Getting Religion

…

After Baptizing my grandson, we headed for my son’s house to celebrate. The crowd included Joshua’s godparents, Paul, Melissa and their two children, Collin and Julianne. They flew in from Chicago for the occasion.

It was a typical after-baptism party. The women folk scurried about the kitchen, while the adult males contributed by remaining outside, sipping margaritas and beer. We solved the weightier problems of the world while the women organized the food.

The children, ranging in age from nine months to 12 years, played happily in the backyard. My son’s backyard has the size and feel of a city park. It is a carpet of lush grass dotted with mature hardwood trees at comfortable intervals. It is kid Heaven. The pack swarmed over the yard, squealing and laughing with delight. A play set, soccer balls, silly string and water pistols provided for the children’s amusement. There were also balloons suitable for filling with water.

Can you guess where this is going?

Eventually, the silly string cans ran out and the soccer ball disappeared. Inevitably, a water pistol duel broke out. Soon, 10-year-old Collin became bored with squirting the younger children and sought more dangerous game.

My son-in-law and I remained sanguine on the patio, sipping our drinks and discussing Spinoza, as I recall. Even as streams of water split the air around us, we remained untouchable. It was a precarious balance.

I could almost hear Collin’s moral fiber straining. In my heart, I knew he would eventually squirt an adult, just because they were there. I took the precaution of explaining to him that I was wearing my “good shirt” and a necktie worth more to me than his life. My lecture bought us the exact amount of time it took me to deliver it.

Minutes later, Collin squirted the back of my son-in-law’s head. Then, I got mine. It was a warm evening, so I was probably sweated-out, anyway. It was a cooling, if not a cool experience. Once Collin breached the adult – child barrier, there seemed no going back. He danced around us like a TV cop, squirting both son-in-law and me at will. We pleaded, but to no avail.

Then, my son showed up.

“Can I get you something else,” he asked solicitously.

“We would certainly like another round, if you don’t mind. And could you bring two large glasses of ice water?”

He returned with two drinks and two vengeance weapons. I mean glasses of water. As astonishing as it may seem, Collin failed to notice the water in front of us. If he knew us at all, he would have realized we never drink water.

In a few seconds, the boy refilled and resumed his attack. Son-in-law and I were becoming damp. After an acrobatic pass, he turned to go into the house.

He did not make it. Instead, he ended up sitting in a puddle of ice water on a bench on the patio. My son caught a few drops of the cold stuff as collateral damage, but more on that later.

“Mr. Burden and his son-in-law threw water on me! I’m going to tell Mom!” He moaned to his sister.

“Go ahead. She could use a laugh.” She said, laughing sympathetically.

I went into the house and forewarned the parents that justice had been served and their son was sopping wet on the patio. They seemed good with it.

It was time to go. We exchanged good-byes and I was climbing into my pickup truck when the first water balloon whizzed over my head. A quick glance revealed my son had launched the attack. Apparently, the earlier overspray incident distressed him.

I sped away before he could reload.

The next day I learned carnage erupted after my escape. My son pasted my son-in-law with another water balloon. Then, my daughter got revenge on my son with the ultimate weapon, the garden hose. It was a water pistol and balloon Armageddon. At first, my mental image was of a Three Stooges pie fight, only with water instead of custard. Now, I just think of it as an extended group Baptism, befitting the occasion. Everyone had a grand time. I am sorry I missed it. Almost.

I hope Collin got religion and learned not to fight above his weight.

…

The Christening

…

Two weeks ago, Saint Elizabeth’s Catholic Church christened my youngest grandson, Joshua. It is noteworthy because my own children attended elementary school there. We have the makings of a tradition. Sort of. The ceremony was a large family affair. Several infants were scheduled for Baptism during the 5 p.m. Mass and each child was accompanied by at least a half-dozen friends and family.

I showed up at the church at the appointed hour and sat with my daughter’s family. There was a crowd of worshipers in addition to the baptismal families.  I could not help noticing many were Hispanic.

Even though the neighborhood changed since they baptized my children, everything went well. The priest promised we might receive “forgeevness for our seens.” There were readings from scriptures and hymns of celebration filled the air. It was an engaging service.

Meanwhile, grandchildren crawled over my corpse and commented on the proceedings in outdoor voices. “Who’s dat, Grandfather?” asked one, pointing in the general direction of the altar. I restrained another grandchild by sheer brute force, but it was no use. He saw my restraint as a personal challenge to his liberty. After a few minutes, I realized our struggle was becoming more distracting than his original shenanigans.

“I should have brought the duct tape.” I reminded myself.

Finally, I released my grip and resorted to one last desperate measure; reason.

"Shh. God is watching," I urged in a soft whisper.

"WHO?" They responded.

It was an instant failure.

Two matrons occupied the pew directly in front of us. Devout Catholics, they endured twenty minutes of our family antics before holding a conference in stage whispers. “Would you like to move,” asked the first old biddy. ”Ah believe Ah would,” replied the other.  Then, noses in the air, they shuffled to the far end of the pew. In my heart, I wanted to go with them, but self-control got the better of me.

The wrestling match with grandfather versus a rotation of grandchildren continued throughout the ceremony.

The high point of the service came as the priest poured water over the forehead of a tiny Hispanic girl. She was dressed in an amazing white Christening gown long enough for a five-footer. She was beautiful, but when the Holy Water touched her forehead, the little one screamed as if scalded.

"Never put Holy Water on a Vampire," I thought to myself.

Her parents remained calm throughout. I understood their reserve. Each of us has only so much fight in them. When it is gone, it is gone. Period.

Next time, I will tell you about the after party. It was the best part of getting religion.

…

The Far End of Life - Two

…

As we rode into town, I began to have doubts about the restaurant I chose for my mother’s birthday celebration. I found the place on the internet and the best review said “… at least it’s better than the Olive Garden.”

“At least?” I wondered.

It was quiet in the car, so Mom talked continuously, as if to keep herself company. It was pretty much the same monolog she repeats each time we visit.

“What is it with David Letterman?” She began. “I would just like to meet the moron who thinks he’s funny enough to be on television...”

“I’m sure Letterman feels the same way, Mom,” I chorused.

“And that Prince Charles! You can tell he is not right by looking at him. The ears alone are enough to make me puke! Besides, they’re not even British. They’re all German, you know.”

“I am sure they do their best, Mom…”

I was beginning to wonder if I would arrive at the restaurant before my head exploded when a Chili’s restaurant appeared on the right.

“Hey Mom, look there! It is a Chili’s! They have great food. What do you say to lunch there, instead?”

“You know I can’t taste anything, only sweet and sour…”

To my mind, Chili’s was a known quantity. I vaguely recalled they had gooey sweet desserts and I knew they made a decent cheeseburger and fries. Throw in a bottle of beer and at least one of us would enjoy their lunch.

I turned sharply into the parking lot and found a place beneath a shade tree. That is important in Texas, on an afternoon in June, particularly in a black car. In an hour, the shade could save a long life.

I opened the passenger side door and offered my hand.

“Tiger Woods has been touched by God and I don’t care what else he’s done, I still love him… “

“Apparently, so did a lot of others,” I mumbled in my most wry manner.

The barrage continued as we tottered across the parking lot and into the restaurant. A nice looking young woman opened the door for us and offered a cheery greeting before showing us to a booth. Our waitress showed up immediately and handed us menus. I ordered drinks and she went away for a few minutes. When she returned, I ordered for us both. I went for the cheeseburger and fries and I selected the gooiest walnut-fudge, ice cream, caramel and chocolate syrup dessert I could find for my mother.

“I can only taste sweet and sour,” she reminded me.

“And a side order of sauerkraut,” I offered facetiously.

The waitress left.

It was then I noticed a placard on the wall indicating that Chili’s supports the St. Jude Research Hospital for Children. My mother believes Saint Jude, the Catholic patron saint of hopeless cases, is responsible for looking after her and everyone in the family. Frankly, I think she may be on to something.

“Hey, Mom, look at that,” I said without thinking.

She looked up and squinted at the large print. Then, she began to weep.

“Oh, I know Saint Jude is the one who directed us here,” she began.

“Mebbe so,” I thought.

Then, Mom called the waitress and asked about the restaurant’s support of the saint’s mission back on Earth. The waitress explained that one month per year; the restaurant donates its profits to the hospital. Mom was elevated to a state of ecstasy. It could not have been better if she received a signed birthday card from the saint, himself.

I thought it was cool of Chili’s, too.

“I send him twenty-five dollars every month!” She exclaimed. “And I’m going to write him a check as soon as I get home!”

Choked with emotion, she was barely able to gobble up her dessert.

Me? I had no such problem. I consumed a good cheeseburger with fries and drained a cold beer.

Mother chatted and I listened dutifully on the ride home.

No one can know this for sure, but mebbe the saint DID have something to do with our spontaneous change of plan. Regardless, he showed my mother a good time.

After thinking about this experience awhile, I have decided to check out the Italian restaurant that was our original destination. I am curious to learn if that establishment is involved with any saints. I just gotta know.

…

The Far End of Life - One

…

Recently, my life has taken a turn in the domestic direction. It has been fun and instructive. For example, I now understand why there are so few parents over the age of 60. The answer? If they bore a child, they would be dead within the week.

Grandchildren are not the only adventure in my life. No, no, that would be far too simple. I have a mother, too. Last Friday, exactly one week after I survived the grandchildren, my mother celebrated her 87th birthday. She lives alone in a comfortable bungalow near Granbury, Texas. I call regularly and visit at least monthly. On occasions like Mother’s Day, Birthdays, et c., I travel to see her and help celebrate the occasion. It is not easy.  The trip usually begins with a phone call.

“Hi, Mom! How ya doin’?” I ask cheerfully.

“Speak up! This [bleeping] phone is getting quiet again.”

“OKAY. HOW’S THIS?” I reply.

“I dunno. This damn phone keeps getting quieter and quieter. I want to get one that doesn’t fade away every time I talk on it!”

“Mom, we’ve bought four different phones in the last six months, including one for the hearing impaired. There’s no use getting another one.” I recite patiently.

“I know you think I’m going deaf, but you’re wrong. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, Paul – or Hank – or whoever you are.”

“Of course not, Mom, but your birthday is Friday. How would you like it if I came over and took you to lunch?”

“That would be just swell! You are such a good son. Maybe we could go to the grocery store while you are here. I’ll need some things by then.”

“I’ll be happy to take you. We can shop for groceries after lunch on the way home. I’ll be there around noon. You have four days to get ready.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

“Okay. I will see you on Friday. Love you. Bye now!”

The phone conversation ended twenty minutes later after she asked about the health of the children and grandchildren three or four times. It was almost curt.

When Friday rolled around, I awoke with a mild hangover. Anticipation of the big day had been wearing on me for four days. Slowly, I hit my stride. Breakfast. Shower. Dress. Sign birthday card and insert gift card for the grocery store. Check, check, check and check. I was ready to roll.

An hour before noon, the Bat Cave door slid open and I rolled onto the street. I was a man on a mission. My plan included taking her to lunch at a local Italian restaurant and then to her favorite grocery store. In five minutes, I pulled onto the Interstate and set the cruise control a few miles per hour below the speed limit. Yeah, I could go faster, but I am an old fart now and people have expectations. I avoided the fast lane, much to the relief of those rude gesturing, high-speed idiots passing me on the left and the right.

An hour later, I arrived at her door. I had the card and enclosed present. I was as ready as I could be. I pressed the bell and opened the door without waiting, stepping inside to the din of a television straining its guts to be heard.

Mom struggled to her feet, stabbing at the remote control buttons while I closed the door behind me. I walked in as she tottered to greet me.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” I said cheerily as we embraced.

…

Small Adventures: The Crescendo

…

On Tuesday following Memorial Day, I “sat on” my daughter’s two angels. My daughter pressed me into service during an extraordinary confluence of circumstances. She was busy at work and the local jails and schools closed. I sketched the experience in my last post, Small Adventures I.

Now, let us fast forward to last Friday, the final day of the “Child Care Crisis,” as I call it and as seen on CNN.

My daughter agreed to deliver my charges early Friday morning. This was a big help, saving me from rising before dawn and driving forty-five minutes while sound asleep. Promptly at 0900, the back door swung open and the grandchildren, their possessions and mommy flooded through. In a few seconds, we were on our own and Mommy was laying rubber down my driveway.

“Good morning, children,” I said cheerfully. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, but I wanted to get off to a good start.

“We’re hungry! Would you fix us pancakes?” They spoke in a tone suitable for starving children in one of those loser countries. It is fair to note I brought this on myself. Months ago, I made pancakes for them using my secret recipe. They have not forgotten.

“Uh, I suppose. Have you not had breakfast?”

The two looking up at me were models for a Margaret Keane print. You know, the pictures of large-eyed children looking like they just learned their puppy died. It was clearly a ploy to take advantage of grandfather’s softhearted nature.

“Okay, you two sit at the table and I’ll make pancakes. “ Let us face it. I was surrounded.

The children retired to the kitchen table while I retrieved bacon and pancake mix. I covered the griddle with bacon and whipped up a bowl of my secret recipe.

The bacon had just begun sizzling when the backdoor opened once more. It was my son and his eldest who is two and change.

In 30 seconds, I acquired a third starving child who was willing to try a pancake. 20 minutes later, the crew followed me out the backdoor and down the terrace to the picnic table. Each of my arms carried carefully balanced plates with hot cakes and bacon. I was careful not to allow the syrup to slosh over the edge of the plate. Pouring syrup onto pancakes until they float is a favorite of the grandchildren.

The four of us enjoyed our syrupy bacon and pancakes al fresco. Chilled orange juice helped dissolve the sugar from our throats. After ten minutes, the flies became an issue, so I shooed the pests away. I have not seen a fly here in years. I guess they have been biding their time until the right moment and this was it.

The children ate every crumb and licked the syrup from their plates before we went inside.

Filled with sugary goodness, they were content to remain in the playroom, but only so long as I was with them. If one needed to visit the bathroom, the others would come with, waiting patiently outside the door until grandfather and grandchild emerged in a cloud of relief. This is full-on togetherness.

At play, the children sorted themselves out. The eldest (5) selected a suitcase of Legos. His little sister (3) chose Play Doh. The youngest played with tiny cars that are actually characters from the animated movie of the same name.

Me? I moved among the children, first finding a door for a Lego castle, then pressing a giraffe from Play Doh and finally yelling “Vrrooom!” as I pushed a little car toward the little guy.

By mid afternoon, grandfather was having sinking spells. I made excuses to check my emails, bring in the mail, brush my teeth and any other thing I could think of to enjoy a five-minute collapse.

I was considering running away from home when my son showed up and retrieved his boy.

An hour later, Mommy arrived. We fed the children frozen chicken parts and milk before packing them back into the car for the trip home.

Finally, the house was empty. Puzzles, cars, and Legos were scattered in the playroom. Flecks of color marked the Play Doh area. Storybooks covered every flat surface. The ‘fridge and pantry were decimated. Grandfather was a wreck.

Still, victory was mine. I had survived a full day with three sweet but deadly grandchildren. I cannot help wondering how mothers routinely survive decades of unrelenting devotion required to raise a child to early adulthood.

I was lucky to last the week.

…

Small Adventures I

...

Those of you who were squeamish about my motorcycle adventures will rejoice when you learn of last week’s safari. I hope you enjoy something a bit more domestic.

Last week, daughter was busy at work at the same time the pre-kindergarten and Baby Prison (Mother’s Day Out) closed for the season. She needed a surrogate for a few days and I signed-up. What else could I do?

Early on the first day, I travelled to Fort Worth, arriving hungry. After we got Mommy out the door, the g’children and I prepared English muffins with butter and jelly. The children wolfed them down like starving dogs. Then, we adjourned to the lovely backyard for some bright sunshine and fresh air. We rode the tiny rollercoaster and threw the Frisbee. Grandson built houses for tiny cavemen from stone and twigs, while granddaughter and I kicked the soccer ball back and forth. Eventually, I stepped in the only dog poop in the lawn. Borrowing a stick from the caveman house, I spent the rest of the time scrapping the sole of my shoe and making retching noises.

At lunchtime, we went inside for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Granddaughter had hers sans peanut butter due to a possible allergy to peanuts. After lunch, we retired to the den for story time and light rough housing.

Grandson built another caveman cave, this time from sofa cushions and blankets. I believe he will grow up to be an architect or a cave dweller. If the economy does not improve, he could be both. Naturally, granddaughter wanted to play inside the new cave, but there was a problem. There was no “door.” As grandfather, I helped install a door in the stack of cushions and both children scampered inside. Almost immediately, they scampered back out.

“It’s dark in there,” they complained.

I found a flashlight and handed it to granddaughter. “Here, use this,” I advised.

She accepted the light and turned it on. Then, holding the torch high and pointing the beam at her face, she made a sweeping gesture as she announced

“LAY DEES AND GENTLEMEN …”

I believe she will soon appear on a stage or in a theatre near you.

It was about this time we discovered the wrapper from the stick of butter on the floor in the living room.

“Uh, what’s this” I asked the children?

“Oh, Shelby [one of the two resident dogs] ate the butter,” They advised.

“I don’t think Mommy is going to like that,” I muttered to no one in particular. “Let’s hide the evidence.”

I got blank stares.

“Okay, let’s put the chewed-up wrapper in the trash,” I suggested.

“Ooh,” was the knowing answer. The children hid the evidence.

Later, the children’s favorite programs came on the television. I tuned the TV to “Stun” and all was quiet.

All I could say was “Thank God!”