Moon Over the Caribbean
It all started where stories of this ilk always start—with the Mouse. Several years ago, when pollywogs Bryan and Tyler were two years old, Tim built Mickey Mouse measuring sticks for them with the promise that, when they were tall enough for the rides, we would take them to Disney World. By the age of four, the little boys had reached the age of maturity; unfortunately, Tim and I had passed the age of enough energy required to endure long lines and concrete at the home of the Mouse and his minions. So a cruise it was.
The next year pollywog Anna Lauren was potty trained with the promise of tagging along with her cousins. Three weeks before we were to set sail Tim fell off a ladder, breaking several body parts. With help from our daughter Rachel and sister-in-law Shelley, we propped him up in a wheelchair and didn’t miss a beat. How in the world did the pollywogs’ annual four-night Disney birthday cruise morph into an eight-night extravaganza for nineteen?
This year the word was out. Kids and adults were having far too much fun, and the entire family wanted to get in on the action. Our kids—Jeremy, Jennifer, and Anna Lauren, Evan, Krissy, and Keegan, Rachel, BJ, Tyler and Wynn— along with my brother Ted, sister-in-law Shelley, nephew Bryan, and Tim’s sister Debbie, her husband Rick, and their granddaughters Jamie and Alyssa ponied up. So what happens when nineteen members of the same family go on a cruise together?
We swooped in from Atlanta, Huntsville, and Charlotte the day before the cruise and checked in at The Residence Inn across from the port to recoup from travel trauma. ATL always provides some type of anxiety. The kids swam while the rest of us visited with Uncle Bud and Aunt Carol who live nearby.
The next morning the Richmond group arrived, and everyone scurried to catch the shuttle to the port. The kids had their mouse ears, prince, princess, and pirate costumes, and autograph books; the adults had their credit cards; and Tim had Mickey painted on his toes.
Rachel, usually unconcerned about being on time, quickly rounded up her family at daybreak and marched them out of the hotel door. They arrived at the terminal with the cleaners and check-in crew and were dutifully named “First Family”, a special recognition that included access to a handler, the characters, and the lunch buffet. They reveled in the glory of their “First Family” status for the remainder of the day and reminded us at every opportunity.
After lunch we descended upon our staterooms like a swarm of bees. We were on a mission—get those doors decorated with hundreds of specially designed magnets otherwise how would we be able to tell who was in which room?
Thanks to six-month old Wynn, we were excused from the mandatory boat drill ahead of the crowd and ran for the pool. It was almost time for the sail away party, and I didn’t want to miss showing Shelley the improvement in my “YMCA” hand gestures. By 4 p.m., the Disney Magic was at sea, and our little party of nineteen was eagerly highlighting activities in the Navigator. Port of call adventures, new cruising experiences, shopping, and celebrating would be the real highlights of our trip.
Key West was our first port of call. Rachel, BJ, Evan, and Krissy needed a little “me” time and went snorkeling. The rest of us walked from the ship, past the statues of well-endowed naked ladies to the hop-on, hop-off Conch Train. All of the boys (young and old) took notice of the ladies, and a couple of them, who shall remain nameless, returned for pictures.
Finding excursions for seven young children, ranging in ages from six months to 10 years, can be quite challenging. For some reason, I thought the train would be a good idea. Probably because kids rode free. I lasted for half the Conch Train ride. At the first stop, I announced that I was headed to the ice cream machine on the ship. Tim (no surprise there since ice cream was involved) and all seven of the kids—none of whom gave a flip about bougainvillea—decided that ice cream was more appealing than riding around sweltering Key West. Jeremy and Jennifer stayed ashore for Cuban sandwiches, and Ted, Shelley, Rick and Deb found a table with beer and nachos at Sloppy Joe’s.
At Grand Cayman, Jeremy and Jennifer swam with the dolphins; Rachel did laundry; and the rest of us tried to keep from walking the plank on a pirate ship. The pirates were friendly enough, especially after a couple of glasses of rum punch. The kids had to scrub the deck with toothbrushes which, of course, satisfied the adults almost as much as the rum punch.
We walked past Margaritaville on our way to the pirate ship and thought for sure it would be 5 o’clock somewhere by the time we returned. Jeremy and Jennifer were already there, and Jennifer was perched in one of those window-style balconies. She looked a little like she was up to something; after all, she has visited Amsterdam and New Orleans.
After lunch, the kids found the pool in the restaurant’s courtyard. Only a couple of other kids were there, so we moved into a cabana. The warden of the slide determined that Anna Lauren (3) and Alyssa (4) could slide if one of us waited in the pool to catch them. Shelley and I took turns until she heard the slide calling her name. Before the afternoon was over, that slide called her name about fifty times. For some inexplicable reason, Ted also heard the siren song. The water displacement wasn’t too bad.
Cozumel was…let’s just say it was interesting. Rachel, BJ, Jeremy, and Jennifer paid good money to drive dune buggies through the mud and crawl through bat caves. Like most children, they loved getting dirty. Personally, I’m not fond of an excursion that leaves me picking dirt balls out of my nostrils; but thankfully, they managed to rinse off most of the bat guano before dinner.
I found Chankanaab Park thanks to Google and bought tickets for five adults and five children for a dolphin encounter. Krissy and Wynn went along for the fun but couldn’t get in with the dolphins. She was pregnant, and he was too short. Our dolphin, Foxy, knew her stuff. We took turns kissing her on the lips (well, everyone but Tyler who wasn’t about to pucker up to a dolphin), dancing, rubbing her belly, and watching her jump. Although Tim, Evan, and I had been swimming with dolphins before, it was still an amazing adventure.
Ted, Shelley, and Bryan went to the more-expensive-but-also-more-thrilling-dolphin-time Dolphinaris. Remember, you get what you pay for. Shelley and Bryan did their dolphin swim without a hitch, and then it was Ted’s turn to ride. He held onto the fins as the dolphin took off. Unfortunately for Ted, his swimsuit did likewise. My brother, ever the quick thinker, turned his toes out just in the nick of time, managing to hang on to his suit while losing his dignity. I really wish Shelley had given her email address to one of the throng of onlookers who were snapping pictures.
One final word about Cozumel. Our group traveled in two vans to the park. Arriving went fine; both vans pulled up at the same place at the same time. Returning was a different story. Unbeknownst to any of us, the drivers let us out at two different locations. About 1 ½ hours later, we figured it out.
Seven night cruises offer a few more activities than shorter cruises. For example, the character breakfast at 8 a.m. is designed to give the children yet another opportunity to see Goofy and gang. John and Supatcha, our waiters/origami experts, made napkin hats for everyone. We looked ridiculous, the intention I feel certain. Ted’s napkin hat dangled beer tankards around his earlobes. It didn’t make up for missing his moon over the Caribbean, but it was still a sight to behold!
Tea with Alice is available on seven nighters but tickets are limited. Not to worry! Rachel wrangled tickets for the women and children while serving as the matriarch of the “First Family.” Keegan volunteered to be the White Rabbit and sat at the head table with the Mad Hatter and Alice. After the show, we were in the last “get your pictures with the Hatter and Alice” group until we learned that the White Rabbit’s family could go first. I don’t think they expected Keegan’s family to consist of six crazy women and seven children.
Another feature of a longer cruise is more formal nights. Everyone loves to trade in their swimsuits and flip flops for uncomfortable clothes and shoes. Speaking of shoes, Debbie poured her Coke in her shoes on formal night. Guess they hurt her feet.
Then there was shopping. Disney toys, t-shirts, pins, purses, watches, Goofy hats…the kids wanted it all. And the adults weren’t far behind. Debbie discovered those island-style dresses that hang from the shoulders or the bosom and hardly ever touch any other body parts. She shopped her way through every port looking for comfort. She also made a dent in the onboard shop. Among other things, she found a white baseball cap emblazoned with a pink “D” and tried to convince everyone that the “D” really stood for Debbie which was the reason she simply had to have it. In Cozumel, she couldn’t resist posing for a photo holding an iguana in her arms while a parrot perched on her new hat. While Rick paid the guy $5 for the privilege and the photo, the parrot peed on Debbie’s new hat.
For all nineteen of us, every day was a celebration of something. Tim gave the kids flags to add to their flag stands when they went to a new country. One night, birthday cakes and a chorus of Happy Birthday to You from the international wait staff reminded the kids that the cruise was a birthday gift. We also celebrated next year’s arrival of a new pollywog. A couple of days before they left home, Evan and Krissy learned that they would be having a boy in March. Krissy was a good sport and obsessed about her weight gain only when her fingers and toes began to resemble sausages.
Far too soon the week was over, and it was time to leave the magical floating kingdom. What happens when nineteen members of the same family go on a cruise together? Now you know.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Saturday, July 02, 2011
The St. Thomas Clampetts
May 26-June 3 2011
St. Thomas was Rachel’s idea. She was six months pregnant and no longer glowing; in fact, she was a little mean. Out of the blue, she announced that St. Thomas was her choice for summer vacation; we were all going the last week in May; and the new baby—whatever it was—would have to adjust. So, St. Thomas it was then.
By the time I learned that plane tickets were in the $500 range, the ship of reason had sailed. She was bigger than a bread box and not sleeping well. When her husband, BJ, reluctantly revealed that he couldn’t leave work until two days after the rest of us were flying down, things really got ugly. I thought about checking out his story with his boss but decided that some things were better left alone.
Tim and I drove to Huntsville to pick up Bryan (6) and leave Lucy to entertain Bubbles, Bryan new lab puppy. We got back to the lake just in time. Rachel, Tyler (5), and Wynn (8 weeks) arrived with so much stuff that I was sure she was here to stay. Three bulging-at-the-zippers suitcases, a backpack, diaper bag, hobo purse, bouncy seat, stroller, infant car seat, and a booster seat—oh my!
The next morning, Tim courageously crammed three more suitcases, another booster seat, his computer bag, various and sundry carry-on bags, purses, and backpacks into Rachel’s overlarge SUV, and we set off in pursuit of Wally World, an off-site parking lot, and the Atlanta airport.
The driver of the van at Wally World nearly fainted when Tim opened the back of the SUV. But Tim tipped well, and the guy began breathing normally. The scene was repeated when we checked in curbside at the airport. TSA wasn’t particularly amused when Tyler replied that he was 5 and 4 quarters years old or when the stroller wouldn’t fold up for the conveyor belt. Some people just have no sense of humor whatsoever!
Thankfully, the flight was uneventful—Wynn slept and proved wrong all the passengers who had given us dirty looks. Tim, Bryan and Tyler forgot about their earphones and kept talking at the top of their lungs, but Rachel and I pretended that we didn’t know them until potty-on-demand time. Rachel and I had learned more than a few hard lessons traveling with my dad, who flew with a diuretic racing through his system, and Tyler, who once announced minutes before landing that he needed to potty. On that occasion, Rachel had to stick his “monster” down an empty Gatorade bottle. The other passengers were not fooled.
While Tim found the car rental desk and Rachel went in search of a customs form, the boys and I loaded some of the eight or so extra bags onto the stroller and headed to the open-air baggage claim/rum bar. Any guesses on how long it takes to retrieve six suitcases, one infant seat base, and two booster seats while holding a baby and keeping an eye on two rascally boys?
Finally, we were ready to start our family vacation. Unfortunately, the rental car lot was across the street and up a flight of stairs.
Our growling stomachs reminded us that we had to find a grocery store before we checked in at the hotel. At a red light, Rachel asked a guy in the car next to us for directions to the nearest grocery store. Up ahead and across from Wendy’s was Pueblo, the nastiest and most expensive grocery store on the planet. Still, we had to eat. Somehow Tim found room in the van for $200 worth of groceries that had cost me $400, and we set out to find the condo. We only got lost once.
At the condo, the pool was beckoning, so we quickly unpacked and slathered on the sunscreen. Rachel packed the stroller with all necessary and unnecessary baby paraphernalia, three battery-powered fans, pool toys, cooler, first-aid kit and snacks and away we went down three elevators in three different buildings to the pool. Oh, yeah. She also packed Wynn but forgot the towels. I cheerfully volunteered to go back for them.
According to Rachel, this trip was part family vacation and part anniversary celebration. (I remind you that BJ missed the first two days of the celebration.) Therefore, she and BJ needed massages to relieve the stress of the family vacation part and needed to go on an all-day, just the two of them, water adventure to celebrate their anniversary. Oh, brother. Call me when you have three kids, teach middle school, and have no idea where to get a massage.
We promised the little boys a trip to Iggie’s for Carnivale Night. Who wouldn’t want to watch a lady on stilts wildly swinging her legs or a guy walking across broken glass? They were most anxious to see if the guy doing the limbo under a flaming bar would burn anything important. We never suspected that BJ would be the star of Carnivale.
At Iggie’s, the can of OFF at the hostess stand warned us that the No-see-ums were going to be a problem, but nothing prepared us for the authentic Caribbean cuisine. We had already passed on eating barbeque out of the back end of a station wagon, and we should have skipped the $38 per person buffet. BJ survived the food but finding Bryan barefoot outside the men’s restroom almost did him in. According to Tyler, Bryan was not only walking around inside the restroom barefoot but also crawled on the floor. BJ snatched up Bryan, made him wash his hands twice, and shared gruesome details of hygiene in the men’s room. Bryan may be scarred for life.
Then things really got good. Carnivale Lady danced across the sand on stilts while trying desperately to keep on her full-face mask. After putting on quite a show atop those skinny-bottomed stilts, she spotted BJ in the crowd. He looked like an able and willing, if somewhat goofy, dance partner. All of a sudden, Carnivale Lady was riding high on BJ’s shoulders. I expect that the goofy look was wiped off his face, but we couldn’t tell. His head was somewhere in her voluminous balloon pants. BJ was in the moment. I was so glad that he had had a massage earlier in the day. It got his muscles all limbered up.
For a week, Bryan and Tyler built sand castles at Magen’s Bay Beach, petted sharks and stingrays and fed the lorikeets at Coral World, rode the sky ride to the top of Charlotte Amalie (while BJ, who is deathly afraid of heights, tried not to scream like a little girl), picked up sea glass and shells at Brewer’s Bay, licked ice cream from Udder Delight, sailed on a catamaran around St. Thomas, colored pirate pictures, played Zingo at the kids’ club, rode the car ferry to St. John, watched Gnomeo and Juliet at the dive-in, endured swimming lessons, watched movies, ate tons of junk food, and chased iguanas around the pool. As Tyler says, they were “living the life!”
Rachel and BJ went on their private water adventure and loved snorkeling in the Caribbean. Tim picked them up late in the afternoon, and they all went to Duffy’s Love Shack and got leid.
Far too soon it was time to leave St. Thomas. Somehow Tim managed to get everything back inside the van for the trip to the airport. He dropped us off and returned the van to the lot across the street. At the Delta counter, they refused to take our luggage, making us drag everything through customs ourselves. When we finally got to customs, we learn that we should have filled out two forms rather than one. I started praying that TSA wouldn’t make Tim take off his belt to go through security. That was usually his tipping point at an airport, and he was seriously close.
Family vacations are not for the faint of heart.
May 26-June 3 2011
St. Thomas was Rachel’s idea. She was six months pregnant and no longer glowing; in fact, she was a little mean. Out of the blue, she announced that St. Thomas was her choice for summer vacation; we were all going the last week in May; and the new baby—whatever it was—would have to adjust. So, St. Thomas it was then.
By the time I learned that plane tickets were in the $500 range, the ship of reason had sailed. She was bigger than a bread box and not sleeping well. When her husband, BJ, reluctantly revealed that he couldn’t leave work until two days after the rest of us were flying down, things really got ugly. I thought about checking out his story with his boss but decided that some things were better left alone.
Tim and I drove to Huntsville to pick up Bryan (6) and leave Lucy to entertain Bubbles, Bryan new lab puppy. We got back to the lake just in time. Rachel, Tyler (5), and Wynn (8 weeks) arrived with so much stuff that I was sure she was here to stay. Three bulging-at-the-zippers suitcases, a backpack, diaper bag, hobo purse, bouncy seat, stroller, infant car seat, and a booster seat—oh my!
The next morning, Tim courageously crammed three more suitcases, another booster seat, his computer bag, various and sundry carry-on bags, purses, and backpacks into Rachel’s overlarge SUV, and we set off in pursuit of Wally World, an off-site parking lot, and the Atlanta airport.
The driver of the van at Wally World nearly fainted when Tim opened the back of the SUV. But Tim tipped well, and the guy began breathing normally. The scene was repeated when we checked in curbside at the airport. TSA wasn’t particularly amused when Tyler replied that he was 5 and 4 quarters years old or when the stroller wouldn’t fold up for the conveyor belt. Some people just have no sense of humor whatsoever!
Thankfully, the flight was uneventful—Wynn slept and proved wrong all the passengers who had given us dirty looks. Tim, Bryan and Tyler forgot about their earphones and kept talking at the top of their lungs, but Rachel and I pretended that we didn’t know them until potty-on-demand time. Rachel and I had learned more than a few hard lessons traveling with my dad, who flew with a diuretic racing through his system, and Tyler, who once announced minutes before landing that he needed to potty. On that occasion, Rachel had to stick his “monster” down an empty Gatorade bottle. The other passengers were not fooled.
While Tim found the car rental desk and Rachel went in search of a customs form, the boys and I loaded some of the eight or so extra bags onto the stroller and headed to the open-air baggage claim/rum bar. Any guesses on how long it takes to retrieve six suitcases, one infant seat base, and two booster seats while holding a baby and keeping an eye on two rascally boys?
Finally, we were ready to start our family vacation. Unfortunately, the rental car lot was across the street and up a flight of stairs.
Our growling stomachs reminded us that we had to find a grocery store before we checked in at the hotel. At a red light, Rachel asked a guy in the car next to us for directions to the nearest grocery store. Up ahead and across from Wendy’s was Pueblo, the nastiest and most expensive grocery store on the planet. Still, we had to eat. Somehow Tim found room in the van for $200 worth of groceries that had cost me $400, and we set out to find the condo. We only got lost once.
At the condo, the pool was beckoning, so we quickly unpacked and slathered on the sunscreen. Rachel packed the stroller with all necessary and unnecessary baby paraphernalia, three battery-powered fans, pool toys, cooler, first-aid kit and snacks and away we went down three elevators in three different buildings to the pool. Oh, yeah. She also packed Wynn but forgot the towels. I cheerfully volunteered to go back for them.
According to Rachel, this trip was part family vacation and part anniversary celebration. (I remind you that BJ missed the first two days of the celebration.) Therefore, she and BJ needed massages to relieve the stress of the family vacation part and needed to go on an all-day, just the two of them, water adventure to celebrate their anniversary. Oh, brother. Call me when you have three kids, teach middle school, and have no idea where to get a massage.
We promised the little boys a trip to Iggie’s for Carnivale Night. Who wouldn’t want to watch a lady on stilts wildly swinging her legs or a guy walking across broken glass? They were most anxious to see if the guy doing the limbo under a flaming bar would burn anything important. We never suspected that BJ would be the star of Carnivale.
At Iggie’s, the can of OFF at the hostess stand warned us that the No-see-ums were going to be a problem, but nothing prepared us for the authentic Caribbean cuisine. We had already passed on eating barbeque out of the back end of a station wagon, and we should have skipped the $38 per person buffet. BJ survived the food but finding Bryan barefoot outside the men’s restroom almost did him in. According to Tyler, Bryan was not only walking around inside the restroom barefoot but also crawled on the floor. BJ snatched up Bryan, made him wash his hands twice, and shared gruesome details of hygiene in the men’s room. Bryan may be scarred for life.
Then things really got good. Carnivale Lady danced across the sand on stilts while trying desperately to keep on her full-face mask. After putting on quite a show atop those skinny-bottomed stilts, she spotted BJ in the crowd. He looked like an able and willing, if somewhat goofy, dance partner. All of a sudden, Carnivale Lady was riding high on BJ’s shoulders. I expect that the goofy look was wiped off his face, but we couldn’t tell. His head was somewhere in her voluminous balloon pants. BJ was in the moment. I was so glad that he had had a massage earlier in the day. It got his muscles all limbered up.
For a week, Bryan and Tyler built sand castles at Magen’s Bay Beach, petted sharks and stingrays and fed the lorikeets at Coral World, rode the sky ride to the top of Charlotte Amalie (while BJ, who is deathly afraid of heights, tried not to scream like a little girl), picked up sea glass and shells at Brewer’s Bay, licked ice cream from Udder Delight, sailed on a catamaran around St. Thomas, colored pirate pictures, played Zingo at the kids’ club, rode the car ferry to St. John, watched Gnomeo and Juliet at the dive-in, endured swimming lessons, watched movies, ate tons of junk food, and chased iguanas around the pool. As Tyler says, they were “living the life!”
Rachel and BJ went on their private water adventure and loved snorkeling in the Caribbean. Tim picked them up late in the afternoon, and they all went to Duffy’s Love Shack and got leid.
Far too soon it was time to leave St. Thomas. Somehow Tim managed to get everything back inside the van for the trip to the airport. He dropped us off and returned the van to the lot across the street. At the Delta counter, they refused to take our luggage, making us drag everything through customs ourselves. When we finally got to customs, we learn that we should have filled out two forms rather than one. I started praying that TSA wouldn’t make Tim take off his belt to go through security. That was usually his tipping point at an airport, and he was seriously close.
Family vacations are not for the faint of heart.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Brought Back Broke
I must admit that I have always taken a great deal of pride in planning wonderful experiences with my grandchildren. According to The Book of Grandmother Standards written by my dear friend, Jane Battle, I am an A-list Grandmother. At least I used to be.
A few weeks ago, Tim and I cruised the Caribbean with Pollywogs Bryan, Tyler, and Keegan. We also allowed moms Shelley and Krissy to come along. Unfortunately, the moms saw it all.
Things started out normal enough—flights from Charlotte, Huntsville, and Richmond converged in Atlanta, and we flew to Miami together. Baggage claim was enough to make a grown man cuss (and I think he probably did), and the shuttle driver was so slow that I was sure that he was more worried about a pending dental appointment than getting us to the port before the ship left. However, it was when we set foot on the Carnival Glory that things really began falling apart.
The tall blonde handing out brochures used her iciest voice to inform me that I didn’t need one; that she had given a brochure to someone in my party. Not exactly the cruise hospitality that I had come to expect, but it was early yet.
We made our way to the lunch buffet where Tyler (5) immediately disappeared into the desperately hungry horde, all of whom were delighted to have finally escaped the snow back home. My mantra, Ransom of Red Chief, settled my nerves until I found him.
After what my brother calls “typical cruise food,” it was pool time. Both the big pools were 4’6”, salt water, and a little challenging for non-swimmers Tyler and Bryan, so we opted for the ankle-deep baby pool. Wahoo!
Krissy and I left the kids in the capable care of Tim and Shelley while we wandered the halls looking for the kids’ club registration desk. There another tall blonde informed me that because Tyler was five he had to spend the week with a group of two-year-olds.
“We have rules about these things!” she said.
Are you kidding me? We were on a Carnival cruise ship for spring break. There were no rules!!
Irritable tall blonde #2 eventually consulted with “someone” and agreed that Tyler could go to cruise ship day care with Bryan (6 and smaller than Tyler). That settled, Krissy and I were ready for a refreshing dip in the baby pool. Thirty minutes later we were on our way to the infirmary with three blue children who were suffering from either a) incompetent supervision b) frigid water or c) loose pool paint. The nurse carefully examined each of them and rendered a diagnosis of complete and utter bewilderment. The Smurfs were sent on their way.
Before the first nightfall, Bryan had convinced Shelley that he absolutely could not live without another stuffed animal to add to his collection of 200; Keegan discovered that room service would miraculously appear with turkey sandwiches, chips, and cola at bedtime; and Tyler was excited to get the top bunk first.
The next day was a sea day, and the adults were ready for some R and R. Tyler found the pool slide; Keegan learned there was a sushi restaurant; and Bryan threw a fit because the self-serve ice cream machine had run out of strawberry.
On Tuesday we pulled into port at Costa Maya and headed for the free pool in town. Tyler had a complete melt down in the pool and cried for his mommy; Bryan tried to shop his way through the junk stores; Keegan discovered that the swim up bar sold cola; and the adults had to share the one and only available lounge chair. As soon as the Mayan folk dancers finished, we surrendered and returned to the ship.
Over the next several days, we turned into mountain goats to climb Mayan ruins, cruised the Rio Wallace in search of howler monkeys and crocodiles, cheered the Charros at a Mexican horseshow and whacked a piñata. At a Mexican buffet, Keegan mistook the black beans for chocolate pudding and filled her bowl; Tyler ate a few bites of chicken and gagged at the thought of rice pudding; and Bryan came apart when he learned that he couldn’t spend the afternoon swimming in the ranch’s pool. He’s just lucky that Shelley didn’t try to drown him in the pool; I saw that look in her eyes. We bought souvenirs at Ron Jon’s and drank margaritas at a seaside bar. The kids sat on a cross-eyed donkey and stuck their feet in giant shoes for photo ops. Every bug in the area found Keegan an easy target, and I’m certain that her squeals could be heard back home. All of us filled our nostrils with the pollen of unfamiliar plants and dust from Old Mexico and began coughing like refugees from a TB ward. When Tyler’s temp hit 101.6°, I knew that something menacing was in that air.
On board the ship the kids swam, ate their weight in ice cream, and watched movies. Keegan liked her Kids’ Club activities, but the boys were done after the first day. Irritable tall blonde #3 complained that Tyler told some of the children that he was really 5 ½ and not six, causing undue pain and confusion for the room of highly gifted and entirely age appropriate children. The Carnival Kids’ Club was crossed off our list of wonderful activities offered by the cruise ship.
The kids learned a lot of things on the trip. Keegan learned that she preferred the adult menu and that she looked great in orange. Bryan learned that Teddy bears were not native to Mexico and therefore unacceptable souvenirs, and Tyler learned to dress himself. His first attempt consisted of a plaid shirt and plaid pants—different plaids of course. Rachel had spent hours ironing all his clothes and packing matching outfits together, so we took lots of pictures that day.
One night on the way to dinner, Tyler had his pants on backward, so Tim took him to the bathroom for a quick adjustment. From outside the stall, Tim saw the pants drop and then come right back up.
“Tyler, the zipper goes in the front.”
“Oh, man.”
Tim should have also checked his underwear. When Tyler assumed the fetal position and slept through dinner, we noticed the leg hole of his superhero underwear around his waist. After that, we helped Tyler dress and agreed that all of us owed Rachel an apology.
Before we left home, Rachel warned Tyler and us that he was not to lose his first tooth on the ship. He finally had a loose tooth after months of envying Bryan his toothless smile. (You see what’s coming, don’t you?) Tyler lost his first tooth while eating an apple. Not only did he lose it but he also lost it. We looked everywhere, tore the bunk bed apart, but no tooth. Maybe he swallowed it between the pollen and dust coughs.
Krissy, younger and more energetic than the other adults, decided that she needed a night out while Keegan and Shelley slept. Thinking that no one would ever suspect a thing, she stayed out until she won a little money at the casino. Unfortunately when she swiped her key card at the stateroom door, Keegan alerted and screamed, “Burglar!” Shelley swooped up out of the bed like an avenging angel or at least Krissy thought she was an avenging angel. Perhaps that speaks more to Krissy’s conscience than anything else.
By the last day, we were worn out and needed a quiet sea day. It was quite windy, so we found chairs in a small alcove near the baby pool and staked our claim. Then it started. Tim and Tyler were playing miniature golf when a gust of wind blew Tyler over onto some bricks. His elbow hurt but they kept playing. Later I took Tyler to the infirmary because he kept complaining about his elbow, and I didn’t want to have to explain to Rachel why I didn’t take her injured child to the doctor. After an hour, the doctor still wasn’t sure what was wrong with the elbow but suggested that we go to the ER in Miami (yeah, like that was going to happen) as soon as we disembarked. In the meantime, she advised us to check his pulse and have him wiggle his fingers. She gave him a sling which made him very happy, and we returned to the baby pool to show off the sling.
We hadn’t been at the baby pool three minutes when Keegan jumped up out of the water screaming like a band of banshees. She was covered in a red rash—back to the infirmary. The rash and the wailing continued until Benadryl took effect, and we got another diagnosis of complete and utter bewilderment. Not too surprisingly, no one found infirmary charges on their bills. The staff knew about us, and no one wanted to discuss the loose pool paint again with Krissy, the “Goochland Aquatics Director.”
We managed to disembark without causing much of a scene, found our shuttle to the airport, and left Miami and the Carnival Glory to those of sterner stuff. The following Monday, Tyler got a bright red cast on his elbow until the break could heal. He also got an antibiotic for his sinus infection. And he explained to his mom that we looked everywhere (well, not exactly everywhere) for his tooth.
Well, there you have it. My daddy used to tell everyone who would listen that I sold his car and took his money and his checkbook and moved to Georgia. Now my daughter tells everyone who will listen that her mother took her kid on a cruise and brought him back broke.
I must admit that I have always taken a great deal of pride in planning wonderful experiences with my grandchildren. According to The Book of Grandmother Standards written by my dear friend, Jane Battle, I am an A-list Grandmother. At least I used to be.
A few weeks ago, Tim and I cruised the Caribbean with Pollywogs Bryan, Tyler, and Keegan. We also allowed moms Shelley and Krissy to come along. Unfortunately, the moms saw it all.
Things started out normal enough—flights from Charlotte, Huntsville, and Richmond converged in Atlanta, and we flew to Miami together. Baggage claim was enough to make a grown man cuss (and I think he probably did), and the shuttle driver was so slow that I was sure that he was more worried about a pending dental appointment than getting us to the port before the ship left. However, it was when we set foot on the Carnival Glory that things really began falling apart.
The tall blonde handing out brochures used her iciest voice to inform me that I didn’t need one; that she had given a brochure to someone in my party. Not exactly the cruise hospitality that I had come to expect, but it was early yet.
We made our way to the lunch buffet where Tyler (5) immediately disappeared into the desperately hungry horde, all of whom were delighted to have finally escaped the snow back home. My mantra, Ransom of Red Chief, settled my nerves until I found him.
After what my brother calls “typical cruise food,” it was pool time. Both the big pools were 4’6”, salt water, and a little challenging for non-swimmers Tyler and Bryan, so we opted for the ankle-deep baby pool. Wahoo!
Krissy and I left the kids in the capable care of Tim and Shelley while we wandered the halls looking for the kids’ club registration desk. There another tall blonde informed me that because Tyler was five he had to spend the week with a group of two-year-olds.
“We have rules about these things!” she said.
Are you kidding me? We were on a Carnival cruise ship for spring break. There were no rules!!
Irritable tall blonde #2 eventually consulted with “someone” and agreed that Tyler could go to cruise ship day care with Bryan (6 and smaller than Tyler). That settled, Krissy and I were ready for a refreshing dip in the baby pool. Thirty minutes later we were on our way to the infirmary with three blue children who were suffering from either a) incompetent supervision b) frigid water or c) loose pool paint. The nurse carefully examined each of them and rendered a diagnosis of complete and utter bewilderment. The Smurfs were sent on their way.
Before the first nightfall, Bryan had convinced Shelley that he absolutely could not live without another stuffed animal to add to his collection of 200; Keegan discovered that room service would miraculously appear with turkey sandwiches, chips, and cola at bedtime; and Tyler was excited to get the top bunk first.
The next day was a sea day, and the adults were ready for some R and R. Tyler found the pool slide; Keegan learned there was a sushi restaurant; and Bryan threw a fit because the self-serve ice cream machine had run out of strawberry.
On Tuesday we pulled into port at Costa Maya and headed for the free pool in town. Tyler had a complete melt down in the pool and cried for his mommy; Bryan tried to shop his way through the junk stores; Keegan discovered that the swim up bar sold cola; and the adults had to share the one and only available lounge chair. As soon as the Mayan folk dancers finished, we surrendered and returned to the ship.
Over the next several days, we turned into mountain goats to climb Mayan ruins, cruised the Rio Wallace in search of howler monkeys and crocodiles, cheered the Charros at a Mexican horseshow and whacked a piñata. At a Mexican buffet, Keegan mistook the black beans for chocolate pudding and filled her bowl; Tyler ate a few bites of chicken and gagged at the thought of rice pudding; and Bryan came apart when he learned that he couldn’t spend the afternoon swimming in the ranch’s pool. He’s just lucky that Shelley didn’t try to drown him in the pool; I saw that look in her eyes. We bought souvenirs at Ron Jon’s and drank margaritas at a seaside bar. The kids sat on a cross-eyed donkey and stuck their feet in giant shoes for photo ops. Every bug in the area found Keegan an easy target, and I’m certain that her squeals could be heard back home. All of us filled our nostrils with the pollen of unfamiliar plants and dust from Old Mexico and began coughing like refugees from a TB ward. When Tyler’s temp hit 101.6°, I knew that something menacing was in that air.
On board the ship the kids swam, ate their weight in ice cream, and watched movies. Keegan liked her Kids’ Club activities, but the boys were done after the first day. Irritable tall blonde #3 complained that Tyler told some of the children that he was really 5 ½ and not six, causing undue pain and confusion for the room of highly gifted and entirely age appropriate children. The Carnival Kids’ Club was crossed off our list of wonderful activities offered by the cruise ship.
The kids learned a lot of things on the trip. Keegan learned that she preferred the adult menu and that she looked great in orange. Bryan learned that Teddy bears were not native to Mexico and therefore unacceptable souvenirs, and Tyler learned to dress himself. His first attempt consisted of a plaid shirt and plaid pants—different plaids of course. Rachel had spent hours ironing all his clothes and packing matching outfits together, so we took lots of pictures that day.
One night on the way to dinner, Tyler had his pants on backward, so Tim took him to the bathroom for a quick adjustment. From outside the stall, Tim saw the pants drop and then come right back up.
“Tyler, the zipper goes in the front.”
“Oh, man.”
Tim should have also checked his underwear. When Tyler assumed the fetal position and slept through dinner, we noticed the leg hole of his superhero underwear around his waist. After that, we helped Tyler dress and agreed that all of us owed Rachel an apology.
Before we left home, Rachel warned Tyler and us that he was not to lose his first tooth on the ship. He finally had a loose tooth after months of envying Bryan his toothless smile. (You see what’s coming, don’t you?) Tyler lost his first tooth while eating an apple. Not only did he lose it but he also lost it. We looked everywhere, tore the bunk bed apart, but no tooth. Maybe he swallowed it between the pollen and dust coughs.
Krissy, younger and more energetic than the other adults, decided that she needed a night out while Keegan and Shelley slept. Thinking that no one would ever suspect a thing, she stayed out until she won a little money at the casino. Unfortunately when she swiped her key card at the stateroom door, Keegan alerted and screamed, “Burglar!” Shelley swooped up out of the bed like an avenging angel or at least Krissy thought she was an avenging angel. Perhaps that speaks more to Krissy’s conscience than anything else.
By the last day, we were worn out and needed a quiet sea day. It was quite windy, so we found chairs in a small alcove near the baby pool and staked our claim. Then it started. Tim and Tyler were playing miniature golf when a gust of wind blew Tyler over onto some bricks. His elbow hurt but they kept playing. Later I took Tyler to the infirmary because he kept complaining about his elbow, and I didn’t want to have to explain to Rachel why I didn’t take her injured child to the doctor. After an hour, the doctor still wasn’t sure what was wrong with the elbow but suggested that we go to the ER in Miami (yeah, like that was going to happen) as soon as we disembarked. In the meantime, she advised us to check his pulse and have him wiggle his fingers. She gave him a sling which made him very happy, and we returned to the baby pool to show off the sling.
We hadn’t been at the baby pool three minutes when Keegan jumped up out of the water screaming like a band of banshees. She was covered in a red rash—back to the infirmary. The rash and the wailing continued until Benadryl took effect, and we got another diagnosis of complete and utter bewilderment. Not too surprisingly, no one found infirmary charges on their bills. The staff knew about us, and no one wanted to discuss the loose pool paint again with Krissy, the “Goochland Aquatics Director.”
We managed to disembark without causing much of a scene, found our shuttle to the airport, and left Miami and the Carnival Glory to those of sterner stuff. The following Monday, Tyler got a bright red cast on his elbow until the break could heal. He also got an antibiotic for his sinus infection. And he explained to his mom that we looked everywhere (well, not exactly everywhere) for his tooth.
Well, there you have it. My daddy used to tell everyone who would listen that I sold his car and took his money and his checkbook and moved to Georgia. Now my daughter tells everyone who will listen that her mother took her kid on a cruise and brought him back broke.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
I Know Whom I Have Believèd
Easter 2011
The other day my daughter-in-law, Krissy, posted a challenge on Facebook for everyone to “lift up God’s name and make a statement.” Never one to miss an opportunity to express my opinion, I decided to take up her challenge.
I come from a family of “church door” Christians. Every time the church door opened, we were there. I didn’t think much about it at the time; after all, there wasn’t much else to do, and, for the most part, church was fun. My cousins, friends, and I played, sang, giggled, and during the sermons wrote notes on the bulletins. When I got older, I played the piano and organ for services and, still to this day, love the old hymns. Both of my parents sang in the choir until my dad discovered that ushering from the back of the church offered a little more “flexibility” than sitting in the choir loft at the front. My brother was in the church scout troop.
Mine is a familiar story for people who grew up in the Methodist church. Questions were encouraged, and differences of opinion didn’t upset anyone. Looking back, I have to admit the questions weren’t particularly controversial, and most of us held the same opinions. What my church lacked in spiritual challenge, it made up for by providing a safe and loving environment.
Then my mother died. She wasn’t supposed to die at age 60; she was too young, too full of life, too many things still on her “one day I’ll get around to it” list. Her death sent me on a spiritual journey, the end of which I still cannot see 26 years later. The standard issue answers to the standard issue questions from all those partially heard sermons, Sunday school lessons, weeks at the Methodist Church’s Camp Sumatanga, and youth fellowship did not satisfy my broken heart. I needed new answers.
So, Krissy, this is my statement of belief.
God loves every person unconditionally—even the people I don’t particularly like. These people are not all nice, nor do they ascribe to a particular religious or political affiliation, nor do they necessarily live in the United States.
God created. He expects us to figure out how He did it and take care of his creation.
God has only a few rules; man dreamed up the rest.
Christians do not have exclusive rights to God.
My life reflects those things I value, and my actions have consequences.
I am accountable for what I believe.
My spiritual journey persuaded me that God is bigger, more powerful, and more mysterious than I could comprehend. I am committed to following the path that God lays before me and doing so with a keen eye to examining my life. Where there are failures, I will strive to do better. Where there are successes, I will celebrate. And I learned that I am not the first, nor would I be the last, to ask God to explain himself.
After the Civil War, Daniel Webster Whittle wrote I know Whom I have Believed. While the refrain is from the Bible, each verse is a testament to Whittle’s lack of understanding the why of God. Like Whittle, I continue to wonder, question, and at times, rail, but, in the end, I have come to understand that mostly I believe that God is able.
But I know Whom I have believèd,
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I’ve committed
Unto Him against that day.
2 Timothy 1:12
I realize that these statements of belief are skimpy on the details and explanations. I have no interest in complicating matters for myself or others—the simpler the better.
I do disagree, however, with Krissy that Easter is not about bunnies and chocolate eggs. I have it on good authority that, while candy is not central to the message of Easter, God does have a sweet tooth.
Easter 2011
The other day my daughter-in-law, Krissy, posted a challenge on Facebook for everyone to “lift up God’s name and make a statement.” Never one to miss an opportunity to express my opinion, I decided to take up her challenge.
I come from a family of “church door” Christians. Every time the church door opened, we were there. I didn’t think much about it at the time; after all, there wasn’t much else to do, and, for the most part, church was fun. My cousins, friends, and I played, sang, giggled, and during the sermons wrote notes on the bulletins. When I got older, I played the piano and organ for services and, still to this day, love the old hymns. Both of my parents sang in the choir until my dad discovered that ushering from the back of the church offered a little more “flexibility” than sitting in the choir loft at the front. My brother was in the church scout troop.
Mine is a familiar story for people who grew up in the Methodist church. Questions were encouraged, and differences of opinion didn’t upset anyone. Looking back, I have to admit the questions weren’t particularly controversial, and most of us held the same opinions. What my church lacked in spiritual challenge, it made up for by providing a safe and loving environment.
Then my mother died. She wasn’t supposed to die at age 60; she was too young, too full of life, too many things still on her “one day I’ll get around to it” list. Her death sent me on a spiritual journey, the end of which I still cannot see 26 years later. The standard issue answers to the standard issue questions from all those partially heard sermons, Sunday school lessons, weeks at the Methodist Church’s Camp Sumatanga, and youth fellowship did not satisfy my broken heart. I needed new answers.
So, Krissy, this is my statement of belief.
God loves every person unconditionally—even the people I don’t particularly like. These people are not all nice, nor do they ascribe to a particular religious or political affiliation, nor do they necessarily live in the United States.
God created. He expects us to figure out how He did it and take care of his creation.
God has only a few rules; man dreamed up the rest.
Christians do not have exclusive rights to God.
My life reflects those things I value, and my actions have consequences.
I am accountable for what I believe.
My spiritual journey persuaded me that God is bigger, more powerful, and more mysterious than I could comprehend. I am committed to following the path that God lays before me and doing so with a keen eye to examining my life. Where there are failures, I will strive to do better. Where there are successes, I will celebrate. And I learned that I am not the first, nor would I be the last, to ask God to explain himself.
After the Civil War, Daniel Webster Whittle wrote I know Whom I have Believed. While the refrain is from the Bible, each verse is a testament to Whittle’s lack of understanding the why of God. Like Whittle, I continue to wonder, question, and at times, rail, but, in the end, I have come to understand that mostly I believe that God is able.
But I know Whom I have believèd,
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I’ve committed
Unto Him against that day.
2 Timothy 1:12
I realize that these statements of belief are skimpy on the details and explanations. I have no interest in complicating matters for myself or others—the simpler the better.
I do disagree, however, with Krissy that Easter is not about bunnies and chocolate eggs. I have it on good authority that, while candy is not central to the message of Easter, God does have a sweet tooth.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
An End to the Confusion
The time has arrived to clear up the confusion over the grandchildren. It crops up from time to time, but when the last little pollywog was born two weeks ago, people started asking questions. Now, to be perfectly honest, I think that few people care about my grandchild conundrum. But for those of you who do, I would like to set the record straight. Additionally, three of them are old enough to be confused themselves. All the little kids are my grandchildren regardless of the truth of the matter. Calling them pollywogs evens the playing field.
The #1 pollywog is Bryan, the six-year-old son of my brother, Ted, and sister-in-law, Shelley. He has never met a costume or stuffed animal that he didn’t love and takes creative license to a whole new level. Last week he sent me a letter requesting that I go to Build-a-Bear and buy him a treat. He included ten pictures cut out of a circular with pinking shears of possible purchases and a $5 coupon.
Tyler Lee, the #2 pollywog, is the son of my daughter, Rachel, and son-in-law, BJ, and big brother to Wynn, pollywog #5. At first Tyler seemed to like his new bike much better than his new brother, but he is beginning to come around. Tyler can remember anything if a number is attached to it, and he finally has two loose teeth. Bryan has lost seven teeth, a feat which has caused Tyler to discuss his situation with his dentist.
Our son, Jeremy, and his wife, Jennifer, are Anna Lauren’s parents. As pollywog #3, she is a precocious three-year-old who tolerates ballet for her mother’s sake, counts in Spanish, and gives her dad a run for his money. Last week, she squealed “weeeeeee” for several miles on the two lane road to the lake. Finally, Tim, ears throbbing, asked her what in the world she was doing. “I’m trying to cry wee all the way home.”
Keegan is nine going on 16 and was most recently concerned about a date for the school dance. Last June, Keegan’s mom, Krissy, married our son, Evan, and Keegan, who sang at the wedding, became pollywog #4. Because she is older than the others, she couldn’t quite figure out how she got the #4 spot. Chronological order, my dear, chronological order.
Our sweet baby, Wynn Talcott, is #5. His first word will probably be “grandmother.”
I’m glad that I cleared up everything.
Oh, by the way, I also call them “Boo Pie” when the spirit moves me. However, even I can’t explain that one.
The time has arrived to clear up the confusion over the grandchildren. It crops up from time to time, but when the last little pollywog was born two weeks ago, people started asking questions. Now, to be perfectly honest, I think that few people care about my grandchild conundrum. But for those of you who do, I would like to set the record straight. Additionally, three of them are old enough to be confused themselves. All the little kids are my grandchildren regardless of the truth of the matter. Calling them pollywogs evens the playing field.
The #1 pollywog is Bryan, the six-year-old son of my brother, Ted, and sister-in-law, Shelley. He has never met a costume or stuffed animal that he didn’t love and takes creative license to a whole new level. Last week he sent me a letter requesting that I go to Build-a-Bear and buy him a treat. He included ten pictures cut out of a circular with pinking shears of possible purchases and a $5 coupon.
Tyler Lee, the #2 pollywog, is the son of my daughter, Rachel, and son-in-law, BJ, and big brother to Wynn, pollywog #5. At first Tyler seemed to like his new bike much better than his new brother, but he is beginning to come around. Tyler can remember anything if a number is attached to it, and he finally has two loose teeth. Bryan has lost seven teeth, a feat which has caused Tyler to discuss his situation with his dentist.
Our son, Jeremy, and his wife, Jennifer, are Anna Lauren’s parents. As pollywog #3, she is a precocious three-year-old who tolerates ballet for her mother’s sake, counts in Spanish, and gives her dad a run for his money. Last week, she squealed “weeeeeee” for several miles on the two lane road to the lake. Finally, Tim, ears throbbing, asked her what in the world she was doing. “I’m trying to cry wee all the way home.”
Keegan is nine going on 16 and was most recently concerned about a date for the school dance. Last June, Keegan’s mom, Krissy, married our son, Evan, and Keegan, who sang at the wedding, became pollywog #4. Because she is older than the others, she couldn’t quite figure out how she got the #4 spot. Chronological order, my dear, chronological order.
Our sweet baby, Wynn Talcott, is #5. His first word will probably be “grandmother.”
I’m glad that I cleared up everything.
Oh, by the way, I also call them “Boo Pie” when the spirit moves me. However, even I can’t explain that one.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Margaret Ann and Ken and the Panama Canal
I’ve never been good with machinery, so it came as no surprise that I didn’t get the hang of locks and dams until Daddy took me to Guntersville Dam. I was fascinated by the boats floating up and down as the water ebbed and flowed. Although I didn’t care much about how things worked back then and still don’t today, I stood captivated along the bank of the Tennessee River and decided then and there that I wanted to see the Panama Canal. I think I was ten.
In January, Tim and I packed our bags for a partial transit cruise of the canal. Escaping the harsh winter—it had snowed twice—was almost as important as witnessing a boat the size of a small town navigate the canal. Additionally, I wanted to see the howler monkeys and sloths that I was certain filled the trees in the rain forest of Costa Rica.
We boarded Holland America’s Zuiderdam in Miami with hundreds of other really old, white Americans. We were disappointed that only 20 or so people under the age of 50 and a sprinkling of various nationalities were cruising with us. On the plus side (and believe me, they were on the plus side), the people that we actually met and talked to were well educated and interesting. When one guy told me that he was retired from the Library of Congress, I wanted to become his new best friend. There was a chemist, a Revlon executive, a retired New York City cop, a department store manager, army guys, and well, you get the picture. Before the trip was over, we knew that indeed looks were deceiving.
We had been warned that Holland America catered to an older crowd; but we liked the itinerary and, after all, we aren’t spring chickens. We sailed past Cuba and Haiti on our way to Aruba. Being from Alabama and still remembering the terribly sad Natalie Holloway incident in Aruba, we weren’t especially interested in the island. However, after disembarking and strolling through a town where 75% of the shops were closed, Tim got some great shots of iguanas and the beautiful Caribbean.
At Willemstad, Curacao, we ate lunch at a sidewalk café on St. Anna Bay near the Queen Emma pontoon bridge and watched as the bridge opened to let the boats pass. Willemstad, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is charming with its colorful buildings and Venezuelan Floating Market.
Next came a trip to the rain forest. The dirt road from the ship to the rain forest had ruts deep enough to bury a grown man. We felt like we’d had the hell beaten out of us before we got there. At least our bus made it up the hill. One group had to get out of their bus and walk up the hill. We saw a few howler monkeys and some three-toed sloths but nothing like what was promised in those colorful brochures. When Jeremy and Jennifer went to the rain forest, the boat driver chunked raw chicken into the water to encourage the wildlife. I would have given anything for a raw chicken.
The next morning we watched as gravity took charge of the Panama Canal. Although the idea of using gravity to move the water seems simple, the story of the canal is anything but simple. Engineering a canal across the isthmus was an amazing feat that cost years, money, and lives. Sometimes reading about a thing doesn’t really bring home the wonder of it; this was one of those times.
Life on board the Zuiderdam was often entertaining. Tim took several computer classes and got up early every morning for Tai Chi. I went to a few cooking classes just to look busy and tried not to nap through happy hour.
Tim and I didn’t have set dinner reservations with predetermined dining partners. The ship’s “dine as you wish” option sounded like a great idea when we booked; but once on board, we were a little anxious.
One night we wandered into the restaurant and hoped the maître‘d would seat us somewhere reasonable.
“Will you share?” asked the maître d’ in a somewhat haughty voice indicating that he knew we were at his mercy. His name was Hunky Dory, and I thought he had a lot of nerve—considering.
“Of course,” we replied in unison.
Hunky led us through a maze of tables to the very back and darkest corner of the restaurant. There we found Margaret Ann and Ken and felt our anxiety level jump a notch or two.
They were sitting alone at a table for six. I knew beyond a doubt that two more would not be joining us. Both looked a little worse for wear, and Ken was having trouble getting all the bread crumbs out of his bushy beard.
Margaret Ann and Ken were from a small town near Ontario and were more relieved than we were to escape from the cold weather. Ken had been a world class swimmer and had only recently stopped swimming--and winning--every 5K that came along. Margaret Ann preferred cross-country skiing to swimming. Both enjoyed golf and a myriad of other activities.
They also did something I had never heard of before. Every month they bottled their own wine. They “knew a guy” who provided the wine, and they provided the 30 empty bottles.
Margaret Ann and Ken had been married three years; theirs was a second marriage. They met through an online dating site and dated a year before marrying. They told us about their family who lived in far-flung places and enjoyed unusual careers like professional ski instructor. By the time dessert and coffee arrived, the four of us were laughing and talking like old friends.
Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness” and this trip proved him right. Our preconceived notions about people and places scattered in the wind as we shared conversations and experienced new destinations. I guess if I always want to be right, I may as well stay at home.
My bags are packed.
By the way, Margaret Ann and Ken are both 83. We’re glad to know that there is a cruise ship that will take us off our kids’ hands.
I’ve never been good with machinery, so it came as no surprise that I didn’t get the hang of locks and dams until Daddy took me to Guntersville Dam. I was fascinated by the boats floating up and down as the water ebbed and flowed. Although I didn’t care much about how things worked back then and still don’t today, I stood captivated along the bank of the Tennessee River and decided then and there that I wanted to see the Panama Canal. I think I was ten.
In January, Tim and I packed our bags for a partial transit cruise of the canal. Escaping the harsh winter—it had snowed twice—was almost as important as witnessing a boat the size of a small town navigate the canal. Additionally, I wanted to see the howler monkeys and sloths that I was certain filled the trees in the rain forest of Costa Rica.
We boarded Holland America’s Zuiderdam in Miami with hundreds of other really old, white Americans. We were disappointed that only 20 or so people under the age of 50 and a sprinkling of various nationalities were cruising with us. On the plus side (and believe me, they were on the plus side), the people that we actually met and talked to were well educated and interesting. When one guy told me that he was retired from the Library of Congress, I wanted to become his new best friend. There was a chemist, a Revlon executive, a retired New York City cop, a department store manager, army guys, and well, you get the picture. Before the trip was over, we knew that indeed looks were deceiving.
We had been warned that Holland America catered to an older crowd; but we liked the itinerary and, after all, we aren’t spring chickens. We sailed past Cuba and Haiti on our way to Aruba. Being from Alabama and still remembering the terribly sad Natalie Holloway incident in Aruba, we weren’t especially interested in the island. However, after disembarking and strolling through a town where 75% of the shops were closed, Tim got some great shots of iguanas and the beautiful Caribbean.
At Willemstad, Curacao, we ate lunch at a sidewalk café on St. Anna Bay near the Queen Emma pontoon bridge and watched as the bridge opened to let the boats pass. Willemstad, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is charming with its colorful buildings and Venezuelan Floating Market.
Next came a trip to the rain forest. The dirt road from the ship to the rain forest had ruts deep enough to bury a grown man. We felt like we’d had the hell beaten out of us before we got there. At least our bus made it up the hill. One group had to get out of their bus and walk up the hill. We saw a few howler monkeys and some three-toed sloths but nothing like what was promised in those colorful brochures. When Jeremy and Jennifer went to the rain forest, the boat driver chunked raw chicken into the water to encourage the wildlife. I would have given anything for a raw chicken.
The next morning we watched as gravity took charge of the Panama Canal. Although the idea of using gravity to move the water seems simple, the story of the canal is anything but simple. Engineering a canal across the isthmus was an amazing feat that cost years, money, and lives. Sometimes reading about a thing doesn’t really bring home the wonder of it; this was one of those times.
Life on board the Zuiderdam was often entertaining. Tim took several computer classes and got up early every morning for Tai Chi. I went to a few cooking classes just to look busy and tried not to nap through happy hour.
Tim and I didn’t have set dinner reservations with predetermined dining partners. The ship’s “dine as you wish” option sounded like a great idea when we booked; but once on board, we were a little anxious.
One night we wandered into the restaurant and hoped the maître‘d would seat us somewhere reasonable.
“Will you share?” asked the maître d’ in a somewhat haughty voice indicating that he knew we were at his mercy. His name was Hunky Dory, and I thought he had a lot of nerve—considering.
“Of course,” we replied in unison.
Hunky led us through a maze of tables to the very back and darkest corner of the restaurant. There we found Margaret Ann and Ken and felt our anxiety level jump a notch or two.
They were sitting alone at a table for six. I knew beyond a doubt that two more would not be joining us. Both looked a little worse for wear, and Ken was having trouble getting all the bread crumbs out of his bushy beard.
Margaret Ann and Ken were from a small town near Ontario and were more relieved than we were to escape from the cold weather. Ken had been a world class swimmer and had only recently stopped swimming--and winning--every 5K that came along. Margaret Ann preferred cross-country skiing to swimming. Both enjoyed golf and a myriad of other activities.
They also did something I had never heard of before. Every month they bottled their own wine. They “knew a guy” who provided the wine, and they provided the 30 empty bottles.
Margaret Ann and Ken had been married three years; theirs was a second marriage. They met through an online dating site and dated a year before marrying. They told us about their family who lived in far-flung places and enjoyed unusual careers like professional ski instructor. By the time dessert and coffee arrived, the four of us were laughing and talking like old friends.
Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness” and this trip proved him right. Our preconceived notions about people and places scattered in the wind as we shared conversations and experienced new destinations. I guess if I always want to be right, I may as well stay at home.
My bags are packed.
By the way, Margaret Ann and Ken are both 83. We’re glad to know that there is a cruise ship that will take us off our kids’ hands.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Facts of Life
According to Lucy Charlene Lull
We need a new Boo Pie!
The pollywogs are frogs—
Two of each, boys and girls,
And one sweet, freckled dog.
How can we get new ones?
I asked my mother, “How?”
She said the stork brings them.
I rolled my eyes, “Oh, wow!”
She was making this up—
I am not a setter—
Then she tried cabbage leaves.
That wasn’t much better.
I gave her the stink eye,
And she tried one more time.
A seed in the tummy,
No bigger than a dime.
Is this the best she has?
A story about seeds?
Her garden has flowers
And lots of ugly weeds.
You can’t fool a Springer;
I’m as smart as a whip.
Now— facts about babies
Coming straight from my lips.
God walks around Heaven,
Looking for volunteers.
Four legs are not allowed,
Neither are floppy ears.
God picks out the colors
Of the eyes, fur, and parts,
Tucks the baby inside
Under the mommy’s heart.
The baby grows and squirms,
Snuggles, hiccups and swims,
Rolls around, sings and dreams,
Becomes a her or him.
Am I an aunt or uncle?
I’ll find out in two weeks.
Unlike everyone else,
Rachel didn’t want to peek.
According to Lucy Charlene Lull
We need a new Boo Pie!
The pollywogs are frogs—
Two of each, boys and girls,
And one sweet, freckled dog.
How can we get new ones?
I asked my mother, “How?”
She said the stork brings them.
I rolled my eyes, “Oh, wow!”
She was making this up—
I am not a setter—
Then she tried cabbage leaves.
That wasn’t much better.
I gave her the stink eye,
And she tried one more time.
A seed in the tummy,
No bigger than a dime.
Is this the best she has?
A story about seeds?
Her garden has flowers
And lots of ugly weeds.
You can’t fool a Springer;
I’m as smart as a whip.
Now— facts about babies
Coming straight from my lips.
God walks around Heaven,
Looking for volunteers.
Four legs are not allowed,
Neither are floppy ears.
God picks out the colors
Of the eyes, fur, and parts,
Tucks the baby inside
Under the mommy’s heart.
The baby grows and squirms,
Snuggles, hiccups and swims,
Rolls around, sings and dreams,
Becomes a her or him.
Am I an aunt or uncle?
I’ll find out in two weeks.
Unlike everyone else,
Rachel didn’t want to peek.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
It’s Not a Flower
Our second snow of the season had not melted by 10 am, so I jumped at the chance to make myself feel better. Generally speaking, Southerners don’t give a hoot about the weather up North other than for reasons of idle conversation or pity; but when Roy called from New York, I just knew that this was my chance to reclaim the weather high ground. Snow makes me desperate.
“We got about two inches,” said Roy. Oh good grief! Six to eight inches of winter menace lay in our yard and was threatening to reincarnate as ice by morning. I handed the phone to Tim.
There was nothing to do but make the best of it. To tell the truth, we had been making the best of it for about five weeks. Renovating bathrooms is NOT a winter project as we painfully learned. Our house is completely upside down and inside out, because the contractors do not have a firm grasp of the concept “time is money.” While we are snowed in, they are conveniently snowed out. Perhaps they should have thought about possible weather delays last Wednesday when they worked 45 minutes. Arrrgh!
Anna Lauren, our three year old granddaughter, is staying with us while her parents have gone to Phoenix for the Auburn game and a week of more fun than allowed by law. I hope it is warm and sunny.
I don’t do snow, so Tim, whose Yankee upbringing prepared him for such inevitabilities, took charge of playing with Anna Lauren outside. She put on her pink coat, pink gloves, pink hat, and Bryan’s old green dinosaur boots and was out the door. Tim found his old (and I do mean old) sled in the basement and pulled her to the top of the driveway over and over while she sang at the top of her lungs. She made snow angels and chased Lucy. I took a few pics from the porch. When she got cold enough, she was ready for inside activities.
She has played for hours in the loft with toys from the collective childhoods of several generations. She has colored, drawn a self-portrait, counted Lucy’s legs, dressed and undressed her dolls, and made a playhouse out of the new grill box. Lucy has been a pirate, a bed buddy, a hair model, a pillow, and an overall good sport.
Tim and Anna Lauren assembled a gingerbread house kit that I bought at Walmart before Christmas. Yummy! Fortunately, Anna Lauren doesn’t know that gingerbread isn’t supposed to taste like cardboard. She didn’t like the gum drops but loved licking the frosting off the roof. She foraged for pink gum balls while Tim repaired one of his gum ball machines and shared her cereal with Lucy. When she isn’t playing, she is watching Nanny McPhee or the bad Alice (Alice in Wonderland with Johnny Depp). She can discuss both movies---in detail, scene by scene. If you have to be snowed in with someone, Anna Lauren provides great entertainment.
Yesterday, as I patiently waited for Anna Lauren to potty, she told me, “Don’t sniff, Grammy. It’s not a flower.”
Surely, the sun will come out tomorrow.
Anna Lauren’s Grammy
Our second snow of the season had not melted by 10 am, so I jumped at the chance to make myself feel better. Generally speaking, Southerners don’t give a hoot about the weather up North other than for reasons of idle conversation or pity; but when Roy called from New York, I just knew that this was my chance to reclaim the weather high ground. Snow makes me desperate.
“We got about two inches,” said Roy. Oh good grief! Six to eight inches of winter menace lay in our yard and was threatening to reincarnate as ice by morning. I handed the phone to Tim.
There was nothing to do but make the best of it. To tell the truth, we had been making the best of it for about five weeks. Renovating bathrooms is NOT a winter project as we painfully learned. Our house is completely upside down and inside out, because the contractors do not have a firm grasp of the concept “time is money.” While we are snowed in, they are conveniently snowed out. Perhaps they should have thought about possible weather delays last Wednesday when they worked 45 minutes. Arrrgh!
Anna Lauren, our three year old granddaughter, is staying with us while her parents have gone to Phoenix for the Auburn game and a week of more fun than allowed by law. I hope it is warm and sunny.
I don’t do snow, so Tim, whose Yankee upbringing prepared him for such inevitabilities, took charge of playing with Anna Lauren outside. She put on her pink coat, pink gloves, pink hat, and Bryan’s old green dinosaur boots and was out the door. Tim found his old (and I do mean old) sled in the basement and pulled her to the top of the driveway over and over while she sang at the top of her lungs. She made snow angels and chased Lucy. I took a few pics from the porch. When she got cold enough, she was ready for inside activities.
She has played for hours in the loft with toys from the collective childhoods of several generations. She has colored, drawn a self-portrait, counted Lucy’s legs, dressed and undressed her dolls, and made a playhouse out of the new grill box. Lucy has been a pirate, a bed buddy, a hair model, a pillow, and an overall good sport.
Tim and Anna Lauren assembled a gingerbread house kit that I bought at Walmart before Christmas. Yummy! Fortunately, Anna Lauren doesn’t know that gingerbread isn’t supposed to taste like cardboard. She didn’t like the gum drops but loved licking the frosting off the roof. She foraged for pink gum balls while Tim repaired one of his gum ball machines and shared her cereal with Lucy. When she isn’t playing, she is watching Nanny McPhee or the bad Alice (Alice in Wonderland with Johnny Depp). She can discuss both movies---in detail, scene by scene. If you have to be snowed in with someone, Anna Lauren provides great entertainment.
Yesterday, as I patiently waited for Anna Lauren to potty, she told me, “Don’t sniff, Grammy. It’s not a flower.”
Surely, the sun will come out tomorrow.
Anna Lauren’s Grammy
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