Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Busting a Gut with Giggles

I may yet drive my daughter over the edge. She's quite a competent school teacher, and has little tolerance for foolishness. She was even serious as a baby, deep in thought at all times.

The day started off with one of those circular arguments between my daughter and me that only happens in families who are committed to loving each other even when they aren't feeling much affection for each other. When my grandaughter arrived by boat, we switched over to taking walks and board games.

All my life I waited to be a granny so that I could share my most foolish side with a bunch of giggling grandkids. I can only do this on my own turf because at the homes of others, I get the children in trouble with their parents. But in my house, it's my rules, so we have a grand old time grinning and goofing off.

S has always attempted to adjust the rules of all our games as we play them because she bores easily and loves to yank my chain. I insist that we follow the rules to make it fair to everyone involved. We played Rummikub and then taught ourselves a game, UpWords, with which none of us is familiar. By the end of the game, S had gotten so silly that I was threatening to hang her by a bungee cord from the second story balcony, and dip her into the pool below.

R and her daughter then went in search of the wonderful concoction that we call Sno Balls which are a cross between a slushy and the sno cones seen at school fairs. Here, in South Louisiana, they are an art form. The best sno ball stands shave the ice just like wet snow, pack it down as if they were building a snowball fort, and slather the "sno" with any number of secret recipe sweet sauces that one requests. R and S came back with pina colada for R, root beer for S, and black cherry for me and Richard. We waxed poetic and reminisced about the sno balls and sno ball stands of previous summers at the lake.

While my daughter started fixing supper for her invalid mom, our granddaughter, S, decided that we need to come up with a focus for all my free time in my old age. When I inquired as to what skills she thinks I possess that I should pursue, she said that I'm good at talking. To prove her point, she used the video recorder that she had figured out for me and asked me to give impassioned speeches on any topics that came into my head. By the time her mama made her stop the camera, she was almost in stitches with giggling, and I probably busted a few of mine.