The grandkids are in town, and because of a recent segment on 20th century American history at their school, they were more engaged in nightly dinner conversation than usual.
“Bratz dolls were a total waste of money, punkin’.”
“What was it like when you were growing up, grandpa?” one of them asked me.
“Well, I’m old enough to remember Saturday afternoons when the Mennonites would come into town in a horse and buggy,” I said. “When we got our first television in the ’50′s, the pictures were in black and white.”
Mennonite convertibles, with top down.
“Sort of like the noir films from the ’40′s they show on Turner Classic Movies?” my grandson, a budding film critic, said with wonder.
Joan Crawford
“That’s right,” his grandmother replied. “Joan Crawford wasn’t just a gay icon–straight men liked her too. In a masochistic kind of way.”
“Golly,” my granddaughter said. “You’ve seen so much in your lives!”
“Oh, pshaw,” I said dismissively. “We were just livin’ our lives. It’s your moms and dads who’ve seen a lot of change.”
Red Power Ranger, with young apprentice.
“Really?” the older of the two asked, incredulous. “You think so?”
“Sure,” I said. “Think of all the change they witnessed in their lives. They used to watch the Power Rangers every Saturday morning!”
Kimberly, the Pink Power Ranger–she’s from Massachusetts!
“Who were the Power Rangers?” they asked together.
“They were a made up bunch of teens with super-powers,” I said.
“ALL superheroes are made up, sweetie,” their grandmother cautioned me.
“I bet you’re a lot of fun at a party,” I said, hoping to put a stop to her “wisecracks from the peanut gallery,” as former fans of the Howdy Doody Show like to say.
“Well, where the hell are they today?” I asked. “Nobody gives a flying . . .”
Grandma cut me off before I could lapse into the easy profanity I picked up at various blue-collar jobs in my life. “And think about Poke’mon Cards,” she said to the kiddos.
“Those are worth a LOT now,” the grandson said. “Did our dad have any of those?”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to hide my guilt. “Maybe gypsies broke into the house and stole them.”
“Poke’mon cards? No, I haven’t seen them.”
“Doesn’t matter,” grandma said. “Your parents used to fight over them like they meant something. Weren’t worth the match it would take to set ‘em on fire.”
I could see my youngest wince just a bit. He has become a big Pikachu fan.
Pikachu
“No, you kids are the future,” I said, leaning back in my rocking chair and staring off into the distance. “N’Sync, on the other hand, is like totally over. Nobody gives a rat’s patootie about them anymore.”
Just then my younger son walked into the room. That group was one of his favorites, and he would imitate their lame dance moves in front of his bedroom mirror for hours on end, inflaming his little knees and hastening the onset of Osgood-Schlatter’s Disease.
Ow!
We eventually found a cure for his ailment at a shrine in Hollywood, Florida, where the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to the faithful on one side of a grilled cheese sandwich, hold the tomato. For a while, however, we considered whether we should ban all boy-band music from the house.
Could be the Virgin Mary, or maybe Mary Pickford.
It was time for bed, and I started to scoot the grandkids up to the guestroom. “G’night, grampa and gramma,” they said at the foot of the stairs. ”Good night, you two,” we replied.
“I really enjoyed talking to you about transitory phenomena of the recent past,” the eldest said with a tone of sincerity that tugged at my heart. “Do you think we’ll ever run out of ephemeral frippery?”
“No, scooter,” I said wistfully. “Keeping up with the trivial crap the great engine of the American economy cranks out every day is like drinking from a fire hose.”
Available in Kindle format on amazon.com as part of the collection “Kids: They’re Cute When They’re Young.”