Glad to see our newly-elected agent of change is surrounding himself with non Washington insiders like Rahm Emanuel, John Kerry, and Robert F. and Caroline Kennedy.

Way to flip that new leaf, Mr. President. How about that unknown junior senator from New York… what’s her name? Heidi… Helen… Hillary…that’s it, Hillary.

I sure hope Madeline Albright and Donna Shalayla haven’t retired.

Anyway, I’ve always felt that one wastes most of their life wishing. Wishing it were Christmas, wishing it were vacation, wishing you won the lottery.

As mom used to say, ‘you’re wishing your life away, boy.’

Dad used to say something about wishing in one hand and well, poopin’ in the other and seeing which hand was first to be filled.

I took him at his word, never opting to practically apply the theorem.

But in this instance, I find myself wishing my grandson were a few years older. Of course, that would also make me a few years closer to dead, and mom’s prophecy would indeed be realized.

But I’d like for the grand gnome to be about eight – it would be a pretty good age to at least understand the significance of Barack Obama’s election.

It would be pretty cool during his visit this Sunday to share some of the historical moments I’ve witnessed in my lifetime.

I had just turned four when John F. Kennedy was murdered. Today, I can’t discern if the imagery I see is that from a recessed corner of my brain or if I’ve been exposed to a myriad of photos and films about the event throughout my life.

The line between real and imagined has become a tad skeletal. Kind of like the spindly lower half of my legs.

I was eight when Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were abruptly taken away and daily witnessed the horrors of the Vietnam War on the evening news. There wasn’t the media filter we have today – in 1968, dead and dying soldiers were as much a part of the evening meal as meat loaf. 

I can add the fight for civil rights to that list. I lived just over the city line in a majority white suburb of Baltimore when I was growing up. And in the spring that King was killed, we witnessed first hand the rage that brought the battle for racial equality right to our door.

Baltimore, just like Washington, Chicago and even Trenton were among the 110 cities that rioted in the wake of Dr. King’s assassination. Thirty-nine people were killed in the explosion of America’s urban areas, and 34 of them were black.

By the time it was over, cities and neighborhoods were burned – in some cases – out of existence, and more than 34,000 National Guard troops were used to quell the violence. Damages topped 50 million dollars.

My parents – as I recall to this day – were considering keeping me out of school, fearful that the rioting urban blacks would target white neighborhoods such as our own.

There would be no more trips to the downtown shopping areas or the Baltimore Civic Center, and I was forbidden from leaving my neighborhood - on foot, bike or even with family friends.

The evening news showed us police dogs attacking black women, police beating black men, and people of all colors being burned out of homes and businesses – and it was happening less than eight miles from my elementary school.

It was arguably one of the darkest pre-9/11 chapters in American history.

So, while not quite being three, our little Justin is a tad too young to understand the significance, and the only memory of this presidential election will be the one shaped by history books and media retrospectives.

In fact, I’d hazard to guess that anyone under 40 doesn’t fully grasp the significance, either.

Not the significance of this country electing a mixed-race president, but the magnitude of the journey that enabled Obama to even just be in a position to win. 

But as the network cameras panned the various crowds assembled to celebrate Obama’s victory, you could pick out the ones who truly understood the meaning just by watching the reaction.

The young people were joyous – high-fiving, waving signs, and generally dancing in the streets.

The revelers with a touch of gray hair and a few wrinkles around the eyes were the ones who stood stoic and reflective. They didn’t just hear about the days of black America’s fight for civil rights – they lived them. And bled for them. And died for them. And cried for them.

And those tears they were shedding while watching the new president were ones for every American – black, white, brown or otherwise – who witnessed the strides this country has made in just 40 years.

And that’s something that no three year-old grandson, 25 or 26 year-old daughter, 29 year-old son, or even a 30-year-old son-in-law could ever understand.

I did not vote for our new president. And while I can feel the joy of his supporters, his party, his community and his ancestry, I cannot find agreement with many of his policy proposals.

I didn’t vote for John McCain, either – his policies worried me just as much as Obama’s.

So while we all ‘hope’ that this ‘change’ will actually be for the better, keep in mind that pretty much the same roster of 535 halfwits still occupy the halls of Congress.

Maybe my grandson is too young to understand, but by the time the next election rolls around millions of children his age will realize that the only president they’ve ever known is a man of color.

And that is Barack Obama’s greatest legacy thus far.

By J. Doug Gill 

I could fill three blogs with the reasons I’m glad I’m not a parent of a small child these days. And that’s without considering the prospects of a President Obama or President McCain.

But with Halloween upon us and all the media reports designed to scare the candy corn out of you, this is the time of year I most enjoy having full-grown children.

I was going to say ‘adult’, but the jury’s still out on our oldest son.

Anyway, according to a U.S. Census Bureau report, fewer children are trick-or-treating because the “demographic for it is declining.”

If by ‘demographic’ they mean the parents who are too afraid to let their kids trudge through the neighborhood, then I say we’ve found at least one government report that was accurate.

From perverse distributors of unsafe candy to roaming packs of often-violent bullies and even the frighteningly high number of pedophiles, Halloween has become a sad commentary on the state of our society

This year, the state of Maryland has even gone so far as to mail bright orange cardboard jack-o-lanterns to 1,200 individuals who are on the state’s sex offender’s list.

These state-issued decorations come with the warning that there’s “No Candy at This Residence,” and requires the offender to prominently display the sign in their front window.

As a parent, I’d prefer a sign that simply says a sex offender lives here the other 364 days a year, too, but that’s just me.

Yes, we can argue the civil liberties aspect of this Spooktacular Scarlet Letter, but the point is to make the parent aware that this might not be the best place to leave your children unsupervised.

The shunning of this door-to-door panhandling has been increasing each year; families are now more apt to don costumes and parade around churches, schools and community centers.

No longer are little ones allowed to fan out across the ‘hood like an invading army and pillage their way to sugar nausea and rotting teeth.

I was in the waning years of trick-or-treating age (probably about 12) when a family friend – Wade Poole was his name – would accompany our pre-teen gaggle from house to house.

Mr. Poole would spend most of October searching for a pumpkin big enough in which to literally stick his head.

Once found, Mr. Wade would gut the giant gourd, carve out the eyes and mouth, and lop enough off the bottom so that it would slide on his head like some mutated space helmet. He’d complete the ensemble with a bright white sheet, and this Great Pumpkin would be our escort for the evening.

Yes – we would still go through our candy piece by piece – even in the early 70s there were twisted people who put pins in candy bars and razor blades in apples. But at least we had an adult – an authority figure - with us to keep us safe from weirdoes, hoodlums and the scary old witch that would holler at us for cutting through her yard.

Still, nearly seven billion dollars is spent on Halloween, making it the second most commercialized day on the calendar.

And now the green movement is getting in on the act. I won’t dignify them with identification, but I recently stumbled upon a website that features suggestions for having a green Halloween.

In addition to the expected tips on homemade costumes and recycling candy wrappers, they offered this little nugget as a viable candy alternative: teabags.

I’d rather get a rock.

And not just any old black pekoe (although, the blogger admits to handing out a variety of herbals), but peppermint tea, because it goes best with Halloween treats (that is, if the rest of the neighborhood doesn’t substitute Folger’s Singles for chocolate bars).

If ever a house deserved an egging it’s the one who hands out herbal teas instead of sugary heaven.

Just foolin’, kiddies, ol’ Poo-paw does not condone vandalism. Eggs are bad for both the paintjob and your cholesterol. And the shells take forever to biodegrade.

This year, the gremlin will be a bumblebee or a Transformer – if his mother (or Kim Jong-ma as she’s known to my grandson) can get him to wear the headpiece. He’ll be visiting the enemy grand-camp and the homes of other friends and relatives, and then stopping here at The Palace for a few sweet treats and I’m guessing a diaper change.

So keep your loved ones close this All Hallows Eve – there aren’t a lot of Great Pumpkins out there keeping an eye on them. And you can still celebrate the fun of the holiday (and the minty goodness of tea) without venturing into the madness.

Besides, with all the recent home foreclosures, finding a haunted house whose ghosts haven’t been evicted is practically impossible.

By J. Doug Gill 

I know you’ve interacted with this mother (or father): “Stop that. Put that down. Don’t do that. Don’t make me count to THREE… one… TWO…”

Yep, and then comes three. Anyone who attended public school has known that little tidbit since at least the fifth grade.

It’s been quite a while since we threatened our four ingrates…umm, children… with the Final Countdown. We usually stopped at one, as in: “Number one, buy your own damn alcohol.”

But everywhere I go (a massive list that includes the grocer, the big box retailer and the big box home improvement retailer), I run into a parent who inevitably will threaten their little Lucifer with the dreaded countdown.

Moms at the grocery store are the most fun. It was once said that if you’re single, the grocery store is one of the best places to pick up women.

Well, I’ve been doing the grocery shopping for this household for about a decade now and I can’t confidently say that the originator of that expression is, well, a liar.

Unless I’m shopping at the wrong stores, the only women I encounter are dragging around their preschoolers and counting down because of candy-, juice- or cereal-aisle infractions.

And then there are the ones who pack four kids into the SUV-size kiddie grocery cart and commit the kind of traffic violations that – on real roads – would result in license revocation. But we’ll save that little nugget for another day and another blog.

These ladies are anything but available – save for the role of surrogate starter pistols at the track meet. Or at NASA’s Mission Control (Houston, I’m not telling you again to launch that shuttle…one…TWO).

Hmmm… perhaps the proper verbiage would be count up, but then my title that references an album release by the horrible Swedish ‘80s band, Europe, would be rendered moot. 

Anyway, I even crossed paths recently with my daughter’s sister-in-law, who happens to be married to a Hispanic gentleman, and she had their three offspring in tow. Five minutes into the meeting, you guessed it: uno… DOS.

Ay carumba!

This past Sunday, when the children and our little grand gnome came home to roost (roosting to an empty nest parent, by the way, means they visit for no more than five hours – six if I’m drinking), I met yet another counter in our family room: the mother of the grand gremlin.

My daughter – or Ayatollah Kho-mommy as she’s known to my grandson – has become one of those who are implementing numerical nomenclature into disciplinary tactics.

‘Justin, put your toys in the toybox. Justin, toybox, please. Justin… one…TWO.’

‘Justin, put on your shoes. Justin, the shoes. Justin, one…TWO.’

‘Justin, don’t make me count. Justin, you don’t want me to count. Justin, one…TWO.’

I want to scream THREE THREE THREE, for god’s sake THREE, just so someone will get a spanking or a flogging or a darn good thrashing! Or, at the very least, an extended time out.

Of course, as my daughter is showing off her mathematical prowess, my grandson is flapping his arms like they’re on fire, bursting into the kind of tears that normally accompany crying with no sound, and running around in circles like the other two stooges are chasing him with mallets.

Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, indeed.

Just as little Justin reaches the point that will soon bring dictatorial arrest and incarceration, he performs the desired task and goes about the business of being smack in the middle of his terrible twos.

I never did understand the counting premise - maybe because my father never bothered to count. At the point of infraction, my dad would simply grab my arm with all the force of, I don’t know, a vice grip and lean in for a soft whisper into my ear.

“Douglas, unless you want to spend the next hour crying and unable to sit down I recommend you do what I told you to do.”

Yeah, dad was never a big fan of one or two, but he sure was a huge proponent of three.

By J. Doug Gill  

These days, there’s a brand new ritual when I call my daughter’s house. Whether I’m talking to my son-in-law about the sorry state of our favorite professional football team or exchanging general niceties with our eldest girl-child, my grandson will inevitably want to join me for a little phone conversation.

I’ll admit that it’s cute – sort-of – but only after our gabfest is complete. Going from point ‘a’ to point ‘b’ is not so delightful, and we do not go gently into that transition.

More often than not, I’ll hear little Justin whoopin’ and hollering in the background, and then, much like a tiger on an unsuspecting villager, he pounces on the in-use communication device.

“My turn.”

Once I hear the child utter these two words I know the beast that guards hell has been unleashed.

Yesterday, as my daughter and I discussed plans for the weekend and one of my most recent appearances on a local radio station, I could hear the cry of ‘my turn’ building to a fevered crescendo.

My son-in-law is quick to hand over the phone. Having lived with my daughter for quite a few years now, he obviously understands the white flag concept.

My daughter – or Pol Pot as she’s known to my grandson – however, turns on that mom gene that blocks out all the noise the boy can muster.

I don’t think she understands that I possess no such genetic material, and the perpetual harping of myturnmyturnmyturnmyturn drives me batty.

But not as loopy as, I don’t know, my daughter screaming in my ear that it’s NOT YOUR TURN, IT’S MOMMY’S TURN.

‘Honey,’ I say, ‘go ahead and put Justin on the phone.’

‘Yeah, I will,’ she replies, turning on the former teenage gene that blocks out everything the old man says.

“JUSTIN, it is mommy’s turn, when it’s your turn I’ll let you know. IT’S MOMMY’S TURN.”

I keep waiting for her to bark at the boy that it’s time to clean the latrines.

Justin could care less if it were the Queen of England’s turn; he feels he is next in line for the phone throne.

Once my daughter thrusts the phone into his breadbasket (I’m just guessing here), she chastises him for phone-related infractions.

“Put it up to your ear.”

“Talk into it the right way.”

“Don’t PUSH any buttons.”

If I were the kid I’d throw it away like a live hand grenade and go screaming into the street.

Just a side note of useless knowledge for you: Did you know the very first telephone operators were boys? True story. Young males had done such a great job of working in telegraph offices that the very first phone companies thought they would be a natural for the operator position. As boys are wont to do, however, they started wrestling around the switchboard, crank calling folks, and even hurling curse words at callers.

Women were hired not long after; upper management’s reasoning was that they were better behaved than males, and could be had for half the wages. Really. Pinky swear. Google it if you doubt the Poo-Paw.

Where was I? Oh yeah, running screaming into the street.

But rather than flee for his young life, my grandson gathers himself and says, “Hi Poo-pa.”

He doesn’t quite have the ‘w’ sound down yet.

For the next couple of minutes I ask him what he’s doing (‘play cars’ being the standard answer) what he had for breakfast (‘eggs-n-cheese’ are always the menu item of choice), and if he was being a good boy (‘yes’ is the stock reply).

With Pol Pot for a mother, would you admit to unruly behavior?

The next few minutes are spent trying to unscramble garbled sentences recognizable only to fellow toddlers and those who are in the Satan-possessed phase of speaking in tongues.

And then, as I wait for him to return the phone to the Supreme Leader (and question my sanity for calling in the first place), the sweet little gnome utters, “Bye, Poopa. Wuv you.”

I think I’ll be calling everyday from here on out.

By J. Doug Gill

So, what have you guys been doing for the last few days? Me? I’ve been watching the stock market and keeping an eye on my retirement package. When the closing bell rang today I was down to a tube of Polident and a half-can of Metamuscil.

I’ve actually been trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid media coverage of the financial mess. There isn’t enough 12-year-old Cragganmore Scotch in my neighborhood package goods to sufficiently numb one’s exposure to the bleak ramblings of one’s preferred talking head.

Looks like we all picked a bad week to stop sniffing glue.

As the regular readers of this Poo-Paw space may already know, the wife is an AARP member. Yours truly is – as I love pointing out at every opportunity – not quite old enough to qualify for membership.

But I do take full advantage of the benefits of grandma’s membership, and have found myself to be quite a fan of the old folks’ publications.

When the AARP Bulletin arrived the other day, I snagged it from the mail pile and headed off to the bath… er… reading room.

After skimming through the requisite stories aimed at seniors, I came across a snappy little read entitled ‘50 Words Kids Think You Don’t Know.’

However, before I address the general snotty tone of the piece, I did want to mention – in a nod to the financial reference in my opening – that this issue featured a story that, well, scared the bejeezes right out of me.

The article opened with the following scenario: “Behind a security gate in the desolate parking lot of a California church, the 55 year-old grandmother settles in for the night in the backseat of her Jeep Cherokee.”

Yep, she is homeless. And, even though she works a full-time job and has been in the workforce her entire life, this grandmother is just one of 4,000 people (most of them over 62) in the Santa Barbara area who can’t afford to keep a roof over their heads. It’s gotten so bad that retail stores are opening their parking lots during non-shopping hours so these car-dwellers have a safe neighborhood in which to sleep.

Anyway, to escape this brutal glimpse at reality, I turned to the inside back page and read a list of slang expressions that apparently our children think are just too damn hip for us to understand.

Among them? Google, webisode, bling, the bomb, fo’shizzle and badonkadonk.

Puh-leeze. One, the frenemies using this verbiage must be trapped in the 90s, yo, cause, like, terminology like fo’shizzle is so old it be wack.

And two, much like the non-English speaking person who can understand just enough of the language to know you’re speaking ill of them, us seasoned citizens like to pretend we know less than we really do. It keeps us from being saddled with activities in which we really don’t want to participate.

Sort of like when the wife asks me to fix something plumbing-, electrical- or carpentry-related.

I’m probably more in ‘the loop’ than your average Poo-Paw. After all, I make my living as a freelance writer, and more often than not am called upon for commentary and observation of current pop culture.

That will certainly help when my little grand gnome starts tossing out terms like TMI, BFF, crackberry and wikidemia.

“That’s tight, little dude,” I will utter, and he will find that grandpa is indeed one of his peeps and most certainly rocks.

But in the interest of fair time, I thought about a partial list of just a few words that this generation of youngsters seemingly doesn’t understand.

Manners – not the yes ma’am, no sir kinda stuff (although that would be nice), but the hold the door open, get off your cell phone, stop saying ‘huh’ brand of social conduct that, if they had thumbs, any species of chimp could muster.

Respect – and not just for your fellow man, but for yourself, your property and for those who love you. And if you don’t respect yourself, never expect any one else to respect you.

Earn – work for something. Set some goals, show some initiative and stop blaming everyone else for things that go awry. And don’t expect a new BMW on your 16th birthday.

Mollycoddled – what you’ve been since birth, and now that you’ve reached an age where your parents should no longer be doing things for you, you’re as lost as the aforementioned thumb-less chimp.

Listen – see manners, respect, earn and mollycoddled above.

Perhaps then we can eliminate three words that have been applied all-too-often to this generation of youth: disillusioned, bored and uneducated.

And if I sound grouchy, I am. Stories of homeless grandparents will do that to you.

By J. Doug Gill
 

I’ve never harbored any ill will toward Disney. Not the theme parks, nor the characters or even horrible films like “Snow Dogs”, “Haunted Mansion” or any sequel to any movie they ever made. If it’s a Disney film with a “2” next to it your choices are few: either run screaming in the other direction or bravely attempt to kill it with fire.

When I was a wee chap back in the early ‘60s, animated films such as “101 Dalmatians” and live action stuff like “Mary Poppins” defined the Disney experience. And every Sunday night meant it was time to turn one of our three TV channels (four if you count the snowy UHF reception) to “The Wonderful World of Disney”.

I was also quite captivated by Mouseketeer Annette Funicello - she was the only 12 year-old girl I’d ever seen who needed a c-cup training bra.

Hey, I was a kid - so that’s not as sick as it sounds.

I’m not sure when the magical world ceased being ‘cool’, but I do know that wearing anything Mickey or Donald or Pluto to school after 3rd grade usually resulted in being beaten… well… goofy (sorry, couldn’t resist).

Today, however, it’s easy to pinpoint my distaste for the giant mouse and his pals - Hannah Montana being one reason, the Jonas Brothers being another. And let’s not even talk about their ‘gift’ of the Spears family.

And since I’m a huge fan of “Monday Night Football”, I blame Disney (who owns ESPN) for ruining my pleasurable pigskin viewing by hiring the most annoying man ever to breathe, Tony Kornheiser.

But Tony the Terrible is not my main reason for ranting on the Disney bunch. No, my anti-Disney stance stems from the recent remodeling of my grandson’s bedroom.

As you may recall, we recently dined in the house of gnome and were treated to a tour of his newly renovated living space.

When my daughter shared with me – by phone – that they had gone with the Disney/Pixar Cars theme for the imp’s room, I had no idea what that entailed.

A bedspread was a given, as were curtains and pillows and other such linen accoutrements. Stuffed versions of the film’s characters were also a necessity. My wife even participated in the branding, having returned from a recent meeting in Orlando with a mini-pillow Lightning McQueen.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the seemingly endless roster of all things “Cars.” Let’s start with the bathroom. There are Cars the Movie towels, soap dispensers, shower curtains, shower hooks, tumblers, soap dishes, toothbrushes and wastebaskets.

For the bedroom we have Cars the Movie wall hooks, wall borders, wall murals and even toddler beds. You’ve got your desktop pencil sharpener, notepad, stapler and tape dispenser. Hmmm… maybe those last few are for your Cars-themed office space.

For the kitchen there are Cars the Movie Tupperware bowls (with lids), sandwich containers (with E-Z freeze lid), a 12-piece sculptured flatware set and something called a clamshell three-piece mealtime set.

Tired of your expensive Ethan Allan ensemble? Replace it with a Cars the Movie work desk (with storage) or the three piece table and chair set. And please don’t overlook the flip open foam slumber sofa or the outdoor patio set with umbrella.

Other sundry items include clothing, backpacks, fabric, costumes, key chains, lunchboxes, party supplies, school supplies, room décor, books, calendars, puzzles, posters, stand-ups and of course, toys.

Look at how far we’ve come from a pair of stupid ears.

I’m not sure this is what Walt Disney had in mind when he began building his empire. The folks who run the corporate kingdom these days care more about profits and branding than they do about the wonderment of children.

Anyway, I’m apparently not the only one who feels this way. A Google of the term ‘Disney sucks’ brought back more than 3.5 million hits.

And while you won’t end up with some creepy animated Chip and Dale porno, you will find more than a few of the top returns lobbing the magical f-bomb at Cinderella’s Castle. And nearly all of them point to the way the company markets to kids.

Oh, and by the way: if you don’t run right out and buy all the Cars stuff mentioned in this blog you may be sorry. Next week, it all goes back in the Disney vault – never again to be seen (unless they need to up the revenue haul just in time for the holidays).

By J. Doug Gill
 

The wife and I went to the house of gnome for dinner this past Saturday. My daughter and son-in-law invite us over every few months – the timing coincides with the expiration of their 90-day guilt warranty.

I’m quite fond of dining with the alpha son-in-law – I can always count on Jay to be grilling a huge slab of Grade A New York strip and pumping me full of 12-year-old Scotch.

Granted, the Scotch is so I’ll speak with a loosened tongue and share with him horror stories about my daughter and her youthful exploits, but I enjoy telling them almost as much as he takes pleasure in hearing what kind of life he’s really carved out for himself.

Our youngest daughter and beta son-in-law never invite us over. They keep using lack of space in their apartment as an excuse, but the wife and I are hip to the real reason: neither one of them can cook.

Either that, or as we know from daily glances into her bedroom when she lived at home, Chelsea suffers from a horrifying allergic reaction to cleaning.

So as we entered the house of the grand gnome, the little imp met us at the door. Not regularly visiting the boy on his home turf has its drawbacks, the biggest of which is being brought up-to-speed on all the new toys collected since our last social call.

The kid has so many playthings I half expect to see Geoffrey the Giraffe lounging about the basement.

After seeing the play heap in the living room; scoping the ‘Justin area’ of his parent’s bedroom; and navigating the mounds of outdoor toys on the patio, the little gremlin prodded us to go up and see his newly redecorated bedroom.

‘Car up stair,’ he said, pointing his portly little finger at the ceiling.

The ‘cars’ in question were actually Disney/Pixar Cars, and his new room had more Lightening McQueen memorabilia than an Orlando flea market.

After the tour of toy landfill number four, we saddled up to the dining table and glommed a couple pounds of sizzling beef, baked taters and mounds of Caesar salad. And that was just my grandson’s portion.

For dessert we had ‘cream.’ In toddler translation, ‘cream’ is actually the whipped topping that sits lightly on the summit of a perfect parfait crafted by one of our local grocers.

I came bearing parfaits the last time I dined in the house of gnome, and the boy was so enamored with the delectable dessert that he ate an entire cup.

And because I am grandpa, I let him. And to reiterate that I am indeed grandpa, he got his own cup of ‘cream’ this time, too. 

Armed with two spoons and a vat of cherry-flavored heaven, Justin and I began a serious march through our dinner’s fruity finishing touch.

That is until my daughter - or Chairman Mao as she’s known to my grandson – decided that the little guy’s dessert time had come to an end.

“All right, Justin, one more bite and that’s enough,” the head of the communist party announced, “It’s time to get you cleaned up and into your pajamas.”

‘Un mo bite,’ the gnome replied, and I obliged with a hearty spoonful.

‘Last bite,’ was the dictator’s retort.

‘Un mo bite,’ the gnome repeated, and again I filled his cake-hole with, naturally, more cake.

Finally, after the fifth, sixth and seventh last bite (and same number of exchanges with The Chairman), I informed Justin that I make the rules around here and he could sit in his high chair until he had natural cherry flavoring running from his ears.

“Well, that rule-making stuff may apply at grandpa’s house,” my daughter growled, “But mommy makes the rules in this house.”

Which certainly didn’t come as news to my son-in-law. 

But I do think someone needs a refresher on the two permanent parental regulations. Rule one: grandfathers are not subject to rules. Rule number two: you can’t change rule number one.

And just for the record, the boy and I finished that parfait.

Here’s hoping my daughter was in charge of the first Sunday morning diaper change.

By J. Doug Gill
 

A few months back, one of my fellow bloggers – the lovely Maryland Mom - lamented the task of trying to get her little urchin to abandon his pacifier.

While her descriptors for the rubber-like dependency enablers (gow-gow being my fave) brought a few chuckles, there’s nothing funny about weaning these gnomes off the bloody things.

And it seems they have the same multiplying gene as Floppy the Bunny; leave one unattended for a few moments and suddenly you have five more. Binkies bounce back more than a dividend check from Lehman Brothers.

I relive Maryland Mom’s gow-gow moment because I, too, have reached my last binky nerve.

My grandson, staring hard at 31 months, comes to visit every other Sunday. I wait at the front door for his arrival, and once his mother – or El Presidente Castro as she’s known to my grandson - releases him from the Houdini-like seat contraption he makes his way to Poo-Paw’s out-stretched arms.

On most occasions he’s sporting a nifty ensem (if you’re a NASCAR fan) of dark sunglasses, a little red Disney/Pixar Cars baseball hat and a big blue slab of binky stuck in his face.

As hugs, squeezes and kisses abound, I sweetly say to the little imp, “Give grandpa the binky.” And with nary a whimper he yanks it out and plops it in my hand.

We’ve been doing this for months so Round One always goes to yours truly.

The imp wins the day, however, because as soon as he’s tired, fussy, hungry, sleepy, loud, rambunctious, annoying, etc., grandpa is forced (at knifepoint) to give up the stashed binkster.

I shouldn’t be surprised; my daughter was the victim of one of these dependency enablers until she was 17. Not a binky, but a dilapidated piece of silk that was cut from a blanket. And not really 17 (take your blood pressure meds, honey), she was more like 11 before she gave up her ‘silk.’

I was a single dad in those days. My current wife and I had yet to lose our mental capacity and Brady-Bunch this clan, so I would take every opportunity to – let’s be honest here – steal the damn, grubby thing and throw it out.

But somehow, when she would return from visiting her grandmother or great-grandmother, the child would be clutching a shiny new piece of silk. I moved her bed to vacuum under it once (just once) and found about two-dozen silken snakes lying motionless on the floor.

Of course, both old women denied complicity, but since my daughter wasn’t running a silkworm farm, the evidence was rather incriminating.

Anyway, as I’m wont to do – especially when I don’t feel like writing… I mean suffering from writer’s block – I went to Google for a little direction.

According to the Consumer Affairs website, there are times when binkies can be beneficial (such as a newborn deterrent to SIDS), but I was looking for evidence to support my crusade so I searched on.

Pacifiers, the report goes on to say, are mostly made from either latex or silicon. Latex, according to most medical journals, is a health hazard because of its allergenic properties. Latex can be found in clothing, paint and the set of all-weather radials you have on your car.

In other words, my daughter has been letting my grandson suck tires for two-and-a-half years.

Silicon? Really? That leads to the inevitable question: if silicon is safe enough for a baby, what’s all the fuss about breast implants?

Consumer Affairs also offers tips and ideas for banishing the bink. Making it distasteful is one such suggestion, but my little gnome eats anchovies and wasabi peas (not at the same time – what kind of grandparent do you think I am?) so anything with any sort of food flavor will not help break the habit.

In fact, our little eating machine may decide to slap it on a biscuit. Especially if it’s smothered in gravy.

Also suggested was using an ice pick to pierce the nipple or to cut the nipple down to a shorter size. Both result in a ‘reduction of sucking satisfaction.’

Let’s leave that one alone, shall we?

Most telling, however, was the website warning issued by one Doctor Luke Matranga, who noted that, “Children should stop using pacifiers by age two.”

I think it’s time I had a little talk with my daughter. I wonder what kind of response I’ll get if I give her back all those strips of confiscated silk?

By J. Doug Gill
 

One tends to get a little cocky when one excels in a particular arena. And the arrogance isn’t limited to sports stars, actors and evening newscasters – even those of us who live meaningless lives are prone to a fit of egotism now and then.

Men, I’ve found, are more often susceptible to fits of haughtiness than women, even if the fairer sex (is that sexist?) spend many more hours in front of the mirror than we do.

I’ve always subscribed to the Muhammed Ali theory that “It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it,” but throughout my nearly 49 years on this planet I’ve discovered there’s a razor-thin line between conceit and overconfidence.

Much like…I don’t know… these idiots who strap-on ‘flying suits’, jump off cliffs or out of airplanes, and plan to land gracefully on the ground without the help of a parachute.

We saw one such ma-roon on the “Today Show” the other morning. We watch the “Today Show” because we just adore financial experts with extensive stock portfolios telling us to sock away cash for our retirement even if it means skipping a couple weeks worth of meals.

Just once I’d like to visit the world these folks live in.

Anyway, Skippy the Flying moron filmed his latest bird-like exploit, and his camera captured each and every thud as the aerial acrobat ricocheted off a pair of rugged, canyon walls. He broke a couple of bones and tore off a few layers of skin, but remained nonplussed about future flying attempts.

He even shared with the sleepy-eyed morning audience that this wasn’t the first time his ‘hobby’ had landed him in the emergency ward.

This is more than smugness, and much more than overconfidence. This is a glutton for punishment.

You know the type: a GFP walks this earth intent on making the kind of decisions that never end well – like mowing the lawn without shoes, playing cowboys and Indians with a nail-gun or walking through a neighborhood in Baltimore that’s not the Inner Harbor.

I think I might be a candidate for such GFP branding. In fact, if anyone out there reading this has more than one child, I’d say the masochist tag applies to you, too.

So as we gathered for yet another Sunday family get-together, I was in the kitchen readying the afternoon meal. The grand urchin always joins me for the dinner ritual - we goof around with spatulas and measuring spoons and such, and I like teaching the little guy how to dump in seasonings, stir macaroni salad and what constitutes the correct ratio of Scotch to ice in grandpa’s glass.

I’m thinking he’ll be fetching repeated tumblers for me before he hits his 5th birthday.

So, as little Justin and I are gathering the vegetables for our munchie tray, he turns his attention to his own little veggies and begins to pinch the area of his body that future females in his life will accuse him of thinking with.

Now with male children of a certain age (and certainly male adults), this sort of motion has various meanings. It could be a matter of a simple comfort adjustment, or the male in question could be making sure he didn’t mistakenly leave them somewhere – like in his wife’s purse.

But with a little boy, this grabbing endeavor can mean but one thing: the little dude had to wee-wee.

“Do you have to pee, Justin?”

“Yes,” came the pained reply.

Now keep in mind that my grandson has yet to cross that diaper-to-toilet threshold, therefore, his rush to the loo created quite a clamor in the family room.

Once in the bathroom and devoid of undergarments (him, not me), I propped the gnome atop the bowl and hoped for the best (I certainly wasn’t hoping for number two, mainly because of my supporting position).

We talked about politics, the weather and the volatile stock market and then: viola, pee!

And while Justin ran back into the living room pants-less (and to thunderous applause), I strolled out of the bathroom like I’d just strapped on a flying suit and stuck a parachute-less landing at the bottom of a canyon.

‘See, this potty-training stuff isn’t so tough,’ I heard myself say, ‘I think it’s time you kids give us a couple more grandchildren.’

Yep, the difference between cockiness and masochism is mighty thin indeed.

By J. Doug Gill
 

The grand gnome isn’t the only baby in my daughter’s life. No, she’s only given birth to one (that I know of), but she happens to be an aunt to three of her sister-in-law’s slobbering little diaper-fillers.

As such, Justin (our own little grand urchin) spends lots of time with this trio doing what all kids naturally do – exchanging all kinds of abhorrent Third World-type infections to bring home to the family.

But kids gathered together share more than deadly airborne viruses (viri?), they learn to mimic, emulate and even implement the behavior of their peers into their own easily-impressionable worlds.

On one of her most recent visits, my daughter, Jackie – or Warden “The Captain” Mama as she’s known to my grandson (what we have here is a failure to potty train) – stopped drinking all of our beer just long enough to discuss a problem with the grand gnome’s recent behavior.

Not the out-of-control heathen displays most often associated with toddlers 2.5, but with his actions after returning from one of the aforementioned gatherings with the cousins.

The boy had apparently picked up the manners of his younger relatives and was now using the ‘point and grunt’ method to call attention to an object of his desire.

“It really gets on my nerves,” Jackie shared with us, reminding me that patience was never really in the top five of her virtues. And in light of her making me a grandfather, I’m guessing chastity wasn’t high on that list either.

Anyway, the nerve jostling my daughter was experiencing stemmed from Justin’s reluctance to verbally request an item, opting to instead thrust his index finger at the entity and utter, ‘Uhhh.’

Having personally applied this method to supplement the level of 12-year-old Cragganmore Scotch in my glass; snag additional helpings of mashed potatoes; and to garner a little lovin’ from the wife, I couldn’t find fault with my grandson’s newly-found cave-mannish-ness.

But apparently, Emily Post has moved into my daughter’s home.

“I keep telling him to stop that and talk,” she continued, “It’s like the boy never learned any manners. But as long as those other kids are doing it, he’ll keep doing it too.”

Doing what ‘they’ do. Fitting in with the crowd. Influenced by the behavior of others. Hmmm… I think I’ve heard that before. Oh yeah, I believe it was every day of every year that our kids lived under our roof.

Man did that bring back my daughter’s childhood in a flash. Now keep in mind that the oldest of our beloved female offspring – along with her three other ingrate siblings - grew up through the ‘80s and ‘90s, so if my references seem antiquated that’s why.

In the early days she couldn’t possibly be seen in school without a Rainbow Brite lunchbox and simply had to cut her long hair into the short bob that Katie Couric (and 50 million other American females) was sporting in those days. Why? Everyone else was doing it.

By the time she hit the ‘tweens’ an appearance in public without a Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket (not from allegiance, but the colors and bee logo were deemed cool) would have led to certain social death.

And entertaining at home was out of the question unless she had Tupac and Biggie posters on her walls and a Sony Discman that not only ruined her hearing, but also sent me into bankruptcy owing the Energizer Bunny a quarter-million dollars on battery purchases.

Why you ask again? Because everyone else had pictures of scary thug rappers in their rooms and she couldn’t possibly live another day in a bedroom with non-threatening pastel walls.

Fortunately, she had a job throughout most of high school and was self-sustaining in supplying her own trendy garb and gadgetry.

If ‘point and grunt’ is giving her high blood pressure now, she’ll be prime stroke material by the time the gnome hits the ninth grade.

Wait until elementary school when he comes home singing the four-letter words he learned on the playground. And then there are the middle school realities of smoking (tobacco and marijuana), drinking, experimenting with sex and the temptation of delinquency. Then they whine about Iphones and Ipods and wonder why they can’t have new BMWs when they get their driver’s license.

And I’m just scratching the surface.

Mimicking the behavior of his cohorts? Yeah, it’s called peer pressure, baby, and you ain’t seen nothing yet.

By J. Doug Gill
 

The wife forced me to… I mean suggested… we hang out and ‘make a day of it’ this past Saturday. She’s been traveling a bit lately, so in spite of wall-to-wall college football and watching Geraldo get thrown around a Galveston seawall, the woman who determines just how pleasant my day will be decided we should abandon lazing around The Palace and spend some time together ‘shopping.’

I’m really not sure why our together time couldn’t have included watching the Maryland-California game or news reporters doing the backstroke in the Gulf of Mexico, so I won’t belabor the point here.

She sweetened the pot a bit by suggesting we stop at a mega-liquor store – it’s that time of year where we swap out our summer libations (margaritas, vodka lemonades and Scotch) for more fall-friendly beverages such as Bailey’s Irish Cream, Godiva Chocolate Liqueurs and Scotch – so I relented.
 
The wife tired of the liquor shopping after just two short hours (they were having a wine tasting and I was only on the Cabernet’s that began with “C”) so we stopped for a little lunch and then ended up in one of those retail establishments that outrageously inflates the price of their goods and then gives you 50% off so you think you’re saving a little coin.

Please, we Americans regularly purchase the stuff hawked by Billy Mays (if Mighty Putty was as powerful as claimed would we not be using it to fill potholes?), so we’re nothing if not educated consumers.

After wandering through the women’s, house wares, bed & bath, furniture & décor, kitchen & dining and clearance departments I snagged a new pair of tennis shoes (can’t say I don’t support Chinese slave labor) and followed the wife on an encore tour of the aforementioned specialty sections.

But while she looked through the clearance rack for another bargain to hang in her closet, I headed for the toy department.

The toys here at Poo-Paw’s haven’t been sufficiently upgraded, so on the last few visits the grand gnome has been forced to relive his infant days by playing with colorful newborn-type gadgets and a stuffed duck that honks “aflac” when squeezed.

When I last visited my grandson at home, I found him to be quite enamored with a product called “Shake N Go” cars.

If you haven’t seen the Shake N Gos, they live up to their name: you shake them, sit them down and depending on how violently shaken, the cars will then motor quite a few feet across the floor.

However, when they are shaken, you get obnoxiously loud sounds of an engine starting, tires squealing, and a mystery driver repeating (ad nauseum) a couple of car-related phrases. The version we purchased is the taxi model, and when it smacks into a table leg, door jam or big toe, you get the bonus cacophony of breaking glass and crunching metal.

And, upon impact, the taxi’s hood flies up, the doors fly open and the trunk spoiler is ejected rearward with missile-like trajectory. I know this because I nearly lost an eye while crawling along the floor behind the vehicle.

Now, to give you a glimpse into our Sunday gatherings, you normally have between 7 and 10 adults, one hyperactive (and overly protective) border collie who barks every time he feels the gnome is in danger, and a two-and-a-half-year-old sprite that has all the energy of a ferret on Dexatrim.

Add in a kitchen radio perpetually tuned to sports talk and the stereo-sound majesty of our family room television, and the house possesses all the solitude of I-95 during the Friday afternoon rush.

This week, we added to the symphony of noise with not only the Shake N Go taxi, but also a way-cool Matchbox motorcycle that revs its engine and does an Evel Knieval-type flip.

Uncle Trav also supplemented the chaos when he showed the young ‘un that crashing the taxi into one’s forehead would cause the same amount of automotive destruction as the previously mentioned furniture barriers.

More clamor arose when my daughter – or Mien Commandant as she’s known to my grandson – threatened to punch brother Trav in the very same forehead where the taxi crashed just moments ago.

This violence would be carried out only if the grand gnome proceeded to mirror Uncle Trav’s actions and bash his own head with the plastic automobile.

We all waited breathlessly for the boy to sign his uncle’s death warrant, but the crisis passed without incident.

Well, that’s what they tell me – I was seeking the sort of solitude that can only be found in my newly-purchased fall beverage collection.

If expanding the boy’s toy inventory continues to result in this kind of bi-weekly pandemonium, I’ll be stocking up on the winter wines and spirits before Halloween.

By J. Doug Gill
 

Letters, we get letters. Not the magnetic kind that you stick on the fridge (my wife threw ours away when I kept spelling ‘chubby’ on the freezer that holds the Haagen-Dazs), but the ones that have sentences, words, comments and signatures and stuff. Who knew so many grandparents would seek the erudite advice of all things Poo-Paw?

Over the past five months I’ve accumulated almost tens of emails and remarks about adjusting to the grandfather role.

I can sum it up thusly: aside from not being burdened by the inherent judgment parents should possess, being a grandfather is all about bad behavior (yours, not the child’s) and knowing that no one in your family can hold you accountable for any dreadful deed.

Grandparents, for all intent and purpose, have familial diplomatic immunity. 

Anyway, to the letters:

Dear Poo-Paw:
I just found out I’m going to become a grandfather. Besides conventional worries like the baby’s health and the competency of the parents, I find myself feeling especially glum because it feels as if my life has met its inevitable fate – I’m about to become old. Why can’t I seem to deal with the age thing? – Joe from Hagerstown.

Joe, you’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. It’s not becoming a grandfather that’s making you feel old, it’s the knowledge that you’re married to a grandmother. Buy yourself a cardigan and learn how to whittle.

Dear Poo-Paw,
I’m off to the Twin Cities to visit my four young grandsons. Any ideas on the trip? – Ed from Waldorf.

Ed, if it’s too late to cancel your flight, be sure to have hotel reservations. I spend about 6 hours every two weeks with my toddling two-and-a-half-year-old grandson and could never imagine living with the child. Between his insatiable appetite, perpetual motion and constantly making sure the little bugger doesn’t injure himself, there’s very little time for alcohol, cigars and sports-viewing - and if you can get grandma to stay with the family all the better.

Dear Poo-Paw,
We had planned on taking our three grandchildren to Disney World this year, but it was contingent on school performance on their last report card. Unfortunately, one of the three didn’t perform so well and now his parents feel he shouldn’t be allowed to go. Any suggestions? We don’t want to go against the parents’ rules. – Joy and Jeff from Jessup.

Joy and Jeff, who cares about the parents’ rules? Did they care about your rules when they lived under your roof? Of course not. Now is not the time to concern yourself with the feelings of the child’s parents, grandparenting is all about you. Plus, if our kids were kept in the house every time they didn’t ‘perform well’ in school, they would never have had the opportunity to make us grandparents in the first place.

I say punish the whole platoon for the actions of one soldier and enjoy all-things-Mickey from an adult perspective. Besides, there’ll be thousands of other kids there; will three less even be missed?

Dear Poo-Paw,
It seems you spend more time ridiculing your family and mentioning your Scotch addiction than you do commenting on the joys of grandparenting. How about periodically cutting some slack to the people you supposedly love? - Really, truly, pinky-swear not from your family, and not from Lutherville, Timonium, Cockeysville or Columbia.

Not from, I’d love to help, but FamiliesOnly has a no nepotism policy – I’m afraid you do not qualify for free giveaways, free subscriptions, free web access or free counsel. You’ve already blown your chance to heed the sage advice of Poo-Paw. Looks like you’re on your own with this one.

The rest of you, however, please keep those cards and letters coming.

By J. Doug Gill
 

I’ll admit it: I have a cursing issue. Nothing like the tics that accompany Tourette Syndrome – it’s not like I’m shouting &^%, &*$# and %^& in the grocery store, church or the security line at the airport.

In fact, one should avoid all conversation while waddling shoeless through the entire airport screening process. Nothing ruins the first day of vacation like being frog-marched off to the body-cavity room for mistakenly uttering something as benign as ‘government workers suck.’

No, my expletive-filled rants usually have a purpose, and are more often than not directed at our politicians, news media (especially weather people) and the blue hair doing 50 in the fast lane with his turn signal flashing like a lighthouse beacon.

Now I know that some folks consider a foul mouth as a sign of low-grade intelligence and that others think such language represents a heathen upbringing, but of both groups I can confidently say: #@*& ‘em!

In all seriousness, the grandchild has reached the stage of vocabulary development where he enjoys repeating things that are said to him.

‘Justin, did you get new shoes?’

“New shoes.”

‘Are you coloring a picture, Justin?’

“Color picture.”

‘Do you need to go potty, Justin?’

“Go potty.” (Which he still does in his Huggies, but it’s a start)

The point is: if you say it to the grand gnome, the little sprite will say it back.

Anyway, some time over the course of the summer my backyard became the gathering spot for ninety percent of Maryland’s mosquitoes. It’s gotten so bad that even our border collie refuses to go outside unless we dip him in deet.

So as the family recently gathered on our back deck for a Sunday afternoon cook-out, hordes of blood-sucking insects descended upon our grilling festivities.

No, not the bloodsuckers that rent you apartments or collect taxes, but the ones that leave the itchy red bumps on your skin.

My 68-year-old mother and grand gnome 2.5 were the prime targets of the attack; my theory being they both smell of bath powder and protective undergarments.

Having run through the yard with Uncles Adam and Trav and attempting to prematurely pluck fruit from our tomato plants, little Justin returned to the deck with half a dozen welts dotting his arms and legs.

His Aunt Chelsea, sympathetic to his itchy, inflamed bites, picked this moment to coat the boy’s skin with Off resulting in something that – to a toddler – must have felt like he was suffering second degree burns to most of his body.

Running in circles, dancing in place and cooling ice cubes placed on the now crimson skeeter chomps calmed the little dude, but Poo-Paw here thought that a more proper rescue was in order. 

So I put my arms around the imp, rubbed his itchy, burning legs and articulated the immortal phrase: ‘damn bugs’

“Damn bugs” was squeaked back to me in one of the cutest little voices I’d ever heard. My daughter – Sergeant Mom as she’s known to my grandson - didn’t find it so delightful.

This repetition revelation is going to put a serious damper on my fall sports viewing – as bad as our local professional and college teams are, my grandson should be cussing like a sailor on a Bill O’Reilly outtake by Thanksgiving.  

By J. Doug Gill
 

Now that summer is over, every retailer will soon be swapping out their Halloween items (which have been out since the Fourth of July) for their Christma…. I mean holiday… displays.

Well, every retailer except those absurd Christmas ornament stores that are open year round and of course, Hershel’s Discount Menorah Outlet.

For our brood, the sign that the holiday season is just a scant 111 days away is the initial planning for our annual holly jolly party. The discussion began at our recent Labor Day cook-out.

A couple of years ago – after dozens of celebrations of the Noel and tens of thousands of dollars spent on under-the-tree swag – the wife and I ran out of gift ideas. Not just for each other, but also for our now grown children.

At least we were blessed with the grand gnome, which gives grandma and me an excuse to overspend on the coolest toys that I wish were socially acceptable for us to play with.

Additionally, I’ve been forced to supply my mother with presents for the last 48 years – well, maybe 42 – the first six years of bounty consisted of cheesy crayon drawings or some unidentifiable ceramic animal from kindergarten class.

The only things left to buy my 68 year-old mom for any holiday are life-saving surgical procedures and orthopedic shoes – and I’m pretty sure Medicare covers them both.

To be fair, the stuffed stocking is also on the other foot. We are in need of absolutely nothing here at The Palace – unless someone wants to buy us a new Jacuzzi – so it’s equally as difficult for our offspring, siblings and other members of this human psychiatric experiment gone awry to buy presents for us.

Since we had decided many years ago to treat each of our children to a birthday dinner at a four or five star restaurant instead of buying them clothes they won’t wear or a gift card that seemed tacky or thoughtless, we agreed on a similar celebration for the holidays.     

Now, if you happen to be related to me – or if you happen to be a semi-regular reader of this blog – you know I’m a strong proponent of having any child under 12 arrested for patronizing a fine dining establishment.

And, since we Americans do not torture, I’m still undecided on the punishment for the parents who bring the apprentice hoodlums to the aforementioned restaurants.

Last year, we secured a ‘private area’ at Ruth’s Chris Steak House and the immediate family (including my mother, brother and sister-in-law) joined in to celebrate the season.

The private area – booked, by the way, with the understanding that we would be in a private room – was no more than a dining table set for 12 surrounded by three sides of partitioning.

We requested this type of isolated dining space as a result of my crusade against children in restaurants. How hypocritical would I be if our very own grand imp were guilty of interrupting our fellow diners’ evenings by screaming, wailing and running laps around the flambé table?

The National Enquirer would have a field day with that one.

But our fears were unfounded. The grandchild was quite content to sit in the high chair, glom portions of every entrée the rest of us ordered, and amuse himself throughout the two-and-a-half hour meal.

This year – with the gnome being a full year older and a full-speed terror on two Crocs – our level of uncertainty is being to rise.

When he finishes his at-home meals now he does so with an enthusiastic announcement: “DOWN!”

‘Yes, Justin, you can get down when we’re finished eating.’

“DOWN!”

‘Justin, finish your juice and you can get down.’

“DOWN!”

Once released from his plastic-harnessed-hell, the sprite either bolts into another room (forcing an adult to give chase) or attempts to drive his all-terrain matchbox vehicle through someone’s Caesar salad.

Either way, this variety of unruly public behavior is simply not acceptable.

I think the wife and I will go back to giving each other gifts this year – a late December trip to Bermuda or the Bahamas sounds like a one-size-fits-all kind of reward.

I just hope the rest of the family makes their dinner reservations early. Dining bunkers with extensive wine lists aren’t exactly a dime a dozen.

By J. Doug Gill
 

Have you fought the crush of mall shoppers yet? Invaded the big box retailer and stuffed your shopping cart? Made your list? Checked it twice?

If you answered no to all of the above, then here’s your last warning: there are only five more shopping days until what is easily the 33rd most popular holiday observance during the calendar year – Grandparents Day.

Way back in 1970, a West Virginia housewife named Marian McQuade began a grass-roots crusade to have someone (anyone) set aside a special day for grandparents. She enlisted the help of civic, business, church, and political leaders and was convicted on 86 counts of bribing public officials with the best snickerdoodles ever baked.

Just fooling – I can’t help myself when it comes to cookie humor.

The efforts of the McQuade group caught the eye of West Virginia senator Randolph Jennings, who then became instrumental in getting other politicos (with apparently nothing else to do) to push for legislation recognizing grandparents. 

In 1973, after an exhaustive three-year effort interrupted only by bingo nights, quilting bees and ‘her stories’, West Virginia Governor Arch Moore helped Grandma McQuade realize her dream by proclaiming the very first Grandparents Day in her home state.

And once Hallmark Cards realized they could make absurd profits by selling even more pieces of poetry-filled, folded cardboard (for 5 bucks a pop), their lobbyists joined Senator Jennings and descended on Washington.

Like any other legislation (non self-serving, of course) that goes to D.C., this bill languished for five years while our elected leaders voted themselves raises, took extended vacations, had torrid affairs with pages and staffers and pandered to their constituents so they could repeat the process upon reelection.

Then, in 1978, President Jimmy Carter signed the National Grandparents Day bill into law. Thanks to Marian McQuade, this nation now celebrates the accomplishments and contributions of our family elders, and retailers have sold millions of dollars of low-end, Chinese-made tchotskies previously purchased on other card-maker holidays such as Mother’s, Father’s and Valentine’s Days.
 
Still, Congress couldn’t just sign the bill and leave well-enough alone, they had to take a parting shot at maw and paw by picking the month of September. National Grandparents Day, they reasoned, would be held in the ninth month because it symbolizes the ‘autumn’ of the grandparents’ lives.

I’m guessing all the months that represent ‘happy thoughts’ were taken.

I didn’t Google National Grandparents Day to see where it ranks on the ladder of holiday popularity, but I’m guessing it falls on the rung between the annual January celebration of Belly Laugh Day and the noted merriment of April’s Administrative Professionals Day.

The celebrated search engine did, however, hit on dozens of websites that offer commemorative tips for ‘the holiday.’ One site recommended that small family gatherings include playing board games, implementing story-telling and listening (and dancing to) old family music.

In the Gill household that would mean arguing over who cheated at Chutes and Ladders, tales of juvenile run-ins with the cops and singing along with The Beatles’ “White Album.” It’s best that our grand gnome not yet learn the words to “Happiness is a Warm Gun.”

Still another website suggested translating grandpa and grandma into other languages – like the Hungarian “nagyapa,” the Dutch “grootvader” or the Cuban “abuelito.”

Granted, we’re working hard to expand our grandson’s vocabulary, but the last impression I want to give is that it’s acceptable for the sprite to refer to me in the manner his diaper-wearing Korean peers address their elders. When it comes to a choice between Poo-paw and Halabujee, the former doesn’t seem so bad.

I’ve decided on my own Grandparents Day celebration. This Sunday I will watch Charles Osgood, then Tom Brokaw and then I’ll settle on the channel of whomever first goes live with coverage of the NFL’s opening weekend.

My mother will sit at home wondering why she hasn’t heard from her grandchildren, and I can firmly state right now that they were raised much better than that.

My own kids (and sons-in-law) will be far away from my home, food, and alcoholic beverages, and my lone grandchild will be taxing the patience and draining the life from his parents. And as a special gift, the wife will still be in Cincinnati on business. This year, I’ve become a much bigger fan of Marian McQuade. 

But that’s just this family’s plan. You, however, have just five days to rush to your local Wal-TarKohlsget-Mart. At this time of year, you just don’t know how long World’s Greatest Grandpa mugs and Grandma’s Kitchen potholders will remain on the shelves.

By J. Doug Gill