I’ve been covered up with work here at the Ranch Pen, so the blog has kinda been neglected. We had a lot of rain through May and June, which was greatly welcomed, but all that water shocked this droughty country into massive vegetation growth, and plagues of frogs (seriously), flies, rabbits, and creepy, crawling critters of every variety.
I’ve also been running periodic summer
bootcamps Fun Weeks for the six grandkids who are old enough–Kevman, Blondie, Roper, Einstein, Git’R’Done, and Ladybug. (The youngest of the pack, Tater, is only a yearling and a mama’s boy to boot, so he is not even invited to Nana’s bootcamp, yet.) We start the week with excited plans. We abandon a healthy diet for one high in sugar and fat. We make art projects. We play in the pool. We have a little play on electronic devices. We make playhouses in the yard. We “train” the horses, take care of livestock, play with the dogs. We look at the stars and talk about God. We live dangerously, go places, do things. It’s all good.
At the beginning of
Bootcamp Fun Week we have conversations like this:
Danni: Well, just try not to wet your pants again, okay?
Toward the end of the week, the conversation has devolved to something like this:
Danni: What?! You wet your pants again. Why’d you do that?
Grandkid: I couldn’t make it back to the house in time.
Danni: Well, good lands. You’re out here on the farm, just go outside.
Grandkid has big eyes but doesn’t say anything, no doubt remembering mother’s commands not to drop his drawers outside like a barbarian.
Sorry ’bout that daughters-in-law.
No, we have a good time. I eavesdrop on them and laugh. Two of our grandsons are five-years-old. I don’t know if it’s their age, their sex, or their last name, but I overheard these two comments to no one in particular:
Grandson Git’R’Done energetically playing Fruit Ninja on an electronic device: I am really good at this!
Grandson Einstein playing Angry Birds on an electronic device: I keep doing so good at this!
They make up truly horrible jokes, too, such as this one I wrote down verbatim at the lunch table while they gobbled a made to order variety of junky food:
“Hey, what do you call soap with a coyote on it?”
Like so many stand up comedians, the young joke teller found his audience a hard sell, so he kept repeating the joke, trying to rouse a response. “Hey, what do you call soap with a coyote on it? Hey. Hey, guys. Hey, what’d’ya call soap with a coyote on it?”
My heart squeezed with pity lest his fragile ego suffer a blow, so I said, “What do you call soap with a coyote in it?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Nana. Hey, Roper, what do you call soap with a coyote on it, huh?”
“Roper, listen to his joke,” I said, my ego stinging.
“Hey, Roper, what do you call soap with a coyote on it?”
Roper sighs heavily. “What?”
“A Doritos coyote soap!”
Duh! What else?
Ladybug–who is three–and I were the only ones who laughed, but that sparked more bad jokes, a run on the Doritos, and an overturned soda. We had to mop up the spill and stop joking around at the table, but I wouldn’t trade those kids in for anything on this side of the grave.
Until next time, God bless, take time to delight in the kids in your life, and enjoy the Oak Ridge Boys doing Thank God For Kids.