Wade, the Baby of our Family, has had a Baby!

Okay, technically, his wife, Jackie, gave birth to the baby, but being technical was never my long suit. They have named him Vincent, a lovely name he shares with the Green Bay Packers’ sainted coach, Vince Lombardi. Since Wade is an avid Chicago Bears fan, a love he inherited from his dad, I don’t think that’s why they picked the name.

Of course, there is St. Vincent de Paul, who is, I think, the patron saint of used furniture. There also was a Vincent who was a cousin of my mother’s – Vincent Kelly. His son, Father Jerry Kelly, married Bing and me. Vincent Kelly’s dubious claim to fame was he drove like he was competing in the Indianapolis 500, and no one in the family wanted to ride with him.

As the baby’s due date of January 7 came and went with no sign of Vincent, the question, “Has the baby come yet?” became almost a mantra.

Wade is used to having his sisters ask questions and give him advice – he once complained mildly to my mother, “Gran, I have five mothers!”

He’s Here! The Newest Grandchild

Vincent finally made his appearance on January 13, a few days shy of Martin Luther King Day. Which I bring up so I can slip in one of my favorite memories of Wade as a little boy. He came home from first grade with a drawing he’d made in class of Dr. King. He explained to his father and me that, “Arthur Luther King had a dream, and his dream was that everyone in the whole world could use the same bathroom.”

Since the proud parents live in far-off California, I have only met Vincent on FaceTime. Thank God for FaceTime! I greeted him when he was only hours old and when he heard his Nana’s voice, he smiled! Honest!

I’ll meet him in person before too long. In the meantime, Wade asked me to send him all the words to “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” one of the many bedtime songs I happily regaled our children with. Never mind that the song is all about Aunt Rhody’s dead goose – “Go tell Aunt Rhody the old grey goose is dead … she died in the mill pond because she wasn’t fed.” All the verses are equally mournful, but they were great for putting babies to sleep.

In case all of you, or some of you, or even one of you wonder what young grandchild Vincent looks like, I’ll oblige by including a picture of him here, since you’ve twisted my arm.

Cute, isn’t he?

Our newest grandchild, Vincent!

The post Inkspots by Molly MacDonald: On the Arrival of Vincent, his Nana’s Newest Grandchild appeared first on Scott MacDonald.

Shopping is not one of my favorite things. Our children would say, somewhat bitterly, that I hate to shop – and they would be right. The reason they are somewhat bitter goes back to their childhood, which they would have you believe was horribly deprived. Because their mother hated to shop.

As in, “All our friends, when their mothers take them to the orthodontist, get to spend the rest of the day shopping.” Our children got to spend the rest of the day motoring back home and probably finishing out the afternoon in school.

Wouldn’t you think they’d be over that by now? However, occasionally, one of them brings it up on our family thread, and the rest immediately chimes in, “Yeah, one time my friend Annie’s mom bought her a whole outfit when they were in Fort Dodge after seeing the orthodontist.” “Yeah, my friend Kathleen’s mom bought her a cool jacket.” “And my friend Lisa’s mom bought her some really neat dress-up shoes.”

And so it goes. The only one of our five, the lone male offspring, has no problem with not going shopping with his mom back then. I think I’ll leave him a little extra in my will.

I bring this up now because my I-hate-shopping-genes went on vacation last week when I went on a celebratory trip with friends to, of all places, West Bend. I say “of all places” because I don’t suppose West Bend is considered a sophisticated shopping mecca in the overall scheme of things. However, on this trip, which was to celebrate one of our friend’s birthdays, it turned out to be just that. I not only shopped with the best of them, but I also tried on a couple of dresses (I NEVER try on clothes in stores – it goes against my religion, or something) and actually bought two.

One is a very practical knit sweater dress, appropriate for church, which is about the only place I wear dresses anymore. The second one is a totally impractical, long black velvet number with a lace skirt, satin bow and rhinestone clip holding the bow in place. My friends insisted I try it on, then insisted, “Oh Molly – that’s YOU!” 

Yeah, right.

“Where in blazes would I wear this?” I asked weakly (I was already teetering on the edge of temptation). That didn’t seem to matter to them, so I gave in to the peer pressure and bought the dress. It’s now hanging in my closet, giving the closet a really upscale ambiance. The dress, I hasten to add, was on sale for $6. I figure it’s worth that just as a closet decoration.

Please don’t tell the children about this adventure – it would spark another diatribe on the family thread about how I never went shopping with them. It’s a wonder any of them survived without intensive therapy.

Oh well.

***

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The glitches, in order of appearance, were crockpot chicken, banana nut bread, water pipe, and dishwasher.

1.) Crockpot chicken:

In a fit of domesticity, I decided to make a crockpot chicken I’ve made numerous times before. This time, I didn’t have the sweet and sour sauce I usually dump into the pot along with the chicken, so I substituted mushroom soup. Big mistake, as Julia Roberts once famously said in “Pretty Woman.” Cream of Mushroom soup has no flavor at all. None. Consequently, the resulting shredded chicken dish had no flavor. None.

Seamus, my dog, liked it.

2.) Banana nut bread:

I had two rapidly ripening bananas which I was tempted to throw out since I’m not a big fan of bananas. However, I grew up with the remonstrance, “Finish your dinner (or breakfast or lunch), there are starving children in China.” I have never quite figured out how my finishing my dinner (or breakfast or lunch) helped those poor starving children, but I had a sad picture in my head of those children, so to this day, I have never been able to throw food out.

I decided to make banana nut bread with the two bananas. However, the recipe called for three bananas, but I figured I could make do. Since math isn’t exactly my long suit, I asked Siri (she’s an ever-cheerful voice that lives in my iPad, for those of you who aren’t into high tech stuff like I am) to reduce all the ingredients by two-thirds. She must be asked that a lot because she answered instantly with the amounts. She’s really smart.

The recipe called for baking soda and nuts. I had neither on hand. So I asked Siri if I could substitute baking powder for baking soda. She said I could. Then I substituted Grape-nuts for real nuts (they have nuts in their name, right?). I think everything would have been okay if I hadn’t gone into another room to read a book after I set the oven timer. I didn’t hear the timer go off, so when I remembered to take the loaf out, it had a lovely black rim around it and crumbled to the touch.

Seamus liked it.

3.) Water pipe:

It burst one evening, spewing hot water all over the basement. Our basement is a dungeon, having been built in 1876. The poor plumber had to inch his way through a crawl space to fix it. I made him promise not to tell, ever, about all the cobwebs he encountered. He promised.

4.) Dishwasher:

It died. Not quietly, but with a loud pop and some smoke. At this writing, I’m hoping it can be resuscitated, but won’t know for a few days. Stay tuned.

It is said (who knows by whom) that bad stuff happens in threes. Well, if that’s true, I’ve already got a head start on the next batch of mishaps. Or, since I’m one over the requisite three bad things, maybe I’ll get a refund in the form of a good thing.

Let’s go with that.

***

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By the time you are reading this, I will have been to Los Angeles and back, celebrating Christmas with our California kids. In case you are new to this column, Bing and I have five offspring scattered around the country. Although Bing died six years ago, he is still very much with us in spirit. For example: we had adopted a German Shepherd, Ivy Scarlett, after our Golden Retriever, Laddie, died. We had to jump through hoops to be approved by the German Shepherd rescue organization. Among other requirements, they asked for three personal references. They called all three – I don’t think even the strictest business headhunters do that!

We finally were approved after two weeks of being vetted. I think we would qualify for the highest-level government jobs based on how thoroughly we were examined.

Fast forward to a year ago when I had to have Ivy Scarlett put down in her old age. After several weeks of missing her terribly, I decided it was time to find another dog. I applied online to a rescue organization, filled out the prescribed forms, which were still lengthy and detailed, and hit the “send” button. It was 8:30 on a Thursday evening and I expected to have to wait a couple of weeks to be approved. A return email arrived a half-hour later saying I could pick up a 7-year-old German Shepherd the next morning at the Clear Lake shelter.

That just doesn’t happen.

I think not only did Bing arrange it, he also picked out the perfect dog for me. Seamus is gentle, well-behaved and my shadow.

Getting back to my Christmas in Los Angeles (that’s what I started to write about before getting side-tracked, which I often am, so pay attention or I might lose you along the way). Okay, that last isn’t even a sentence but I don’t know quite how to fix it, so I’ll just start over. Getting back to my Christmas in Los Angeles, I can’t really write about it since it hasn’t happened yet. Except when you’re reading this, it will have happened.

I think I’ll just go with writing about something else.

Did I tell you about the time I was 18 and working a summer job on Nantucket? Actually, I know perfectly well I’ve told you before, but perhaps you’ve forgotten. My sister’s beau, Bob, was also working on the island and was pining for Sheila, who was off touring in Europe. He took me out to dinner, hoping I’m sure that I would put in a good word for him. Sheila, I knew, wasn’t particularly interested in him but I thought he was quite wonderful. He was 25, a much older man, and therefore fascinating.

When the waiter asked me what I would like to drink, I froze. I wanted to appear sophisticated, especially since I also liked the waiter, a Harvard boy I’d met earlier. My knowledge of alcoholic beverages was sorely limited, but I managed to say casually, “I believe I’ll have a Scotch and Bourbon.”

I knew I must have goofed when Bob said, “She’ll have ginger ale.”

I have no idea whatever happened to Bob or the Harvard boy, but I have a hunch they never again heard someone order a Scotch and Bourbon.

I wonder if I should put that in my obituary.

Probably not.

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   One time I used a quote from The House at Pooh Corner in a graduate English course I took at Miami of Ohio. I was the only undergraduate taking the course, and I had no idea it was a graduate course when I signed up for it. We met in the department’s library around a long table, just nine of us plus the professor who happened to be Dean of the English Department. Among the other students were 1) an aging hippie; 2) a guy with hair down to his shoulders (this was 1961 when most guys wore crewcuts); 3) a guy in a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches and a pipe in his mouth. I forget what the others looked like, I was so overcome with the thought of how I ever muddled into such an auspicious group. 

   I studied more for that course over the semester than all my other classes combined, I was so scared. For part of the final exam, we were to find a quotation from a literary source that illustrated some now-forgotten writing technique. As we went around the table, each student tried to out-do the others (at least so it seemed to me) with scholarly quotes from obscure sources. I was the last to be called upon and, feeling totally inadequate and shaky, I quoted Winnie the Pooh. The professor beamed and said I had nailed it. I got an A. I think the moral of that story is, if in doubt, you can’t go wrong quoting Pooh. 

   Getting back to Thanksgiving (see first paragraph, if you’ve already forgotten) it’s a double holiday at our house since we also celebrate Christmas then with our non-California kids. When California claimed three of our offspring plus our two youngest grandchildren, Bing and I would spend Christmas in Los Angeles, but hosted the other two-thirds of the clan on Thanksgiving, then had Christmas the next day. So I have had to scramble to get the house decorated for Christmas long before the actual holiday. 

  This year I had a slow start because of the bronchitis I contracted but promised not to write about anymore, so forget I mentioned it. Suffice it to say, I would hang one ornament on the tree, then go sit down for 10 minutes to catch my breath. Seamus sat right by my side, worried I might keel over and then who would give him treats?  However, he didn’t help much when he bumped into the tree and knocked the angel off her perch to land face down on the floor. I have to climb up on a little step-ladder to put her in place, and having to do it twice wasn’t much fun. 

   Aside from the perils of putting the angel in place (twice), hanging the ornaments is always such a nostalgic time for me. Each one (and we have thousands  . . . well, maybe hundreds) brings back a special memory of its history. There are the hand-made paper offerings from the children when they were four or five years old. Not too many have survived all these years, so I treasure the ones I have. There are five nests, each with a tiny bird in it that my friend, Judy K. made for each member of our bridge club many eons ago, and they remind me of all the fun times our group had. We started when our kids were in diapers (even some yet to be born) and continued until they were grown and had made us grandmothers. 

  Some of the ornaments belonged to my parents and grandparents. Some are from Ireland, calling up memories of long-ago ancestors. 

   I’ll include here a picture of one of my favorites, because, for one thing, it ties together the two themes I seem to have stumbled upon in this column. When I start a column, I’m never sure where I’ll end up, so to be able to tie together the stuff  I’ve rambled on about is a real accomplishment!  

   And so I give you Winnie the Pooh reading to Piglet and Tigger.  

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