Slightly Off the Mark

 It was baby shower day for my newest grandkid, and the cake was good. Don't tell my doctor.

Jill explained to me that it's not Xander, because she doesn't want people to call him Alex. I predict people will call him "Zee".

The soon to be parents again. Could they have any more diapers? Yes, and they'll need more.

It's helpful to know if it's a boy or a girl. Due date? Late December. Just like half the family.

Including steps, we've got five granddaughters (and soon three grandsons) ... and do you think we could get them all in one photo? That mop of hair on the left is Distracted Willa.

Five older sisters. I kinda feel sorry for the kid.

We and our books can be found ... everywhere:

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Then I’d have to cut my own switch, ending my bomb-making aspirations.

Instead I wandered, literally, over hill and dale, made dams in the creek, plodded through swamps. I had a handful of favorite toys, dogs for companionship, and imagination. Any place was a playground, any object a toy.

Every now and then I still check out the toy aisles, but today’s toys just aren’t interesting. You can’t play with today’s toys. You sit and look at them while they play themselves.

I'm old enough now that grandkids and pets are the best gifts. Not that I'd turn down 60s era Marx toy soldiers.

Oh, you might press a few buttons, but they do all the rest. They make noise, flash lights, speak to you, move around, until they need recharged. I’m not talking just about video games, which at least give you hand-eye coordination. But on that subject, what do the game makers brag about most? Better graphics and sound, and realistic cut scenes.

Heaven forbid you should imagine any of that.

We generally got toys twice a year, for Christmas and birthdays. My parents never bought me toys because I got a good grade, or cleaned my room, or avoided juvenile hall. I did that stuff because if I didn’t, I’d have to cut a switch. Getting a switch used on me was bad; having to take that long walk out to the bush to cut one was much, much worse. I’d rather pull my teeth out with pliers and use them to chew off my own ear than get sent out to the bush.

Don’t get me wrong, I got some great toys, it's just that I played with them.

I got a scale model of the Starship Enterprise. I didn't push a button to make it fly: I held it out and whooshed it past my imaginary planets. How did my Enterprise make that “whoosh” warp sound? By me saying, “Whoosh!”

I had to use my – say it with me – imagination.

I've had this fire truck for fifty years; it never moved on its own once. If it did, I'd freak out.

Have you ever played World War II video games? The realism is amazing, and if you’re not playing with someone, the game console itself moves the other characters around.

I got a Marx "Battleground” play set. Plastic tanks, cannon, flags, landing craft – and get this, landmines, wounded soldiers, and stretchers. I had German, Japanese, British, and Confederate soldiers from several wars. You can’t have enemy troops these days, because the soldiers of Politically Correctness would pitch a fit. You'd probably get in trouble for pitching things, too.

Eventually I learned war is a terrible thing, even when made necessary by various bad guys, but I still loved my play set. My parents, you see, taught me the difference between fantasy and reality. For example, fantasy was seeding my battleground with firecrackers; reality was them finding out and sending me to cut a switch.

Fake battles led to my lifelong love of history, and I've never invaded Russia once, so I think I did okay.

I had a few remarkably “real” guns, meaning they were my size. No one imagined using one to rob a bank, or being mistaken for a gang member. My favorite was a Thompson machine gun, with which I defended our barn many times. No computer program was needed to produce my attackers – they came from my – wait for it – imagination.

Another favorite gun was my Kentucky rifle, a muzzle loading weapon used in the Revolutionary War. My mother called it her mop handle.

But with the mop taken off, it was the perfect size and shape to win our independence. I fought off entire regiments of Englishmen with that rifle, alongside a company of Minutemen that was very much real to me and my imagination. I’m sure I looked ridiculous in the field behind our house, stabbing with the bayonet on my mop handle, getting hit and falling to the ground, then getting up to defend Lexington and Concord yet again. What did I care?

My favorite toy gun. If it was good enough for both Sgt. Rock and Sgt. Fury, it was good enough for me.

Not that fake warfare was my only interest – not with Frisbees, Matchbox cars, and paper airplanes available. My single speed Schwinn bicycle doubled as a spaceship and police car; walkie-talkies were useful for spy missions; and a beach towel was sufficient to make a superhero costume.

I could go on and on (as my regular readers know.) Two chairs and a blanket made a great tent; small sticks and stones could become a city, waiting on an attack by Godzilla; and oh – what we could do with a cardboard box. The possibilities were endless.

I can’t help thinking today’s kids are missing something important … and I’m not talking about the switch.

• Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
• Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"
• Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter
• Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
• Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/
• Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter
• Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter
• Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

Remember: Books make great bases for your toy soldier battles.

 Who's a proud grandpa? I'm a proud grandpa!

We were down with the flu all week, so I'm just now getting a chance to post some photos from Lilli's 5th birthday party. Also, I didn't take all that many photos--I was busy eating pizza. But it was great, because all four of my grand-kids were there in the same place, and I don't get to see that very often. Also, cupcakes and ice cream.

Birthday girl!

When you're five, people your own age start getting interesting.

Also attending, of course, Lilli's sister Willa, along with Willa's Dad James.

So far they get along!

Grandpa's mission: Get Willa to smile. Mission accomplished.

Lilli has been, thanks to her mom Jill, getting into The Wizard of Oz. So Emily's and my gift to her was a volume of L. Frank Baum's first six Oz books, including the original illustrations--I read the books to her Mom, now it's Mom's turn.

Find Our books here:

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 Introducing:  Willa Quinn Repine!

A little over two weeks old in the video and first photo and four months in the other pictures, Willa joins big sis Lilli as my second granddaughter. That means the ratio of grandsons to granddaughters is now even.

I tested her grip; she's got a strong one.

Grandpa is boring.

"So ... what does the little human DO? Other than put out strange smells?"

Everybody smile for Emily! Lilli dotes on her new little sis.

Everyone's doing well. I mean, I've had a few twinges here and there, but everybody else is.

Emily and I took the grand-twins to Indiana Beach, a local amusement park ... and by local I mean it was a two hour drive there and two hours back, with eight hours in between. Long day.

It rained much of the day, but the park was still fairly well attended, and with the exception of the big rides just about everything stayed open the whole time. When the temperature hits 80, a light rain isn't so very terrible.

A couple of weeks ago I posted three month old photos of my six-month-old granddaughter, because getting a post ready and actually posting it are two different things. It's only right that I do the same with the grand-twins. In other words, in a case of epic fail, this post has been in my draft folder for almost four months. These are also from my dad's 80th birthday party, which took place when people were praying for summer:

We're going on vacation soon, and so won't be online all that much for a few weeks. But, between fun things like reading, being outside, and reading outside, I'll continue that writing related stuff. You should hear about future projects by the end of summer, if all goes well. 

My oldest daughter approached me with a simple request: Her twins were being asked to bring someone to their school to donate blood. You want to do something for your grandkids. After all, they're your ... wait for it ...

Blood relatives.

There was a short period of time, a few nanoseconds, in which my mind wound up to deliver a powerful, definitive, final, "hell no". Scream it. I've always had an issue with needles, which abated some over the years as I got used to allergy shots and annual blood draws. But the needle they use for an allergy shot is like, say, a BB Gun. My brother shot me with a BB gun once; it left a welt on my cheek (no, not that cheek), close enough that it could have put an eye out, but otherwise harmless.

The needle they use for blood donations is closer to Dirty Harry size.

But in the short amount of time I spent winding up to scream "No!" the way teenagers used to scream at the Beatles, I heard a voice. It said, "Sure, okay." It was squeaky and shaky, but it was me.

It's not the first time I ever spoke before I thought. There was the time I agreed to a BB gun fight with my brother, for instance.

Worse, it's notoriously hard to get a needle stick into my tiny veins. I suppose they shrivel in fear when they see the needle approach, just as I do. But I made a blood promise, literally, so I showed up to talk to the Red Cross people.

"Hey, you can't draw blood from people who are taking allergy and acid reflux medicine, can you?"

"Sure we can, no problem."

"Oh, right good. But what if professional nurses have actually taken early retirement because they couldn't find my veins?"

"Not to worry, we deal with that all the time."

"Yeah, but, if somebody faints ..."

"You'll be laying down, it's okay."

"Oh, cool. What if I ran for my life?"

"No problem, I was a defensive tackle in college."

Long story short, I sucked it up while getting my blood sucked out. The whole process only took about half an hour, of which twenty minutes was paperwork and ten actual sucking. The biggest shock to me is that they found my vein on the first stick; this is so remarkable I'm thinking of hiring them to do all my future blood draws, even the ones with the BB gun needles.

And no cost. Well, none to me: I had the good fortune of feeling a little lightheaded when it was all over, so I got three cans of juice and a bag of cookies out of the deal. I also got Red Cross blankets for the grand-kids, which is great, but I think it's their turn to give blood next time. I mean, they're almost ten.

Now that I've done it, I have to say, I understand people who make multiple blood donations. There's a certain satisfaction in giving when it's done, the idea that you've contributed in some small way.

Just the same, it would be nice if they could come up with some other extraction technique. Maybe something similar to squeezing it out, like from a sponge. Or collecting it from a BB gun wound.

Maybe I'll try that on my brother.

My grandson Hunter got to visit the ER over the weekend, with a fine and extra-special case of gastroenteritis. Apparently he felt his tonsillectomy from a couple of weeks ago just wasn't enough contact with medical professionals.

If you're thinking, as I did, "aw, just a bad case of stomach flu", look it up and be scared. I know I am.

I dropped off a care package of Pedialite, Gatorade, and crackers, and discovered that I can hold my breath for exactly four minutes and fourteen seconds when properly motivated. That's how long it took to open the back door, throw the bags into my daughter's kitchen, and jump off the porch into the car.