Peter-isms

Last night Timi and I played, "do you remember when, Peter said..."Most of them are questions that came out of left field, apropos of nothing. Had to record a few before I forget. 

Peter to teacher at Huguenot drop-in camp: "I'm half-Brooklyn, half-Austrian."

Peter: "If Granddaddy buys me the Mars Crystal Reaper for my birthday, and you buy me the Mars Crystal Reaper for my birthday too, that's okay." Why would you need two? "I'll give one to Max, because his birthday is coming up too, and I know he'd really like a Mars Crystal Reaper."

Peter: "What's this couch made of?" Fabric. "No. That's not what I mean. I mean what's everything made of?" Uhhh, uhhh....? Atoms I guess."What are atoms?" Timi, help! 

Peter: "Mama do we know any fat people?" 

Peter: "Are there atoms in light?" Timi, a little help here please! 

Peter: "How are rocks made again?"

Peter: "How do aliens get inside their planets?" They don't live inside them they live on the outside, on the surface. If they actually exist, I mean. "But why don't they fall off?" Gravity. "What's gravity?" Timi, help! 

Peter: "Are there atoms in noise?"

Peter: "I don't want to take a field trip to a farm. I want to take a field trip to heaven to visit Uhr Omi."

Peter: "Does God ever die?" uhhh?

Peter: "What do angels look like?" Timi, Babe, I think maybe we should go to church on sunday. 

Peter: "How do ants go to the bathroom?" 

Peter: "Rupert is a real dog. He just looks like he's fake."

Peter: "Is that homemade mayonnaise? What are the ingredients? I'm not eating it if there's corn syrup in it. "

Peter: "Mama, how many years until I can fly in a rocket ship?"

Peter: "How many times can you try to kill the queen ant?"

Peter: "Is Bev's mother the oldest person we know?"

Peter: "Who's older, Bev's mother or the sea turtle in Nemo?"

Peter: "What lives longer, a parrot or a sea turtle?"

Peter: "Is Lightening McQueen as fast as a cheetah?"

Peter: "Everybody dies except for Rupert. He can live forever."

Peter: "How old do I have to be to fly a rocket ship again?"

 

Peter: "Will I be able to run 90 miles an hour when I'm seven?"

Peter: "How old do I have to be to climb Mount Everest?"

Peter: "What's the tallest mountain in Austria, and when can I climb it?" TIMI!!!!!!!!!

Peter: "Mama, I feel scared" Why? "I'm scared this bike ride will take too many hours." 

Just another day in the country

 Rain, rain go away, so my husband can go out and play

Parker no nap

While showing books to Rupert, our gigantic stuffed Bernese Mountain Dog, last night before bed, Parker had an urgent need to tell me something: "Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama." 

Yes, Sweet Guppy.

"Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh....Parker no nap." 

Why not, little love? 

"Parker pay wit Thomas Train Ghost out---uh, uh, uh, uh---side, dark." 

Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh....riiiiiight.  

Rest in Peace Baby Connor

My first cousin Ryan's beloved infant son Connor Kelly,  6-months old, died in his sleep on August, 17th, completely unexpectedly. My prayers are with Ryan, his wife Angela, her mother Estrella, my aunt Jean, my uncle JC, and my cousin Trent.

Connor Brinson Kelly, little as he was, had enough time to charm his way into the minds and laps of his whole family. Let me characterize him a bit: He was named after great-grandfather Brinson Parker, and it seems that in his short six months he was already beginning to act like him. His father branded him: the whipper, saying, "he had a mind of his own." He loved his milk, but didn't want a pacy, because, as we all know, you can't get milk from a pacifer. He was especially tight with his mother and both of his grandmothers. In fact his mother's mother, Estrella, was known to take off her shoes and put towels under her feet, then pick up the baby and walk back and forth until he was asleep. She may have been the only person in the world who can clean house and soothe the baby at the same time. 

Connor was a feisty and happy little guy, who brought a smile to the lips of everybody in the room, including his big brother Carson, age 19 months. His absence will not be forgotten. His time here was a special one, with no shortage of love. He'll always hold a special place in all our hearts. Be strong Ryan and Angela. I'm thinking of you. God bless. 

Moodaddy, are you in there?

We were out in the backyard today, playing behind the house, when suddenly Parker grabbed the football and ran. As he reached the soccer goal, he tossed the football ten feet up into the air, and belted out: Oklahoma, in a booming, big-man voice. 

The kid is not yet two, and, thus still a baby in my book. He says "ant" for hand and "nunny" for bunny, (which is of course appropriate evolution from it's orignal moniker, "Nana") So I was a bit taken aback by this sudden multisyllabic expression--much less while sending the football sky high. 

Remembering that he is, after all, clairvoyant, I could only come to one conclusion: he must be channeling his namesake, my long-dead grandfather, the biggest Oklahoma football fan of all times. "Hello Moodaddy," I said to my son (mom's father raised Santa Gertrudis cattle in East Texas, so that's, of course, what we called him,) "If you're in there please give Mimi a kiss for me--oh, and if you can let little Parker know that he needs to go pee and poop on the potty before he can quarterback, I'd really appreciate it."

Is it time for Medication?

Please remind me that I once had a life.  After three solid weeks in the country, I'm embarrassed to admit, I started blogging my 4-year olds stories on the 

Internet: http://theflyingsemels.blogspot.com/ 

My husband took one look, grimaced, and started calling Mohonk Mountain house for day spa rates:  "Babe you obviously need a break." 

 

My Dad

Just did a mini edit of my father's life story for his 50-year high school reunion. Guess what, Dad has a pretty good story to tell. See for yourself: 

"My 50 Years Since Casady"

By Lee Bollinger

As a little boy life was tough: my teacher Mrs. Tuck threw erasers at me for pulling girls’ hair and sent me to the principle’s office on a daily basis. And my mother, Mrs. J.J. Bollinger, and her housekeeper, Viola, didn’t have much use for mischief makers who stuffed their pillows with snakes and frogs. I was sentenced to the basement where I whittled away the hours building miniature houses out of bricks—that is until I finally managed to blow up the cellar with my chemistry set. The next summer Mother sent me to military school.

Life began to pick up in 1952 the year I started at Casady. My history teacher. Mr. Guernicky, told us how the Romans conquered the world, and I stopped pulling girls’ hair and finally learned how to listen up. After high school graduation, I enrolled at the University of Oklahoma. Surprisingly, I did not make the football team, but I did spend four fun-filled years playing bridge and drinking beer in the Beta Theta Pi house, attending class often enough to finish with a degree in History and English, even ticking off a few honors along the way.

The old Law Barn, known as Monnet Hall, was home for the next three years, and I somehow managed to hit the books hard and receive my Doctor of Jurisprudence. But did I really want to be a lawyer? During one of my summers, I’d attended the Alliance Française in Paris, which awakened my life long fascination with foreign languages.  Even though I loved it, I couldn’t wait to come home. You see I had a girl waiting for me back on campus:  a lovely Delta Gamma, Miss Mary Gale Parker.  While returning on the Queen Elizabeth II, I called her constantly. Much to Mother’s relief I did not run her off. Gale agreed to marry me in 1965, and, in June of the following year, we tied the knot in a little white-steepled Methodist church in her hometown, Beckville, Texas.

It was time to settle down in Oklahoma City and earn a living. It was 1966, and I was one of the lucky ones. My brother-in-law helped me enter the US Army Reserves, and I escaped combat in Vietnam. I became a trust officer at the old First National Bank and Trust Company, known as the “oldest and coldest.” (Two decades later, as one of the first victims of the oil bust, it finally succumbed to the FDIC and went belly up.) I managed estates and trusts and corrected the mistakes of many incompetent lawyers.

Meanwhile Gale gave birth to our daughter, Caroline Lee. I took one look, and thought I can’t wait until she’s old enough to ski. (Moral of this story: Be careful what you wish for. By introducing her to the outdoors I’d be changing the course of our lives forever. Thirty years later she’d marry an Austrian rock climber, who would lead me to the summit of an Alp where I’d embrace—for dear life—a cross surrounded by 2000-foot drop offs on all sides, and live to tell about it.)  

 I knew I was not going to get rich being a banker unless I owned the bank, so after six years in the trust department, I sought entrepreneurship. Not that I’d get rich that way either, but at least I’d be my own boss. (I still wasn’t particularly fond of authority thanks to Viola and Mother.) A good friend ran a family bookstore and, after many discussions with him, I took the plunge. After all I loved books, and I had a great new concept: I’d open in North Park Mall, a brand new indoor retail center a mere two minutes from our house.

Bingo. With an endless stream of foot traffic from the four indoor movie theatres across the hall, business thrived. We began hosting book and author dinners, and attending yearly conferences put on by the American Booksellers Association. The work never ceased, but it was so much more fun than lawyering, and we were having a ball.

Slowly but surely shopping habits began to change. We noticed that people began to eschew the Mom and Pops for bigger, more sophisticated stores, and the chains (the dreaded chains!) were encroaching. In the spring 1992, after twenty years in North Park Mall, we purchased a small strip center on North May Ave. That fall, after an extensive redesign by the renowned east coast bookstore architect Ken White, we packed up our books and moved Bollinger’s into the center’s North wing. It was a l5,000-square-foot space, complete with a fireplace and adjacent café for coffee, just like the one in Nora Ephron’s blockbuster movie, Sleepless in Seattle. We were convinced no chain could touch it.

The store opened with a splash, and within weeks our new spot was the place to see and be seen. We knew all the local gossip. Gale organized author signing parties, Friday night jazz concerts and an endless stream of publicity. In those days, we were the largest store in the mid-south with 50 plus employees and as many PCs; we were open every day of the week. Our hair was going grey from all the late nights, and we loved every minute of it.           

Everybody in town thought our store was the cat’s meow, but it wasn’t enough to keep the chains at bay. Family run hardware stores and record shops had been closing up all across the country. We were the next victim, and before we knew it were sandwiched by the enemy. Barnes and Noble had gone in a mile south of us and a mile north of us, and business dropped at a rapid rate of speed. We called our daughter, by then out of college and working as a reporter at Glamour in New York, to tell her the news:  Our beloved bookstore’s final chapter had come.

             Now what? I thought, “I’ll close the store and become a landlord,” I told Gale. I’d already been leasing out the four spaces on the south end of the center for the last five years. If I could do it for myself, I could do it for others, so, in 1998, I broke up the bookstore and rented it out too. I took the test to become a commercial real estate agent with a specialty in retail and investment property and signed on with a local firm. In 2006, at the age of 64, after four consecutive years of one-week training sessions and four, five-hour tests (talk about grueling!), I earned my Certified Commercial Investment Member (CCIM) accreditation. I’m proud to say I was the oldest person that year to pass the test.

In 2002, our daughter Caroline married Thomas Johnstone, the above mentioned Austrian rock climber, a math PhD with a personality as big as Mont Blanc itself. She’d met him at the climbing gym of all places. They now have two sons Peter (5) and Parker (2).  They live in Brooklyn where he is an assistant professor of Mathematics at City Technology College of New York. Caroline is a freelance writer specializing in health and fitness (and helping her father write his memoirs). She still writes for Good Housekeeping, Prevention, Self and Fitness among others.  

Thus you’ve read the overview of my life since the days of Viola and Mrs. Tuck—minus all my fishing trips. (My Adventures with a Fly Rod, will be coming to a blog near you soon, if my daughter has anything to do with it.) I feel very fortunate and blessed by the life I’ve led, but most of all I’m thankful for those whose lives I’ve touched or been touched by, for a man is nothing more than the sum of those that count him as a friend, or so Mother always told me.

Please God, Don't let 'em Grow up to be Like That Guy!

Last night we made an outing to the Hyde Park Railroad Station, an old, out-of-use station where the Hudson Valley Railroad Society meets every Monday night from 7pm-9pm. I had to pick Timi up at the Poughkeepsie train station anyway (he'd been in the city for work), and we figured the long drive home would lull the boys to sleep and give us one night off from the ceaseless bath/book/bedtime routine. Besides that, we have nothing better to do. (Yes, we are really that desperate.)

The top floor of the station houses a very large model railroad depicting Poughkeepsie, the Mid-Hudson Train bridge and much of the Hudson Valley as it looked around the turn of the last century. The railroad society engineer was a friendly father in his late 30s, who it turns out has two girls. (We win some, we lose some I guess). It was a rainy night, all the old-time model railroaders were watching a movie about old trains  (what else), and my boys and one other 3-year old boy were the only visitors. During our extensive tour, Mr Railroad explained that the trains themselves were not antiques, just replicas. And he proceeded to elaborate on the sophistication of the fully computerized system that operated the rooms 8 working locomotives. Not only that, Mr. Railroad had to point out that the station's course is so outstanding (obviously!) that sometimes he even brings in his own trains from home, so that he can really open 'em up on the large track and really see how the fly. 

I looked around at my brood for a silent laugh to see if anybody was thinking what I was thinking: this guy's poor wife! But my giggles fell on deaf ears. Peter eye's were big as saucers, you could practically see the questions queueing up inside his mouth. I looked to Parker. I can always count on the little guy for a laugh. But alas the Guppy was fascinated by something happening inside one of the tunnels. Timi? Where was he? DH was downstairs  playing with an old steam engine. Suddenly it dawned on me: this model train thing might be catching. I pried the tot away from the tracks, grabbed Peter and yelled down: "Bedtime! Let's go." I had to usher everybody out as quickly as possibly lest Mr. Railroad have something contagious. Tomorrow's stop: the bookstore, the movies, the water park, the bar...anything just pray god, don't let 'em turn into HIM! 

Going on a Bear Hunt

This afternoon's agenda: hunt for bear tracks. Two small black bears were spotted on Clovewood road a few days ago, and Parker found bear prints yesterday while wandering along the path to go feed Loubella, our neighbor's pony. Life in the country becomes more exciting by the day. 

Babies in Cross Training

Saturday morning I woke to the sound of Timi huffing out back as he stuffed a garage full of equipment into the boot of our Toyota Camry: crash pad, adult bike, child bike, toddler balance bike and off-road stroller. The plan was to head out for a couple hours before Parker’s midday nap.

With a belly full of Smartstart, and a couple luna bars in the pack, we set off. Our program commenced with a bit of bouldering and biking along the Uberfall in the Shawanagunks. Peter ticked off his first “highball.” His little brother expressed his eagerness to follow by pointing up and yelling, “Parker’s turn; Parker climb up.” Maybe next year Guppy.

The boys followed up their rock scrambling with a bit of trail riding, while I chatted along the carriage road. (Timi was still bouldering.) Around 12:45 I loaded the wailing toddler into the stroller, piled the balance bike on the handlebars and headed home. Timi sprinted back to the car with me to grab his bike so he and Peter could travel the 10+ miles back to our place on Clovewood road the honest way.

Timi was mounted up on our friend's hand-me-down bike (front shocks only); Peter's mechanical horse: an all-city, all-mountain, specialized-hot- rock with 16-inch wheels, no gears, no shocks, and no frills. Their route: The Trapps bridge, to Undercliff Carriage Road, to the Rhododendron Bridge, to Laurel Ledge Rd, to Cope's Lookout, to Cope's Lookout Road and past the tennis courts of the Mohonk Mountain House.

Just behind the Mountain House stables they discoverd a wide, yet steep carriage road called Mossy Brook that took them all the way down the back side of the mountain. I can imagine them yelling, "yeeha" in utter revelry, as they soared down at a speed, which if not illegal for four-year-old bikers, certainly should be. They were spit out at the start of the hairpin turn just above the Red Barn (corner of Route 6 and Mountain Rest Road in High Falls), a mere ten minutes from home.

Meanwhile, I was back at home about to sink into the Sunday NYT, when our friends Stephen and Silvana called to say they’d be at the swimming hole in the afternoon and suggested I meet up with them post-nap. Ah well, the book review and Frank Rich could surely wait.

On my drive over, Timi texted that they were just ten minutes away and starving! I texted back: 'meet as at the swimming hole on Towpath, I’ll have provisions.' I wheeled the car back around to cobble together some nourishment and set off again to meet our friends. I arrived at the swimming hole and had no sooner navigated the slippery rocks between the mini- falls carrying the Guppy and our enormous swim bag, when Stephen spotted my lot pulling in. Peter, muddy and exhausted, was still at least still smiling. Timi, soggy as old corn flakes, loped behind my son's bike, unencumbered by his own. "Aren't you down a wheel or two?" I asked, once I'd checked over my oldest offspring and made sure he was still in one piece. Timi, thanks to a flat along about the red barn, had stashed his bike in the woods run the final three miles. If I know my husband, it was of course the perfect conclusion to a glorious adventure, and he was, indeed, euphoric.

A quick dip in the icy waters on Towpath suggested the day, however, was far from complete. Next stop: the Moriello pool in New Paltz. We caravanned with our friends and their daughter Kiara, 3. Now it was time for the tykes to show off. Kiara bolted for the water where she stayed until, with chattering teeth and lips darker than an Oklahoma sky during tornado season, her mother heaved her out for thermoregulation. Not to be outdone by his intrepid friend, Parker kamikazied into the pool, refused floaties, and squawked, "myself” as he pried my hands off of him while in 3 feet of water. He sank. I fished him out, and, his head barely out of the water, he yelled “Parker swim again!” With the swim and fish routine over, Kiara, Peter and Parker dashed over to the playground for their final act: a bit of sliding, swinging, see-sawing and climbing at the pool playground. Finally, it was time for a round of salmon tacos and bed.

At 8:30pm I pulled Call of the Wild off the bookshelf for Peter. Ignoring Timi's pleading that reading chapter books at this hour was totally unnecessary, (he was understandably furious) we read until Buck’s doggie friend Curly was savagely eaten to death by a pack of wild huskies. Poor Curly. Poor little Peter. Our perfect day was ending in giant sobs. I looked at his little weeping face and hugged him close to me thankful that for all his tough exterior and eagerness for adventures he still just 4 at heart. "Mama, no I'm not," he yells. "I’m 4 ¾ at heart!" How could I argue.

Hamptons continued...

Timi drove back home with Rhett this morning to take care of the kids. Erica and I stayed out for two more nights for our annual girl's trip. Five of us are packed into one room at the Ocean Colony, a definite downgrade from the suite we'd had at Lance and Kendra's pad in Bridgehamton. But here's what's important: the beach is steps away, a lobster shack right next door, I'm surrounded by old friends and my kids are 200 miles away. If that sounds selfish so be it. I look at it as a required pampering--a mental buttress against next year's challenge. Come next February, when I'm frozen to the bone in Vienna, I'll have a fresh stock of memories of Amagansett in summer to keep me warm and toasty. 

Meanwhile...Back in the Hamptons

I have a confession: Timi and I made a break from it this past weekend. We left the kids home with our beloved babysitter Lindsay and took off for a weekend in Bridgehampton with friends.  Last night we listened to Rhett Miller and Kendra Hite sing and play guitar until the 1:30am. Then we all went for a dip in the 100 degree pool. Hey, just because I'm not a rock star doesn't mean I can't act like one weekend a year. Take note of me in the backseat with Rhett Miller and me standing next to Lance Collin's Bentley, ready for my morning drive.