, seats, backs, a stomach here and there. Sometimes I'd even engage in a seat war with the girls.

But never again did I do a flip -- front, back or otherwise. Never again have I felt as in command of graceful moves, a graceful body as I did thirty-six summers ago when I very first mastered the tramp.

Today's question:

When have you felt the most graceful?

Skyping 'bout school

(Not from Skype, but the happy face that filled the screen just the same.)

Bubby is attending "school" this week, participating in the summer camp for two-year-olds at church while Megan works the VBS. He loves the class, the interaction with the "teacher" and other kids, and he had lots to share with us about his day during our Skype session Tuesday night.

First he held up to the web camera his newly planted flower: a Play-Doh container packed with dirt, and somewhere within, a seed he's hoping will bloom. Relying on Megan to translate, Bubby told Grandma and Grandpa all about the "dirt," the "flower" and "water." We kinda sorta understood those words ... as long as Megan repeated them for us.

Next up was a picture of which Bubby was oh-so proud: A popsicle-stick frame embellished with glued-on buttons perfectly complementing a plant picture cut from a magazine. High art for a toddler!

Seems that "plants" was the theme of the day, and Bubby learned lots about plants in his few hours of "school." And he was more focused than usual during the Skype session, as he wanted to be sure Grandma and Grandpa heard -- and saw -- all he had gleaned from the day.

It was pretty exciting on our end to get our first glimpse of what it will be like when Bubby calls us up after a day of real school, to animatedly share via Skype the news -- and art projects -- of the day.

Only thing is, Bubby and Grandpa will have to come up with some other male-bonding motion by that time, as doing "knucks" at the end of the conversation already rocks and knocks the computer monitor on Bubby's end. I can only imagine what it will do when it's a five-year-old -- or older -- punching fists on the screen with Grandpa!

Today's question:

When recalling doing art projects as a child, what's one thing that stands out in your mind?

My answer: The smell of the paste. I remember the tubs of paste with a stick applicator attached to the lid and trying to spread the goo where it needed to go. Of course it never applied smoothly, thanks to the rigid stick, so cutouts glued to paper always had a lump here and there. I loved squishing down those bumps of glue, releasing the sweet scent of a masterpiece in the making.

The next Grilled Grandma

I'm continually humbled by the incredible jobs performed by the grandmas I grill. I complain on a pretty regular basis about not being able to see Bubby enough, but how would I feel (and how would we all fare) if it turned out that Bubby needed me to take custody of him. I certainly would do it, but I just don't know that I would be able to do it with the grace shown by those Grilled Grandmas for whom raising a grandchild is their reality.

This week's Grilled Grandma, Sally, is one of those grace-filled grandmas raising a grandchild. Sally has a total of eight grandkids, but one lives in her home, without the parent. Just like Karen, a featured Grilled Grandma a couple weeks ago, Sally uses the experience to help other grandparents in similar situations, by running a website and a Facebook group for grandparents raising grandchildren. Funny thing is, although Sally and Karen have much in common, they're on opposite sides of the world, literally, as Sally lives in New Zealand! Goes to show that the grandparenting experience is much the same, no matter what part of the globe you call home.

Read Sally's grilling HERE, then drop by her website or her Facebook group to say hello; links to both are at the bottom of her grilling. Not only will you get to know Sally better, you'll likely find plenty of words of wisdom to make grandparenting more enjoyable -- whether you're raising your grandchildren or just enjoying them as time and distance allow.

Today's question:

In recognition of Sally living in a land far, far away (from most of us), what foreign countries have you visited?

My answer: I've been to Canada and Mexico ... Vancouver, Canada, and Juarez, Mexico, which makes them just barely qualify as trips to foreign countries.

One for the record books

John Wooden on his 96th birthday.I'm not much of a basketball fan. In fact, I'm not really a big sports fan at all. I enjoyed watching a variety of sports when the girls were in school: soccer, swimming, track, volleyball, cross country. But if I don't have a child ... or soon, a grandchild ... on a team, it's unlikely you'll find me sitting in the stands.

I have attended a few professional sporting events, thanks mostly to free tickets I used to get from my former employer. And I do enjoy going to baseball games with friends and family now and then. But watching sports is not something I do often, from either the stands or from my couch when there's a game on television.

The sport I'm least likely to watch, other than golf or NASCAR, is basketball. Yes, basketball is exciting and all, but the darn squeaking of the shoes on the court drives me absolutely batty for some reason, and I can concentrate on nothing but that grating noise while watching the game. (Note to Megan and Preston: I promise to overcome such nonsense when Bubby starts playing basketball; I will watch his games any time, anywhere, regardless of how much shoe squeaking goes on!)

But -- and as Pee-Wee Herman once noted, "everyone I know has a big but" -- by not being a basketball fan, I think I've missed out on familiarizing myself with what seems to have been a truly great man.

John Wooden, one of the most successful coaches ever, winning 10 national titles in 12 years for UCLA, died last week at the age of 99. Yeah, I saw the news reports and didn't really think too much about it. He was old, he lived a long life, sounds like he accomplished a lot during his 99 years.

Then yesterday I received my daily Shelf Awareness newsletter about the book industry, and it included a tribute of sorts to Coach Wooden. Seems Wooden not only rallied his teams to success, he was a rather successful writer, having written several books selling millions of copies. And although I don't care a whole heckuva lot about basketball, I do love quotes, and the Shelf Awareness newsletter included some of Wooden's most oft-quoted aphorisms:

"It isn't what you do, but how you do it."

"You can't live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you."

"Be quick but don't hurry."

"Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are."

"Don't measure yourself by what you have accomplished, but by what you should have accomplished with your ability."

"Failure is not fatal, but failure to change might be."

"Listen if you want to be heard."

"If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over?"

That is one smart man, one brilliant man, one thoughtful, caring, wise man. And now I regret having never watched such a man in action.

According to Shelf Awareness, a book commemorating Wooden's life was scheduled to publish in October in honor of his 100th birthday. Titled The Wisdom of Wooden: A Century of Family, Faith, and Friends, written with Steve Jamison, Wooden did have the opportunity to proof and approve of the final product. Upon his death, the publication date has been moved up to July.

So in July, despite my general disdain of the squeaky game called basketball, I will be buying a book about a basketball coach, a book about a remarkably wise man.

And starting today, I will try to do something daily for someone who will never be able to repay me.

Today's question:

What's your favorite sport to watch?

My answer: Like I said, I don't watch a lot of sports, but when I do, hockey is my favorite.