Us quirky grandpas (You know, the best ones ...) do have good
imaginations most of the time, but, as even in my case, we can sometimes
get run down and lazy when we don’t get the stimulus we need to keep
firing on all cylinders, (a metaphor pertaining to the proper operation
of a combustion engine [soon a thing of the past]). Last Sunday morning
was one of those mornings when I relished a stirring conversation with our 10 year old grandson, Ozaawaa.
“You eat turkey butt,” he said as we stood in the kitchen that morning. He and I were starting breakfast; he was the egg breaker and I was the egg and bacon fryer. Grandma was busy telling us what to do and what not to do in her kitchen, as she and I disagreed about the amount of potassium in a banana versus the amount in a 99mg tablet. O's remark was just a way to change the subject of a conversation in which he had little interest, and it did the trick.
“You bet I do,” I said unhesitatingly. “Turkey butts have that convenient little hole in ‘em that you can put on a rotisserie and then turn ‘em to get ‘em browned evenly all the way around. Or if you’re camping, you can just use a stick too...”
Ozaawaa laughed.
Grandma grimaced.
I had gotten him away from the TV where he was snuggled into a warm fleece-like blanket soon after arising from bed. He and his grandma were engaged in a talk about the August 29th NBA Recap between the Houston Rockets and the Oklahoma City Thunder in which Grandma had invested a lot of serious time learning about prior to Ozaawaa’s two week stay -- and it had nothing to do with turkey butts.
Grandma Jackie is virtually Ozaawaa’s second mom, as other innumerable grandmas the world over have become. From the time he was born ten years ago in Ashland, Wisconsin, to now, few Minnesota grandmas are as close to their grandchildren as she is. Stuck with me in northwestern Minnesota up along the Canadian border, (“The Middle of Nowhere”, Ozaawaa has called it forever.), she stays in contact with all 17 of her grandchildren via phone or Facebook, eight of them by blood plus nine by marriage or other extension. Just to be clear, she’s loves them all equally-- but on a day to day basis, I’d have to say she’s closest to Ozaawaa.
We’ve had him 2-3 weeks every summer since he was born, until this year of Covid-19. He was eager to ‘get out of Dodge’ (Red Cliff, Wisconsin) the day school ended for the summer, but grandma was reluctant to have him come here because of the threat she faced with her all her vulnerability. We kept apologizing for the fact we couldn’t take him -- until her resolve weakened. It had been almost 10 months since we had seen him -- or his folks, and she couldn’t stand it any longer.
It’s a long seven-hour drive between his home and ours, so we’ve sometimes opted for the half-way meeting place of Deer River, Minnesota, an equal 3.5 hour mini-excursion for both of us. Grandma didn’t ride along this time although I took our luxurious 1995 GMC Vandura pow wow van (the ride of choice for many Native pow wow participants we’ve learned.) Our style and color van is so common on U.S. Highway 2 through the towns of Bemidji, Ball Club, Bena that it isn’t unusual for people to mistake us as one of the gang -- until they don’t. ‘Boozhoo’ all the same.
O had turned a corner since we had seen him last. Although always an unusually articulate kid, he had morphed into quite a basketball statistician going about the house talking to grandma about who was who, and who did what, when, and where, during their stellar NBA careers. It would’ve been a ho-hum environment for me as I don’t give a hang about sports in whatever form, but their exchanges were pretty entertaining especially when we started watching Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls story, "The Last Dance," on Netflex. For a guy who remembers the names of Larry Bird, Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jammar, and Wilt Chamberlin -- and not the teams they played on, I found the Jordan / Bulls story pretty interesting. What gifted athletes they were.
Ozaawaa and grandma were in the kitchen talking about “The Last Dance,” when O couldn’t think of one of the players first names.
“... Pippen?”
And venturing a guess, I facetiously said, “Clyde?”
“Who?” Ozaawaa answered incredulously. “Clyde who?”
“Clyde Pippen, of course!” I said, like I couldn’t believe he doubted me.
“GRANDPA!!” Grandma chided from near the microwave.
“SCOTTIE PIPPEN!” Ozaawaa yelled.
“Yeah, I meant Scottie ...” I said.
That’s when he said, “Grandpa, you eat turkey butt!”
“You eat turkey butt,” he said as we stood in the kitchen that morning. He and I were starting breakfast; he was the egg breaker and I was the egg and bacon fryer. Grandma was busy telling us what to do and what not to do in her kitchen, as she and I disagreed about the amount of potassium in a banana versus the amount in a 99mg tablet. O's remark was just a way to change the subject of a conversation in which he had little interest, and it did the trick.
“You bet I do,” I said unhesitatingly. “Turkey butts have that convenient little hole in ‘em that you can put on a rotisserie and then turn ‘em to get ‘em browned evenly all the way around. Or if you’re camping, you can just use a stick too...”
Ozaawaa laughed.
Grandma grimaced.
 |
| Grandma Jackie and Ozaawaa are both basketball nuts |
I had gotten him away from the TV where he was snuggled into a warm fleece-like blanket soon after arising from bed. He and his grandma were engaged in a talk about the August 29th NBA Recap between the Houston Rockets and the Oklahoma City Thunder in which Grandma had invested a lot of serious time learning about prior to Ozaawaa’s two week stay -- and it had nothing to do with turkey butts.
Grandma Jackie is virtually Ozaawaa’s second mom, as other innumerable grandmas the world over have become. From the time he was born ten years ago in Ashland, Wisconsin, to now, few Minnesota grandmas are as close to their grandchildren as she is. Stuck with me in northwestern Minnesota up along the Canadian border, (“The Middle of Nowhere”, Ozaawaa has called it forever.), she stays in contact with all 17 of her grandchildren via phone or Facebook, eight of them by blood plus nine by marriage or other extension. Just to be clear, she’s loves them all equally-- but on a day to day basis, I’d have to say she’s closest to Ozaawaa.
We’ve had him 2-3 weeks every summer since he was born, until this year of Covid-19. He was eager to ‘get out of Dodge’ (Red Cliff, Wisconsin) the day school ended for the summer, but grandma was reluctant to have him come here because of the threat she faced with her all her vulnerability. We kept apologizing for the fact we couldn’t take him -- until her resolve weakened. It had been almost 10 months since we had seen him -- or his folks, and she couldn’t stand it any longer.
It’s a long seven-hour drive between his home and ours, so we’ve sometimes opted for the half-way meeting place of Deer River, Minnesota, an equal 3.5 hour mini-excursion for both of us. Grandma didn’t ride along this time although I took our luxurious 1995 GMC Vandura pow wow van (the ride of choice for many Native pow wow participants we’ve learned.) Our style and color van is so common on U.S. Highway 2 through the towns of Bemidji, Ball Club, Bena that it isn’t unusual for people to mistake us as one of the gang -- until they don’t. ‘Boozhoo’ all the same.
O had turned a corner since we had seen him last. Although always an unusually articulate kid, he had morphed into quite a basketball statistician going about the house talking to grandma about who was who, and who did what, when, and where, during their stellar NBA careers. It would’ve been a ho-hum environment for me as I don’t give a hang about sports in whatever form, but their exchanges were pretty entertaining especially when we started watching Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls story, "The Last Dance," on Netflex. For a guy who remembers the names of Larry Bird, Bill Russell, Kareem Abdul-Jammar, and Wilt Chamberlin -- and not the teams they played on, I found the Jordan / Bulls story pretty interesting. What gifted athletes they were.
Ozaawaa and grandma were in the kitchen talking about “The Last Dance,” when O couldn’t think of one of the players first names.
“... Pippen?”
And venturing a guess, I facetiously said, “Clyde?”
“Who?” Ozaawaa answered incredulously. “Clyde who?”
“Clyde Pippen, of course!” I said, like I couldn’t believe he doubted me.
“GRANDPA!!” Grandma chided from near the microwave.
“SCOTTIE PIPPEN!” Ozaawaa yelled.
“Yeah, I meant Scottie ...” I said.
That’s when he said, “Grandpa, you eat turkey butt!”
 |
| Turkey Butt Eater and Tractor Driver leave the yard on a fieldtrip |
Delightful! Fun getting to know O more through your stories. Hopefully, O will be around a lot, so the stories will continue, but then, his parents would miss him. What a nice dilemma: how to share a perfectly great young person. Thanks for the inside scoop, you turkey butt!
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