Number 20 - Learn from a Five-year Old

Yes Man

Number 20 – Learn from a Five-year Old

After spending a lot of time the past three weeks with my grandson Krischan, I’ve become pretty familiar with his level of proficiency with the English language.  I have to admit: For a barely five-year old boy, he’s got quite the way with words.  I especially like his go-to response on the rare occasion when I had to admonish him with an ever-so-slight reprimand: ‘You hurt my heart.’  This, of course is then followed up with slouched shoulders and lips extending all the way down to his chin.  It was all I could do to keep from chuckling out loud or at the very least giving him a great big hug from G-Pa. 

One word that appears to have disappeared from Krischan’s vocabulary is the word ‘no.’ In fact the only time I recall Krischan using it was after he jumped in the tub for a bath and I told him I wanted to wash his hair so he could relax and enjoy playing with his rubber dolphins (a mother and her three calves) until his toes started turning into prunes.  If it wasn’t for the fact that the shampoo (a) was tear-free, (b) smelled like watermelon and (c) featured SpongeBob SquarePants on the bottle, I probably wouldn’t have stood a chance.  Thank goodness for American marketing.

The word—other than ‘G-Pa, of course—that I heard most often was simply: ‘Yes.’

No matter what the question, the answer was always the same. 

‘Do you want to go for a really long run that will make us super tired?’

‘Do you want to try a bite of this?  It’s really, really hot.’

‘Do you want to go for a ride in the car with the top down even though it might rain and we’ll get wet?’

‘Do you want to throw a penny in the fountain and make a wish?’

‘Do you want me to read a scary book to you?’

‘Do you want to play catch?  Throw the football?  Shoot baskets?’

‘Do you want to dig for worms?  Look for ants?  Chase the squirrels?’ 

‘’Do you want to take a walk in the woods and look inside the old shack where zombies probably live?’

‘Do you want to get on a rocket ship and fly to the moon?’

The answer was always the same: ‘Yes.’

The kid is one part adventurer, one part thrill-seeker and three parts fearless.  And without a doubt, the kid is…100% boy.

Several nights while Krischan was with us I was a bit surprised by something he said ‘yes’ to, seeing as ‘no’ was the answer I had been getting for the first five years of his life.  After a rather full day of (as we called them) ‘man things’ I asked him just after 9 p.m. if he was ready to put on his Ninja Turtle jammies and go to sleep.  You can imagine my surprise hearing the word ‘yes’ where the word ‘no’ used to live. 

I learned a lot these past three weeks.  I learned life can be more exciting when you’re willing to take risks.  I learned life is a lot more fun when you’re willing to try new things.  I learned life is a lot more—exhilarating when you’re willing put your fears aside and just go for it.  No matter your age, there’s a lot to be learned from an inquisitive, wide-eyed and willing-to-give-everything-and-anything-a-chance five-year old boy. 

With 30 more new things to try during the remainder of 2014, these past three weeks have put things into a different perspective.  I’m going to have to be more adventurous, thrill-seeking and downright fearless if I’m going to make this year different….make this year worthwhile.

  

At 59 years of age, I’ve still got new things to learn.

I’ve still got new things to do.

Most of all, I’ve still got new things to live. 

If you have any doubts, just ask Krischan. 

Number 19 - Eat Coconut

I have never had a particular affinity for coconut.  I guess a lot of that has to do with the fact that coconut has no discernable taste.  In fact the only thing coconut has is a distinct texture.

Case in point: When I was a student at the University of Florida I was a waiter at my fraternity house.  That meant two things: (1) I ate dinner before the brothers and pledges every night and (2) I had unlimited access to anything on the menu before it reached the dining room tables.

So one evening I conducted a test to prove my theory that coconut lacks any distinguishing taste.  The dessert on that particular night was coconut cake, which is nothing more than vanilla cake topped with vanilla frosting sprinkled with coconut shavings.  Unbeknownst to everyone I substituted the shredded coconut with about 20 yards of dental floss (the waxed kind) I had cut into small ¼-inch strips.  I don’t have to tell you how many brothers or pledges noticed my switcheroo but I can tell you it was somewhere none and none.

OK, I may have misled you earlier about my feelings for coconut.  I actually hate the taste of coconut.  The exception, of course would be the coconut cream used in the creation of a Pina Colada.  I developed a fondness for Pina Coladas and other similar frou-frou drinks in my ‘Happy Hour Day’s’ of the early-to-mid ‘80’s: Amaretto Sours, Grasshoppers and White Russians immediately come to mind.  Of course those days are long gone, but it’s kind of reassuring to know that if I were to lose all my teeth and am forced to convert to a liquid diet I could survive with frou-frou drinks as one of my four major food groups.

Granted, coconuts have been portrayed rather glamorously on television for many years.  The seven castaways of the SS Minnow survived on little more than coconuts for three years in the mid-‘60’s.  Coconuts (along with white rice) have been the go-to source of nourishment for the cast of Survivor for more than a decade.  But try as I might, I just couldn’t get past the thought of knowingly or willingly putting food with no taste inside of my mouth. 

But that all changed a couple of days ago when a friend of the family showed up at our house bearing a gift: A yellow coconut cake from McClure’s Bakery in Gap, Pennsylvania.  The cake was made from an old Amish recipe and when the top of the cake plate was removed the sweet aroma immediately filled the room and transported me back to my Aunt Minerva’s kitchen over a half-decade ago as she leaned over to take one of her magnificent homemade vanilla cakes out of the oven (see earlier blog titled 'Number 12 – Create a Dessert').

As you might imagine, I simply HAD to have a bite of that cake to see if it could possibly—someway, somehow resemble the cake I hadn’t had for over 50 years.  What was I to do?!?  Well, for starters I spent a good 15 minutes or so with a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers trying my best to remove the white shreds of death littering an otherwise perfect creation.  While I didn’t get every last piece of coconut, I did manage to extract a composite 15 inches or so.

So with Gilligan whispering encouragement in my left ear and Jeff Probst in my right, I decided to give coconut a try and take a bite.      

And what a first bite it was!  JUST LIKE AUNT MINERVA’S!  The aroma wasn’t a tease; it was the real deal!   Before I knew it our family friend, my son Josh and I took a lot more bites and before we knew what hit us devoured about 45% of the cake.  The family friend accounted for about 5%, Josh maybe 15% and I imagine I was responsible for the remaining 25%.  The next night the family friend took us out for brick oven pizza, one of my favorites and I stopped two pieces shy of finishing a personal pan pizza so I would have room in my stomach for another piece or two of the cake when we returned from the restaurant.  The third day—the cake’s last day on earth—I ate what was left on the cake plate.  When all was said and done I had probably consumed the better part of an entire coconut over the course of those three days, not to mention essentially an entire cake as well. 

I ate coconut willingly and without incident.  I won’t do it again: I’m not pressing my luck.

The next time I run across a coconut cake, it might just possibly be laced with shreds of dental floss (the waxed kind). 

By the way, I lied earlier: I didn’t really cut 20 yards of dental floss into ¼-inch strips during college.  I was much too lazy for that back then.

I actually cut the dental floss into 3/8-inch strips.  

Number 18 - Be Young Again (if only for one day)

That Little Boy Smell

Number 18 – Be Young Again (if only for one day)

Everyone knows the smell.  Anyone who has ever been around a small, energetic boy, that is.

The slight odor of dried perspiration, the feint hint of stale puppy dog breath and a sprinkle or two of good ole’ dirt and grime for good measure.  Yes, that would be the smell of a little boy after a full day of—well, being a little boy.

One generation removed from having two little boys of my own, I am now the proud G-Pa of an energetic, never-sit-or-stand-still grandson.  Today we were going to do things little boys enjoy doing.  Or as he told his Yia-Yia (grandmother) before she left for work: ‘Today we’re doing man things.’

First thing on the agenda: Hanging a wind ornament in the yard, a Christmas present I received last year from Yia-Yia.  (It might have been three years ago, perhaps as many as five.)  If I do say so myself: We did a great job and the ornament looks fantastic.  It made me wonder what took me so long.  It also made me wonder how much longer it would have taken had Krischan not insisted we hang it today.     

Next came a trip to the store to buy some much-needed accessories for the day: Ice cream, a Tee-ball baseball glove, a collage-style picture frame, a two-pack of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toothbrushes (one for G-Pa and Yia-Yia’s house and one for Daddy’s house) and enough boxes of Hot Tamales (or ‘spicy candy,’ as Krischan calls it) to keep our tongues in red dye for the rest of his three-week visit with us. 

What would a trip to the store be without a stop at the Golden Arches* on the way home?  (*A clever ploy on Krischan’s part to make his way to McDonald’s indoor playground, one of his favorite respites.  I fell for it.  Again.)

Once we got back home it was time to ‘break in the leather.’  But first things first: I had to explain how a right-handed boy should wear a baseball glove on his left hand; not nearly as simple as it sounds.  Granted, Krischan may in time prove to be ambidextrous (he is equally adept at throwing things hard with both his right and his left hand) but for the sake of today’s lesson I assumed he’ll eventually be a pure righty.  He managed with the glove for a while, up until the point his ‘hand got sweaty’ and he switched the glove over to his right hand.  From that point on he was catching the ball in the web of the glove on his right hand (good) but trying to throw the ball back to me Jai-Alai style with the ball still in his gloved right hand (bad).           

Now it was time for some ‘man things,’ meaning things I have done for many years but if I had my druthers someone else would be doing them.  Like pulling weeds in the garden along the side of our yard.  Or in this case, getting rid of the ‘snake creatures’ that were trying to infiltrate the garden along the side of our yard.  Is there a better ‘snake creature catcher’ than a grandson?  I think not!  (Score one for G-Pa.) 

Is there a better reward for a job well done for a five-year old boy than handing him a box of sidewalk chalk and telling him to go crazy on your driveway?  If there is I’d like to know about it, because Krischan’s face lit up like mine had 30 minutes earlier when I saw Krischan catch a ball in the web of his glove (at the time on the correct left hand) for the very first time in his life.

We took a break from the brilliant springtime afternoon sun and went inside to rummage through countless family photos until we found the perfect six—three horizontally framed and three vertically framed—to fit into the photo collage frame.  It would be a gift for Papa, Krischan’s great grandfather later in the day.

But before that, Krischan and I went for our afternoon run (and walk whenever Krischan’s ‘heart hurt’).  We ran (and walked) by the usual spots: The lake on the 18^th hole of the Braelinn Golf Course that is inhabited by a baby-duck-eating shark; the tunnel running beneath Braelinn Road ‘where the Ninja Turtles live;’ and the tool shed on the 2^nd hole of the golf course ‘where zombies sleep.’  That grandson of mine has quite the imagination: That shark couldn’t possibly discriminate between baby ducks and adult ducks, and did he even consider adolescent ducks?  Seriously, sometimes that boy just doesn’t think things through. 

Our final stop of the day was the assisted living complex where Papa has been a resident for the past four months.  Seeing Krischan brought a huge smile to Papa’s face.  As the three of us made our way out to the commons for a walk around the grounds I noticed Krischan had a similar affect on the entire Memory Care Unit, residents and staff alike.  An effervescent five-year old boy and his infectious smile will do that to a person.  After our walk we sat outside and enjoyed the bright sunshine and the cool afternoon breeze.  I managed to snap a couple of photos of the two of them—separated in life by 83 years but today as close as a great-grandfather and great-grandson could possibly be.  We escorted Papa to the dining hall for his dinner, me holding one arm and his great-grandson ever-so-carefully holding onto the other.  Krischan only let go of his death-grip to run ahead and hold open any doors in our path. 

When we returned home it was time for a bath.  Krischan wanted to ‘wash the sweat out of his hair’ after a full day of being a boy. 

After a day like today there is no doubt in my mind he had that little boy smell. 

But you can’t take my word for it.  I couldn’t tell.

Most likely because I smelled like a little boy, too.                 

.

Number 17 - The Ultimate Runner's High

Having run every day for over 35 years, I’ve had the opportunity—or perhaps I should say the misfortune of running in some of the most unimaginable and/or unhospitable places possible.  I’ve run in Death Valley, in the mountains of Sarajevo, on a cruise ship on both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and at a rest stop in where-in-hell-am-I, Georgia.  I’ve run on the shoulder of busy highways, in a Wal-Mart parking lot (where I found a handful a bucket worth of loose change), through a cow pasture (paying careful attention not to step on any cow patties) and around the perimeter of a dumpster.

But until today, I’ve never run at altitude.  Not up-in-the-mountains altitude, but honest to goodness up-in-the-air altitude.  How does 35,000 feet above sea level sound?  Yes, today is the day I can truly say I ran at altitude.  Today is the day I ran…on an airplane.

You’re probably wondering: ‘In a world of terrorism and TSA agents, how in the world did you get away with running on an airplane?’  I’ll just give you the basic ingredients: Proper planning, an international flight at night, good timing and the cloak of darkness.

Here’s how I pulled it off:

I booked an evening flight to (European country redacted; my last name may clue you in, however) with an arrival time of 8:00 a.m.  That meant I would be flying through the night, a time when most of the passengers would be catching a few Z’s.  Translation: Fewer eyes observing what was going on in the cabin.  Like a strange man running up and down the center aisle for 30 minutes in the middle of the night, for example.

It only took a few hours (the flight lasted eight hours) to determine the ebb and flow of the flight attendants as they worked their way up and down the aisle serving beverages and snacks and pointing out to one particularly annoying man that he was pushing the ‘call’ button although he kept insisting he was pressing the button to turn on the overhead light.  The flight attendants’ activity dropped off dramatically around 3:00 a.m.  The only movement I could detect was the attractive young couple sitting two rows in front of me across the aisle hightailing it for the lavatory every 75 minutes or so.  I felt sorry for them as I couldn’t think of anything worse than being held captive on an airplane for over eight hours and having stomach problems requiring the use of the closets they call bathrooms to take care of some nasty personal business.  Adding insult to injury: They were on their honeymoon.

Around 3:30 a.m. the coast appeared to be clear: It was time for me to literally make a run for it.  I stood up, walked to the front of the aisle, looked around to see if any eyes were on me (there weren’t) and slowly took off running for the back of the plane.  It didn’t take long—maybe eight or nine seconds before I reached the back of the plane.  I knew the flight attendants were sitting behind the lavatory, so I was careful to turn around just shy of where I might possibly catch their attention. 

I was able to run—unnoticed and undetected for 30 minutes or more.  Not pressing my luck, I was satisfied to stop and credit myself with three slow and easy miles at 35,000 feet.  What the heck: Let’s call it an even 5K (five kilometers, or 3.1 miles).   

I wondered if I had been wearing a GPS how it would have recorded my distance—especially if I was running toward the back of the plane.  ‘If the plane is moving forward at 500 miles per hour and I’m running backwards at six miles per hour, does the GPS recognize this as moving at 494 miles per hour?’  (In hindsight I’m sorry I mentioned it. If thinking about this keeps you up at night, I apologize.)

About the time the pilot announced it was time to prepare for landing, a flight attendant leaned over my seat and pinned a pair of wings—the kind they give to small children the first time they fly on an airplane—on my collar.  She looked at me, smiled and said I gave new meaning to the phrase ‘Mile High Club.’  Apparently she had seen me earlier as I was wearing out the carpet of the center aisle while everyone else on the plane was asleep.

Well, almost everyone. 

As I stood up to exit the plane I noticed a pair of wings just like mine on the collars of both of the newlyweds when it suddenly dawned on me:

They weren’t having stomach problems.  They were becoming members of the Mile High Club the old fashioned way.

From what I saw of them throughout the night, it might be more appropriate to recognize them as ‘frequent flyers…’