Morning Thanks--what I did on my summer vacation

I've got water in my ear. Again. I'm halfway to stone deaf. Church was a horror yesterday because whenever we'd sing all I could hear was myself. That's no blessing.

I've got to go to the doctor today, third time this summer. Once for poison ivy--I never had poison ivy when I was a kid, and I grew up on Wisconsin's lakeshore, where everywhere you look the woods is an ivy garden. Then there was this devilish little something on my foot that turned out to be a wart, of all things. 

And now I'm going to have to go in again, this time for swimmers ear. They'll think I working on a hypochondriac badge. I went swimming with my grandson on Wednesday night because he was happy as a clam in motel pools on our little Black Hills trip. He even got his grandpa in--first time in years.

I told him I had to be careful because I'm prone to get water in my ear, where it has this nasty habit of holing up; but in just a few minutes he had me being a kid again. I spent whole epochs of my boyhood in Lake Michigan and never heard of swimmer's ear. Now, an old man, I'm besieged. 

Listen, I've also heard enough of my grandson's music to know that I'm over the hill. He wanted it on the car radio, and we really couldn't say no since we'd already scotched electronic games and the movies he'd downloaded on his iPod. The fact is, he's still a couple years away from his sister's fanaticism, just old enough to know that he's supposed to like it. When I'd ask him who the heck was singing, he'd shrug his shoulders. 

Did you know the Disney Channel runs laugh-a-minute middle-school trauma 24/7, non-stop emotional bedlam? It's true. They're on, all the time. 

We let him watch. Late too. One morning I got up early, sneaked out of the room, and went to the big chairs in the lobby to read a book. When I came back--just after seven--he woke up, picked up the remote, and looked at me. "Not yet" I said, making a claim for sanity.

Somewhere in Hollywood an entire industry is devoted to creating never-ending middle-school epics with preposterous laugh tracks. Most of the time there are a half-dozen kids on screen because things are mega-social. Well, like junior high.

Whatcha' don't learn with your grandkids. 

Pardon my being so disgustingly facetious. Despite my deafness, I want it perfectly clear that our grandson is a keeper. After all, it took him the better part of three days to get museum-ed out. He loved Rushmore, absolutely adored Wind Cave, got a big kick out of Wall Drug, and would likely have hiked through the Badlands if the temps hadn't turned everything to bacon.

Last week I tried hard to keep my head above water in the world of a seventh grader, and failed. But I'm really no worse for the wear. After all, I'm on Medicare.

Last week, I felt authentically like a grandpa; and it wasn't half bad. We had a great time.

So this Monday morning I'm blessedly grateful for three pretty dumb good days in the Black Hills with our thoroughly middle-school grandson. 

He's a great kid. But then, don't listen to me--I'm his grandpa.