Somewhere there's coke and fries

My grandson spent a few days with me last week and I put him to work! I was moving (finally) and another set of hands are always welcome. We unloaded, packed, put stuff in the pickup, drove to the new house, unloaded, put away, went back to the old house, packed, put stuff in the pickup, drove to the new house and, on the way, he said "Somewhere there's coke and fries", unloaded, put away and went and found sustenance.

This saying, which does not necessarily pertain to either coke or fries, began with my nephew.

When my nephew was 2, his dad was establishing a transmission shop in southern California and his mom would often run parts for the store. My nephew KNEW that he was not allowed to ask for things and that asking was the surest way to get a "No". One day, his mom was very busy running parts and, to be honest, I think she sort of forgot he was in the back seat and had been there for a very long time, especially for a two year old.

Suddenly, inspired, he said "Somewhere there's coke and fries". Coke and fries is what he called all foods from a fast-food restaurant, much the same way all vegetables were "ho-hos".

Kindly note, he did not ask and yes, he did get some nourishment quickly.

It just warms my heart to know that these tidbits are not forgotten.

Out of the mouths of babes

Moose and Shorty and I were at Mass tonight. Several rows ahead of us was a youngish couple with 2 little stepping stones...I would guess 2 and 3 years old. They were cute little boys but they were 2 and 3. The littlest one got more and more rambunctious the longer Mass went on and somewhere around the Gospel, hit his head on the pew. He cried, his dad carried him out and every parent in the vicinity, including us, smiled.

We smiled because our kids (or grandkids) were older.

We smiled because we have all been there.

We smiled because we could all empathize.

The dad came back and all was well until just before Communion when the same little guy hit his head on the missalette holder. He screamed, he wailed, his dad carried him out and every parent in the vicinity, including us, smiled. I leaned over to Moose and explained that we were all smiling not because we are mean but because we had all been there before and were actually thanking God that our kids had outgrown that stage.

He nodded and then said, "If it was a dog that hurt itself, you wouldn't smile".

and God help me, he was right.

Feeling Froggy

I have neglected my blog for several reasons. One, my life has been pretty depressing lately and I like to wallow alone. Two, some of the reasons my life has been depressing lately are stories that are not just mine and I don't share other people's stuff if I can help it. Three, I am a lazy procrastinator.

However, I was just over on facebook (reason #four) and remembered my profile picture. When my mom died, my daughter sent me a picture of a frog. I resurrected a blog from 2008 when I explained why we celebrate with frogs. This frog? A very special frog. Want to know why?

It's a Grenada frog.

My mother always drove Fords - big Fords with big 350 v8 engines that would fly. In 1976, in the middle of October, my mother deviated from this tradition and bought a Ford Granada. Ford no longer makes Granadas. We should all give thanks.

We lovingly referred to this car, this boring grey car, as the gutless wonder. I am sure it was economical and I am sure that the gas prices of the 70s influenced her choice but it was a gutless wonder. That car could not get out of it's own way.

If you want to know why Granadas and Grenadas will always be special to Juls and to me, the story is here.

One Sentence Saturday #4

If you take a dog whose main field of vision is peripheral and put them into a "cone of shame" hilarity will ensue.