Cinderella

Our seventh grandchild was born January 27, 2009, so Grandma Sandy and I flew to San Francisco to meet little Gaia.  Our daughter-in-law, Avi, remarked on what a calm and gentle disposition Gaia has--- a stark contrast to her four-year-old sister, Neve, who had been a temperamental baby who cried a lot.  Gaia was plenty cute, but, honestly, all newborn infants look pretty much alike to me, and I lavished most of my attention on Neve.

We had such fun--- just the two of us, walking down California Ave, from Divisadero to Fillmore, about six blocks, to eat lunch at Dino’s, the pizza restaurant on the corner; it was two o’clock, after the busy lunch crowd had cleared out.  Neve ate one large slice of cheese pizza after I cut it up into small pieces for her.  On the way back I carried Neve on my shoulders, her legs dangling down on my chest, and she liked it while I galloped till I was out of breath.  It was a bright sunny day, and I showed Neve how to step on my shadow; she laughed as I dodged away, and she quickly learned to do the same when I stepped on her shadow.

She must have had a good time because she wanted me to take her back to Dino’s the next day.  I laughed with surprise when Neve was curious if I would ask for extra pizza sauce again, and I wondered why this seemingly insignificant comment made such an impression on her young mind.

Every night after her bath I let Neve choose which book she wanted me to read, and each night she chose the same book, Cinderella.  Thereupon, every morning she donned the Sleeping Beauty costume and red slippers Grandma Sandy had brought for her, and Neve insisted we play and re-enact the scene of Cinderella fleeing the ball at midnight.  She kicked off one of her red slippers while running, then I was required to recite, from the book, the prince calling out: “Stop, wait!  I don’t know your name!”  Next, I had to try the slipper on, first on Grandma Sandy, next on Avi, then on Gaia, saying each time, “It doesn’t fit!”  Then, using my key to unlock the door to the attic where the mean step-mother hid her, I found Cinderella, and--- the slipper fit perfectly!  Then Neve said her line, every time: “Let’s get married,” and we would dance.  Neve and I had to play out this whole routine over and over--- we must have done so a dozen times!

Thereafter, when I would speak to Neve on the phone, Avi reported how her face lit up with her beautiful smile when I reminded her of our Cinderella playtime together.  I feel a great sense of satisfaction with the certain knowledge that evermore, Neve will remember our playtime together whenever the Cinderella story is recalled.

Ben's Journal

Stevie and Ben had been aware of my journal entries, and after some special fun we

had together Stevie occasionally asked his daddy if Grandpa “wrote about that in his

journal?”

While we were visiting for Ben’s seventh birthday, Ben found an unused spiral

notebook and asked if I would help him begin his own journal.  That night, after his bath,

we lay on the top bunk bed, and Ben asked what he should write; I replied that I would

help with his spelling if he asked me, but advised him to write what he wanted to write

about, not what I would write about, or anyone else.  I added, “It’s your journal, and by

writing down your thoughts and experiences, you will always remember what happened;

what you did, where you were---like tonight, on the top bunk, and who you were with;

and even when you are an old grandpa, the memory of this night will remain vivid.”

The next day, after Ben’s birthday party, we stopped in Borders Book Store where 

Stevie got a sports book and I bought a real journal for Ben.  That night Ben wanted to lie

on the top bunk bed with me again so we could write in our journals together.  As

Grandma Sandy and I departed for home the next day, I gave Ben my “good pen” for

him to make his journal entries.

When we next visited the kids at New Year, 2007, Ben looked high and low for his

journal, unable to find it.  A few weeks later, while packing his clothes in preparation for

a sleepover at a friend’s, Ben found the journal in his backpack. According to Bill, Ben’s

first reaction was to call to tell me!

Stevie and Ben Visit the Viet Nam Memorial

One Friday night in April, 2006, Bill took the boys to visit the Lincoln  Memorial,

and  then the Viet Nam Memorial, both on the Mall in Washington.  It was 9 PM.  Ben

wanted to climb up and sit on Lincoln’s lap.  Stevie read aloud my favorite, Lincoln’s

Second Inaugural Address, etched on the Indiana limestone wall of the Lincoln pantheon.

At the Viet Nam Memorial, approximately two hundred yards away, Bill found on the

wall two soldiers named Steven and Ben, and he explained  what happened to those

nineteen or twenty-year-old boys, those who were once nine and seven, just like Bill’s

sons now.

It was dark, and Bill did not see that he had parked in a handicap space and found a

$250  parking ticket on his windshield!  I told him if he wrote a journal entry about this

Friday night’s experience and e-mailed it to me, I would pay the ticket! 

Antietam

While visiting in Washington, D.C., I mentioned to some friends my interest in the

Civil War.  As it happened one of the friends, Michele, had just won a guided tour of the

Antietam battlefield in a church raffle.  Michele’s husband was unable to make the trip,

so she invited me to bring Stevie and accompany her and her son, Andrew, on the tour.

The two boys were the same age, eight.

The tour was conducted by Dennis Frye, well-known Civil War historian and former

Chief Historian of the Harpers Ferry National Historical Park.  Antietam is one of my

favorite battlefields because the military movements are relatively easy to understand,

and the walking tour is not taxing.  The battle at Antietam is well-known as the bloodiest

single day in American history; over 23,000 American boys were killed or wounded on 

September 17, 1862, ten times the number killed on September 11, 2001.

Dennis is a wonderful guide; he quickly organized the boys into Yankee General

McClellan (Stevie), and Confederate General Robert E. Lee (Andrew), and I bought

blue and gray kepis for them.  Dennis positioned the boys in explaining the troop

movements and taught us two important concepts of war in 1862: the high ground and

the terrain. His explanations and questions kept the boys interested and involved all day.

We all walked the same half-mile advance the Yankees made through the infamous

Cornfield that was so deadly from Confederate fire.  On this march, Andrew found a

broken piece of glazed pottery that Dennis thought might be from the period, and

Stevie picked up a rock, tinged with red.  Stevie asked if the red was a blood stain, and

Dennis explained the red  resulted from iron pyrite, but suggested this native rock could

be a symbol of this bloodiest day in American history. Stevie still has this rock.

Dennis walked with us over a little hill, and showed us how the Union boys did not

know what they faced until they came over a little rise, 70 yards from the breastwork of a

stacked rail fence, from behind which the rebels opened fire from the sunken road, later

named Bloody Lane.  The third phase of the battle occurred at the Burnside Bridge,

which crosses Antietam Creek. Michele photographed the boys at the historical “Living

Tree,” as Dennis called the large sycamore still standing next to the bridge; this tree is

prominent in  paintings made immediately after the battle.

On Monday, Mrs. Smith asked her third grade class to tell about the weekend; Stevie

raised his hand and told the class he went to Antietam Battlefield with his grandpa.

Epilogue: About two years later, after a long correspondence gap, I heard from

Michele who mentioned that she often thinks about our tour of Antietam and that  “It is

probably one of the best days that I had as a parent with Andrew.”  Wow!

Rock Chalk, Jayhawk!

Grandma Sandy and I traveled to Bill and Laurie’s new home in Potomac, Maryland

to help Stevie celebrate his  eighth birthday, March 27, 2005.  We arrived on Friday, and

the boys immediately took me upstairs to show me Ben’s new bunk beds, their new lava

lamps, and the new baby furniture for Haylie, who would be born June 23. After dinner,

sprawled on the floor in Ben’s room, the boys urged me to draw Mickey Mouse, one for

each of them, naturally.  They drew in the colors with the new Crayola marker pens that

Grandma Sandy had bought.  Then, Stevie copied a Jayhawk from an old Kansas

basketball program ( Bill and Laurie met at K.U.).  Bill suggested they send

their drawings, accompanied by a letter, to Keith Langford, a K.U. basketball player.

Stevie especially liked him because they are both lefties.  The boys wrote their ages,

eight and five, and asked for autographs.

Bill gave the boys a bath while I watched from a safe distance.  They urged me to

come close, but I declined, for I was not in the mood to get splashed and soaked as  I

always did when I gave them the bath. (Whenever I bathed them, I always pleaded,

“Please boys, whatever you do, please don’t splash Grandpa!”)  Then I laid down with

them and we listened to the rain pelting down on the ceiling skylight.

Sunday, as we prepared to return to Tulsa, Stevie expressed sorrow: “Why can’t you

stay longer?  Why can’t you move to Maryland and live near us?

First Day of kindergarten

Bill phoned to report on Ben’s first day in kindergarten, August 29, 2005.  Bill filmed

the two boys getting aboard the school bus, and sitting together.  Stevie walked  Ben to

the kindergarten room, but Ben later told his daddy that he already knew where it was. 

At lunch, they must sit with their classes in the cafeteria, but Ben waved to Stevie, a third grader.

From previous visits to the school, Ben recognized the principal, and he stepped up to her in the hall and      told her, "I'm Stevie's little brother."   

Halloween

After dinner, Halloween night, we used the pumpkin carving set Grandma Sandy had bought and carved a jack-o-lantern.  I carved out the top, cleaned out the fibers and pumpkin seeds, then Noah and John carved the round eyes that Noah requested, triangle nose, and a toothy grin.  With a little difficulty, I placed a candle inside the pumpkin, lit it, turned out the kitchen lights, and we all walked outside so we could look through the window to see our pumpkin glow on the kitchen table.  The candle lasted until late at night.

 A light drizzle began. Noah, in his Spiderman costume, Hilary, John and I, carrying three umbrellas, made the rounds in our neighborhood.  A little shy initially, Noah spoke up more loudly with Daddy’s urging, “Trick or Treat!”  At his home he almost never ate candy, but tonight was a special treat, and he joyfully sorted his loot on the living room floor.  He eagerly answered the door, still as Spiderman,  and dropped  candy treats into the kids’ sacks. 

Ping!

Our daughter-in-law, Hilary, and Noah, then three and one-half, flew in from Salt

Lake City the day before Halloween, 2004. The day was warm and sunny, and Noah, Hil

and I put up a spider- web on the holly bushes in front, and added black streamers around the door.

Later, Noah and I played with Lincoln logs, cars, and toys, and we listened to
Johnny Mercer singing the song he had composed, “On the Atchison, Topeka, and the

Santa Fe.” After dinner, while Sandy and Hil picked up John, who was flying in from a

business trip on the east coast, Noah and I played “airplanes”; I was a Delta. Using our

long-handled hand sweeper as a “tug” attached to my belt loop, Noah backed me up from

the "gate," then at his signal I ran down the "runway" with my arms spread to take off.

 We stepped out onto the patio to listen to the water tumbling down in the wall

 fountain, ran around on the grass with our arms spread, looked up at the beautiful bright

 full autumn moon and saw repeated flashes of lightning in the distant southern sky.  We

 heard the occasional ping of acorns striking the cedar shingles, falling from the tall native

 Blackjack oak trees that formed a canopy over the roof.  Then, while lying on the

 grass, we watched gray clouds glide past overhead.  Each time the wind picked up, we

 listened to the rat-tat-tat of pings from showers of acorns dislodged by the breeze.

Somehow, that experience was magical, and forevermore I think of that night with Noah

when I hear the acorns begin to fall in autumn.

The Ocean is Deep

After giving him a bath and shampoo, I lay down with Noah at bedtime and told him

stories about his uncles, little Billy, young Jeff and, of course, his daddy, John.  I told
Noah how I accompanied Johnny to his first day in kindergarten, and his teacher,
Mrs. Williams, asked him, “If the ocean is deep, a pond is….”  Johnny hesitated, and
replied, “low.” I was present during that placement test and have never forgotten the
incident.  Noah was about to begin kindergarten, and I asked him what response he
would give to that question; after a moment’s thought, he answered, “shallow,”  and
I complimented him.

At breakfast the next morning, Noah whispered in my ear, asking me to repeat the

question, which he put to John; John smiled, hesitated, and quietly said, “low.” 
Noah seemed puzzled, or disappointed, and asked his father, “How come you grew
up and still don’t know the right answer?  It’s shallow."

Letters to Santa

Our youngest son, Bill, and his family flew into Tulsa on Christmas Day, 2004.

Grandma Sandy found for five year old Ben the little match box cars he requested; his

 daddy and uncles had played with these when they were children. Stevie, seven, cuddled

 up on a big chair next to the fireplace and read a mystery book; he expressed how

 comfortable he felt there and called it “my thinking chair,” adopting the phrase from a

 popular children’s TV show, “Blue’s Clues.”   The two boys obviously felt at home at

 Grandma’s house.

 I began reading to them--- but Stevie quickly took over, and read to Ben old letters

 written to Santa by Bill’s brothers, Uncle John and Uncle Jeff,  requesting presents.

 Stevie marveled and laughed at their poor spelling.

David

On the first day of school when Stevie began second grade, he was talking to David, a

 friend from last year.  David is a good reader, but he is small and some of the kids were

 teasing him about his size.  Stevie stepped in and reassured David that he had grown a
 lot since last year.  This pleased David who told his mom, who then phoned Laurie to tell

 her.  When Laurie praised Stevie, he responded that he did not  want David to feel bad

 and that he knows Laurie is short and he would not want anyone to make her feel bad

 either.  Laurie told Bill that she almost cried when Stevie told her this, and when Bill laid

 down with Stevie at bedtime, he told him how proud we all are of him

John Wilkes Booth

When Stevie was four and visiting Grandma Sandy and me in Tulsa, my friend

 Donald gave him a dollar after Stevie correctly answered Don’s questions about

 George Washington.  The next year it was five dollars for Abe Lincoln.  The third year,

 I forewarned Donald I was going to prep Stevie on Alexander Hamilton.  I drilled Stevie,

 now six, for two days before we all got together at the Fourth of July picnic, and I

 sensed Stevie was a little apprehensive when Donald joined us at the picnic table.  After

 just the right interval of greetings and  comfortably settling in, Don popped the question,

 and we all laughed as Stevie stole a glance at me before he confidently answered,

 Hamilton was “Treasurer of the Secretary.”  Close enough.  And he added that Hamilton

 was shot by Aaron Burr.  Don generously rewarded Stevie, Ben, and their cousin, our

 third grandson, Noah, each with a ten-spot.  We joked about next year and Andrew

 Jackson!

 While I was prepping Stevie, I told him Hamilton was shot by Burr, and somehow, we

switched to Lincoln being killed by John Wilkes Booth.  Stevie was intensely interested

 in this and asked a lot of questions about Booth:  “Was he always a bad guy?”  “What

 happened to Booth?”   He was absorbed when I showed him photos of Booth in a book,

 The Day Lincoln was Shot.  I thought, what a curious, fertile, growing mind.

 A few months later Bill phoned to report that Dean, Stevie’s friend, had slept over

 Saturday night. The two boys came downstairs after they had been talking in bed; Dean

 was telling Stevie what a bad man Saddam Hussein was, and Stevie was scared, but he

 countered that “John Wilkes Booth was worse,” and that “he assassinated President

 Lincoln.” Bill assured the boys that Saddam was thousands of miles away and would

 have to cross an ocean to get there.

 Another month passed before Bill accompanied Stevie to his friend’s birthday party at

 a farm in the Maryland countryside where the kids went on a hayride.  A man riding

 the tractor  pulling the hay wagon told the kids a story that this farm was a hideout for

 the Surratts,  participants in the Lincoln assassination  conspiracy. The parents were

 looking at one another, “What’s this guy telling these six year olds?”  These kids were

 not even listening; none even knew the word “assassination”--- except Stevie, who was

 attentive and listening.  He certainly knew that word, and  asked, “What about John

 Wilkes Booth?”  

Stevie Meets Jackie Robinson

Growing up in St. Louis, naturally I rooted for the Cardinals.  When Jackie Robinson

 made his major league debut in 1947, I was nine  and really did not comprehend

 racism or even anti-Semitism, which could affect me more directly. Perhaps my father

 commented on the situation, but somehow I felt unsettled to hear the swirling rumors that

 the Cardinals would refuse to take the field when Jackie and the Dodgers came to St.

 Louis.

 I still have a vivid memory of the first time I saw Jackie play ball in old Sportsman’s

 Park; he reached first base, and every eye in the ball park was on Jackie as he danced and feinted toward second.  The  most important eyes on Jackie were those of the Cardinal pitcher who repeatedly threw to first to hold him close, then, distracted, gave up a home run. From that day on, I was a Jackie Robinson fan; he was electrifying!  In 1950, Jackie signed my scorecard after a game; he had beautiful penmanship.

 Fifty years later, Sunday night, March 5, 2000, to be exact, our son, Bill, called to tell

 me he took his little boy to their nearby Penn-Wynne Library in suburban Philadelphia.

 Somehow, little Stevie, three years old, brought over a book about Jackie Robinson;

 Stevie wanted to know his name, and asked questions about him.  Bill knew I would love

 this story, then Bill asked me, as is his way, “What did Jackie hit in 1947?”

 Several days later, Bill bought Stevie an “action figure” (back in my day, we called

 them dolls) of an African-American baseball player, and Stevie named him Jackie

 Robinson.

 Four years later, Stevie was seven, and he and his daddy were looking over books at

 Borders Bookstore.  By chance, Stevie stumbled onto a child’s book about Jackie.  Bill

 told me Stevie read the 150 page book in two days.  Stevie was especially interested to

 learn that Jackie served in World War Two, and asked me on the phone if Jackie had

 known Albert Boxerman.  Stevie had heard the story, many times, of my cousin Albert

 who was killed in combat on Armistice Day, November 11, 1944, while fighting the

 Nazis in France. I told Stevie I did not think they had met; there were over ten million

 American soldiers fighting World War II, but Stevie insisted, “I’m sure Jackie and Albert

 were friends.”

"On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe"

 Our third grandson, two and one-half  year old Noah, and his mom came  from

 Connecticut, on Amtrak, to Washington D.C. Union Station.   The next day, Noah was

 playing train, so I sang train songs for him, “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” and “On the

 Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe,” which begins, “Don’t you hear that whistle down

 the line? I’m thinkin’ that it’s engine number 49!”   That night at dinner, without any

 prompting, he sang out, “Down the line!”  Well, I didn’t need any more encouragement 

 and began to work on him with this tune, just as I had with Ben and  “Don’t Sit Under

 the Apple Tree!”   He repeatedly asked me to sing “Down the line,” and I happily

 obliged. I would sing,“Don’t you hear that whistle…,”  and he responded, “Down the

 line!”    “I’m thinkin’ that it’s engine number….”  “Forty-Nine!” he exclaimed.

 A few months later when Noah came to Tulsa, I played the Tommy Dorsey big band

 hit of this tune from the 1940s, and he got up and danced.  After he got a toy

 Thomas the Train, which is Engine Number One, he always followed my pause, “I’m

 thinkin’ that it’s engine number…” by exclaiming, “Number one!”  He would then laugh

 and exalt in teasing me as I made a big show of mock disapproval: “No! No! It’s number

 forty-nine!”  “Number one!” he laughingly insisted.

"Singin' in the Rain"

 It was raining that Sunday, keeping us indoors, and Ben opened his kiddie umbrella in

 the house. Naturally, this prompted me to add “Singin’ in the Rain” to my repertory of

 songs, and I twirled the little umbrella around in my clumsy imitation of Gene Kelly’s

 graceful movements.  Ben, almost three, found the line, “I’m happy again!” especially

 easy, and I would pause at that line so he could sing it.  The next day Ben wanted to

 open the umbrella and sing it again.  I didn’t  remember all the words to the tune, so once

 at home I bought the DVD of the movie, learned the words, and brought it for

 them when we returned to Philadelphia for Stevie’s birthday.  Stevie, now five, liked

 it, and quickly learned Gene Kelly’s name; and he laughed when Kelly splashed the

 policeman at the end of that signature scene. I assured the boys that they splash better

 than Gene Kelly, and they got me wetter than the policeman from their splashing while I

 bathed them. Oh, they liked to hear that!

   

 Our next visit, Stevie asked if we could watch Singin’ in the Rain together; Ben

 sang the lyric, “I’m happy again,” and both boys swung their arms, imitating Kelly.

 Stevie was especially captivated by  the big production finale, “Broadway Melody,” and

 he called Cyd Charisse “the Green Lady,” referring to her costume; he was also intrigued

 by the hoods flipping  coins during Cyd’s dance number.  Both boys volunteered that

 Lena Lamont (Jean Hagen) was “mean.”  Singin’ in the Rain has become my favorite

 song with all the grandkids.

The Yu-Gi- Oh Shirt

 Sandy and I jumped at the invitation to baby sit while Laurie accompanied Bill to a

 business meeting in Washington, D.C.  Ben, almost five, was very independent; he

 always chose his own clothes and dressed himself.  But this particular day was picture

 day at nursery school and, before leaving, Laurie laid out the clothes she wanted Ben 

 to wear.  He awoke early that morning and pulled on his Yu-Gi-Oh  Japanese cartoon

 character shirt.  I explained to Ben he would get me in trouble because Mommy told me

 what he should wear, and Mommy would be mad at me.  Ben smiled and understood, but

 willfully insisted on wearing the Yu-Gi-Oh shirt.  Grandma Sandy to the rescue!  She is

 more clever than I, and immediately knew the solution: Of course Ben could wear the

 Yu-Gi-Oh shirt, but let’s put the red sweater on over the shirt---and he was satisfied with

 that.  But Sandy also took the precaution of calling the nursery school teacher to be sure

 he kept on his red sweater  for the photos

"Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree"

One late September day I took two year old Ben for a walk in the stroller, and we

passed a neighbor’s house with a tree full of ripening apples in the front yard.  While we

continued our walk, and coming back, I softly sang the Andrews Sisters’ World War II

hit tune, “Don’t  Sit Under the Apple Tree,” mostly to myself.  Later, when I mentioned

this to Grandma Sandy, Ben sang out “Apple tree!”  That prompted me to sing the tune

several times throughout the day for him; and later, while changing his diaper, Ben

abruptly said, “Apple tree, apple tree,”  so I taught him the line, “No, no, no, don’t sit

under the apple tree with anyone else but me….”   He seemed to especially like the

words, “No, no, no….”  Undoubtedly, children often hear that word rebuking them, so

perhaps he enjoyed directing this at an adult.

Over the next few years, on our visits to Wynnewood, we often would walk past that

apple tree, and Ben and I would sing together. The first time we walked to the tree when

it was springtime Ben expressed disappointment that there were no apples, and I

explained about the seasons and how the apples would soon begin to grow in
summer and ripen in autumn.

 My efforts were joyfully rewarded at Thanksgiving, 2006, when all our children and

five grandkids came to visit us in Tulsa. Thanksgiving Day was warm and sunny, and our

daughters-in-law and I took the three infants for a walk.  Ben, now seven, pushed one of

the strollers, and I laughed and felt elated when he began to sing, “Don’t sit under the

apple tree….”  His daddy, Bill, turned to me, smiling, “You’ve got him right where

you want him!” 

The Spanking

       Our older grandkids especially delighted in hearing stories of how their father

misbehaved when he was a child; I have been  requested to tell, over and over,  the story

of how their daddy, at age six, got spanked, not for  drawing on the carpet, but for

impudently replying, “It doesn’t matter,” when I scolded him for it. They repeatedly

had me take them upstairs to his old room and show them the exact spot where it

happened.  Little Ben inspected the carpet for the ink stains, and I explained how that old

carpet was replaced many years ago. One later visit, Stevie and Ben led me upstairs to

the scene of the crime and laughed and challenged me as they pretended to write on the

carpet and boastfully tell me it doesn’t matter. They love to reenact the scene, and then

they rough me up, pull me down, and turn me over because they want to spank---me!

The Pretzel

In July, 2001, just two months before that calamitous event which changed American

life forever, Grandma Sandy and I visited our children and grandkids in Wynnewood, a

charming suburb just west of Philadelphia.  Bill and Laurie lived on Overbrook Parkway,

a couple blocks from a pocket of small business commercial stores at Manoa and

Haverford roads.

One morning, while four year old Stevie was in camp, I took two year old Ben for a

walk, pulling him in a blue wagon.  Soon, he climbed out and wanted me to get in the

wagon so he could pull me, but then he tripped on the uneven sidewalk and skinned his

hand.   I applied pressure with my handkerchief and, at home, washed the wound and

applied a Band-Aid.

   

After picking Stevie up at camp I took the two boys in the double-stroller for a walk,

and we stopped in Howard’s Pharmacy on Manoa where Carol, the fountain clerk,

recognized the boys and called them by name.  We ordered a strawberry milkshake to

share, and Carol gave Stevie a cup to hold his pine cone that we had picked up along the

way. A teen-aged girl came in  for a large twisted pretzel which Carol heated up for her;

seeing this,  Stevie wanted a pretzel, but he wasn’t drinking his milkshake, and I said, no,

you can get a pretzel next time.  Stevie became angry, cried at being denied, and while

seated on the fountain stool began to kick me standing next to him.  I slapped his leg
with  each kick and told him, if you kick people they will kick back.  The tears flowed and
he told me he didn’t like me and “You’re not a good grandpa!”  Carol and the teenager,
both smiling,  glanced at each other,  and were obviously  watching how this conflict

would  resolve.  As I dried Stevie’s  tears,   he noticed the blood on the hanky from Ben’s

hand that morning. A spontaneous solution to the impasse presented itself, and as I told

Stevie what had happened to Ben, we moved on from the pretzel.

Yankee Stadium

  
 The guy sitting next to me obligingly snapped the photo of the four of us sitting in the upper deck along the third base line. Seen on the field behind us is the white overlapping NY logo immediately behind home plate, unmistakably identifying the ballpark as Yankee Stadium, “The House That Ruth Built!” My youngest son, Bill, his two boys, Stevie, ten, and Ben, seven, and I, are all smiling broadly on this sunshine-splashed day, Saturday,

June 30, 2007.

All around us, in the photo, the grandstand is sparsely populated since we

arrived early, both to soak up all the ambiance of Yankee Stadium, but

especially because the boys hoped to get autographs.  That did not happen,

but it was the only disappointment of the day.

The boys are wearing pin-stripe Yankee shirts and caps; what cannot be

seen on the photo are the names and numbers on their backs, Rodriguez, #13

on Stevie’s shirt, and Jeter, #2 on Ben’s, their favorite players.  And Ben is

holding his fielder’s mitt which he brought in case a foul ball came his way.

Because Yankee stadium was scheduled to be demolished the following

year, the  boys jumped at my suggestion that we see one of the last

games played in this baseball shrine. Friday morning we took an early

Amtrack train from Washington D.C. Union Station to Penn Station in

midtown Manhattan.  Looking out the large windows on the train, the boys

and I talked about the old houses and the dead, or decaying and deserted

factories bordering the tracks.  We spoke of the people who lived and

worked there, and of opportunity, or lack of it, and “how lucky you two boys

are.”   Friday morning was overcast, adding to the gloomy scene, but our

mood brightened and the excitement built as we pulled into Penn Station.

Arriving in New York on Friday, we took an afternoon harbor tour of the

city, and walked around Times Square in the evening.  The highlight for the

boys was our stop in a Times Square sports store where they excitedly tried

on their Jeter and A-Rod shirts.

But, for me, the highlight that Friday was the ferry boat tour around

New York Harbor with panoramic views of lower Manhattan, the Statue of

Liberty, Ellis Island, and  gliding under the Brooklyn Bridge.  The day

was warm and sunny, and there was a pleasant breeze while we sat on the

open upper deck.  The boat carried only a moderate number of tourists that

day, and we were able to sit on benches immediately across from the tour

guide who narrated the landmarks over a bull horn; I later learned the

guide’s name was Frank.  Stevie had a question and, at my urging, he

approached Frank.  When the guide paused after his comments about

Frederick Bartholdi, the French architect who designed the Statue of Liberty,

Stevie asked his question. Frank hesitated a moment, then emphatically

announced over the bullhorn, “This little boy just asked me the best question

I’ve ever had in the two years I’ve been a guide here: Who was the model

for Frederick Bartholdi?” After an expectant pause, Frank continued, 

“Bartholdi  modeled Miss Liberty--- after his own mother!”

Following Frank’s closing comments about the tour, I moved in and

thanked him for his kind remarks about Stevie; then I had a couple questions

of my own: “What were some of your most interesting experiences as a

guide?”  Frank replied it was all about “the many people compelled to tell

me their stories, stories about their parents, or grandparents, how they came

to America, and Ellis Island.”  And how they made a new life in America.

Suddenly, I was startled when Frank asked me if I am a doctor.  He said he

guessed that from my interest and my questions.  Well, that floored me! 

While we disembarked from the ferry I handed Frank a $10 tip and thanked

him again.

                                                                                

As we stepped off the gangplank Bill was teasing me with unspoken

ribald overtones about my new friend, Frank.  Unexpectedly, while the

four of us walked along the wharf, Frank hurried after us; he felt the need to

show me photos of his parents and grandparents and told me they had

immigrated from Scotland.  Then, he added, “It was beshert,” a Yiddish

word meaning it was fate, fate that he happened to give his tour comments

from the top deck today; usually he does so from the enclosed lower deck.

Beshert.  How did Frank know we are Jewish?  As we parted, he was

politely effusive in  expressing how much he enjoyed our encounter.  Bill
then teased me some more: “See what ten bucks will get you?”  But, I knew

better.

Saturday morning we walked around Ground Zero, the site of the World

Trade Center attacks, and the boys had searching questions about this; “Why

did they do it?” Stevie wanted to know.

The subway ride uptown to The Bronx was crowded with keyed-up

anticipating  fans talking---baseball!

I took other photos, of course, of Ben smiling and, at my urging,

holding up his hot dog, another with his pink cotton candy on display, and

still another with his large bright red Coke cup in full view.  Stevie sat, legs

crossed in front of him, and with a handful of baseball cards in his lap.

After the game, I photographed the mass of fans filing out of the ballpark,

climbing the gray steel stairs to the adjacent subway platform.  The subway

going downtown was very crowded, and we had to change at Grand Central.

Stevie commented on some of the very interesting characters we saw, and

heard, on the subway; I think he was shocked at some of the very bad words

which were loudly spoken.

Even now, three years later, we all smile whenever we mention this trip,

for we had a wonderful time, but each of us for different reasons.  Oh, by the

way, the Oakland A’s beat the Yankees, 7-0.

Picking Apples

On Memorial Day, we will honor and reflect on those who gave for our country what President Lincoln first called “the last full measure of devotion.” Etched on the polished black granite wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., are the names of 58,260 Americans who died fighting that war; 988 of those warriors were from Oklahoma. Based on state populations, Oklahoma had the second-highest casualty rate.

In 1974, I joined the faculty of the newly established University of Oklahoma College of Medicine, Tulsa. Before that, I served two years active duty as neurologist at U.S. Naval Hospital in Great Lakes, Ill. My workdays were not pleasant, for my task was to treat young soldiers and Marines who had been wounded in Vietnam. Weekends afforded some relief while my wife, our three young boys and I explored various experiences around Chicago.

One warm and sunny October Sunday in 1971, we went apple picking in the Wauconda Apple Orchard, nearby the Naval Hospital. We paid $2 for the bushel basket and entry into the orchard to pick all the apples that would fill the basket. My wife photographed our three sons and me, and this photo of the four of us together remains one of my all-time favorites. When I now look at this picture, snapped that autumnal Sunday, I cannot help but think of those wounded and killed American boys in the context of their own childhood, and the joys, hopes and ambitions their parents nurtured for their sons. Each of these families had photographs, just like mine — happy times with their little boys who had unlimited futures. 

They were McIntosh apples, which are semi-tart, not sweet and juicy like Red Delicious apples, but McIntosh apples remain special to me because we picked them together. Even now, I sometimes indulge myself in a few rueful moments when I happen across McIntosh apples in the grocery store, not only because of this special moment with my sons, but because those baleful times are also recalled. Advancing age seems to be a catalyst for this kind of retrospect.

Until now, I had never really studied this photograph. By chance, the photo has an artistic composition; notice the linear progression of height, from left to right, of the four of us — reminiscent of a similar structure in the famous photo of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima.

The bushel basket is brimming with apples. If you look closely, among the red apples, front and center there is a single green leaf from the apple tree, symbolic of one memorable day of our lives, together and everlasting. Somehow, every day of our life is special and valuable and has meaning, if only we look for it.


First published in Tulsa People, May, 2009

"Go To Your Room!"

Several years ago I was the featured speaker at a medical meeting in Washington D.C.  By happy coincidence our son and his family lived in nearby Rockville, Maryland. About fifty doctors attended to hear me speak about the management of acute migraine attacks.  The host introduced me with the usual highlights of my curriculum vitae--- I was professor of Neurology at the University of Oklahoma College of Medicine, I had published this and that, and so forth; I politely thanked him for his generous remarks, and then, on an impulse, I added, “But Dr. Molinari neglected to mention my most important achievement;” as I paused, I could feel the sudden strong silent tension and actually see everyone in the room stiffen, just before I continued: “In a certain neighborhood only twenty minutes from here, I am known as the best grandpa in the whole wide world!” An explosion of laughter from everyone burst the tension, and I added, “Out in Oklahoma we aim to keep our priorities straight!”

It is impossible to convey the delights of grandparenthood to those who have not yet reached this glorious milestone.  Without becoming foolishly sentimental I try to remain alert to preserving those special, even celestial, moments that sometimes happen when Grandma Sandy and I are with our grandkids.  Recording them in a journal will keep these stories of their childhood fresh and remembered--- long after we are gone.  And I’m unabashedly proud to say that I am a good grandpa! The following anecdote is a typical memoir: 

In 2002, while visiting our children and grandkids in Philadelphia, I winced when our son, Bill, ordered five-year old Stevie, “Go to your room!” for misbehaving; but I kept my mouth shut, knowing not to intercede.  I bided my time for a couple days until Bill and Laurie went out for the evening while Grandma Sandy and I baby sat.  When Stevie did not respond to my reprimand and continued to push his little brother around, I sternly insisted he take a time-out by sitting on the bottom step of the staircase.  Later, with the boys asleep, I told Bill and Laurie about the incident and “innocently” added my feeling that being in his bedroom should always be associated with happy thoughts and experiences, never to be linked with a place of punishment. 

I asked Bill’s permission to share this anecdote only after recalling for him Eleanor Roosevelt’s account of ordering her little boy, Johnny, to his room.  Doris Kearns Goodwin, in her Pulitzer Prize winning book, No Ordinary Time, quotes Mrs. Roosevelt: “… having a feeling that he hadn’t gone, I went into my husband’s study at Hyde Park and found Johnny sitting in his  lap, weeping his heart out on his father’s shirt front, and both of them looking equally guilty when I discovered them.”

Maybe young parents, even an Eleanor Roosevelt, can become more easily frazzled and impatient than more seasoned grandparents who don’t face these trying moments day after day.

Our last night of that visit, while laying down with Stevie at bedtime, he told me sometimes he cannot fall asleep and was frightened of the dark and of monsters.  I reassured him, “there are no monsters; monsters are only make-believe and pretend.  This is your room, the safest place in the whole world.  And when you lie down at night, you can think of all the good things that happened to you today, and about all the people who love you.  And I especially want you to think about Grandma Sandy and me, and about how much fun we had this visit, and about what fun things we can do next time.”

Ain’t it wonderful to be a loving grandparent?  I’m thinking, perhaps fifty years from now, Stevie will reassure his own grandchild about the dark and about monsters and, in some mystical way, my love will be there with them.