Okay, okay, I admit it. After getting over the terror of my slightly (?) insane old-age-related fear of becoming a grandfather, I have come to LOVE this joyful status in life. And if you’ve read my blog much at all, you’ve seen the grandies: brothers Daniel and Gabriel, and grandtwins Matthew and Madison.
Simply put, they offer me such tremendous happiness, especially since they live right here in my Savannah.
For example, yesterday afternoon, as I twinsat (is that a word?), Matthew wanted a back massage. How do they learn that at 20 months? So he climbed up on the couch.
And directed me with his little hand, as he watched The Disney Channel.
I will treasure those four minutes.
And earlier in the day, after the Savannah morning downpour stopped, the twins puddled their way to fun.
Daniel and Gabriel whooped it up in New Orleans last weekend at the Louisiana Aquarium, the N.O. Children’s Museum, and the IMAX.
So last night good friends Donnie and Kinzie (Donnie is at SCAD–the Savannah College of Art and Design–studying film, and Kinzie is a talented photographer) texted me from their holiday soiree in hometown Urbana, Illinois:
Donnie in pic below:
My response:
(Maybe I shouldn’t have included that part of text about crying over Tiny Tim IN A MUPPET MOVIE. It’s a little embarrassing, mainly because it’s true. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have confessed that part about truth. Oh well, water under the bridge now.)
The next interchange between Kinzie and me:
You see, I live in Savannah, GA. That’s right, the deep South, and we ain’t never hearda snow. But, if you can believe Donnie and Kinzie, it’s this white, frozen stuff that falls out of the sky. Ha! Right! Like I’m falling for that. And it seems you can make “snow men” out of it. Ha! Right! The only snow man I can make is outta socks:
So, professor that I am, I decided to do some serious research about Donnie’s and Kinzie’s “snow.” Of course I headed straight to UrbanDictionary.com. And, looky here, Donnie and Kinzie. Here’s what snow means:
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1. Snow — Something that is radical, cool, or otherwise awesome. Something that is snow is generally the sh_t, being top score, bitchin, etc. The word is derived from the fact that snow is generally off the hook in its beauty, power, and pimpery.
“Duuuuude I just saw Predator and it was sooooo snow.”
9. Snow — It is the process of adding lots of small hole-punched papers into a nuggeted back pack.
“Who snowed my back pack?”
10. Snow — Mislead, especially by overwhelming with (mis)information. Deceive. Hoodwink Bamboozle.
“The teacher was snowed by the seemingly endless barrage of students’ questions and failed to realize what was really occurring in the classroom.”
25. Snow — Snow is a racist term used to describe white people in general, mainly because their skin tone is white as snow.
“Damn, look at that snow whitey, he’s white as snow.”
32. Snow — To shed excess amounts of dandruff on another person.
“Mary was disgusted when John came over and snowed on her shoulder.”
Last Saturday, loaded down with a big stack of research paper first drafts, written by my delightful and intelligent international graduate students in our Research, Reading and Writing in Art and Design class at SCAD, I escaped down to Amelia Island, Florida. My Distinct Intention: sitting, for the next two days (since Monday was a holiday) on the patio of the condo, listening to the crash of waves …
… and occasionally eyeing a sea turtle meander up onto the lawn from the protected dunes …
… (this one’s about sixteen inches long) while Determinedly, Professorially marking up student texts. And even though the papers are on fascinating topics, such as the spread of memes through websites, the commercialization of global opera, color’s impact on productivity in the work environment, and how video games make our lives better, can anybody besides me see a potential problem here?
I had no excuse.
But, to be honest, and to defend myself a little, the BETTER part of Saturday had really already vanished by the time I arrived at the condo, unpacked (I ALWAYS unpack–my mama says not to live out of your suitcase), took a much-needed barefoot walk on the beach to calm my nerves after the hour-and-a-half drive from Savannah (okay, maybe I stopped at Starbucks in Brunswick for a quick Salted Caramel Mocha), washed the shells I found …
… thought a while about whether I should make a hip Christmas sea shell wreath or just put them in a glass jar, ran to the Lucky Wok for a spring roll and Balsamic Vegetable Medley, rushed back to the condo and soaked my feet in bath salts–thus it was simply too late to think about grading. Seriously.
So Sunday morning I got up energized–ready!–but, discovering there was nothing in the condo for breakfast except some peanut butter which had gotten beach sand it in and several pints of old strawberry ice cream, I had No Choice but to hightail it over to my favorite historic district Fernandina Beach breakfast place, Bright Mornings Café. (Isn’t that a cool name?)
As soon as you sit down, the FRIENDLIEST wait staff rush over with a variety of muffins, jam, marmalade and coffee. (I wish I lived inside that place.)
(I forgot to take the above pic until after most of the muffins were gone.)
Well, the neatest thing happened next! I was lucky enough to have the World’s Best Waitress, Laura, who, after recommending the breakfast potatoes (boy, was she right!) shared a terrific story. Actually, she shared after I complimented her on her interesting necklace:
She told me that her daughter had given her the necklace, and it represented the body’s chakras. You know about them? Energy distribution centers throughout the body. The lower one is the root chakra, which seems to be powerfully related to our contact with the earth, helping us to be grounded into the earthly plane. Also it represents the center of manifestation, especially with the material world. Anyway, after getting the necklace, Laura explained that she took off her shoes and enjoyed feeling the ground, the earth, with her bare feet. The next day she received a large amount of money. Wow. Whatever we may believe, material increase came to Laura. So cool! I haven’t worn shoes since hearing the story, and ain’t planning to anytime soon! (Kidding.)
Leaving Laura and Bright Mornings (darn it), I thought I should probably go back and start grading, but as I walked down 3rd Street in Fernandina Beach, I saw this sign …
… and it pointed in the opposite direction from where my little car Skedadler sat waiting for me. So, being the lawful person I am, I traversed the way of the sign, and within minutes started hearing people (bunches of people) speaking French and Spanish and Deep Southwest Georgia Drawl and other languages I couldn’t understand.
Well, lo and behold, I stumbled upon a major national sports tournament!
I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the International Petanque America Open Tournament! How exciting is that?! One of the biggest tournaments in all of Petanque!
Okay, okay, I had no clue what Petanque is either. Other people, from all over the world, apparently DO know what it is. Before I explain, a few pictures:
Petanque (pronounced “pay-tonk”), I found out, “is one of Europe’s most popular outdoor games, a cousin of both horseshoes and of the Italian bowling game called ‘bocce’. The game originated in the South of France in the early 1900’s. The aim is to toss, or roll a number of hollow steel balls (‘boules’) as close as possible to a small wooden target ball, called ‘but’ or ‘cochonnet’ (French for ‘piglet’). Players take turns and the team that ends up nearest to the target ball when all balls are played, wins” (petanque-america.com).
Players must stand with both feet firmly planted in a circle when tossing their balls. (Why did I just giggle like a seventh grader?)
Those petanque folks were all SO friendly, even when I kept mistakenly walking onto the playing courts or talking to the players in the middle of their games. (It was all just a bit confusing to me, like Harry Potter’s quidditch, but then again, I never quite got the hang of horseshoes.)
I discovered that the only store in the Americas dedicated to petanque was right there in Fernandina Beach, Petanque America, owned and operated by Philippe Boets, an emigre from Antwerp, Belgium. Doesn’t he have the coolest name, Philippe? I’m thinking of changing my name to something hipper than “Neal.” Any suggestions?
Here I am sitting on the sidelines, trying my best to stay out of trouble and wondering where that man standing in the circle got his shirt and whether or not I should roll up the legs of my pants to look a little more European.
And here I am with Rosemary Szczygiel, a Fernandina Beach petanque enthusiast, who filled me in on the basics of the game.
Such new-discovery fun!
P.S. I had the papers marked by the time I headed back up the road to Savannah.
Last Saturday I revisited September Oaks Vineyards— a small but incredibly beautiful boutique winery in Ridgeland, SC. On my first trip to SOV about a year ago, I fell in love with the place–as well as the fun and friendly folks who work there, especially Nikki Davis …
… a kindred spirit, who at the time of my first trip (and the above pic) worked part-time at September Oaks and taught high school English in Ridgeland. Thus, we hit it off as fellow English teachers right from the start. Nikki has since become a faithful blog follower and happiness promoter.
For this second visit, good friends Robert and Edward (such strong, classical names–who names their child “Neal”? And with an “a”?) accompanied me along lazy U.S. 17 on the forty-five minute trip from Savannah.
The entrance to September Oaks is as beautiful as the place itself.
So I motored down the old oak-lined entryway and parked Skedaddler. (My little car’s name. What? You don’t name your vehicles? Well, why not? And, what? You think “motored” sounds a little silly and pretentious? Well, I would too under normal circumstances, but those ancient oaks and the incredible fall weather made me want to talk British-fancy.)
A special event was going on that day: A Novel Wine Tasting & LiteraryFestival,featuring readings and book signings from over two dozen authors. Such fun! (More about that later … with a Princess Diana twist.)
So we sauntered (there I go again) into the tasting room, paused just inside the door because the place was booming with folks at the counter, and glanced around. But not for long–because suddenly I heard a hooting and hollering, and saw Nikki rushing toward me and giving me a big hug, as if I were, oh I don’t know, a World Famous Blogger or something! It was so cool to see her again.
We waited our turn for the tasting and then belly-ed up to the beautiful new counter …
… which is made from crushed wine bottles poured in layers to give the appearance of a flowing river amid vineyards. WHO thinks to do creative stuff like that?! When I think of crushed bottles, I always remember the time as a kid when I stepped on a broken Coke bottle and had to have a terribly painful and tear-producing tetanus shot. And let’s be honest, nobody wants to see THAT scene worked into a wine tasting counter!
Anyway, we met our pourer Annette (delightful), who led us through three whites and three reds, from dry to sweet. We were asked to score each wine on a scale of 1-5 points. And I probably don’t need to tell you, but wine has alcohol in it! Edward and Robert were SO much better at the taste scoring than I. Really. They swirled the wine around, smelled it deeply, commented on its color, and even had exaggerated expressions on their faces after each tasting which somehow seemed to register their definite approval or casual dismissal. They even made comments such as, “Oh yes, I would serve this one with fruit and chocolate” or “This white would pair perfectly with fresh, local seafood.” Me? What was I doing? Well, before I answer, look at the picture below. Although the photo is a bit dark, here I am with Edward and Robert.
My biggest concern during our tasting was not wine aroma or pairing possibilities … but that woman in the right edge of the picture. See her? You can’t tell from the pic, but she’s really close (too close in my opinion) to the two heavenly smelling featured dishes at the tasting–southern seafood gumbo, and shrimp and grits–and she’s actually somewhat blocking my path to the food. All through the tasting I kept glancing over my shoulder and worrying about how I could get past her.
Here’s a lighter picture of Robert and Edward. I took it mainly to get a better perspective on how to get past that lady.
I did it!
Here’s Nikki with Evie Woods, wife of September Oaks owner Grady Woods:
And here I am with Evie:
And here’s Evie between two wine bottles:
And here’s Evie eating gumbo:
And here’s Evie feeding me gumbo:
After the wine (and food) tasting, Annette asked if we would like a tour of their new barrel room. Well, who’s gonna turn that down?
On your visit (and of course you’re going to visit soon), look closely and you’ll see my shadowy spirit protectively overseeing the oak barrels.
Oh my gosh. Look what showed up next in the warehouse area:
A set of drums! So of course I had to play a while.
It would have been so much more enjoyable for myself and the others if I knew how to play drums. Oh well, we moved on to the big steel barrels.
Next, we ventured outside to the vineyard and the literary reading.
Here’s Jack and Robin Firestone, authors of Chasing Diana. The Firestones were in Paris on the night of Diana’s fatal car crash sixteen years ago … and were in the tunnel … and saw the wreck! Chasing Diana is their fascinating story. Here they are reading excerpts from the book.
And here I am harassing them.
Evie and Grady, SOV’s gracious owners and hosts.
What a joyful Saturday afternoon. I hereby declare September Oaks to be the Official Winery of NealEnJoy.com!
A special thanks to Robert Smith for taking most of the pictures in this post.
Read the blog post about my first visit here: SOV 1.
I’m Hot but Happy. 98 degrees yesterday here in Savannah (heat index way over 100); 95 today. Whew. But unless I’m having heat tremors, here’s what I’m happy about today.
1. Seeing Love listed as an ingredient on a product label.
But kale? KALE?? Seriously?
2. The surprising, intricate beauty of looking up in Savannah.
3. My good buddy Riboclavin …
… without a thermometer. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t seem to be enjoying his food 100%, but still, he’s sitting in the sun, getting a vitamin D boost.
4. As some of you know, my grandkids call me “Abu” (Cuban/Hispanic shortened version of grandfather) because I thought “grandfather,” etc sounded entirely too paternally old. Well, six-year-old Daniel and three-year-old Gabriel are WILD over Skylanders. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, DO NOT try to figure it out. It’s far too complicated. But the Skylander franchise is basically taking over the world, of kids. Anyway, I recently told D and G that a brand new, exciting Skylander figure had just come available on the market, AbuForce!
The three-year old bought it for minute until the six-year-old exclaimed, “No way, Abu. You’re joking again.”
“I am not,” I lied. (Why does that trait come so easily to me?)
“Prove it, then,” smart-mouth Daniel challenged.
“Okay I will,” I responded, having no clue how to do so, or even what I meant.
“When?” he asked, a little smart-mouthier.
“Tomorrow,” I easily answered.
Sometimes, angels come your way. I told my friend Robert about my dilemma. He laughed and said he might be able to help. It seems the U.S miltary has a program called Huggs-to-Go, providing dolls for children of service men and women deployed. The figures have a place at the face for pictures of dad or mom, etc. Since Robert is retired Army and currently works at Hunter Army Airfield, he somehow managed to get me two of the dolls.
I presented the AbuForce figures to Daniel and Gabriel the next day. Both, in shock that there really was an AbuForce, melted my heart with their excitement over my little joke.
And the following day, they brought unparalleled joy to my heart when they both told me that they slept with AbuForce.
So today I decided I really needed to do something about my limp, flyaway, graying hair.
I’m frustrated because, well, I’m beginning to look my age. And, you know, that just doesn’t seem natural. So I consulted the online Yellow Pages for area barbers and hair salons and read about an intriguing little place out near Skidaway Island (I’m in Savannah, by the way) called … The Babies Hair Salon.
I drove over, parked Skedaddler (my lil gray Scion) (gray seems to be a theme in my life lately) (just not fifty shades of it) (yet) and found myself being promptly greeted by, believe it or not, two surprised-looking BABIES! Ten-month-old twins Madison and Matthew …
When he saw my hair, I got the impression that Matthew had initial concerns about his and his sister’s ability to help me …
Perhaps Madison had the same concern, but she tried to mask her feelings with a blank stare.
Nevertheless, the duo led me into their salon’s inner sanctum.
“I’m beginning to see a color scheme here,” I thought perceptively and intelligently.
Matthew and Madison took a moment to look through their style books to see what they might be able to do for me.
“This is definitely going to be a challenge,” they seemed to be saying.
I felt my first tiny jolt of trepidation when I realized they were looking at books about cows and sheep.
With determination set clearly upon their young but professional countenances, the twins indicated for me to help them up into their work spaces.
“An odd request,” I thought. “They don’t do that at the Barber Pole downtown.” But, the completely compliant client, I obeyed.
And for about sixty seconds, everything seemed to be going well. Just typical stylist assessment techniques such as cranial observation and exploratory scalp manipulation.
Then, inexplicably, I got the distinct impression that Madison was somehow asking Matthew to consult with the monkeys on the wall about the next step.
But before I had time to investigate, they got to work.
“This might be fun,” I thought, kinda smiling.
Madison gently massaged in soothing hair cream.
Healthy hair.
Then they both started to get a little rough, I thought, for ten-month-olds.
Seemingly out of the blue, I sensed a frustrated Matthew yelling to Madison, “Enough of this, sissy! There’s no way to help this old man!”
“Bite him!” she might have said.
“What going on here?!” I thought in terror. “Are they baby vampires or something? Nick at Twilight?! Whatever. I’m outta here.”
As Skedaddler and I hightailed it back to Savannah’s historic district where I live across from Colonial Park Cemetery, I looked in my rearview mirror and thought, “You know, gray’s not such a bad color. It’s kinda in-between.”
(Thanks to Grandtwins Matthew and Madison for help with this post. And the iPhone’s reverse camera.)
As I mentioned in the previous post, this past weekend brought two terrific parties, a street celebration Saturday night and then on Sunday afternoon the Sixth Birthday Celebration for my Grandson Daniel.
Before I escort you to Weekend Party Two, let me just explain that Daniel is one very COOL little boy. And here are Eight Sunglasses-Prominent Pics of D-man to prove it:
(With kindergarten teacher Ms. Lancaster)
(With little brother Gabriel)
Okay, maybe the twin girls froze him up a bit and reduced his coolness by a tad.
But NOT on his birthday. Here he sits, with his green faux hawk (aka fohawk) before his backyard party begins, “patiently” waiting for the Spiderman inflatable to blow up.
Almost there.
“I love it!”
Here’s Batman perched in the trees:
I have NEVER seen a balloon so huge. And the Spiderman pinata, ready to be lowered:
Soon the backyard fills with school and neighborhood friends.
A great hit at the party–the appearance of the folks and animals from Critters-to-Go. The kids (and adults) are fascinated.
“Okay, kids, now let’s all play with snakes!” (Neal’s first thought: “Is everyone here INSANE? What happened to the PRETEND superheroes theme?) Then out of the corner of my eye, I see courageous Batman hiding out in the trees away from all this.
Initially, Daniel’s not so sure. See? He’s a smart boy.
Some of you may remember Mr. Happy (who is sort of my blog mascot). Technically he is jointly owned by me AND grandson Daniel. He lives in the back seat of my car (Mr. Happy, not Daniel) and helps me pick up Daniel from kindergarten a couple of days a week.
For months now, Mr. Happy has been nagging me for a train ride to Charleston, so early last Saturday morning, we hopped on board the 8:15 Amtrak bound for a one-night stay in the Holy City.
Less than two hours later, we arrived in beautiful Charleston, SC. (sister city of my hometown of Savannah).
From the station, our Charleston taxi driver (who “drove” like a wild New York cabbie) whisked us to our hotel, the Best Western King Charles Inn in the historic district ( a very nice hotel–stay there sometime).
The folks at the hotel treated us like royalty–especially Michael, Rhonda and Richard–and even gave us a beautiful upgrade … with rocking chairs on a balcony:
After reading up on some sites to visit, Mr. Happy and I hit the road walking.
We learned a bucketful of area history from guide extraordinaire Boyd Schuler when we toured the historic Edmondston-Alston House on the Battery overlooking the bay.
I want that house to be MY house! (If you have about four million extra dollars, please PayPal it to me ASAP. Thank you.)
Minding my own business over the weekend, peacefully walking along the river in downtown Savannah, not at all trying to start something that would have to be finished, my joyfully calm day became something altogether darkly different when an overly confident Toy Soldier started to–.
Wait, let’s back up a second. Some of you know that I occasionally find myself, through no fault of my own, smack dab in the middle of the most painfully demanding staring contests. Renaissance men, famous football coaches, even Pirates all have been my adversaries in this universally accepted battle of true manhood and endurance.
Anyway, back to my story. As I was trekking through the lobby of the Riverfront Marriott, hoping to find some free holiday punch and maybe a cookie to further cheer me, and thinking about the feasibility of writing a letter to Santa at my age (that confession might be borderline funny if it wasn’t so very true), I heard a Snicker, a Snigger, and felt inexplicably Scorned, Scoffed. Initially thinking, Ebeneezer Scrooge-ishly, that the interruption might simply be the result of the fried duck and waffle breakfast I demolished earlier at B. Matthew’s on Bay Street, my sauntering slowed as I heard/felt the intrusion again. So I turned casually around …
… only to see a Smirk, a Sneer on a colorful (I’ll give him that), sorta French-looking Toy Soldier. I tried to be polite and friendly (afterall I write a happiness blog), but TS obviously had other plans, jerking his head one way, then the other in an only-partially-successful effort to intimidate me.
Finally after what felt like only minutes later, the feeble, old-enough-to-be-MY father concierge told me (rather rudely in my opinion), that I had to get out of his lap, and that no, his table was not big enough for both of us to sit behind. So I marched right back over to the Toy Soldier (he was perched by the only exit), knowing a battle awaited. Gathering my gumption, I flung myself headlong into Staring Contest #4.
And as is usually the case, whenever I stop trembling, Neal’s courage arrives. Holiday revelers gathered round, about half of them backing up TS, the others for yours truly.
Big deal that his fans were more festively dressed and enthusiastic than mine.
The battle intensified.
And even though I really had to use the bathroon after having sipped all the concierge’s cocoa, I held my own. The game I’m talking about.
