Random Thoughts-61
August 10, 2009
Wow! What a weekend! It was so fun I needed an extra week of R & R to fully recuperate.
I know it’s a bit late but congratulations, Kipling, on your 100th and hats off to the organizing committee members Max Krecsy, Debbie Hubbard, Mike Kearns, Graham Dayle, Vern Pusch, Joe Widdup, Conrad Widdup and Loretta Demyen. I am sure they would readily admit that it couldn’t have been done without the help of all of the volunteers at all of the venues. Again, thank you all for a job well done!
With so many relatives and friends returning for the weekend I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard a conversation start with the words “Remember when…”
I feel blessed that my 87-year old Mom could attend the events with us. She has so many fond memories of the years that she and Dad lived here and still has lots of friends and acquaintances who remember their shared times together.
We now have new memories to add to the old ones. With so many activities to attend and so many people to see, a few days can hardly fulfill all of the things we wanted to do and all of the people we wanted to see.
It’s too bad that life doesn’t have a “pause” button so we could slow things down and savour the time a little more. But, alas, it’s just not to be.
As usual, time lingers on when you’re anxious for it to pass quickly and flies by when you want it to move at a much slower pace.
It’s kind of like waiting for one’s holidays to begin. The days seem to drag on as you lead up to the start of your vacation and then before you know it you’re packing up the old lunch kit and heading back to work.
Back to “normal”. I’m sure it’s just human nature that makes us want to get “back to normal” after special events because special events just wouldn’t be special if we lived them every day.
“We inherit from our ancestors gifts so often taken for granted…each of us contains within…this inheritance of soul. We are links between the ages, containing past and present expectations, sacred memories and future promise,”-Edward Sellner.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Random Thoughts-60
July 26, 2009
In early 1970 my Dad and Mom made a decision that greatly impacted our family’s lives. They chose to accept the Kipling-Windthorst United Church Pastoral Charge’s invitation for Dad to become their minister.
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that thrilled about moving again. My protestations were received and discarded and Dad and Mom and the last three of their nine children still living at home, Gordon, Perry and Shelly moved to Kipling.
Kipling would be the fourth community that I would be calling home in eight years. Going in to grade nine in Kipling High School made it the fifth public school that I would attend in twelve years. This is a fact that provided me with an excuse for my poor academic performances over the years. You see, I was so busy trying to fit in to the new environments I couldn’t possibly have time for the three Rs (reading, writing and arithmetic). See, I’m still using that excuse thirty-five years after I finished High School!
It didn’t take long for me to warm up to the community, though. Nearly forty years has passed since that hot, hot July day when we first moved into the United Church Manse house at 414 3rd St. and I’m still here.
I did leave Kipling for a few years between 1978 and 1985 and returned with my wife, Deb, our oldest daughter, Meghan, and added two more children to the mix, Nolan and Emily. This family unit has been happy residents for close to a quarter century.
I often think that maybe it was my parent’s nomadic ways that made me yearn for some deeper roots; you know, a firm home base. Maybe it was the life-long friendships that were formed, a lot of them that were started in that very first summer we spent here, that made me want to stay. I am sure that both of them have factored into the reasons why we still live here.
Would it have been different had we moved to Kindersley, or Shaunavon or some other community out there? Possibly, but that’s a question that will never require an answer. We moved HERE. We stayed HERE. We love it HERE!
As we move into the celebration weekend for Kipling’s 100th Anniversary I couldn’t be more proud to say where I’m from. We have a beautiful community.
Beautiful communities don’t just appear. They are grown. It takes a lot of hard work by many, many people to develop a community over 100 years.
We’ve worked hard to get to where we are right now. In 1970, the town sign stated: “Kipling--Parkland’s Progressive Centre.” I think that statement is as true now as it was then.
“Gardens are not made by sitting in the shade.”-Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936).
July 26, 2009
In early 1970 my Dad and Mom made a decision that greatly impacted our family’s lives. They chose to accept the Kipling-Windthorst United Church Pastoral Charge’s invitation for Dad to become their minister.
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that thrilled about moving again. My protestations were received and discarded and Dad and Mom and the last three of their nine children still living at home, Gordon, Perry and Shelly moved to Kipling.
Kipling would be the fourth community that I would be calling home in eight years. Going in to grade nine in Kipling High School made it the fifth public school that I would attend in twelve years. This is a fact that provided me with an excuse for my poor academic performances over the years. You see, I was so busy trying to fit in to the new environments I couldn’t possibly have time for the three Rs (reading, writing and arithmetic). See, I’m still using that excuse thirty-five years after I finished High School!
It didn’t take long for me to warm up to the community, though. Nearly forty years has passed since that hot, hot July day when we first moved into the United Church Manse house at 414 3rd St. and I’m still here.
I did leave Kipling for a few years between 1978 and 1985 and returned with my wife, Deb, our oldest daughter, Meghan, and added two more children to the mix, Nolan and Emily. This family unit has been happy residents for close to a quarter century.
I often think that maybe it was my parent’s nomadic ways that made me yearn for some deeper roots; you know, a firm home base. Maybe it was the life-long friendships that were formed, a lot of them that were started in that very first summer we spent here, that made me want to stay. I am sure that both of them have factored into the reasons why we still live here.
Would it have been different had we moved to Kindersley, or Shaunavon or some other community out there? Possibly, but that’s a question that will never require an answer. We moved HERE. We stayed HERE. We love it HERE!
As we move into the celebration weekend for Kipling’s 100th Anniversary I couldn’t be more proud to say where I’m from. We have a beautiful community.
Beautiful communities don’t just appear. They are grown. It takes a lot of hard work by many, many people to develop a community over 100 years.
We’ve worked hard to get to where we are right now. In 1970, the town sign stated: “Kipling--Parkland’s Progressive Centre.” I think that statement is as true now as it was then.
“Gardens are not made by sitting in the shade.”-Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936).
Random Thoughts-59
July 16, 2009
As kids growing up, my brother, my friends and I played many different games to provide us with our entertainment. In our computerless, one TV channel, Nintendoless lives we had other ways to occupy ourselves. We played sports. Lots of sports.
I’m not making a statement here about children being spoiled with electronic games or anything and I’m not going to do the old “back in the good old days” routine, either. It’s just a fact. Those electronic games were just not available to us. Table hockey and board games were about the closest thing we had to compare to today’s electronic games and those were usually played only when it was raining outside and the rink was closed.
It didn’t matter what season of the year we were in, we played the sport that was appropriate to the weather. Street hockey and shinny in winter, baseball in late spring and summer and football in the fall. Throw in some school sports like volleyball, basketball and track and we were running twelve months a year.
We were all involved in the organized aspect of the sports, too, either through local minor sports associations or school but the real fun was in the pick-up games in the street or in the school yard. Unsupervised, no umps, no refs, no parents and plenty of make-it-up-as-you-go rules that sometimes resulted in more than a few arguments and fights.
Whatever sport I was currently playing was my favourite at the time. The one nice hot day that we’ve recently had this summer reminded me of playing baseball back then. Usually, by the middle of July, the organized games were over but the fun games were just beginning.
During the summer, because of summer camps and family vacations, we very seldom had enough people for a 9 on 9 pickup game of baseball so we played either 500 or Scrub. We would play for hours at a time in the hot summer sun cooling off with the occasional glass of Kool Aid or running to the town well to douse our heads in the cold water.
It’s no secret that I’m an avid sports fan and I watch way too many televised sporting events but my passion for sports came from their purest form. Playing the game to play the game. Sure, I like to watch sports but I love to play them.
I’m lucky enough to share this passion with the members of the Eden Valley Senators Twilite Baseball team. We recently attended the SBA Provincial Playoff Tournament in Davidson where our won/loss record wasn’t so great but our shared love of the game and the camaraderie that accompanies it will keep us coming back time and again.
"For when the One Great Scorer comes, / To write against your name, / He marks - not that you won or lost - / But how you played the Game."- Grantland Rice-(1880-1954).
July 16, 2009
As kids growing up, my brother, my friends and I played many different games to provide us with our entertainment. In our computerless, one TV channel, Nintendoless lives we had other ways to occupy ourselves. We played sports. Lots of sports.
I’m not making a statement here about children being spoiled with electronic games or anything and I’m not going to do the old “back in the good old days” routine, either. It’s just a fact. Those electronic games were just not available to us. Table hockey and board games were about the closest thing we had to compare to today’s electronic games and those were usually played only when it was raining outside and the rink was closed.
It didn’t matter what season of the year we were in, we played the sport that was appropriate to the weather. Street hockey and shinny in winter, baseball in late spring and summer and football in the fall. Throw in some school sports like volleyball, basketball and track and we were running twelve months a year.
We were all involved in the organized aspect of the sports, too, either through local minor sports associations or school but the real fun was in the pick-up games in the street or in the school yard. Unsupervised, no umps, no refs, no parents and plenty of make-it-up-as-you-go rules that sometimes resulted in more than a few arguments and fights.
Whatever sport I was currently playing was my favourite at the time. The one nice hot day that we’ve recently had this summer reminded me of playing baseball back then. Usually, by the middle of July, the organized games were over but the fun games were just beginning.
During the summer, because of summer camps and family vacations, we very seldom had enough people for a 9 on 9 pickup game of baseball so we played either 500 or Scrub. We would play for hours at a time in the hot summer sun cooling off with the occasional glass of Kool Aid or running to the town well to douse our heads in the cold water.
It’s no secret that I’m an avid sports fan and I watch way too many televised sporting events but my passion for sports came from their purest form. Playing the game to play the game. Sure, I like to watch sports but I love to play them.
I’m lucky enough to share this passion with the members of the Eden Valley Senators Twilite Baseball team. We recently attended the SBA Provincial Playoff Tournament in Davidson where our won/loss record wasn’t so great but our shared love of the game and the camaraderie that accompanies it will keep us coming back time and again.
"For when the One Great Scorer comes, / To write against your name, / He marks - not that you won or lost - / But how you played the Game."- Grantland Rice-(1880-1954).
Random Thoughts-58
June 28, 2009
It’s finally here! I think. Maybe. Don’t hold your breath or anything but if you just go by the calendar Summer is officially here. Keep in mind that we are in Saskatchewan so anything’s possible; weather wise that is.
I am convinced that the worst and longest winter in my memory banks is behind us. It’s time for baseball, barbeques and beer! Bring on the heat.
Speaking of beer, have you watched the ads on TV from the beer company advertising that a particular portion of their cans turn a different colour when they have reached an appropriately cold temperature? Really?! Whatever happened to actually feeling the can itself?
Oh, I get it, maybe the can is cold enough but the beer in it isn’t? Is that it? Does the can know the difference? Does it only change when the can is just the right temperature or when the beer is the right temperature? I am going to have to make a point of watching the full commercial, instead of switching channels to the other ballgame during the ads, so I can find out.
Regardless, to my way of thinking, if you need a beer can to tell you how cold it is maybe you should reconsider popping the top on that puppy! It’s just a thought.
What is the optimum temperature? Who says? I like my beer so cold I get a popsicle headache when I gulp it. Which, by the way, I hardly ever do. Good Ol Phil Eger would only drink his beer if it was room temperature. I guess us odd fellows would just have to “old school” it and trust the feelings in our hands and our mouth. How novel!
And what about the visually impaired? How would they tell? Maybe they better start working on a can that will just shout out, “I’m Ready!!”, when it’s cold enough, too.
But we’re gimmick lovers aren’t we? (How else can you explain the Sham Wow guy, but that’s a story for another time.)
Another beer company is advertising a brand of beer of theirs with lime already in it. Thank God! It’s about time! After all the time we’ve lost in our lives by going out and buying the limes and cutting them up and then the arduous task of stuffing it in the bottle and having to lick the juices off of our fingers and everything. I know! It was agonizing! Man, what I could do with those twenty-seven minutes back in my life!
Yes, okay, sarcasm isn’t wit. Or so I was once told by a wise man. But, seriously folks, let’s do a little thinking on our own, okay? Take some initiative. Don’t always take the easy road. It’s been my experience that things are always a little better if you have to work a bit for it.
“Advertising may be described as the science of arresting the human intelligence long enough to get money from it.”- Stephen Leacock (1869-1944)
June 28, 2009
It’s finally here! I think. Maybe. Don’t hold your breath or anything but if you just go by the calendar Summer is officially here. Keep in mind that we are in Saskatchewan so anything’s possible; weather wise that is.
I am convinced that the worst and longest winter in my memory banks is behind us. It’s time for baseball, barbeques and beer! Bring on the heat.
Speaking of beer, have you watched the ads on TV from the beer company advertising that a particular portion of their cans turn a different colour when they have reached an appropriately cold temperature? Really?! Whatever happened to actually feeling the can itself?
Oh, I get it, maybe the can is cold enough but the beer in it isn’t? Is that it? Does the can know the difference? Does it only change when the can is just the right temperature or when the beer is the right temperature? I am going to have to make a point of watching the full commercial, instead of switching channels to the other ballgame during the ads, so I can find out.
Regardless, to my way of thinking, if you need a beer can to tell you how cold it is maybe you should reconsider popping the top on that puppy! It’s just a thought.
What is the optimum temperature? Who says? I like my beer so cold I get a popsicle headache when I gulp it. Which, by the way, I hardly ever do. Good Ol Phil Eger would only drink his beer if it was room temperature. I guess us odd fellows would just have to “old school” it and trust the feelings in our hands and our mouth. How novel!
And what about the visually impaired? How would they tell? Maybe they better start working on a can that will just shout out, “I’m Ready!!”, when it’s cold enough, too.
But we’re gimmick lovers aren’t we? (How else can you explain the Sham Wow guy, but that’s a story for another time.)
Another beer company is advertising a brand of beer of theirs with lime already in it. Thank God! It’s about time! After all the time we’ve lost in our lives by going out and buying the limes and cutting them up and then the arduous task of stuffing it in the bottle and having to lick the juices off of our fingers and everything. I know! It was agonizing! Man, what I could do with those twenty-seven minutes back in my life!
Yes, okay, sarcasm isn’t wit. Or so I was once told by a wise man. But, seriously folks, let’s do a little thinking on our own, okay? Take some initiative. Don’t always take the easy road. It’s been my experience that things are always a little better if you have to work a bit for it.
“Advertising may be described as the science of arresting the human intelligence long enough to get money from it.”- Stephen Leacock (1869-1944)
Random Thoughts-57
June 7, 2009
My Dad, Lowell Denton Hubbard, passed away, at the far too young age of 71 years, on June 21st, 1990. Appropriately, this Father’s Day, it will have been 19 years to the day. Man, where does the time go?
One of my favorite photographs, of my father, is of him and my Mom, Rose, walking down a street in Calgary with Dad pushing the baby carriage that held their first child, John. It’s 1941 and Dad was wearing a fashionable fedora, suit and tie, Mom is in an equally fashionable double-breasted overcoat over the dress she was wearing. In today’s language, they could have easily passed as a Hollywood “Power Couple”.
I have many of my Dad’s traits, some of them by nature some of them by nurture. I’ve got his build, his hands and his kinda-big ears. I also have his attention to detail, his terrible impatience, his sense of humour, his love of all sports and his acute sense of style and grooming.
Sometimes, while I’m driving our car, I see his hands on my steering wheel, right down to the position of the freckles, the protruding veins and the thumbs hanging down at that peculiar angle. How many times had I looked at those hands from my standing position behind him as he drove?
I am not completely sure if one can get their food tastes through genetics, but if you can, I almost wish he would have kept his addiction to raw onions to himself. So does my wife.
My Dad was a writer, too. I didn’t read too much of what he wrote because I always got the oral version on Sundays in church. Yes, after he and Mom had had their nine, that’s right NINE, kids he joined the ministry. For sanities’ sake, you’d almost have to, don’t you think?!
Dad had a green thumb and loved his garden. That’s one of the things, unfortunately, I didn’t get. It was his escape. Nine kids!? You gotta go somewhere! Nary a weed could be found in the confines of his garden patch or lawn. I would imagine that a lot of his sermons were grown in that garden as well.
Dad was nearly forty years old when I was born so the age difference and generation gap led to some head butting over long hair (mine), lifestyle choices and my stubbornness in bucking authority. But as we aged, the gap lessened, my stubbornness subsided and we realized that we could both be right at the same time; well, most of the time, anyway.
Not unlike many father-son relationships ours strengthened over time as his lessons on duty, loyalty, compassion and commitment to family and community emerged in his eighth child.
Although it has been nineteen years since my father’s passing I still find myself wondering what he would do in certain situations. Without having the advantage of speaking to him about a given situation, I can still seem to find his guidance when needed. Someone whom one has been very close to doesn’t always have to be here to be here, if you know what I mean?
“A sweet thing, for whatever time, to revisit in dreams the dear Dad we have lost.”-Euripides (484BC-406 BC), Alecstis, 438BC.
June 7, 2009
My Dad, Lowell Denton Hubbard, passed away, at the far too young age of 71 years, on June 21st, 1990. Appropriately, this Father’s Day, it will have been 19 years to the day. Man, where does the time go?
One of my favorite photographs, of my father, is of him and my Mom, Rose, walking down a street in Calgary with Dad pushing the baby carriage that held their first child, John. It’s 1941 and Dad was wearing a fashionable fedora, suit and tie, Mom is in an equally fashionable double-breasted overcoat over the dress she was wearing. In today’s language, they could have easily passed as a Hollywood “Power Couple”.
I have many of my Dad’s traits, some of them by nature some of them by nurture. I’ve got his build, his hands and his kinda-big ears. I also have his attention to detail, his terrible impatience, his sense of humour, his love of all sports and his acute sense of style and grooming.
Sometimes, while I’m driving our car, I see his hands on my steering wheel, right down to the position of the freckles, the protruding veins and the thumbs hanging down at that peculiar angle. How many times had I looked at those hands from my standing position behind him as he drove?
I am not completely sure if one can get their food tastes through genetics, but if you can, I almost wish he would have kept his addiction to raw onions to himself. So does my wife.
My Dad was a writer, too. I didn’t read too much of what he wrote because I always got the oral version on Sundays in church. Yes, after he and Mom had had their nine, that’s right NINE, kids he joined the ministry. For sanities’ sake, you’d almost have to, don’t you think?!
Dad had a green thumb and loved his garden. That’s one of the things, unfortunately, I didn’t get. It was his escape. Nine kids!? You gotta go somewhere! Nary a weed could be found in the confines of his garden patch or lawn. I would imagine that a lot of his sermons were grown in that garden as well.
Dad was nearly forty years old when I was born so the age difference and generation gap led to some head butting over long hair (mine), lifestyle choices and my stubbornness in bucking authority. But as we aged, the gap lessened, my stubbornness subsided and we realized that we could both be right at the same time; well, most of the time, anyway.
Not unlike many father-son relationships ours strengthened over time as his lessons on duty, loyalty, compassion and commitment to family and community emerged in his eighth child.
Although it has been nineteen years since my father’s passing I still find myself wondering what he would do in certain situations. Without having the advantage of speaking to him about a given situation, I can still seem to find his guidance when needed. Someone whom one has been very close to doesn’t always have to be here to be here, if you know what I mean?
“A sweet thing, for whatever time, to revisit in dreams the dear Dad we have lost.”-Euripides (484BC-406 BC), Alecstis, 438BC.
Random Thoughts-56
May 18, 2009
So it began. The paint samples were, once again, laid out on the kitchen table in an attempt to determine which colour we would be using to repaint the outside of the house, the hallway and the kitchen cupboards.
Didn’t we just do this? I was sure we had because we are perpetually painting some area of this old house. Doesn’t my answer from the last time still have merit? I believe my response the last time was, “Whatever you want. I don’t really care.”
Apparently, this isn’t the correct response.
“Now, what do you think? I like “Goat Cheese” for the cupboards, “Duck Egg” for the hallway and “Blooming Flax” for the outside of the house. Or should we go with, “Salt Cellar” for the cupboards, “Soda Bread” for the hallway or “Steamed Milk” on the outside?”
“Huh? Are we still talking about paint!? Whatever happened to orange, blue, green, red and yellow? To me, this sounds like some kind of weird quiche recipe or something.”
I think I’ll stick to “Whatever you want. I don’t really care.”
Still it continues, “If we go with the “Steamed Milk”, on the outside, should we do the trim in “Ripe Oats” or stick with the white?”
“Is white even a colour? What do you mean about the comedy routine? I was just asking?”
“How about having this three-and-a-half hour conversation with one of your sisters, because I think I’m missing the hockey game and they probably care.”
Whoops, did I say that out loud? Once again, wrong answer!
Amazing as it may seem, when we went to purchase the paint, there were two other women there that had experienced virtually the same thing with their spouses. Who would’ve thought?
My suggestion, to them, then, was to form a splinter group off of “The Ladies Without Baseboards Club” name it the “What Colour Do YOU Like Club?” and then they could all meet and share and choose colours with people of like interests.
Apparently, this isn’t the correct response either.
Yes, I know, you don’t really care if we care; you just want us to engage, you know, play along, at least make it seem like we care. Well, I’m telling you, most of us just don’t.
So, go with the “Billy Goat” on the walls, with a border of “Always Mine” and the trim in “Boy Bait” (seriously, I’m not making these up!), if you want, but just tell me where you want me to start cutting in.
“Take care to get what you like or you will be forced to like what you get.”-George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950).
May 18, 2009
So it began. The paint samples were, once again, laid out on the kitchen table in an attempt to determine which colour we would be using to repaint the outside of the house, the hallway and the kitchen cupboards.
Didn’t we just do this? I was sure we had because we are perpetually painting some area of this old house. Doesn’t my answer from the last time still have merit? I believe my response the last time was, “Whatever you want. I don’t really care.”
Apparently, this isn’t the correct response.
“Now, what do you think? I like “Goat Cheese” for the cupboards, “Duck Egg” for the hallway and “Blooming Flax” for the outside of the house. Or should we go with, “Salt Cellar” for the cupboards, “Soda Bread” for the hallway or “Steamed Milk” on the outside?”
“Huh? Are we still talking about paint!? Whatever happened to orange, blue, green, red and yellow? To me, this sounds like some kind of weird quiche recipe or something.”
I think I’ll stick to “Whatever you want. I don’t really care.”
Still it continues, “If we go with the “Steamed Milk”, on the outside, should we do the trim in “Ripe Oats” or stick with the white?”
“Is white even a colour? What do you mean about the comedy routine? I was just asking?”
“How about having this three-and-a-half hour conversation with one of your sisters, because I think I’m missing the hockey game and they probably care.”
Whoops, did I say that out loud? Once again, wrong answer!
Amazing as it may seem, when we went to purchase the paint, there were two other women there that had experienced virtually the same thing with their spouses. Who would’ve thought?
My suggestion, to them, then, was to form a splinter group off of “The Ladies Without Baseboards Club” name it the “What Colour Do YOU Like Club?” and then they could all meet and share and choose colours with people of like interests.
Apparently, this isn’t the correct response either.
Yes, I know, you don’t really care if we care; you just want us to engage, you know, play along, at least make it seem like we care. Well, I’m telling you, most of us just don’t.
So, go with the “Billy Goat” on the walls, with a border of “Always Mine” and the trim in “Boy Bait” (seriously, I’m not making these up!), if you want, but just tell me where you want me to start cutting in.
“Take care to get what you like or you will be forced to like what you get.”-George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950).
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Random Thoughts-55
May 4th, 2009
I became an Uncle when I was six years old. Now, I am an Uncle to twenty-six nephews and nieces, a Great Uncle to twenty-nine of their children and a Great Great Uncle to two more. Of course, I always thought that I was a great great great Uncle to all of them.
I guess my point is that I have always been surrounded by babies. I grew up with them. I even had three of my own. Not alone, mind you, my wife had something to do with it, but I have always been very comfortable around babies.
This experience will come in very handy as I recently became a Grandfather when our oldest daughter delivered a bouncing baby boy! Yeah I know, GRANDPA.
In talking to my siblings about their Grandparent experiences it sounds like it’s going to be a blast. How does that bumper sticker go? “If I had known how much fun Grandchildren would be, I would have had them first!!” Ain’t it the truth?
I think many children are hard-wired to buck the authority of their parents. There seems to be a delayed timing mechanism built into them that makes them realize that their parents were right only after they have made the same mistakes that their parents had warned them to avoid. Make sense?
At least that has been my experience as both a child and as a parent. I know that somewhere my late Father is laughing away because he knows that I am raising me, if you know what I mean!?
I am trying hard to practice what I preach as I try to avoid the “Can hardly waits”, as in: “I can hardly wait until…he can walk, he can talk, he can skate,…” But I can hardly wait to spoil him and send him home to his parents!
Unfortunately, for me, I never had the chance to really get to know my Grandfathers. My maternal Grandfather passed away when I was three years old and my paternal Grandfather lived on the coast and passed away before I was ten. My children’s Grandfathers both left this earth far too early for our kids to fully appreciate their presence.
We humans have little or no control over how much time we have to live this life, so I for one am going to do my best to cherish each and every moment that I can spend with Treyton Perry Laverdiere and all the other grandchildren that may come my way.
“There is nothing like a newborn baby to renew your spirit-and to buttress your resolve to make the world a better place.”-Virginia Kelley.
May 4th, 2009
I became an Uncle when I was six years old. Now, I am an Uncle to twenty-six nephews and nieces, a Great Uncle to twenty-nine of their children and a Great Great Uncle to two more. Of course, I always thought that I was a great great great Uncle to all of them.
I guess my point is that I have always been surrounded by babies. I grew up with them. I even had three of my own. Not alone, mind you, my wife had something to do with it, but I have always been very comfortable around babies.
This experience will come in very handy as I recently became a Grandfather when our oldest daughter delivered a bouncing baby boy! Yeah I know, GRANDPA.
In talking to my siblings about their Grandparent experiences it sounds like it’s going to be a blast. How does that bumper sticker go? “If I had known how much fun Grandchildren would be, I would have had them first!!” Ain’t it the truth?
I think many children are hard-wired to buck the authority of their parents. There seems to be a delayed timing mechanism built into them that makes them realize that their parents were right only after they have made the same mistakes that their parents had warned them to avoid. Make sense?
At least that has been my experience as both a child and as a parent. I know that somewhere my late Father is laughing away because he knows that I am raising me, if you know what I mean!?
I am trying hard to practice what I preach as I try to avoid the “Can hardly waits”, as in: “I can hardly wait until…he can walk, he can talk, he can skate,…” But I can hardly wait to spoil him and send him home to his parents!
Unfortunately, for me, I never had the chance to really get to know my Grandfathers. My maternal Grandfather passed away when I was three years old and my paternal Grandfather lived on the coast and passed away before I was ten. My children’s Grandfathers both left this earth far too early for our kids to fully appreciate their presence.
We humans have little or no control over how much time we have to live this life, so I for one am going to do my best to cherish each and every moment that I can spend with Treyton Perry Laverdiere and all the other grandchildren that may come my way.
“There is nothing like a newborn baby to renew your spirit-and to buttress your resolve to make the world a better place.”-Virginia Kelley.
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