A Grandmother House

When you decide to live somewhere for just 5 years it affects how you approach both selecting and furnishing your living space. On the one hand, hey, it's only 5 years. I can cope with just about anything as long as I feel safe. On the other hand, why not create a space unlike any I have had in the past? If it doesn't work, no big deal, it's not permanent.

In my case the selection process was a bit more challenging because the rental market in inner Portland is tight; the vacancy rate is less than 1.5%. This meant I had to jump quickly when I found anything of interest. God bless Craig's List. I used their search filters, google map and photos to quickly eliminate places outside my area of interest (within 1-2 miles of my daughter's house) and could drive by anything that looked promising before making contact with landlords. But pressure was on to move quickly - to find a place in my 10-day trip up here last July. My minimal requirements? 2 bedrooms, 1 bath, living room, eat-in kitchen, and an outdoor space that was useful. Then add the next layer of wants - I crave nooks and crannies. My favorite architectural style is Craftsman - you know, the built-in bookshelves, cabinets, fireplace, wood windows, etc. Thankfully Portland is full of such houses - chock full.

The duplex where I now live was the only place I actually looked at (drove by maybe 5 others, peered through vacant windows of another 3) but knew, after stepping into this living room, that I was home.  It is very small. Although the landlady says it has 1100 square feet I really doubt it. The living room is tiny but has the requisite built-in bookcase and fireplace. The kitchen is an odd shape but Gary's grandmother's small enamel table fits perfectly under a bank of windows. It also has lots of cupboards. My bedroom is adequate as is the bathroom. The upstairs attic space captured my heart - windows, a built-in bookcase and a dormer.  What more could one ask?  Hardwood floors throughout.

My unit is on the right.

Although my landlady put me through a wringer (the major problem being lack of rental history - it had been almost 40 years!) I was able to fly back to Pacific Grove in mid-July with floor plans in hand to start the packing process. I can't believe what I accomplished in 3 weeks - I handled and packed every single thing I owned - including the contents of my garage and 2 small attics. Everything. Of course, as you can guess, I frequently found myself staring at something wondering WHY HAVE I SAVED THIS???? Many car loads ended up at Goodwill or the Last Change Mercantile at the local dumps. I returned treasures loaned by a beloved sister, set aside things that belonged to Stephanie, gave my son in Oakland just about anything he was willing to take, tucked about 10 cartons into a cousin's garage in Marin, and then shoe-horned into an attic crawl space any small furniture and boxes of things I couldn't bring but wanted to save. Today, when I can't find something, I find myself wondering where it is. Is it with a family member? Goodwill? Oakland? Marin? Or in the locked attic crawl space in Pacific Grove? It will be interesting to unpack that attic when I return. What did I store there? I made so many decisions in such a short time that I can't quite remember what made the cut.  And will I still want that stuff after being without it for 5 years? And, perhaps, more interesting, how are the renters dealing with that locked door? I must admit, it would drive me crazy to have a locked space staring at me. Have they broken in? If so, I bet they were disappointed. In my memory a phalanx of boxes of books is staring back at them.

What came with me? Anything that supported inclusion in a Grandmother House - that's how I view this space. After the moving van left, I had much fun unpacking and distributing my things among the rooms and I can most definitely state that every space now screams Grandmother. The living room has baskets that hold all the train stuff from Lee's childhood - the tracks, the engines and cars, the blocks to make tunnels and towns and mountains.  There is enough room on the floor for Wesley to set up tracks that weave across the rug and around furniture legs.

Built-in shelves hold his toys and books.

In the kitchen - one small cabinet has the baking stuff that is safe to play with.  We use the measuring cups in water play as well as when cooking.

He has another drawer that stores his plastic dishes as well as play dough and chalk. Note our two aprons hanging from hooks on the refrigerator:  His is the orange one.

Another cabinet has pots and pans that are safe for him to use when he "cooks" with me - he frequently takes the contents out and leaves them strewn all over the floor.  I step over them, quite content.

My favorite part is the long wall going down to my bedroom - I took all the art that I thought he would appreciate and hung it at his level.  We talk about some of the art, but no big deal. I just hope exposure will make an impact.

His favorite? The turquoise dog painting.  He often pats it as he runs by.

My bedroom book case has a climbing pull toy that my own children used. He is almost able to do it by himself.

The bathroom has a basket for his rubber duckies. We use them at bath time when he spends the night. On occasion he helps them jump into the water when we wash dishes in the kitchen. He thinks the ducks enjoy these auxiliary swims.

Upstairs is all his - as described in an earlier entry - where we spend time each afternoon. Right now he likes to make "charts" (a reference to his potty training chart at home, I suspect). I pull out the plastic bin of colored paper, stickers, deckle scissors and we go to town. His charts now decorate walls around my house.

In back is a covered play area with a cement floor that shows the remains of much chalk play. He can ride his learner-bike on the driveway. He likes to work in the garden with me. We have planted bulbs, cleaned up existing plants and revel in the signs of spring appearing in the yard. Right now we are watching the unfolding blossoms on a neighbor's rhododendron bush.

Given all the above, you would assume I am in heaven. And I am - most of the time. Here's the fly in the ointment. My lovely duplex-mates, a young couple, moved out last month. They were charming, helpful and quiet. We fed each others animals when one of us was on vacation, collected mail, shared garbage duty and I never heard them. Never. That has now changed. The new neighbors, although absolutely lovely, can be quite noisy at times. It is understandable - there are 4 of them living in what I consider a small space for just me.  2 Moms and 2 young boys - ages 3 and 5. To be completely fair, the noise level is not extraordinary, given the ages of the boys and their space limitations, but that doesn't make it easier to deal with.  Although they are out of the house much of the time, when they are home there are moments when I wonder if I am going to survive. The walls seem to shake.

But oh dear, even the thought of moving . . . . can I really do it again? So soon? Get out the packing boxes? Go buy some more tape? I love my street, my neighborhood, my unit - just not the noise coming from next door. I suspect I was naive to think I could adjust to duplex living after 40 years in a detached house.

But move? Again? You know what I really need to do? I need to channel Scarlett O'Hara. Yes, that's it.  I'll think about it tomorrow. Fiddle-dee-dee. Can't deal with it right now. However, to be safe, I just added Craig's List to my bookmark bar.  Oh dear.

Keep Portland Weird

This is a common bumper sticker around these parts.  The first time I saw it, my reaction was, "No way. Santa Cruz has ownership of THAT slogan." However, after 7 months here, I recognize that the slogan is both appropriate and, I think, a source of pride. It honors a different type of weirdness than that vibrating from Santa Cruz and I'm glad I have been able to experience both weirdnesses.

I think Portland's weirdness is beautifully showcased in the television program, Portlandia. If you haven't see it, get ready. It is very different from the usual TV fare. Think early years of Saturday Night Live. It has the same unevenness - some skits work, others don't, some need editing but when they hit, they are so very funny. I'd describe the premise as taking something unique to Portland - a local trend, fashion statement, political event and then tweaking it. Exaggerating it. When I am watching it, I am in awe of the writers' abilities to capture an essence of Portland. Unlike SNL, there are only two main characters and many of the skits are ongoing. Very funny - in its own weird way.

Today's outing illustrates the unique style of life in Portland. It started out with an incredible weather forecast. It's going to be sunny and warm this weekend - 81 degrees tomorrow. No rain expected at all. It has been so gray for the last several weeks that this is truly amazing. Right now it's 74 degrees and, for the first time since last Fall, I am in shorts and my very favorite beat-up-but-fit-perfectly flip flops are on my feet. Ah, heaven! And the view out my attic window?  Bright sun shines on my SE Avenue and all the tulips, rhododendron blossoms and daffodils sparkle. Lots of kids outside playing. Bee-you-tee-ful.

But this Saturday morning didn't start out that way; it was the usual overcast and cool. Even so, I made the decision to leave my hoodie behind when I left for my volunteer job down town at the main branch of the library. I didn't want to have to carry my hoodie when the sun broke through so I hugged my light knit short-sleeved top close as I stood on McLaughlin waiting for my bus. Another man came up and we chatted - the usual bus stop chatter - the weather, what was happening in the neighborhood around us, etc. Suddenly a car pulled over into the bus zone and the woman driver waved at us. The man stepped forward, leaned in, listened and then turned to me, "She wants to talk to you." Much surprised I leaned forward to hear her ask, "Are you warm enough? If not, do you want this jacket?" as she pointed to one on her passenger seat. I was stunned, shook my head, thanked her, and assured her I was okay. As she drove off, the man and I looked at each other and agreed this was amazing, although he added that he too was surprised at how I was dressed. At this point another horrid thought entered my mind but I did not have the nerve to ask, "Do I look pathetic and homeless?" Didn't want to hear his answer but, in thinking about it, I KNOW I didn't. I know the homeless look - they arrive at the front steps of my other volunteer job every Monday morning. Yes, I was wearing jeans - but they were dark, neatly pressed, and worn with bright red flats. My knit top had black and white stripes. I looked nice, I know I did. Well, maybe I looked a tad cold but nicely cold. What can I say? Stephanie says the fact that I was standing at a bus stop may have contributed to the woman thinking I was homeless. I am working hard at convincing myself it was just part of the unique Portland experience. Either way, what an incredible thing for her to do. Also possibly embarrassing.

Once at the library, I helped my shift partner open the gift shop where we volunteer. You may remember that, in an earlier entry, I noted that I was not looking for new friends, that I am enjoying this new anonymity? Well, God was listening, and made sure I got what I asked for. My shift partner, Leif is a young man, 28 years old, a part time student at Portland State, who hopes to become an engineer. So why did I originally think he may not be possible friend material? Due to surgery he can only speak in a very low whisper, so low that I have to stand right next to him to be able to understand what he is saying. It is a tad awkward to keep saying, "What?" or "Excuse me?" or "I didn't quite catch that" so we probably exchanged less than 50 words during our first shift together. He asked me nothing while I carefully worked around him. Today, 5 shifts later, we are becoming friends, and chat throughout our 3 hours together. It is helped by the fact that the store is very slow on weekends so we have a lot of time with little to do other than talk. Today he was working on some math - algebra. I told him this was a topic I wished I knew better - I had not paid attention in freshman year of high school, and it really affected my later efforts in geometry, algebra II and trig. I don't know how I survived those higher levels of math when my understanding of basic algebra was so weak. As we talked, a customer came in to peruse our used books for sale. As we kept talking - "What was the rationale for the order of operations?""Why did multiplication precede addition?""Could the square of a number ever be negative?" the customer joined in. He asked for a piece of paper and soon had it covered with algebraic equations as he tried to explain the use of the imaginary number, i, to both of us. Not sure how this pesky i got into the discussion and I remain clueless, mind you, about what was happening on his piece of paper, but I was charmed by his interest in sharing his love of numbers. Another bit of Portland.

When my shift ended, I walked a block over and caught MAX (their BART equivalent) down to Saturday Market at Riverfront Park to look for some gifts for friends I am visiting in France next month. I haven't been back to Saturday Market in several years and, my, it has grown. The maze of booths selling products made by local artisans located under a highway overpass along the Willamette River is now spread over 3 blocks. Today the bright sun (See? I was right to leave my hoodie home.) brought out hordes of people. I had fun moving among the booths, looking for the perfect gift. When I found what I thought would work, I asked the artist who made the two necklaces to model each while I snapped photos of her which I then texted to a cousin who is going with me. Are these okay? You gotta love technology!

With gifts safely stashed away, back to MAX and a transfer to my bus home. Sat next to a young mother with her 2-year old son on her lap. She recently moved here from San Diego and is having a bit of trouble adjusting to the weather but agreed that today was simply lovely. Her child was adorable - almost as cute as Wesley. As I walked home from my bus stop I stopped to chat with folks gathered around new planter boxes constructed outside a small apartment house near my street corner. I had noticed the new empty boxes when I walked past last Saturday but now they were full of dirt with lots of plants, still in their plastic pots, marking the spots where they would soon be planted. To me, they seemed way too close - just wait until those zucchinis take over the rest of the box - but I said nothing. Gardening is a learning process, a delighful learning process, and is best learned from experience, not from nosy neighbors like me horning in with unasked for advice. Instead I played with the two labs who cavorted among the boxes and the families gathered to plant.

A lovely Portland day.  One in which, please dear God, I did not look homeless.

Rocking It Out?

Last night I went to a concert  - yep, got out of the house. Trying to raise that low grade I gave myself on becoming urban. Was I out there, experiencing what the big city has to offer? Well, not really. I didn't go hear a new band, see some outrageous dance performance, watch an indie film, or even do something out of my comfort zone. Nope, not at all. It was someone from my generation and an entertainer I have seen in the past. I saw Arlo Guthrie at "The Lamp", the nickname of an old local movie theater, the Alladin, now used for live performances. It was fun - a lot of toe tapping going on. We all joined in for The City of New Orleans and his one verse of Alice's Restaurant (with the opening line, "It all started 2 - no, make that 47 Thanksgivings ago." He said he can only bear to sing the whole 30 minutes of lyrics every 10 years or so and is, therefore, not due to sing it again until 2015. However, he told a wonderful story about his wife getting arrested at a Connecticut airport that had much the same flavor as Alice's Restaurant. He IS a good entertainer.

While waiting for the concert to begin (when I wasn't checking email or texting as were others around me) I took note of similarities and differences from concerts I attended in the past.

#1 Generally I am so far out of it that I am not even in the back row in the arena of coolness. Proof? I got my hand stuck in the back of my sister's seat while trying to get up to give Arlo a standing ovation!  Pathetic. Geriatric.

 #2 I forgot they stamp your hand when you go in. Not sure why it made me think of a concert I attended in NYC (I think it was Bonnie Raitt) when 8 months pregnant with Stephanie. As I recall I waddled through the door, watching people ahead of me get frisked. When it was my turn to step forward, my stomach got there before the rest of me and the frisker was suddenly confused, ill at ease. His hands hovered over my stomach and then paused. He just couldn't do it. I silently thanked his mother for her good training and got in frisk-free but with a nice stamp on my hand.

#3 Unlike the Bonnie Raitt concert of oh so long ago, the predominant hair color at this concert was white. These WERE my peeps.

#4 An audience of white hairs does not preclude the existence of idiots screaming out comments to Arlo between and during songs. Maybe more annoying than when I was young.

#5  I didn't see anyone get up to dance at their seats. Miss that.

#6  No obvious smell of illegal substances wafting around the room. No comment.

It was a lovely evening. Great music, lots of fun. Am sorry that my brother-in-law had to miss the event but am grateful that my sister picked me to take his place.  Thank you, Colin and Mary.

As I sit here typing another memory comes flooding back, a memory of music and white hairs but this time the venue was the warm water pool at the Monterey Sports Center. There were perhaps 25 of us in the pool and I don’t think anyone was under 60. At 62 (at the time) I was probably the youngest. Most were women. One of the few men present set his portable oxygen tank on the side of the pool with the tank's thin hose attached to his nose. It definitely limited his movements. At the top of the wide steps into the pool were two walkers and a bin that held canes of other participants. Get the picture? These were the members of the Wednesday Morning Shallow Water Aerobics Class for Seniors.

I was new to the class. I usually did deep-water aerobics in the large pool but added this as a warm-up to the deep-water class that followed it. So there I was, figuring out where I fit into the procedures and policies of this new group. They all knew each other and I couldn't help but notice the nasty looks I kept getting from the woman next to me who had arrived late to class. Had I inadvertently taken the space in the pool she usually occupied? Was she interested in the man next to me, the one with the portable oxygen tank? Was I the "younger woman" horning in?

Our instructor played music to help us keep to the rhythm of the exercises. I was grateful for her choices  – mostly mixes of “our” music. So on this particular morning we were moving to the voices of the Everley Brothers, Beatles and Neil Sedaka. I sang along, softly mind you, given that I don’t have a voice appreciated by most. “When I want you (push) in the night (kick kick) When I want you (pull) to hold me tight (stomp stomp), Whenever I want you (kick) All I have to do (stomp) is dre – ee- ee – ee- am (pull) dream dream dream”. We made that water churn.

I entered a zen zone so as to ignore everyone around me, to focus on moving to the music. I was successful until I recognized that something had changed. Something was different. I opened my eyes and looked around, astonished. Everyone was singing. Everyone. It was under their breaths, mind you, but they were all engaged. What had happened? It was the song. Mick Jagger’s “Satisfaction” was pouring out of the sound system and all 25 white hairs were bobbing and shimmying along. The stink eye lady was preening, the guy with the oxygen tank was strutting, and the looks on our faces - it was the same look we had when we sang it in high school. With chins jutted out, we were a bit surly, a lot aggressive and we had attitude as we swaggered up and down the pool. We were cool, we were hip – and, damn it all, WE CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION! I collapsed in laughter and, as I resurfaced, wondered if this was Mick Jagger's worst nightmare? 

So, thank you, Arlo and Mick. You help me adjust to my surroundings and I appreciate it.  

Cycles

Oh my goodness my last entry has had interesting responses. They generally fall into two camps - those who think I am, perhaps, losing my mind and those who cheer me on. The latter are mostly from friends who are grandparents, the former are not. I completely understand those who think I am a bit nuts. How can one explain inherent joy in endless repetitions of an activity with a 2-year old? I have decided that, for me, it is the opportunities of grandmotherhood combined with the fact that I have refocused my life.

So, what is so great about being a grandmother? I get a Do-Over. I get a chance to do a better job of how I choose to spend time with a child. When I was a young mother I was so busy, had so many demands on my time, that I did not want to use time I had in repetitious play. It bored me. For example, I internally groaned whenever my children pulled out Candy Land. Oh how I loathed that game. It seemed that every time I got close to the end (a few jumps away from the door to the gingerbread house - you remember it?), and a possible end to my misery, I'd pull the card with the candy hearts and have to go almost all the way back to Start. Much gnashing of teeth. Could I bear to start over? So I figured a way around it. No, I didn't do the obvious - hide the box - but, instead, loaded the cards. I would, oh so casually, plant the melting block of ice cream (the card that took you to the location closest to the end of the trail) about 15 cards down from the top. I would make sure one of the children got it, by the way, to make it less obvious. And, voila, the game ended quickly with great delight on the part of the child who won. I would then suggest we do something else.

Even active play, like hide-and-seek, paled for me after about 20 minutes. Walks were better - the scenery changed, we could talk while we walked - and I spent hundreds of hours as a Girl Scout leader. Campouts, cookie sales and badge work became part of our family life. Lee was young enough that he attended most meetings and went on all the camping trips with the girls. Repetitious play, however, was harder for me. I encouraged my children to entertain themselves or play with friends. While I consider both important life-skills it was also a bit self-serving. It gave me time to complete other tasks.

I was so busy back then. I was a full-time teacher as well as a mother and committed to doing a good job in my classroom. I look back, with a degree of regret, on the hours I spent each week on school work. I wish I didn't remember how often I said, "I can't do that because I have to grade papers." Or, "Later, honey, I have to type up a test." Or "I can't come, I have to stay late for a meeting." I wish the balance I chose to maintain had been one with more time spent with my family.

Gary's illness played another role in my busy-ness.  He was diagnosed with MS when we were 32; the children were 5 and 2. Although his disabilities didn't immediately affect our lives, they were waiting around the corner. I had to take on many of Gary's jobs as well as my own. Stress certainly took its toll on my attitude about how I spent my time.

I understand that I did the best I could. There were good reasons for every decision I made and, thankfully, I have many wonderful memories of time spent with my children - and photographs show much time spent togther. I know we laughed a lot. I just wish I could go back and redo some of it.

And now I feel I have been given a second chance. Not with my own daughter, unfortunately, but with her son. This is why my time with Wesley is so precious. This time around, I can do better. Constraints that existed in the past are no longer present. I'm retired, Gary no longer needs me, and other activities can wait. My time is his.

Okay, so that explains my motivation but how can I now endure somewhat mindless play when I couldn't in the past? I think it is the quieter life I lead. I really like having nothing to do so when I do something, I enjoy every minute of it. Ravishankar are you listening? Can you believe this is coming from me? Who knew?

When I am playing with Wesley I love every second of being with him. When we sit on my bed pretending we are on a bus, I love holding him close, smelling his hair, watching expressions flit across his face. I notice the softness of his hand in mine, the sound of his voice, the joy of his gestures. It doesn't really matter that we are singing the same song over and over. I am not paying much attention to that, I just enjoy being with him.

It's the same when we do chores. When we wash dishes, for example, we talk about the feel of the bubbles and the warmth of the water. Our hands splash in delight while we pass silverware to the dish rack. Yes dishes get clean but the process is actually more important.  

So, odd as it may seem, I am perfectly content playing with my grandson. Of course, all of this may be hooey. The true test will come when he is old enough to want to play Candy Land. Will my efforts to stay in the moment be strong enough to overcome my aversion to that game? Don't know; it's asking a lot. On the other hand, I think I still possess the slight-of-hand skills needed to fix the cards - or at least I have time to start practicing.

Missing the Wee One

I got up at 4 this morning and was out the door with coffee in hand to drive Stephanie, Dan and Wesley to the airport.  They are flying to Austin to spend Easter with family friends of Dan's.  This is their third Easter trip to Texas and, I must admit, for the first time I am a bit jealous.  It's still cold and damp here but not in Austin - 90 degrees today. Normally that's too hot for me but right now it sounds awfully good.  I will pick them up on Tuesday and, no surprise here, I am already missing them.

My afternoons with Wesley are delightful.  The daily drive from pre-school to my house has become a treasure hunt.  First we have to find "Gramma's car."  I lose it everyday. Given that there aren't a lot of parking spaces in front of the preschool, it is quite easy for him to be successful finding it.  Once he is in his car seat, we begin the search for buses (3 types - city, school and "Grampa Tom Buses" - Dan's dad is disabled and rides to Dan's house in one of those small city vans that carry wheel chairs).  Then there are the trains.  Wesley loves trains so we stop at the local industrial park near his preschool to find the 2 red engines that service the businesses.  I drive around the park until we find both.  Then, closer to my house, we pass the train tracks.  If we are lucky enough to spot a train, I pull over so we can count the cars.  When we are almost to my house we pass the train yard.  Here the 2 "Buddy Engines"(as he calls them) - #1243 and #1214 - are often working, but not always, so that makes it interesting.  Will they be there?  If not, will we say "Drat!" loudly or softly?  Wesley gets to decide.  We also look for what he calls the "tunnel of trees." Right now the trees are bare.  Each day we look to see if the first growth of leaves has popped out.  He also hunts for daffodils.

We chat the whole way.  Yesterday something he said caught me by surprise. Remember he is a bit over 2 1/2 and is still perfecting pronunciation.  I now understand about 75% of what he says but the remaining 25% is often a mystery.  What surprised me was his response to the sudden rain.  As I  turned on the wipers this little voice from the back seat piped up, " Gramma, that's rain, not condensation."  In slight shock, I looked at him in the rear view mirror and said,  "What did you say?" He repeated it slowly, being kind to his apparently impaired grandmother, the same grandmother who loses her car everyday, "Condensation, Gramma,  con-den-sa-tion." When I asked him what condensation was, he said it "wasn't rain, it's wet but not rain."  Later, when I asked Dan, I found out he had had this discussion with Wesley.  Ah, the abilities of brains at this age - truly little sponges.

Once home Wesley helps me with chores - he loves to vacuum, sweep and cook (he prefers making cookies but stirring soups is also fun). Then we do whatever he wants.  A favorite game right now is recreating our Zoo Lights experience of last Christmas.  The Portland Zoo has a gorgeous light display over the holidays and Wesley loves it. In reality, I am not sure which - the ride in the school bus from the parking lot to the zoo entrance or the light display itself - has the stronger impact.  In our version we climb up onto my high bed and sit facing the pillows.  This is our bus.  I am a passenger and Wesley is the "conductor." We start the song, "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round" and vigorously move our hands in circles to represent the spinning wheels. When we get to the verse "The doors on the bus go open and shut" Wesley's toys (4 teddy bears, a bunny, Stephanie and Lee's Cabbage Patch doll from their youth - Frankie Hal, and, most interestingly, his tall crane with about 7 small railroad cars dangling from it - he calls them all his "kids") enter the bus one by one.  When we sing the verse "The driver on the bus says 'Move on back'" I move them, one by one, behind Wesley.  Once everyone is on board, he has me read one or two books so that all the "kids" can hear. At that point, we have arrived at the zoo.  To get to the actual Zoo Lights display we get off the "bus" and climb up the attic stairs.  Once there Wesley moves all the "kids" into the little storage space over the stairs.  When they are seated on boxes inside, he creates a light display by flipping the storage room light off and on. Sometimes he leaves them in there while we play with other toys.  This whole process, from climbing on the bus to the culminating light show, can take 45 minutes and we have been doing it every day for the past few weeks.

If there is time afterwards we go downstairs and read books on the couch.  It is still cool enough that we turn on the gas flames in the fireplace and "get cozy" while we read.   Dan picks him up a bit after 5. As we wave goodbye I am already looking forward to the next day's adventures.

I wonder what new games await?  Perhaps they will have a Texas flair.  Are cowboys and wrangling cattle in my future?  Or will we revisit some games from the past?  We haven't played Hide and Seek  with flashlights in a long time.  Whatever new idea pops into his mind, I am sure the "kids" will be up for it and I will happily go along for the ride.   I am in my element.

The "kids" waiting for Wesley