Saving Money In Charlottesville

I talked with my son on the phone this past week, yet saying that is not real news, because he calls me almost every day on his way home from work--so often, that when he says his cell phone is starting to lose a good connection, I picture this section of road near his house.

The Blue Ridge Mountains are in the distance. An old barbed wire fence adds character with each sagging wire and slanting post. They show that years have past, since they once were new.

And there are the coops on the crest of a small rise.

"I'm near the coops," Cles says. Sometimes it's on a different stretch, one that winds through hardwood forest. Deer sometimes graze along the road, especially at night.

The recent conversation reminded me of our last visit. While in Virginia in the fall, there were some problems with water on the floor of the basement, and as I remember, Cles believed it was a pressure tank for his well.

Ann, Jack and I flew into DC a day earlier. Cles picked us up, and we started for Virginia and arrived late one night. Being there was like being home again. We had been there a year earlier. It was August, just in time to hear cicadas at night. Visiting Lydia during the summer in Minnesota meant hearing frogs at night. In Virginia, it was about hearing these interesting locust-like insects and watching occasional fireflies.

We were excited to be in Virginia this past fall. The apple orchards had festivals that weekend, and the fall colors were just beginning to spread colors across the landscape, but I would be a hypocrite if I didn't admit enjoying the apple doughnuts and cider. You don't have to be a cop to know that a doughnut like that is hard to find.

The Blue Ridge Mountains are always pretty, but traveling closer meant seeing the beginnings of shades of red and yellow and orange. The trip was incredible.

The only downside was not being able to attend a Civil War Reenactment. A year earlier, the Confederate general pistol whipped the Union general on the steps of a local court house. What is there about our family line that somehow finds this ironic behavior hilariously funny?

The first night was interesting. I took a shower, and very little water would flow out of the shower head. I told Cles the next morning, and that's when he found the water: just a bit gathering on the floor near a pressure tank.

Locals replaced the tank. I thought the problem was something to be referred to only in past tense, but the recent call proved otherwise. But maybe I've forgotten some of the particulars of the story. It makes a difference, when you are not the one writing the check for repairs. I had other things on my mind like apple cider, apple doughnuts and apple and peach salsa and jellies.

Cles replaced the pressure tank, which took care of the water pressure in the house, but water still occasionally appeared in the basement. I guess the problem was more complicated than it appeared. That's what makes life interesting sometimes. In the words of John Lennon, "Life is what happens, when you've made other plans."

This past week, Cles had some people arrive to take a look. It seems that water seeped through a portion of the outside wall. At least someone found what created the water that pooled into a shallow puddle on the cement basement floor.

The bad news was having to dig down to expose a portion of the foundation, that needed a coat of tar-like sealant.

It was discouraging to Cles, because hiring someone with a backhoe to do the job would probably cost well over $1000, if not $3000 or even $4000.

My dad would have been proud. Cles dug the hole by hand, six feet deep.

In the 30's, my grandfather and his dad and brothers dug a trench that stretched for almost a mile. Portions of it were definitely that deep, especially through cropland. They had to let spring water flow into the trench to soak before they dug down deep through rock and clay soil. My dad and I rarely had to dig anything like that. Dad did, but I was too young to help at that time. I was probably eight or nine and too young to wield a pick or shovel.

An army buddy arrived to help Cles with his job.

Now, I have friends. In fact, one of my friends would have done the same thing years ago, but neither one of us are up to the task of digging a hole like this by hand at this point of our lives. I have issues with mobility due to past chemotherapy treatments, and my friend has a history of heart problems; however, I think it's great to know that I have a friend like that. He still would do anything to help me.

But even more important is knowing that Cles had one, who traveled a distance to dig a six foot hole: something few people would do. Traveling any kind of distance is the perfect excuse for most people, even for things that don't require a lot of physical labor. At least that's what I've found from many people.

Personally, I would travel and help. I've always been like that, except now that my health is an issue, sometimes things don't happen like I would like them to occur.

Life is interesting. It often places us in situations where you really begin to understand the definition of the word "friend." Semantics is such a cruel mistress. We tango with terms on a daily basis, but often men find that a dictionary really is not an indicator of reality. Sometimes a good cliche works to define a friend.

"The truth is in the pudding." That's something I remember people saying when I was young. In other words, it's all about what a person does.

I guess that's why people invent euphemisms. Sometimes we use them, because a good solid definition just doesn't fit, especially when it applies to "almost friends."

The notion is funny. When it comes down to it, the word almost is interesting. When you say someone is "almost a friend," it's like saying a person is almost a virgin. Either you are, or you aren't--so much for relative truth and something so subjective as indicating some sort of gray line between polar extremes.

I figure things this way. It's not so much about my trying to interpret who is really a friend and who isn't. It's about deciding that I am their friend. It's why I would have traveled a distance to help one. It's why I did it when the situation appeared.

It's how I see things. It's how my dad saw things. That's probably why I am like I am. My dad was like a shadow, always there watching and protecting me and assisting me in any way he could.

Writing this post made me realize how lucky I am.

I have friends, who were there when I needed them to be during times of stress, during times of sickness, during times of sadness.

And whether I discuss specifics referring to my dad, or a couple of high school friends or colleagues, or my wife and family. It doesn't matter. What matters is that my life is a blessed one because of having people like that who cared.

Thanksgiving 2010--A Chance For Jack's Winter Passion

We were able to visit Cles and Leslie in Virginia in September. It was a great time. Lydia and the kids arrived from Florida, and we spent four incredible days or more there. It was a time of seeing sights in Charlottesville, but most importantly, we spent a lot of time together.

A perfect Thanksgiving was dinner on Creekside. Kristin was there, and Cles and Leslie flew out from Charlottesville. There was snow, and Jack was ecstatic, because he knows that Pop Pop has trouble walking on carpeted floors. A winter slope is out of the question.

Some mutual friends came over for a while during that time. Scott Fowler was my son's very good high school friend--one of the few from this area, who actually flew out for the wedding and reception a few years ago. Patsy was a lab technician at the cancer clinic where I went almost daily for a while.

I set the two of them up on a blind date. Being a matchmaker is something I'm good at historically. I have a record of 2-0. Regardless of the age difference, Ann and I consider Scott and Patsy very good friends.

They all took Jack sledding during the days after Thanksgiving. It was a great day, but my favorite part was the New York-style pizza we in a new place in Idaho Falls. It was a fantastic day, and the holiday was incredible.

Thanksgiving is fun, and it was fantastic having Leslie here. She was able to see do the sledding, but most importantly, Leslie experienced "firsthand" the shopping madness people call Black Friday, and it was fun to see the expression on her face as she watched people in a

Bacchanal-frenzy fighting over socks and videos and other necessities, and even though I laugh now, there was one time near the Blu-Ray and Wii games, where people pushed so hard, that I thought I would fall to the ground.

Not since my days of high school football was pushing and shoving so much fun. Black Friday is definitely a contact sport.

The Class of 1971

What I find interesting about this picture is that I'm related to three of the six in this photograph.

Debby at the top is the granddaughter of my grandfather's first cousin. Now I never could really figure out how that whole thing about first and second and third cousins worked.

On the left is Pam Williams. She was the granddaughter of my Aunt Ida, the sister of my grandfather.

Aunt Ida worked in the Evans family store for a very long time. I always remember how kind she was.

And Dixie Pilgrim at the right, well, her mom was a Ward. I think her mom's dad and my great grandfather were possibly brothers or cousins. I don't remember for sure exactly.

Of the others, an uncle of Marie Jones told me once that my dad was his favorite cousin, but I'm not sure how or even if we were related.

I do know, however, that Marie and Dixie always watched out for me. I viewed them as my friends. They were like "mother hens" with people in our class, and I always felt they were my friends.

I lived in the same neighborhood, though our house was probably 400 yards from where this picture happens. It's fun to see a photograph like this.

The only two people in the photograph, that I don't say are related, are Dotty Thorpe and Ann Thomas. I married Ann.

After our engagement, I found out that we had common ancestry as well. Back several generations, there was a connection in the Morse family line, but we are very distantly related.

This irritates my children. It's that whole "Arkansas" thing. Cles and Lydia, my two oldest, basically say this: "Just don't tell me any more." They didn't grow up in a small town, where something like this could be a problem.

What I really love about this picture is seeing my Annie and the fun she has always been. It was no exception in this time: a time when gas was cheap, a time when life was simple, a time when we wallowed in friendships.

We knew each other from early times. When I was five, Dixie and I played together at each other's houses. The last time was just as we were in first grade. Both of us were opinionated, and during an argument, my mother interrupted us.

"If you two can't get along better than that, you can't play together."

And we didn't. Dixie found the friendships seen in this picture, and I had my friends, who also lived in the neighborhood, yet we always remained good friends. I view all my classmates that way.

I think it's because of the amount of time I actually spent on a ranch during the summer. So glad to see classmates in the fall, I enjoyed and savored every moment with them in school. It's why I love this picture.

It reminds me of good times. And it reminds me of one friend we lost to cancer in '05, which was the same time when I was so sick. The last time I spoke with Marie was briefly online. I had just finished chemo. Marie was also sick.

We commiserated and confessed how things always worked out for the best. Everyone who knew her misses her still, but the good news is that we still have a majority of the people in our class.

I hope it stays that way for a long time.

Duke--The Most Hated Team In America (By Those Who Know Them)

Good ol' Dick Vitale never was much for unbiased opinions--especially any time he was in the booth to announce a Duke game. He was like people, who can't really play poker. You don't have to listen very long to understand his fascination with the Blue Devils and Coach K.

And if you do any research on the web, fans from the East Coast agree.

I've had times, when it was either the choice between having a stroke or throwing a brick through the TV screen, all times when he aired his views during play by play, particularly whenever Duke plays UNC. He also reveals his dislike for the Tar Heels.

The best picture I found online of Coach K was this adaption, showing the resemblance between Coach K and Count Chocula, although the actual picture of the latter looks more like the Duke Coach in my opinion.

During one game in particular, some ESPN announcers talked about the attitude the Duke Coach had about Chapel Hill, referring to his answer to a question during a press conference about doing business in any eatery in Chapel Hill, but when I think about it, just imagine the fun that any cook with a Tar Heel Blue point of view would have with that potentially delectable plate, so I guess I understand why Coach K would never eat at Chapel Hill. I don't have to like him to understand that. The same announcers also talked about Coach K's views before UNC games, the man knows trash talk.

Personally, I like UNC's Roy Williams. He seldom curses during a game. I've never seen it happen--not ever--but the man on the Duke end of the court often lets his opinion be known in terms less than gentlemanly, less than classy.

If he's going to represent the university that trains future Wall Street slimes, ambulance chasing lawyers and silver-tongued politician dudes, he should do better. I mean, really.

When I see him often on the sideline, the word that spews from his mouth is not Coach K talking about those North Carolina blue fire trucks, and those trucks are a pretty sight to see any time of year.

And as emotional as I often get at a game, I never use that word or hear others use it--at least not since I was 18 years old and in high school, where cursing was an art form perfected by farm boys, but those agrarian youths had a lot more class while shoveling dung than what Coach K has on the floor during most UNC games.

His athletes mirror his behavior too. I think the word "ape" his behavior is the better word.

The picture at the left is my favorite Photoshop that my son found on the internet. Dahntay Jones, John Sheyer and Matt Christensen are obvious favorites of the fans of several different universities besides UNC.

Matt Christensen, however, has one last picture that is my favorite. Maybe it's because I always had a fascination with that old Disney film about little people and a young girl with an outrageous vibrato.

I think it's the pose of Matt attempting to hit that high note that is especially appealing. I'm sure that Disney Park authorities were on alert.

It's not often when it appears that a Disney character passes a kidney stone while entertaining guests.

But if you're going to pass a stone, why not do it passionately. I mean really.

The final Christensen picture is one entitled Mattzilla for obvious reasons. I like it, because I watched those Japanese Godzilla B movies during the 60's. Seeing the picture made me realize that if Godzilla fights the Dukey, I want the lizard to win.

The time, when I saw those Japanese B films in my youth, was a magical moment; it was when you could buy great popcorn, cheap treats and sodas. It was a time when no one knew what "super size it" meant, so no one ever purchased anything that would result in a 15 pound gain while watching a movie. There was, however, an option for requesting butter on popcorn during those interesting times, but the large size was the same as the small portion today. Those memories of the past were of real butter too, not the "almost butter" type of thing, that in most cases, has more calories in a large bucket than we we had in bag available when I was young.

It was a time when refs called a player for a technical foul when they didn't raise their hand after a foul, and any "naughty word" meant being banned from the court for at least a couple of games. Coaches could see more severe consequences.

But they were times, when I don't remember thinking, that a particular coach looked like Mini Me or Count Chocula.

I can't explain why I feel like I do about Duke, other than I listened to some wealthy, Duke students talk with Today Show hosts once a few summers ago. It was during the show when interviews happen with the crowd outside. These students were the ultimate examples of snobbery, of ego, of elitism.

It's difficult for me to tolerate, even if someone earns it because of ability, but those young people felt empowered and entitled before earning a degree. They were better than 95% of Americans, because they felt they were.

It was irritating to me. It was maddening to me.

Ironically, we have a local team that traditionally had the Tar Heel colors. I really disliked them too, and I still do. A fan told me that they viewed the school as the "Harvard of the West." Wow! I always figured that of two particular institutions in Utah County--the Utah State Mental Hospital and BYU--there was only one requiring an individual actually to show improvement before graduation or before introduction into society. I imagine the whole introduction process like a "catch and release" situation. You open the cage. The person makes a mad dash.

Once while sitting in the stands during a game against my beloved Utah State, the Cache Valley fans began chanting the traditional chant they used: "BYU, BYU. . . where the girls are 'perty' and the boys are too." It was the fall of 1971, and I found myself sitting among the Cougar faithful repeating the words.

I attended BYU because of a girl, and I married her too. For those who don't know her or haven't met her, I still think she's "perty," even "pertier" now than all those years ago, and following her to Happy Valley was the best thing I did in my life. The fact that I went to school there for two semesters meant that I "really" loved her.

I hesitate to mention following my Sweetie like I did in these times of political correctness. I guess someone might term that as stalking, but I was a hunter, and I beg to differ, I wasn't hunting my Sweetie. I was just . . .well, I was just waiting for the right time to begin dating her again.

It happened, and I married her, the best thing I did in my life.

I look to finish this post the way I started it: showing a great picture of Dick Vitale at the left and Coach K on the right. I'm not sure, what player sits between them, but it doesn't really matter, because I wouldn't like them anyway, so since I don't know the person's name, we'll just call the picture Napoleon Dukomite. Besides, the one in the middle looks dumb. IT fits.

Coach K is "creepy and he's kooky, mysterious and spooky," and all three are "all together ooky." They're the Dukomite Family.

Regardless what team you love, locally or nationally, what would sports be without rivalries like this?

I mean, really. "You gotta love it, baby!"

Sammy's Phone Call

We find fun things when we shop now. It isn't just about princess dresses at Disneyland or dinosaurs online or even Star Wars and train sets. It's about seeing things that make my granddaughter's eyes sparkle.

Both make me smile.

When Lydia called us and had the kids sitting to talk on Skype. Tommy and Anna stood in front of the computer. They both talked at the same time, an excited chatter at being able to see us and tell us about the latest package we sent.

Sammy sat on the computer chair behind them.

Now you're probably asking yourself how I knew that. It was because Sammy stands and began jumping up to see us. Every few seconds, we would see her face rise above Tommy and Anna, before disappearing behind them once more.

And when she finally took a seat in front of the computer, letting the taller two grandchildren stand behind her, she began blowing us kisses in a way that Sammy invented. She would put her finger in her mouth, pull it out with a little pop, and they she'd show it toward the screen.

It's the simple things in life, that make it so wonderful. Each of my grandchildren do things that are unique. My own children were like that too, so I'm sure that most people will say that about their own, but it's just that I like mine best.

And when it comes to shopping for things, my own eccentricities begin to appear. Every child needs a hat. That's why my grandchildren have one.

Besides the whole hat thing. There is another fascination that I find interesting, something evident in world culture right now, but it also affects my grandchildren. Everyone seems to have this strange attraction with a cell phone.

One by one, all four have found ways to call Grandma and Pop Pop. We get a call, notice the ID, and when we talk, either silence or a child's breathing is on the line. Eventually, they get the courage to speak. That's when a parent notes the minutes disappearing on a cell phone.

The other day, our youngest called.

I hear the phone ring. I see the caller ID and notice that it's a call from Lydia, so I pick up. I hear nothing. Then Sammy begins to squawk a bit. I start talking to Sammy.

Then Sammy must have tried to get her mom to take the phone by hitting Lydia with it. "Don't do that. It really hurt." I hear Lydia's voice on the line. Sammy begins to cry, so I intercede.

Since Sammy was a baby, I would make growling noises to entertain her. She stops crying and begins growling. I continue. The phone suddenly grows silent.

I phone Lydia. "Dad, was Sammy talking to you on the phone?"

We laughed about it, but Lydia really laughed over the fact that she couldn't figure why the phone was making growling noises.

It's the simple things that make life so much fun.

When People From Idaho Understand The Duke UNC Rivalry

There was a time when I enjoyed watching UNC, Virginia and Duke play basketball in the NCAA tournament, and it happened almost every year.

While doing program called the Mandel Fellowship at The United States Holocaust Museum in DC, I had a colleague, who was a UNC grad. I've always had a habit of teasing people, and I made the mistake of kidding about being a Duke fan.

She found no humor in it.

It was the mid 90's, and I really had no idea about what happened there, until my son and my daughter-in-law basically schooled me on the whole thing.

But even before that time, I watched a large contingent of Duke students standing outside the Today Show one morning. The weatherman interviewed them, and it fueled the fire for what would eventually develop into my wearing North Carolina blue.

Ann and I spent some time in Carolina. I loved the "lightening bugs" at night. They have these large pine trees there, that remind me of the Kiefer in Berlin's Gruene Wald.

When you visit Chapel Hill, you start to notice things: blue fire engines, blue Santa hats, blue wigs.

But there is nothing like seeing a basketball game in their arena--feeling the passion and hearing fans cheer for Tar Heel basketball.

And when I attended my son's graduation, it shocked me just a little when--during the singing of the North Carolina fight song--people my age shouted the words "Go to hell Duke!" immediately after the last note.

I smiled.

Because I remembered seeing the pompous Duke students on the Today show, and since that time, they still irritate me while watching basketball games. They are poor losers, but even when they win, they are unbearable. It's a situation, where Duke plays both roles the same way: poor losers and poor winners.

They taunt the losing team, especially the Tar Heels, and even when UNC plays on their home court, the refs seem to make calls against North Carolina. My son sat behind a supervisor of the refs in their conference and watched the man berate his colleagues for poor calls in a game. I keep hoping that sooner or later, those kind of people will no longer officiate games, but it's an imperfect world, and Duke--contrary to their own opinion about themselves--are part of that dilemma.

So now, I own a Carolina blue Santa hat; I curse the refs whenever I see a call go against UNC; but most importantly, I enjoy watching Coach Williams, who by the way, is everything that embodies "class" on the court. You notice him, especially when you see a Duke game. He's the classy guy who never curses, not even the little word like damn, but if you read lips and don't mind looking at an ugly face, check out Mikey on the Duke bench. He'll teach any crude redneck some new takes on any number of interesting combinations of choice references.

The difference between both benches is more than noticeable.

Now I would never admit to have been a Duke fan from afar, but I do love the Tar Heels that way, and I will for a very long time.

And yes, this past week when Duke played West VA, I cried tears of joy when the Blue Devils lost. You do that, when you get the rivalry.

Anna's Stay In Florida

Pink is still Anna's signature color.

One thing for certain. Skype took the pain out of not seeing my little ones more often than once or twice in a year's time.

Phone calls are nice, but seeing live pictures of the kids in front of their computer is too much fun.

This picture is one that hopefully will remind Anna of her first year in school. And I hope that next year finds Anna, Tommy and Sammy closer to Idaho.

Tommy's Picture

We had pictures taken of Tommy and Jack when they were still very little. It was early in Jeff's journey toward becoming a practicing doctor, and during that time, they were able to spend a bit of time with us in Idaho Falls.

It was a great time. The two boys were fun, and they still are. They remain cousins and friends. It's like it should be.

This picture is not one that is really something I view as realistic. Tommy is not a hugger.

At this age or a bit older, I could see him gripping a small Thomas The Train locomotive or even a car, but not a teddy bear. That's just not Tommy, but the picture brings back wonderful memories.

It would only be a few months later when both boys were one year old. We did a trip to Disneyland. I finished my fight with leukemia. I was in remission.

Being sick again was a picture that I never viewed. It was a happy time.

But now things are even better. Anna arrived. We did Disneyland, and we even discovered that I could buy a child in my family princess dresses.

I swore I would never do that.

Ann was tolerant of that attitude too, until we had grandchildren. But I warmed up to the idea, as soon as I saw the smile spread across Anna's face while wearing that tacky gown around the park. She had the gloves, the veil and the glass slippers too.

And that night, like she did with every princess dress we bought at Disneyland, she cried at the thought of not sleeping in the thing too.

And we'll do the same thing for little Sammy too, if she truly wants that.

Oh, and Lydia, please send me pictures of Tommy. This is the only one I have from the last batch, and I would sure like to see some video clips or pictures of one of his baseball games.

Wonderland Florida Style (In Winter of Course)

I always found the South a great place during the winter. When Cles graduated from UNC Chapel Hill, I flew out for December graduation, and we walked to the ceremony in shirtsleeves. Even at night, the temperatures were warm.

Cles and Leslie drove me to Charlottesville while I was there that year in December, and the weather was the same. It was sunset, and we still walked to the car without coats.

This year, the winter of 2010/2011, was an exception to what I experienced a number of years ago.

I'm not sure, but I think Lydia took this picture of Jeff and the kids while visiting St. Augustine a while ago.

Even in the year when we went to The Bahamas, before our children married and before grandchildren, Christmas in Florida was incredible.

Cles and I walked to the hot tub at the beginning of that trip, about 100 yards from our room. We went dressed in swim trunks, sandals and short-sleeved shirts, and we didn't stay in for very long. The water was too hot for the outside temperature. It was like a summer night. I loved our time in Orlando that year on Christmas Eve, yet after we returned from our cruise, the days there were unusually cold that year.

I just remember wearing coats like Jeff and the kids have on here in this picture. In fact, that year in Orlando found me being chilled all day. I wore a sweat shirt, much like what Tommy wears in this picture.

But the weather, in spite of the odd cold snaps during both winters, was much better than here in Idaho today. It felt warm outside, while Ann and I were running errands this past afternoon. The temperature was actually higher that 35 degrees for a while. I saw some ice melting, but maybe it was just my wishful thinking.

Hey Jack! Alles Gute zum Geburtstag!

Eight years have passed quickly. That was a time, when I suddenly realized that speaking perfect German and taking students to Europe in the summer conflicted with what I would want to do in the near future. Leaving grandchildren behind and going for a month was not something I wanted to think about at this time.

Change is a good thing.

And besides Jack at this time in late February or early March of 2003, my English Bulldog kept a curious watch at a new fan, who would eventually play and frolic about the house.

But things change, sometimes for the worst. I became sick. I had to give up my dog, and this first grandson became the focus of our hearts.

And then more changes happened--good ones too. I survived leukemia AML. And one at a time, we suddenly had four grandchildren, four beautiful grandchildren--all with distinct personalities, all with eccentricities like everyone else in our family. It's what makes them special. It's what makes them fun and easy to remember forever.

But this day is about Jack's birthday.

It began slowly. He went to bed early, so that we didn't make the same mistake twice: a grouchy Jack means that he stayed up too late watching DVD's with Pop Pop.

My alarm began at 6:50 a.m. The train alarm, that I bought in Germany in '97, not only chugs but sends exceptionally loud train whistles. I figure that the entire neighborhood becomes startled momentarily, whenever it begins to race at the selected hour.

Jack was in his room playing. His TV hooked up to his Wii was on, and he started watching a film from Netflix. I peeked around the corner through the doorway.

"How's my birthday boy?"

His eyes flashed suddenly, because he forgot about this special day. Jack dropped everything, the sword in one hand and knight's mace in the other. They rested beside his battle ax. He'd been up long enough to create a minor disaster in his version of a "man cave."

Grandpa found Star Wars gift wrapping paper, so that in itself was a fun deal.

The Lego games featured three small tops, atop which you place a tiny Ninja warrior with a spear, a sword, an ax, or a bone. I'm not sure how the game works, but Jack was ecstatic. It's something we can do that is easy. I'm not much for games with confusing instructions, unless of course it's some sort of board game with great pieces that come with it.

Suddenly, Jack is old enough to play Risk or Broadsides or Conquest or any number of the other games that we once played when my own children were older and I wasn't too exhausted from working two and three jobs.

I'm still tired, but it's not the same.

The birthday celebration went quickly. Grandma had meetings in Pocatello. It's a job she enjoys, and not only does it give her a chance to make a difference in schools, but it gives her something to do to occupy her mind.

Grandma never liked sitting still. I didn't either, but my choices are limited in some ways. The chance, however, to spend as much time with her and my grandchildren is incredible, and this day was no exception.

Time passes so quickly.

It seems like only yesterday, when I cradled a tiny boy in my arms, one so small that it made me feel uneasy. My English Bulldog watched and seemed to mirror the proud smile I wore on my face during those times in the past, but now suddenly, not only is Jack a little boy, but he becomes a Cub Scout today.

And as much as I hate that whole Pine Derby thing, I'll do anything for my grandchildren--even put up with the ridicule of having a car look and run miserably.

I never was good at making those things, but at least now I possibly "know a guy or two," who can help us out and get my grandson into some serious competition. After all, the whole Pinewood Derby thing is more about dad's reliving a moment.

I'm not sure what that moment is, but I don't like seeing my little ones lose big time.

Today is a great day, because I lived a moment, where a birthday means getting old enough to play board games and wear Cub Scout uniforms and do "big people stuff." I forgot how fun it was to look forward to getting older,

because there is something about the past that makes me smile too.

But some time in the future, I hope to visit Berlin with my Sweetie and my grandchildren. I want them to hear the language. I want them to taste a great Currywurst. I want them to see the magic of a city I loved, and hopefully someone--in the vernacular of Berliner Schnautze--will say this to one of my birthday grandchildren at the time: Allet Jute ooch zum Jeburtstach!