“I like your bingo arms,” my young granddaughter said. “See how your upper arm swings back and forth when I push it? Here, you try it,” she told her younger sister.
“Bingo arms? What do you mean by bingo arms?” I questioned.
“When you yell bingo and raise your hand, your arm wiggles. That’s called a bingo arm.”
Well, I don’t play bingo, but I certainly have bingo arms. In fact, there is not one sleeveless article of clothing in my closet.
I’m not sure how I ended up with bingo arms. As a young farm girl I chopped weeds from row after row of vegetables in the garden and grabbed many round bales of hay off the hay elevator into the mound. How many books did I carry in my arms before the days of backpacks, and for years I carried a baby or toddler in my arms. Didn’t those thousands of bags of groceries or the baskets after baskets of laundry I carried develop any muscle tissue?
“But it’s all right, Nana, I love you squishy,” my granddaughter said with a big smile.
“Me too,” said the other one.
Well, no doubt about it, it was time for a “bingo arms” hug.
“The kids and I are going ice skating tomorrow,” my daughter said.
“Oh, may I go? Please? Please?”
“We’re also going to shop a couple of hours. Remember, too, it’s a 90-minute drive to the skating rink, and we’ll make only one bathroom stop,” my daughter replied.
“I promise I won’t complain or drink coffee in the morning,” I said.
It was a bitterly cold winter day in Kansas when I last ice skated. The skates were my grandfather’s ones which clamped-on to my shoes. I skated on the creek near the country school I attended. True, I only skated that one time in the second grade, and I fell down a lot. However, these many years later, I was confident of my ability to gracefully sway my way across the outdoor, man-made ice rink on a warm, mild, winter day in Oklahoma.
Fortunately, by the time I arrived at the rink, I had remembered my sprained ankle from skateboarding, my sprained ankle from missing the curb while running in the dark, and the two other sprained ankles which were results of poor decisions I made–and, oh yes, I remembered my age.
Best of all, I was pain free as I watched the others skate.
I enjoyed the pictures of my Facebook friends’ families in their pajamas this past Christmas. It was especially fun to see the traditional red plaid and the elf pajamas. I certainly commend those folks, but I don’t see my family donning matching nightwear–especially not if I have to co-ordinate it.
I don’t know how they get every member to cooperate.
“Even if it will make America great and every other grandpa in the world is wearing matching pajamas, I’m not,” John firmly stated through his laughter when I suggested our family wear snow white pajamas featuring a Santa Claus print next year.
Who figures out sizes and colors? Does someone hand out size and color charts at the summer family reunion?
What happens if the pajama company back orders a size 8 red or substitutes a size 3 green? What if one of the grandchildren upchucks on their pajamas just as the camera clicks?
Oh, no. I don’t need additional Christmas stress. It’s almost beyond my capabilities to organize the traditional chaotic gift exchange. Fortunately, this year my daughters prepared the meal. (Thank you, girls!) Still…my family might look pretty good in dark flannel…maybe with snowflakes….
“How old are you?” my grandma asked, and I wondered why she didn’t know I was five. I also wondered what my future might hold. Would I marry? Have children? Would I work? Would I travel? Would I live until the year 2000? Oh yes, the future promised much. (Somehow, I never wondered if I would do laundry, cook meals, or clean house.)
In just a short time my life was filled with college classes and work. Then I turned around, and it was the year 2000–and I had children who had graduated from college. Now it is 2017, and I don’t wonder so much what the future might hold. In fact, my life is filled with the things I wondered about at age five.
January is my birthday month, and I guess I am old. I’ve observed after a person reaches a certain age, it is considered rude to ask that person how old he or she is. I’ve reached that age. While I don’t feel the excitement I did that long-ago birthday spent with Grandma, I am still thankful to hear the phrase “Happy Birthday” during my birthday month.
I’m thankful, too, for birthday cake and ice cream!