Seagulls and cereal

When I was nine years old, my parents took us to Disneyworld. They loaded the station wagon to capacity with the family of nine for the trek from our farm in Minnesota to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Other than memories of the photos of our Disneyworld visit, I don't remember much about the Magic Kingdom. I don't recall how long we stayed, what we saw, what we did.

I do, though, recall the beach house my dad rented for much of our stay in Florida. Not the inside of the beach house, but the outside, the beach part of the house.

Specifically, I recall one of our first golden mornings on the beach as my six siblings and I danced along the edge of the water, dodging waves and soaking up the sun we'd been missing back home in the still dark and chilly days of winter. The light, the air, the tranquility so unfamiliar, so inviting.

We exhalted in the sandy expanse of the beach, quite different from our usual playground of soybean fields and dusty dirt roads. We raced in opposite directions. Like colorful kites in our new vacation outfits, we flitted about as the breeze refreshed our skin and our smiles, the sand tickled our toes, the distance between us and the beach house a relished freedom from the angry discourse between Mom and Dad surely taking place inside, a never-ending discourse the change in scenery failed to obliterate.

Seagulls danced merrily above our heads and someone — my mom? my older brother? — suggested we feed them. With our breakfast, our dry cereal. One quick toss of the cereal and we were sold.

My siblings and I took turns throwing cereal pieces into the air then shrieking in delight as one seagull after another swooped down to nab the goodness mid-flight. A magical memory in the making.

Handful after handful we tossed to the seagulls, who never grew tired of our treats. Eventually, though, we grew tired, beckoned by the wonders of the water, an ocean we'd never seen before just waiting to be explored. We tossed the last of our offerings and moved on.

With the cereal consumed, the seagulls moved on as well, their white wings soaring smoothly as they disappeared into the summer haze above the water. A golden moment gone for good.

The other night at dinner, Jim and I had a conversation that took an unexpected turn down memory lane. Not the lane we've traveled together the past 30 years, but his from childhood and teenhood, before I knew him. He shared again stories few outside his family know, stories they're reluctant to share.

Then he shook his head, physically shaking off the memories.

Why do we always remember the bad things? he asked. What about the good things? We have to have good memories, right? I know the stories of your bad memories, but tell me one good memory you have from childhood. You have to have at least one.

Do I have at least one good memory of childhood? I surely must have a few, I thought.

Without hesitation I told Jim the one about the seagulls, the one about the cereal. I told him the one I remember.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What is one of your favorite memories of childhood?

Everyday wonders

Wonder and amazement are often considered territory of youngsters. As we grow older, we grow less fascinated with the world around us, take for granted the everyday wonders in our paths.

Or so I'm told.

I'm happy to report that even as a grandma, there is much that still amazes me, no matter how many times I experience the things of wonder.

Most recently my sense of awe kicked into high gear while flying to the desert to visit Bubby. I've done it too many times to count, yet it never ceases to amaze me that in less than two hours, I can get from here ...

... to here ...

In the air. Without falling out of the sky. While still having refreshments to nibble, restrooms nearby, someone else at the wheel, someone else fully in charge of navigation.

And while traveling from mountains to desert, I get to sit back and enjoy this:

Yep, it truly amazes me. Each and every time.

I'm thankful it still does.

Today's question:

What everyday occurrences still amaze you?

Letter to my only grandson

Dear Bubby,

Your little brother will soon arrive and before he gets here, I wanted to tell you how very special it has been to have you as my first grandson, my only grandchild for the past nearly three years. In the seemingly short 35 months since you were born, you have rocked my world in ways I never imagined could happen.

Your entry into the family stretched my heart as it had never been stretched before. My heart swelled so as I held you, hugged you, swaddled you like the sweetest little burrito and kissed your downy face, a replica of your mommy’s 24 years before. That first time I left you to return home, my swollen heart burst into a million pieces at having to leave you, my arms literally ached for you for weeks after — muscle memory most raw.

Your mommy and I did our very best to ensure my arms would hold you as often as possible despite all the miles between us. Every couple of months, I would visit your home or you would visit mine. My heart would sing and swell again as my arms held you. But each time we were together, the amount of time holding you became less as you became so much more. So much more active, so much more silly, so much more independent, so much more boy.

The “boy” experience was a new one for me, as your mommy, Aunt B and Aunt Andie were my only babies, and baby girls are far different from baby boys … and not just when it comes to changing diapers. You were more active, more daring, more monkey-like than any of my girls. Stories from your mommy about the bruises and bangs and head-bonks you’ve endured while jumping off furniture, racing your cars around the house, playing chase with Daddy, and wrestling (and riding) Roxy made my heart swell in a different way: with panic and fear for your safety and well-being. But also with pride that your mommy, as protected as she was by me, had learned through you how to let go and let you be who you are, what you are: all boy.

I’ve loved your rough and tumble all-boy antics. Such pleasure comes from watching you run through the house, giggle your way down slides, chase after balls and balloons and bubbles, tussle with your dog, build tower trucks, race fire trucks, wholeheartedly adore garbage trucks, and furiously peddle your bike while calling for me to "be police” and chase you.

Part of what makes such things doubly delightful is the flip-side of those times. The sweet blown kisses and “squeezes” and “cheeses.” The moments snuggled together sharing books. The steadfast attention given to coloring, drawing, gluing, Play-Dohing, creating. The singing, dancing, smiling, sharing. Your newfound ability to joke, to compliment, and to say the truly darnedest things I've ever heard (especially when you lock yourself and Gramma out of the house).

My great and goofy — and downright gorgeous! — grandson, you were my first. You were the one to make me a grandma, to teach me that although my heart can break into a million pieces upon leaving you, it will grow back bigger and stronger each and every time I think of you, see you, hug you, hold you, hear you.

I am better because of you. I became “Gramma” because of you. And for that, my sweet Bubby James, you will always and forever be a most special part of this grandma’s soon-to-be-expanding-again heart.

I love you!

Gramma

Today's question:

When does your heart feel most swollen to capacity?

The search is on

Time again for a rundown of some of the searches that have led folks to Grandma's Briefs in hopes of finding what their hearts — or dazed and confused minds — desire.

According to my nifty stats application, queries from the past 30 days include:

"Why am I annoyed with my grandson's step grandmother"

"How to make stripey jelly"

"Grandma's can worry"

"am old enough to do what I want"

"Grandma's love shouldn't"

"harelike" — Huh?

"grandmas interfering with parenting"

"grandma knows better"

"what do grandmas do"

"what are things your grandparents should never do?"

And of course, a few requisite HGTV'd queries as this one post still draws 'em in, such as "do we need to pay for HGTV'd truck works," "hgtvd when do they notify you," and "hgtv.com/what not to do."

Stripey jelly, hares, and HGTV'd notwithstanding, sounds like there are some grandmas behaving badly out there, causing their flummoxed kids to search for answers online.

Too bad the stats on queries don't tell me where those searching went from here, as many of their questions likely weren't answered by Grandma's Briefs. I wonder not because I'm an overly kind and concerned grandma hoping the searchers got what they needed, but because then I'd know exactly where to go myself for answers to a few of my own related questions plaguing me. Those related to the "grandma's can worry" query, most of all.

That and how to make stripey jelly, too, of course.

Photo: stock.xchng

Today's question:

What question plagues you today?

The Saturday Post: Fave Flix #21 edition

Before I proceed, let me first say that, no, you didn't miss my postings of 20 favorite movies before this one. I just had to start somewhere, and if I marked today's offering #1, it would seem like the movie below is my No. 1 favorite film. Which it's not. But it's in my top 100, and #21 seemed a good place to start. At least to me.

So ... on with the show ...

When life gets a little rough around the edges, my favorite way to escape is by watching a movie. Which is why I love this movie so, as in it Mia Farrow does the very same thing — with very unusual results.

I never figured myself a huge Woody Allen fan until this, Purple Rose of Cairo. If you haven't seen it, do. If you have seen it, see it again. I very rarely watch movies twice, but this one I've watched more times than I can remember. It makes me smile!

Today's question:

What is your favorite mode of escapism?