Summer reading

My favorite of the bunch.Now that Memorial Day -- meaning summer! -- has arrived, every print and online magazine for women touts summer reading lists. I've never really understood the emphasis on summer reading lists because summer has always been the season I'm least likely to pick up a book, as there's always far too much to do in the yard and lots of outdoor events to attend. But if I had my druthers, I would be whiling away the long summer days in the shade of a leafy tree, with a big ol' pile of books to read and Bubby at my side to share them.

Because many grandparents likely feel the same way about reading with their grandchildren, I've compiled a list of books I recently had the opportunity to review, books I think grandparents -- and parents and aunts and uncles and friends -- would be happy to share with the kids in their lives. Head to the Back Room to read my Book briefs: Summer reading for kids where you're sure to find something sweet, silly, sporty or scary, something for kids of all ages.

Enjoy! And Happy Memorial Day!

Today's question:

What adult fare do you have at the top of your summer reading list?

My answer: I'm currently reading Juliet by Anne Fortier. (I was fortunate to nab an advance copy; the book goes on sale in August.)

Getting comfortable

Some of you may find this hard to believe, considering how much I babble on this blog, but I was excruciatingly timid for the first 20 or so years of my life. I was scared of many things, but most importantly I was scared of other people because in my mind they were bigger, better, smarter, sweeter and certainly better looking than I would ever be.

But then I had kids. And I had no choice but to play Mama Bear. I had to go against my natural instincts and be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my daughters. And I got pretty good at defending my family.

Then I became an editor and had to ramp up the courage another notch or two. I had to be brave, strong and protective -- for the sake of my staff. I got pretty good at that, too. (Of course, I couldn't save our department from being cut, but that's another story.)

Because of my role as mom and my role as editor, I learned to not care too much what others thought of me. But in the last two weeks, I've had two experiences that point out that in my current role of grandma I've finally aged enough, evolved enough that I truly am comfortable with who I am, regardless of what others may think of me.

The first involved the Roto-Rooter man. Sounds like this could lead somewhere disgusting, but stay with me ... it doesn't. You see, we have lots of trees on our property, lots of roots clogging up our plumbing system and lots of backups that flooded our basement in the few years we've lived here. So this year I decided to be proactive and have the Roto-Rooter-type guy clean out our system before the backup could happen. Well, turns out the hole for him to work on such things is right below the tree where the mourning doves have returned to nest and hatch their babies. So once the cleaning was done, I pointed out to the guy the mama bird who had sat above his head the entire time. He apparently wasn't much for birding and didn't know what the mourning dove was. So I told him. "They're the birds that do this ..." and I proceeded to do the mourning dove call: "ooh AH hoo hoo hoo." Ten, even five years ago I would never have done such a thing, would have been mortified if such an embarrassing sound escaped on its own, much less vocalize it on purpose. The guy glanced at me sideways and mumbled "Oh, I think I know which one you're talking about," and left it at that. I know he thought I was a nut, but I didn't care. At all. And I realize in retrospect what a giant leap that was for me.

An even bigger leap came this past week. Because we have all those trees I mentioned, when hurricane-strength winds (no exaggeration!) hit town a few days ago, one of those trees broke ... right over the neighbor's fence. So we had to call our trusty tree service dude to make the final cut that would save the fence and save us from our wacky neighbor who still carries the bullet in his head from a stint in Iraq. (A sad, sad story, but again, one for another time.)

Before I go any further, let me say that I have really, really, really dark circles under my eyes. (Stay with me; it comes into play.) They're not bags, just circles, gifted to me by my dad. And I hate them. And I never, ever, ever allow anyone to see me without at least some cover-up under the eyes. When the girls had friends stay the night, I'd get up early to shower and slap on some makeup before the kids awoke. Same goes for when relatives would visit. Even when I was in the hospital for a fairly lengthy visit, I made sure I had my cover-up and a mirror for applying it as I lay in the bed. My dark circles were my dark secret.

But now that I'm older and wiser -- and a grandma -- it seems I don't give a cuss about circles anymore, dark, light or otherwise. For when the tree guy -- who has been to our house several times, all for which I was fully prepared and fully covered -- came to fully amputate our tree, I met him at the door fresh from my morning walk with the dogs, smelling I'm sure not so fresh in my sweaty T-shirt, shorts and ponytail ... and no makeup. Not a speck, not a drop. And I hadn't even considered racing to the bathroom to swipe the cover-up stick under my eyes before his arrival. Because I no longer care.

That, my friends, may be one small step for most women but an unbelievably huge leap for this grandma. Trust me on this.

I make weird bird noises. I have dark circles under my eyes. I am no longer timid. I am no longer afraid of what others think of me.

I am grandma. And I am comfortable with that.

Today's question:

What have you become more comfortable with as you've gotten older?

How to make grandmas scramble

Last year's happy begonias.I was at Lowe's the other day to pick up some flowers and such before the mad rush of Memorial Day Weekend cleans out the place. I have a lot of containers in the backyard to fill, so I set about picking up some zinnias, some begonias, some pansies, some geraniums, knowing that was only about one-third of what I need, but it's a start.

Shopping on a Tuesday afternoon, when most folks are working, meant lots of older folks were roaming the aisles, lots of grandmas and grandpas ... some old enough to be my grandma and grandpa. I waited my turn in the checkout line amidst the other grandparents and finally made it to the counter, where the young cashier gal scanned my zinnias, my pansies, my geraniums. Then she got to the big hanging basket of begonias. Naturally, there was no barcode sticker on the basket.

"Let me look it up," the gal says, typing it into the register, then flipping through the cheatsheet notebook beside her. "Nope, it's not in there."

So I asked if she'd like me to run get another basket, as they were pretty close to the door. She said "yes," I ran and got the basket as irritation set in with the older folks waiting in line behind me, a look of sympathy for those irritated folks on the faces of the grandmas and grandpas in the line next to us.

I race back to the counter with the basket, the gal scans it. "What's it ring up as?" I asked. I hadn't even looked for a price when picking up the basket because for the past two years, I've had a cuss of a time finding begonias. Yeah, they're not the most beautiful or fragrant flowers in the world, but they love my backyard. And living in a crazy high-altitude climate such as I do, I've learned that if a plant loves my place, then I love it. So I felt I'd struck gold when I found basket after basket in the garden center at Lowe's and it didn't really matter to me what they cost.

"Well, it says $1.24," the gal said. "But that can't be right."

"No," I told her, "that's certainly not right. Do you want me to get another basket?"

Of course she said "yes," so I grabbed the one, raced off for another, grabbed it and returned as quickly as possible so as to minimize the daggers directed at me by all the other grandmas in line. One grandpa even moved from the line to lean against the racks just beyond the register, so he could act impatient directly in front of me, like it was my fault the cuss begonias didn't have a cussing tag.

"Nope, that one rings up at $1.24, too," the cashier gal said. To which I responded that if that's the case, if it's coded wrong and that's what it's ringing up as, there's nothing the poor girl -- who looked worried because she knew darn well it was a $15 to $20 basket -- then it's not her fault. "But ... if that's what they're ringing up as, I'll take that one, too," I told her.

The grandma in line behind me leaned in and whispered, "What are they going for?" So I told her -- and she nodded to her partner Grandpa and quickly headed to the outdoor display to grab a basket for herself as he held their place in line.

Then the grandpa impatiently reclining on the shelves nearby leaned toward me. "How much?" And I had no choice but to tell him.

Next I heard one grandma behind me say to the next grandma in that second line, "Begonias? For $1.24? I'm getting some." She headed out the door ... just as the first grandma to ask me tapped me on the shoulder and asked just exactly where they're located outside because she'd rushed off not knowing where she was going. I pointed, and another grandma raced to that area. Then another grandma in the second line asked her fellow customers about the price. "If that's what they're charging, I gotta get some," she said.

Murmurs of exclamation moved down both register lines, all the while my poor cashier girl looked concerned as she finished up my transaction. "If that's how they coded it, it's not your fault," I tried to console her.

"Yeah, I'll need to check that right away," she said.

"At this rate, there won't be any left for you to worry about," I said.

We finished up, and I pulled my big ol' cart of garden goodies past the grandmas scrambling for begonias. I felt a bit like a thief as I walked to the truck to load 'em up, pretty sure that at any moment I'd get a tap on the shoulder from a manager who'd proceed to tell my to get my tail back in the store and pay up.

Didn't happen. I was thankful to get such a deal but regretted putting my cashier gal in such an awkward position -- probably fearing for her job -- by sharing that deal with the other grandmas around me.

Most of all, though, I regretted not picking up another basket or two while the getting was good.

Today's question:

What's your most recent great deal, on a purchase or otherwise?

The next Grilled Grandma

I gotta say, I have three daughters, one grandchild and one blog and it keeps me pretty darn busy. This week's Grilled Grandma, Karen, has EIGHT children, TEN grandchildren and TWO blogs! And she makes it work. "My work is never 'done,' she says in her grilling. "I am rarely the doting grandma who makes cookies. We make healthy smoothies instead."

Making it work is only part of the story, for Karen is truly the most courageous Grilled Grandma I've had yet. Karen has a touching backstory about raising several of her grandchildren, which was the impetus for starting a website to help support and encourage other grandparents in similar situations.

Be sure to visit Karen's website and accompanying blog to read her story, as it's not one shared in the grilling. You can find the links to both her website and her blog at the bottom of her grilling, which you can find right HERE.

Today's (unrelated) question:

What was the most unusual thing in your cart the last time you grocery shopped?

My answer: A frozen veggie pizza. I never buy frozen veggie pizzas for Jim and myself, but Andie was watching the house and animals while we were in South Dakota, and that was one of her requested food items for her stay.

The tortoise and the hare-like grandma

Gah! With all the busy-ness of the past week or two, I completely forgot to get a gift in the mail to Bubby! How could I do that, especially for such an important event?

What? Huh?

No, I didn't miss Bubby's second birthday. We'll head to the desert to celebrate that in a few weeks. What I forgot to mark in a timely fashion is World Turtle Day!

World Turtle Day, sponsored by American Tortoise Rescue, was started to increase respect and knowledge for the world'’s oldest creatures. According to ATR, the critters been around for about 200 million years, yet they are rapidly disappearing as a result of the exotic food industry, habitat destruction and the cruel pet trade. The ATR website has some pretty dern informative turtle tidbits, such as, "If a tortoise is crossing a busy street, pick it up and send it in the same direction it was going. If you try to make it go back, it will turn right around again."

This year the 10th World Turtle Day was celebrated on Sunday ... May 23 ... while I was in South Dakota ... where the buffalo roam and where I saw lots of deer and antelope playing but nary a turtle that I had to help make its way across a busy street.

When I realized my blunder of forgetting to mark the day for Bubby -- it fits perfectly with my mission to regularly celebrate wacky nationally recognized dates with my grandson -- I hopped online in hare-like fashion and ordered the most awesome tortoise to be delivered to him lickity split. That's it in the picture above. Yeah, it'll arrive a few days late -- not so hare-like at all, I guess -- but I'm pretty sure Bubby will enjoy it just the same.

And because it's made of plastic, Bubby won't have to worry at all that his turtle toy will attempt any daredevil street-crossings! Frankly, he'll likely need to worry more about forgetting the little guy out in the hot desert sun where it'll melt into a puddle of ticky-tacky tortoise goo, which would be so not in line with the ATR's mission "to save turtles and tortoises for the next generation."

Happy belated World Turtle Day to one and all!

Today's question:

Did you or anyone you know have a turtle when you were a kid?

My answer: I didn't, but my cousins did -- and it was less than four-inches long, which, according to the ATR website, is a seriously illegal critter to have in one's possession. Tsk, tsk on Aunt Ruby for allowing such things! But then again, that was about 40 years ago and maybe turtle possession is one of those things that once skirted regulation ... kind of like hitchiking and entering stores without shirts or shoes.

Wheat, chaff and baby teeth

As I mentioned yesterday, Jim and I spent Saturday with three of Jim's five siblings plus a couple nieces and nephews clearing out the storage shed that held everything from the last apartment Jim's mom lived in, her last home and the place she resided when a stroke unexpectedly ripped her from her life and plopped her down in a hospital bed to wait out her days.

My mother-in-law was always a fastidious housekeeper, a truly tidy grandma. But the unexpectedness of the emergency medical situation meant she never had the chance to tie up her life belongings into beribboned bundles or to even discard such things as drawers full of hair-color conditioner tubes and expired grocery coupons. Which meant her kids had a lot of stuff to go through, a lot of work to do paring her possessions into piles to pass along to her children and grandchildren, honoring her by not pitching it all into the charity bin.

To be honest, it was a relatively quick task as Jim's mom lived a spare and simple life. And, as Granny prided herself on being ever the educator, the task indeed taught me a few lessons about getting my own things and my own life in order so my kids and grandkids have an easier time separating the wheat from the chaff once I'm gone.

Here are a few of those lessons:

Keep a notebook or journal -- placed in a prominent spot -- detailing which possessions you'd like to go to whom. There were thankfully no arguments over my mother-in-law's goods, but we all could only guess what her desire may be ... and I'm pretty sure we missed the mark on at least a few. A will may be the answer, but how many wills go so far as to say which kid gets the red afghan versus the white or the flowered teapot versus the striped?

Always label photos with the names of those in the pictures and the date. As we perused the hundreds of photos, we were at a loss again and again without Granny around to let us know which baby belonged to whom and why one wacky woman wore the getup featuring what appeared appeared to be a bikini-clad sumo wrestler.

Minimize the mementos from your children's early years. Mother's Day gifts made in preschool, unidentifiable art-class and woodshop projects and every scrap of sentimentality have their place, but it's a very limited place. Save only those that really tug at the heart strings, not every crayon-scribbled, glitter-pocked piece of paper.

Speaking of paper, get rid of (most of) it. There's no need to save every single greeting card, every single receipt, every single recipe that one may have intended to try but never did. A paper shredder -- of which we found an unused one in Granny's possession -- comes in handy for such things.

Same goes for toiletry samples and hotel freebies. As Jim and his siblings chuckled about the blue tube after blue tube of the Clairol conditioning cream that comes with the hair color but is far too much for any normal woman to use as directed on the tube, I had to fess up that I have a handful, okay a basketful, of the very same conditioning cream tubes in my own bathroom cabinet. I'll be pitching those ... soon.

Thank you for these lessons and more, Granny. I'll do my best to soon institute them in my life, my home, my piles of stuff. I'll do it in honor of you -- and to nip in the bud the giggles, grins and guffaws sure to come from my daughters if they were to one day discover the Ziploc baggie I have filled with baby teeth individually wrapped in tissues, all deftly pulled from under pillows by this grandma formerly known as the Tooth Fairy.

Today's question:

Which of the "lessons" from above are you most in need of instituting in your life?