Granny's Lessons

Sometimes I don’t realize how much a person has touched my life until what they have ingrained in me becomes a part of what I give to others. My mother’s mom—or “Granny,” as her grandkids affectionately call her—has been an integral part of my whole me for nearly 39 years. Her life lessons are interwoven into my very fibers now. She scrubbed my face when she thought it needed it, gave amazing Granny hugs, and made ever-lasting hiccups seem OK because they meant that I was growing (there may be no medical proof to support that, but I sure believed it because Granny said it).

Although she never lived very close to us, my sister and I enjoyed a unique relationship with her. Granny had six kids, our mother being the only daughter. When my sister and I came along, we were the first granddaughters. Once in a while, in the summer, my parents would drive south towards Arkansas and my grandparents would drive north towards Michigan. They’d meet in the middle … a town called Effingham (the name of which brings my sister and I to hysterical laughter, and we wondered why we never found it funny as kids). It was in Effingham that my sister and I would transfer our traveling pillows, Walkmans and bags to Grandpa’s car and we would begin the transformation from Midwesterner to Southerner for a couple of weeks. My friends said it would take another two weeks for me to weed the twang out of my voice after we returned.

Those summer vacations were a highlight for us. Granny gave us the run of the house. We got to spend quality time with our uncles, enjoying a Jonesboro summer. Grandpa spent a good deal of time covering for my troublemaking with Granny, and Granny spent a good deal of time pretending she didn’t know what I had gotten into.

As we grew older, our stays in Arkansas became shorter. But we still looked forward to holiday visits and road trips to the south. After Grandpa passed away, and Granny moved north to stay with us for a time, our relationship changed. How could it not? But it only changed for the better. Granny couldn’t ignore my troublemaking as much as before—since she had the opportunity to spend way more than two weeks at a stretch with me—but I also enjoyed spending time with her day to day. She became a confidant, an advisor, a referee … all the while still being Granny.

The other night, my son called to me from his room, long after he should have been asleep. “Mom,” he said, “I just can’t fall asleep. These hiccups are driving me crazy!”

“That’s good news, Jake,” I replied. “The hiccups just mean you’re growing.”
I love you, Granny.

"It's Just Business"

Those might be words you'd expect out of Donald Trump's mouth. Not my dad's. But utter them he did as he drove up the bid for a piece of green-tabbed property on the Monopoly board and watched my son count up every last dollar he had. The property was worth $300. My son had $222 and wanted it bad, since he already had the other two in the set. In the end, Jacob forked over every last dollar and ended up mortgaged to the hilt within minutes.

Dad spent two nights with us this weekend, having just arrived from Arkansas where Mom has spent all but a handful of weeks since June of last year caring for my grandmother. I guess Dad was through being polite.

When Jake proposed a game of Monopoly, I thought back to the board games we played when I was young. I didn't remember much Monopoly time with Dad. But he sure took the opportunity to school us last night.

"I don't care about any properties except the yellow and the green," he said, as he rolled the dice for his first turn. And, true to his word, he passed up on purchase opportunities for every other color on the board. I didn't quite get it, but I pressed on, buying up the blues and reds. Jacob, on the other hand, bought every single property he could afford, including the greens that Dad never seemed to hit.

Soon enough, Dad had purchased the trio of yellows--aptly named after racing sponsors, since this was the NASCAR version of Monopoly. I stocked up on utilities, racetracks and other sponsors. I was a land baroness.

Dad must have tired of Jake's victory whoop and foot-stomping every time he demanded $12 in rent, because he sighed and said to me, "It's time to put a cease to this madness." He proceeded to dedicate every big bill he had to equipping his three yellow properties with garage after garage (no wimpy "houses" or "hotels" in NASCAR Monopoly ... it's garages and race shops, thankyouverymuch). I have NO idea where I got that game.

Within a few rounds of the board, Jacob had been tossed in jail no less than three times and had spent most of his cash (yes, a proud moment for a mother to witness, as she prayed this was not a sign of his teenage years). Jacob rounded the board and waited his turn on the Free Parking spot. He paused just before casting the dice for his next turn and whispered ... "oh no ... the obstacles of terror!" He was facing the side of the board dominated by reds (which I owned and had populated with three garages) and yellows (which now boasted nine garages ... Dad's pride and joy). There was no escaping.

Soon enough, Jacob was mopping sweat off his brow and counting out how many properties he could mortgage to afford the $850 rent he now owed his grandpa.

"And I do NOT give credit," Dad added. When I gave Dad a look that admonished him for stripping his only grandson of all his worldly possessions, he said,"Hey ... I'm teaching him a life lesson. Not being his mommy."

Ouch.

In the end, after Jacob was left with mortgage notes up to his cowlicked hair and I was counting out my own $800 in rent payments to Dad, we agreed to call it quits.

I may have doubted his methods, but his business plan proved to be a winning strategy. What stung the most was that he played the entire game with about 15% focus. The rest was on the Vikings-Saints game.

But you better believe that Jacob and I will be honing our real estate skills before Grandpa visits again. And maybe working out fake fainting maneuvers to move the pieces.

Does The Boy Believe?

Jacob has grown so much this last year, taking on so many activities and new concepts in his eight years on this planet that I wondered ...

Does he still believe in fairytales? Would he still be willing to put out milk and cookies for Santa? Would he still look for a basket of goodies from the Easter Bunny?

My concerns were put to the test shortly before Christmas. I was frantically making my list and checking it twice when I heard a cry of exultation from the living room ... "MOM! I PULLED A TOOTH OUT!"

After I verified that it was indeed his tooth, and not the dog's, I congratulated him and gave an obligatory look-see at the bloody gap in his mouth and the gross little tooth he had gripped between his thumb and index finger. I reminded him that we'd have to dig out our bedazzled tooth bag to put it under his pillow for the Tooth Fairy. I'm sure at that moment that the Tooth Fairy herself was making a mental note to pack an extra gold dollar coin to bring to San Diego that evening for The Boy. He must have been thinking the same thing, because he told me that he had written a note to leave for the Tooth Fairy. It read...

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I keep getting gold coins. This time may I please get either $2, $5, $10, $20, $50 or $100 dollar bills? And thank you for all the money you give me!

Jacob Sevilla

Humph! He woke me up at 5:00 a.m. in tears, telling me that good ol' T.F. had forgotten him. Shnikeys. I insisted he lay down in my bed and hurry back to sleep, because it was still dark out... T.F. probably had a long night and was still out making deliveries. Sure enough, he awoke to find four singles in the bag, with a note that said "Looks like I'll need to pack more dollars! But at least they're lighter than the coins! T.F."

The following week brought further confirmation of his faith in all things holiday. In November he had informed me that he was too old to go visit Santa at the mall. Besides, he knew that the mall Santa was really just a go-between for the Big Guy. But he did agree to writing Santa a letter. In it, he told Mr. C that he was a cool guy. He promised him nine carrots and ten chocolate chip cookies if he could take a break at our house in the wee hours of the morning on Christmas Day.

The week before Christmas, his letter was answered. Santa wrote to him to thank him for his kind letter and the treats he had promised him. He also praised him for being a good boy and an excellent student.

I was thrilled for him, but even more so because it further cemented my knowledge that my boy is still a little boy. Thinking that this was the end of the lesson, I counted down towards Christmas Eve.

That night, Jacob counted out carrots and cookies, and then bolted from the living room, returning with a pack of lined college rule paper. He told me that he knew that he was supposed to be asleep quickly, but warned me that I might awaken in the middle of the night to find a guest. I wondered aloud who that might be.

"Santa, of course!" he said. "He and I communicate now. He might want to stop in and wake me up so we can meet in person. But in case he's too busy, I think I'll leave him another note."

I was running through the list of to-do items still on my checklist for that evening, and made a mental note to deal with "Santa correspondence."

His note said:

Dear Santa,

Thank you for that wonderful letter. You're too kind. Yes or No ... does Rudolph exist? Circle one.

Your dear loving pal,

Love,

Jacob

Santa obliged him by circling the large Yes on the paper and wrote, "You bet!" He also left Jacob a note thanking him for the goodies, telling him that he was going to take some of the cookies home to share with Mrs. C, and that Cupid shared a carrot with our dog, Sadie.

The holidays were a big success! Jacob is truly a believer, as I still am at heart. But he's hoping that Santa takes him up on his offer to vacation in San Diego during his off-season. I'd better get the guest room ready.

An Eight-Year Journey

November and December are amazing, awe-inspiring months for me. Of course, they boast a few prominent holidays, filled with perfectly packaged opportunities to give thanks for the people in our lives and rejoice in Christ's birth.

For me, though, the holidays really kick off with a true miracle. My son, Jacob, was born the Tuesday after Thanksgiving in 2001. We were expecting a holiday baby, but it was the wrong holiday. His due date was actually in early January. But six weeks early we had an extra-special reason to be thankful. His years that followed have been full of joy, heart-ache (ours, as we realize he is growing up so quickly), and wonder.

Most kids just take turning a year older for granted. Jacob did. Just imagine his surprise when I told him that the state of California was taking a new stance on aging. It's not a given, it's an earned right. So he had to apply to the state to turn eight years old.

"What?!?!?" said he.

"Yup," I replied. "It's a new thing. Sorry buddy, but you're not grandfathered in on this one. The state's website tells us that you've got to collect three letters of reference, and they can't all be from Grandma. And you've got to write a letter as well."

About a month before the big day, he got serious. He thought long and hard about who he would solicit words of praise from. He called to our next door neighbor over the backyard fence, explained his strange request, and a letter appeared in our mailbox just a few days later. She extolled his virtues, including Cub Scouts popcorn salesmanship, hoop-shooting in the backyard, and his artistic renderings of her cats.

Next he called Grandma. She was flying in the day before his birthday, so the response time from the state would be sketchy. After all, they're short-staffed and are closed every other Friday for budget cuts. She came through with her letter, praising the skills he mastered as a seven-year-old and was quite ready for the responsibility of being eight.

The third letter came from his father and me. That was an easy one, of course, and we threw in a few promises that we'd encourage him to continue to excel in school, soccer, and not get married until he was in his 30s.

When it came time for him to write his letter, he poured his heart and soul into it. OK, that's a blatant lie. By the 26th, he wasn't so sure that this whole application process was true. I overheard him telling his grandma this over the phone. When I asked him later on why he was working on his letter, he said, "well, what if it IS true, and I didn't do it? I'd be seven FOREVER!"

Here's what he came up with:

"My name is Jacob Sevilla. I want to turn eight. I talk like an eight-year-old. And I'm good at basketball and soccer. I'm always nice to other people, animals and nature. I'm about to receive first communion in second grade. Please let me turn eight tomorrow!"

The Governator's team pulled through in the last hour, and e-mailed an approval to us on Friday. It was pretty touch and go, though.

The other day I told him that the state was considering making a new law about turning nine that would involve either interpretive dance or becoming a mime.

He's considering his options. He might enjoy eight for a while.