Following a visit with grandson Marcus a week ago (his mom and dad were there, too) I noticed that I wasn’t too frisky for a few days during the following week.
Marcus likes to run, to chase and be chased. When we are walking, it is great fun for him to get a few steps ahead of me, wait until he hears me catching up to him, then run way in front again, laughing all the way.
Marcus likes anything on wheels, but right now it is trucks that he really likes. He loves trucks of all sizes, including the little ones he pushes around on the floor, and the big construction vehicles that Daddy takes him up the road to see.
Adam said Marcus was especially fascinated recently by a huge Harvester that even a fully grown climber would need two step ladders to get into the cab.
I think Marcus leans towards red as his favorite color, not just for trucks, but for everything – but he pronounces the word purple as well as any of us adults present could have while he was playing with his newest toys.
He kept himself busy for a long time pushing his little trucks back and forth while making some very impressive “brmm-brmm” motor sounds – and for added excitement he happily discovered that his slide made a perfect mountain for his little trucks to maneuver.
We received a picture recently of Marcus proudly helping Daddy show off the large bass that he had caught.
Being two is sure exciting.
* * * * *
Over the weekend I picked up the little book of some of Muriel Allerton’s writings put together in the 90s by her son, Paul.
There is humor, of course:
“I don’t know about others of my gender, but I must have at least 20 pocketbooks ranging in age from one to at least 33 years. They are stowed in a big box in my closet, and occasionally nostalgia will move me to explore their contents and use them again.
“All of the scraps of life – chewing gum, Tums wrappers, notes on the back of supermarket receipts, plus passages from books that I wanted to remember, were still in many of them.
“There was the scribbled joke about the man who was sick of life and went into a monastery where he took vows of poverty and silence. His assignment was to work in the fields without a word for a year after which he was told that he was entitled to two words. His first year’s utterance was ‘Food bad.’ At the end of the second year he said, ‘Bed bad.’ The following year, after his stint in the fields, he said, ‘I quit.’ The priest in charge then replied, ‘Good. All you’ve done is complain since you got here.’”
“October reminds us that it is time to hunker down. According to a wonderful book, ‘All About Months,’ by Mamie R. Krythe that I picked up at a garage sale years ago, October means ‘eighth’ in Latin, but then the Romans changed their calendar to make it the tenth month. The Romans liked it and refused to change it to conform to accuracy, no matter what.
“In northern European countries, October was known as wine month because that is when the grapes were harvested and the liquid confection made. There were rains and some snow in early New England Octobers called ‘squaw winter’ followed by ‘Indian summer.’ It was then that the natives could hunt and lay in more food for the winter.”