Puzzles
When my son was eight years old, he started a small newspaper called, Saturday News. Each issue carried two or three items about the Curran family and Greensboro, North Carolina, where we lived at the time. Chris sent copies to grandparents, aunts and uncles to keep them informed and solicit interesting stories. He even printed letters from readers such as the kind words from his Florida grandmother encouraging him to keep up the good work. The newsletters improved each week and by the time Chris was nine, with the aid of our new computer, he was producing professional-looking papers. That was twenty years ago. I ran across these newsletters as we were cleaning out our attic and chuckled as I read them. One article in particular caught my attention. SOLITAIRE Mom...
Nabber
For his retirement last year, I gave my husband a Nifty Nabber, one of those long poles you see inmates using to pick up trash along the highway. On our daily walks, we always see trash in the neighborhood and are confounded by people who don’t clean up their yards and surrounding streets. (It takes everyone, folks, to keep a neighborhood looking nice!) The trash has become one of our pet peeves, so I considered the Nabber a good choice. My gift was, of course, a joke; I never expected George to actually use it. But he has, driving around the neighborhood and getting out of the car to nab rubbish and put it in a bucket for later disposal. My husband, the Neighborhood Nabber. I retired recently so now he expects me to accompany him on these excursions. My job:...
Music
Our home, when I was born, was the second floor of Melba and Harold Hyde’s house near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Though the Hydes were my parents’ landlords, they became like family to us, so we often shared meals in their kitchen. After dinner, Harold would move to his old upright piano, set his can of beer on top, and begin to entertain. He didn’t use print music; he just curled his fingers on the keyboard and played the music living in his head. When I grew old enough to stand, I would get as close as I could, gripping the edge of the piano bench to keep my balance, and watch his fingers dance across the keys. I was mesmerized by the beautiful sounds he created. We moved to our own house when I was two, leaving the piano behind, but while...
Older?
We’re at the Gulf coast in November, off-season. There are fewer people on the beach and in restaurants, and fewer cars on the road. Everything is calm and slower-paced, a perfect time for our visit. Based on the gray hair and sagging, splotched skin of the folks staying with us at the Wyndham Beach Street Cottages, I’d say most are retired, like us. Where we’re alone, however, several of these couples have grandkids with them, children who appear to be about the age of my grandkids. And this is where I get confused. If the ages of our grandchildren are comparable, doesn’t it follow that the ages of the grandparents should be comparable? George and I were in our thirties before we had kids, where most of our generation were in their twenties, so I would even...
Mom and Dad
They lived near the entrance to the neighborhood, the couple we referred to as Mom and Dad. They were a bit older than us and seemed to be retired, though we don’t know for sure since we never met them. They had the most beautifully landscaped/manicured yard in our subdivision, sure to catch the attention of anyone driving in. It was so immaculate and inspiring, it almost made you believe all the other yards were just as perfect, though very few were. The two worked in their yard every morning–mowing, trimming, planting, pruning; a familiar sight on my drive to work. And if I came home for lunch, I would find them sitting in red chairs, sharing a pitcher of iced tea and gazing at their yard, enjoying the fruits of their labor. The pride they took in their...
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