First off, we were asked to pet sit Buddy, our younger son’s miniature golden doodle, while he and his family vacationed up north for the week of July 4th. Buddy didn’t require entertaining, just constant petting. He’s so needy, but he’s easily pleased.

Simultaneously, our Firstborn and family came up to visit during the week of July 4^th. They are six in all: Mom, Dad, and four sons ranging in age from 10 to 18. I was assured they wouldn’t require entertaining—and obviously wouldn’t need constant petting. All they wanted to do every day is swim in the lake, ride in the newly refurbished pontoon boat, and fish, fish, fish.

I had a plan. I had a schedule. I had rib-sticking dinner menus. I had confidence that everything would go smoothly. Obviously, I was delusional.

I cooked up a storm prior to their arrival so I wouldn’t be stuck in the kitchen cooking during their visit and missing out on all the fun. I made a gallon of slow-cooked pulled pork barbecue in my Ninja. I slaved over a 9×13 pan of Old Settler’s Beans. I whipped up a 9×13 pan of Party Potatoes. I assembled a huge pan of Firstborn’s never-fail favorite: Seven Layer Salad. MG pitched in with his own recipe for coleslaw.

For good measure, MG and I visited Gordon’s Food Service to score items to sate the appetites of teenage boys—no small feat. We purchased a pan of classic lasagna and a huge bag of meatballs. We also bought a sweet potato soufflé to go with a smoked ham we picked up. I tossed a huge box of assorted individual size chip bags into out cart. Just to be on the safe side, we also stocked up on pita bread to make individual pizzas as a backup should all else fail.

Our first planned event was a beach party cookout in honor of our eldest grandson who graduated high school in mid-June. We planned to do hot dogs, the beans, the slaw, chips, and watermelon. It was much more than the eight of us could possibly eat.

In an obvious and pathetic attempt to score Brownie points with my daughter-in-law, I suggested we invite her brother and family who live in a nearby bedroom community to join us to celebrate with the graduate. He and his wife also have four children. I figured I had provisions enough to feed six more without running out.

My DIL was very pleased and said she would call them to see if they were available. There was a slight hitch. No surprise there. The best laid plans…

DIL’s brother said they would love to join us but they had visitors of their own—his wife’s brother and his family. They have three young children. My DIL asked me if it would be all right if they all could come to the cookout? If so, they would contribute to the menu.

Oh. My. God. I never included that many extras to feed in my plans.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper, a lousy hostess, and the meanest mother-in-law on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. Tell them they’re all welcome. The more the merrier—and tell them to take swimsuits and beach towels with them.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

If only I had kept on cooking ahead of time. From six more to feed, the impulsive invitation grew to eleven more to feed. I was fairly sure the beans and slaw would stretch far enough to feed the whole crowd, and we had plenty of pop, but I knew immediately that I didn’t have enough hot dogs and buns on hand.

Without shifting into panic mode—on the surface anyway—I cornered MG and sent him to the local market for more hot dogs, hot dog buns, and chocolate milk.

I am happy to report that there was enough food to go around. Only one cup of the beans, two cups worth of slaw, and a few dogs and buns were left over. The little locusts lay waste to all but four small bags chips.

I thought that was the end of it and I could relax from then on, but noooooo. All the kids had such a good time swimming and fishing prior to the cookout that they all wanted to come back the next day to fish with their cousins again.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. Tell them they’re all welcome. The more the merrier—and tell them to bring swimsuits and beach towels with them.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

The kids arrived kind of late in the afternoon, very close to dinner time actually. Maybe too close. So close that Firstborn approached me and asked if I had enough for dinner to feed his nephews and their cousins too.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. Tell them they’re all welcome to stay for dinner. The more the merrier.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

In a strategic move that would impress the most decorated Pentagon chiefs, I switched the scheduled lasagna dinner on the menu with the five gallons (thank Heaven I cooked that much) of barbecued pulled pork, the party potatoes, the leftover slaw (to top the pulled pork sandwiches), and the remaining bags of chips. The locust boys devoured about a half-gallon worth of the pork, all the chips, and left only a smidgen of party potatoes. Somehow, I managed to survive another feeding of unscheduled and ravenous guests. Whew!

Our neighborhood association puts on a fireworks display on July 4^th. Firstborn mentioned that we had darn good fireworks at the lake. It was then that we learned that the church in my DIL’s brother’s bedroom community that usually has fireworks wasn’t able to do them this year. Seven pairs of young eyes were trained on me, wordlessly pleading for and hoping for an invitation.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

No problem. You’re all welcome to come watch our fireworks. The more the merrier. They start about ten.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

And there went a relaxing evening of not having to worry about entertaining and pleasing guests. Worry I did. The larder was conspicuously depleted except for the pulled pork and the pop. I waited in dread to hear that one of the kids would claim to be hungry. Fortunately, that didn’t come to pass.

Everyone except Buddy enjoyed the fireworks. (We kept him indoors.) The display was fabulous as usual, so fabulous that one of the kids asked if they could come back next year to watch our fireworks again. I didn’t expect anyone to ask that. It definitely caught me off guard.

Er, um, uh—damn. What could I say without being a party pooper and the lousiest hostess on the face of the Earth? ::gulp::

Well, I don’t see why not.

Firstborn opined that he and his family should drive up to visit every year around July 4th, and we should all plan to get together at the lake the way we did this year.

So, it appears I already have guests scheduled for 4^th of July next year. I plan to start cooking a lot earlier and to cook a lot more of everything.

Let no one call me a party pooper or a lousy hostess.

Whatever side of the aisle you’re on, by now you must be sick of being labeled a deplorable, a racist, a bigot, an imbecile, a libtard, a socialist, a communist, a snowflake, or whatever the politically charged label of the day may be.

One by one my family members grew weary of having to wade through toxic political posts, not to mention condescending lectures from the politically correct police, fake news, and conspiracy theories, in order to get a glimpse of pleasant posts and photos from family and friends that we actually wanted to see. Finally, we all had enough.

I mentioned to our Firstborn that we should consider having a Facebook family page of our own where we could post our family news and photos so we don’t have to put up with all the negativity on our personal pages. He took the suggestion and ran with it. He created the Family Stuff Only Zone Facebook page and sent our family members a notification.

Everyone,

I created this group as a place where we can simply share updates on our families. I realized by completely leaving Facebook I gave up access to stay connected to you guys. No politics, no rants, no judgement. Just cute adorable things that our kids are doing – that kind of stuff.

Now I skip past my personal page as quickly as I can to get to our Family Stuff Only Zone page to see news and photos of my sons and their families, my sister and her family, my in-laws and their families, and I post happy news and fun photos of my own. This is what Facebook ought to be like, once was like, and hopefully will be like again someday.

Feel free to copy what we’ve done. It will do wonders for your blood pressure.

We hesitated at first when our Number Two Son asked if we’d pet sit the family’s three-year-old Golden Doodle while they were on vacation. We weren’t sure how we’d feel with another dog in the house, but we eventually agreed.

The last time we pet sat Buddy, we also baby sat the grandkids too. The Princess, eldest of NT’s four children, did the honors taking care of Buddy. The Princess fed him, kept his water bowl full, let him out to answer the call of nature, put him through his obedience training, and took him outside to play and get some exercise. She did all the work so we didn’t take notice of his schedule or of what a bundle of energy Buddy was. Dickens did. He spent a lot of time avoiding the rambunctious Buddy.

This time around, it was just Buddy and us. His people dropped him off on Friday morning on their way to Niagara Falls. They left his bed, his food and water dishes, his food, his treats, his rawhide bones, his leash, and his cowbell on a cord.

That wasn’t a typo. Buddy really has his very own cowbell. It hangs on the doorknob of the door into the garage, which leads to the back door to the yard. Buddy was taught to ring the cowbell by bumping it with his muzzle whenever he needed to access the lawn in order to periodically deposit bodily waste upon it.

As we soon discovered, Buddy doesn’t ring the cowbell only when he has to go potty. He rings it at other times too–like immediately after his family left without him. He rang it so he could go outside and look for them. NT mentioned before he left that Buddy does that at home because he’s afraid he’ll miss something, and he might do it after they leave.

That he did. He rang it, and rang it, and rang it. Did I mention that the clang of Buddy’s cowbell is loud and maddening? We lasted approximately thirty-five minutes before we removed it from the doorknob when Buddy wasn’t looking and hid it. That may have been a mistake, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

We never really noticed before how much Buddy loves to bark, and bark, and bark, and bark. Our neighborhood’s annual garage sale took place on Saturday. Cars and pedestrians traveled up and down our road for most of the day. Buddy barked at them for most of the day. In keeping a watchful eye on these interlopers, Buddy gifted our windows with original nose art creations.

Buddy requires lots of attention. You could say his is needy, but that would be an understatement. Buddy gives new meaning to the word needy. Once you start petting him, you’re not allowed to stop. Should you stop, he lets you know that is unacceptable. He is not above climbing into your lap and getting right in your face to issue his demand for additional attention.

Even though MG had been his favorite from the start–MG was able to get down on the floor and play with him–Buddy sought refuge at my side while MG continued to rant about pooping dogs. How could I be angry at that little guy with the pitiful pleading look in his eyes. I’m a card-carrying softie, and dogs figure that out almost immediately.

NT and family got home just before dawn on Monday, and he came by to collect Buddy on Tuesday afternoon. Buddy went ballistic when his master walked in. Buddy was so happy to see him, he just about leaped into his arms–from a standing start.

After they drove off, the house returned to its former state, empty and very quiet, but not for long. Buddy will make a return visit next month when his people take another trip. When he does, you’d better believe we’re not going to hide the cowbell.

For many years, my mother’s extended family celebrated Christmas–the eve and the day–at my great aunt Katie’s home because she had the longest and widest dining room. We put three large tables together so the entire family—kids included—could sit at the dinner table together. The Christmas tree, with everyone’s presents beneath it, occupied her living room. Before I tell you about one particular Christmas nightmare at Aunt Katie’s, I need to fill you in on the stars of this misadventure: my second cousins, the fraternal twins M and B.

When I was a little girl, my grandfather bought a large older summer home in a small town on Long Island. He invited several family members to spend the summer there. M and B were approaching three years old at the time. While their parents and everyone else, including the older kids and me, were unpacking and doing other chores, M and B got hold of the pieces of hardware needed to assemble their cribs, took them into the bathroom, and flushed them down the porcelain facility. Now you know what demonic spawns of Satan these little darlings happen to be.

At Christmas dinner that same year, while the rest of the family was enjoying a scrumptious dessert of Italian pastries, M and B managed to slip away without being noticed. We were clearing the table when their mom looked around and saw they were gone. She called out to them. Silence. Uh-Oh. Panicking, she shrieked, “Find them!”

We scattered to search. The kids and I ran outside to see if they sneaked out to play in the snow. That’s when we heard the mother of all primal screams that pierced the house’s windows, walls, and siding—the loudest Oh my God I’ve ever heard. The kids and I ran back inside to the sight of all the parents and elders huddled together in the entrance to the living room, hands pressed to their temples, jaws slackened, eyes widened in dismay. Did they find M and B? Were M and B hurt? We squeezed between them to see what it was that freaked them out. There they were on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, little M and B, in the midst of a blizzard of torn wrapping paper, ribbon, empty gift boxes, and the contents of all the empty gift boxes. The horror. We all played detective for the next hour trying to remember who bought what for whom. Not a very Merry Christmas. M and B went on everyone’s Naughty List.

My parents’ six-month-old Viszla puppy was a chowhound of the first order. If anyone left food within his reach, it disappeared into his bottomless pit of a stomach instantaneously. I was in Graduate School, still single, and still living at home when this after Christmas culinary nightmare occurred. A few days after Christmas, we gathered in my maternal grandparents’ apartment for a post Christmas dinner of leftovers—antipasto, ravioli, meatballs and sausage, salad, and the main course of leftover beef roast, vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy. We polished off the first four courses and were ready for the roast. My dad went into the kitchen to carve it, only to discover his Viszla puppy standing on a kitchen chair, front paws on the kitchen table, muzzle in the gravy boat as he lapped up every last drop of gravy. Fortunately, according to Dad, the roast itself was just beyond the puppy’s reach. [I still have my suspicions.] Unfortunately, there was no gravy for the leftover roast and taters that night. Pass the ketchup, please.

There’s nothing worse than being sick at Christmas time. I know. I’ve been there. It’s a nightmare to be sure. Macho Guy and I knew we were all coming down with something gross the day we were supposed to drive to New York to spend Christmas with my mom. We called to beg off, but she wouldn’t hear of it. If we were sick when we got there, she said she’d take care of us. That year was her turn to host the four of us for Christmas, and she wasn’t about to forfeit her turn. We knew we’d never hear the end of it if we failed to show, so we bundled up in the car and headed north. Once we arrived, she tried to get us to eat dinner, but the mere thought of food…ugh. We all went straight to bed.

Mom was relentless. No flu virus was going to spoil her plans for Christmas. She had invited my two nephews to stay at her place while we were there so they would get to spend time with their cousins. We strongly advised against it. That advice fell on deaf ears. As a result, her apartment eventually bore a distinct resemblance to a hospital ward. Instead of caroling on Christmas Eve, her six patients were hurling. On Christmas Day, the rest of the family gathered in my grandparent’s apartment on the floor above while we six sickies were quarantined in Mom’s apartment below. Amazingly enough, Mom never caught the flu from us. I’m convinced the flu didn’t dare to spoil her Christmas by infecting her.

And then there was the time our American Eskimo devil dog committed Christmas sacrilege. While our family members slept all snug in their beds on Christmas Eve, that dastardly devil dog snatched Baby Jesus from the manger beneath the Christmas tree and gnawed his head off. We were aghast. There was a donkey, an ox, a sheep, and lambs in the manger surrounding Baby Jesus. Couldn’t devil dog have chewed one of them instead? Why Baby Jesus? And now what was to become of our headless Baby Jesus? We couldn’t very well toss him in the trash. Do we bury him? Cremate him? We had never faced a situation like that before. Then a frightening thought occurred to me. As devil dog’s owners, MG and I were responsible for his despicable behavior. I expected to be struck by a thunderbolt at any moment. So, would we receive divine punishment? Or would we be forgiven for the evil perpetrated by our devil dog? What would our fate be? I still dread the thought. Holy Christmas nightmare!

They bought the little tree. They also bought two boxes of ornaments and a plastic star, also on sale, to decorate the little tree’s branches. They rushed home to their apartment, delighted with their bargains, and set about assembling the little tree. When they were done, she thought the little tree had a very merry look about it. Its curved up branches reminded her of smiles.

The ornaments they bought happened to be all one color—blue. The ornaments were not the traditional red and green Christmas colors, but the little tree wore them well—for three years—until the couple moved, became a tiny bit more affluent, and had a child. They bought a much bigger artificial Christmas tree. They left the little tree, alone and lonely, tucked in its box in the attic of their new home. They put the little tree’s blue plastic star atop the much bigger tree and hung the little tree’s blue ornaments on its branches.

The couple had another child after a few years. Soon, prior to Christmas each year, the two young children brought home handmade Christmas ornaments from school. Their handmade ornaments were also added to the branches of the much bigger tree.

Years later, the couple and their children moved from the South to the North when the dad received a promotion at work. Their new home had a cathedral ceiling. It also had a central fireplace attached to a very ugly, very odd-looking indoor fountain. They dismantled the ugly fountain immediately and turned it into a planter.

That first Christmas in their cathedral ceiling home, they decided to buy a live Christmas tree. They went out and bought the tallest tree they could find. As tall as it was, it didn’t reach the ceiling, but it did look impressive. They had to climb on a ladder to decorate the highest branches. One of their firstborn son’s teenage friends was so awed by the tree that he dubbed it “The Christmas Sequoia.”

The much bigger artificial tree never made it out of its box that year, but the little tree did. The couple decided the little tree would look very cool set up in the planter surrounded by all the wrapped Christmas gifts. The Christmas Sequoia used up all the store-bought Christmas ornaments, so the mom suggested decorating it with all the handmade Christmas ornaments their teenage sons had created during their elementary school years. The little tree wore them with pride.

That year also produced The Christmas of Shame. The Christmas Sequoia failed in its duty to protect The Manger beneath its branches. During the night, the couple’s incorrigible American Eskimo devil dog abducted the little Baby Jesus from The Manger and had most of him for a midnight snack. The little tree witnessed the sacrilegious atrocity but it could not speak and was unable to testify. Fortunately, the couple discovered forensic evidence that convicted the incorrigible devil dog of the hideous crime.

Humbly, the little tree held the secondary place of honor in the planter for several more Christmases. Soon the grown children moved away and the couple decided to downsize. They moved to a raised ranch on a small lake. At Christmas, they took the much bigger artificial tree out of its box, Assembling the much bigger tree was difficult. They noticed signs of age and breakage, so they set it outside for the trash collector. The little tree had cause for alarm. It was older than the much bigger tree. It waited anxiously but no one came for it to toss it out with the trash.

Shortly after Christmas, a newer and even larger box joined the little tree in the attic. The label on the newer and even larger box identified the contents as a 7-foot tall pre-lighted artificial Christmas tree. The little tree realized another big tree had taken its place once again. Its little heart ached with disappointment.

The following Christmas, the couple took both tree boxes down from the attic. The great big pre-lighted artificial tree nabbed the place of honor to the left of the fireplace in the upper level living room where the Christmas decorations were tasteful and elegant. The little tree was relegated to the lower level family room where it was surrounded by garish guyified Christmas decorations suitable only for a man cave.

Fortunately for the little tree, the mom saved it from total humiliation. She got out the box filled with the handmade Christmas tree ornaments the couple’s grown children had created when they were in elementary school. Her eyes misted as she hung them on the little tree’s branches with care. She then placed a brand new angel atop the little tree. The little tree nearly burst with pride. Its lights twinkled brighter than ever that year.

It was the same story Christmas after Christmas—assemble the great big pre-lighted tree upstairs, the little tree downstairs—until one year the couple had an epiphany. Having to put together and take apart two artificial Christmas trees every year was a drag. They checked, and sure enough the little tree was small enough to fit under the stairs to the lower level without taking it apart. They could leave the lights and ornaments on the little tree, just remove the Angel from the top, and throw a sheet over it to keep it dust free before tucking it under the stairs. It was a stroke of genius. The storage nook under the stairs became the little tree’s new home.

Then came the year of the big change. The grown children had children of their own. They no longer wanted to travel with their children and all the Christmas gifts to visit their parents at Christmas. They wanted their parents to travel to visit them at Christmas from then on.

The dad lost most of his enthusiasm for Christmas decorating. He couldn’t see his way to doing much decorating if the couple wouldn’t be at home for Christmas. At first, he hauled out the great big pre-lighted artificial tree and set it up in the upper level living room. He didn’t bother with the little tree at all. It languished under the stairs for a few years that seemed to stretch into infinity.

About a week ago, everything changed again. On the morning after the family’s Thanksgiving celebration, Grandpa drafted his grandchildren to help decorate Grandma and Grandpa’s Christmas tree. He elected to leave the great big pre-lighted artificial tree in its box in the attic. He chose to retrieve the little tree from its home under the stairs instead.

The grandchildren shrieked with surprise when their grandfather slid the little tree out from under the stairs and removed the sheet that covered it. They followed him up the stairs to the upper level living room where he set the little tree on a round table in the lone place of honor to the left of the fireplace. The humble little tree was overjoyed. It had come full circle.

The decorating commenced with zeal, and soon the little tree was resplendent with both store-bought and handmade ornaments, beads and garlands, twinkle lights, and a bright shining Angel on top. Grandpa asked Grandma to adjust the little tree’s branches because they curved up too much. She decided not to. She left the branches just as they were because they made the little tree looked so very merry.

As a matter of fact, its curved branches made the little tree look as if it were smiling all over.

Dad taught me to read and write a year before I started school. As a consequence, I was advanced a grade—I skipped kindergarten—and was the youngest in my class all the way through elementary and high school.

Thanks to Dad, I loved to read, and I loved to learn new things. I always had my nose in a book. It served me well at school because when the teacher asked a question, I usually knew the answer. My voracious reading also taught me much that wasn’t in the school curriculum, so I occasionally raised my hand to contribute this additional knowledge. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I was very probably the teacher’s pet because of that.

I also made enemies in my class because of that. There were a couple of not terribly bright boys (I’m being kind; their combined IQs failed to exceed that of laundry lint), who were furious that a brainy little girl made them look as stupid as they actually were. One day, they cornered me in the schoolyard, pushed me around and threatened to break both my arms if I ever raised my hand again to answer a question.

Yipes! In addition to always being the youngest in my class, I was the shortest and skinniest. Those beefy boys were a lot bigger than I was in both height and width. If memory serves, they had no necks. I was afraid of what they would do to me. If both my arms were broken, how could I turn pages to read and how could I write?

On the other hand, I was even more intimidated by what my parents might do to me if my grades suddenly plummeted. No allowance (which meant no ice cream money). No TV. No riding my bike. No Saturday matinees at the movies with my friends. The list of punishments was potentially endless and unendurable.

So there I was, a kid in fifth grade, stuck between a rock and a hard place, trapped in a living nightmare. It was a tough decision to make, but make it I did. I decided to go with broken arms.

The next day in class, I raised my hand to answer questions. One glance at the two brainless bullies gave me reason to believe that they were not amused. My assumption was correct. When school let out, they were waiting for me outside with a death sentence in their eyes. I knew I was doomed.

What made the situation even stickier was that I lived within six city blocks of the school and wasn’t eligible to ride the bus. I had to walk to and from school, and I walked alone—but not on that day. I had company of sorts on that day. The two elementary school thugs dogged my steps all the way, cussing at me, calling me names, punching me, kicking me, and shoving me. I clutched my precious books as tightly as I could to keep from dropping them, and I tried very hard not to give the fifth grade goons the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

It was a very long six blocks. When we finally turned the corner onto the street where I lived, I had a momentary feeling of elation. My home was just past the house on the corner. I was within reach of sanctuary, but there was one last torture to endure. The side of the corner house was lined with shoulder-high (for me) thorny shrubs. My two twisted tormenters shoved me into those shrubs with their piercing thorns. As soon as I righted myself, they shoved me into them again. And again. And again—laughing all the while. I had bloody scratches on my hands, face and shins. I was crying by then, feeling utterly defeated, and I thought I would never make it home alive. That was when I saw a familiar figure come rushing down the sidewalk in my direction, and my heart skipped a beat.

Dad.

He wasn’t supposed to be home from work yet. It was much too early, and yet there he was, the cavalry coming over the hill in the nick of time. My hero!

The finger Dad had pressed to his lips told me not to give his presence away, and I didn’t. The laughing idiots were about to get the surprise of their misspent young lives. Dad grabbed both bullies from behind and lifted them into the air. They stopped laughing instantly and howled in terror. Dad whacked their empty heads together hard enough for me to hear the crack when their thick skulls collided. To my immense satisfaction, the little goons cried harder than little girls. Dad slammed their heads together again and said, “Tell your fathers what I did, and tell them why. If they don’t like it, tell them where they can find me.” When Dad dropped them, they took off as fast as Usain Bolt. Okay, maybe not that fast, but I’ll bet they came close. My fondest hope was that they also wet their pants.

As it turned out, Dad came home early because he had a monster headache and wasn’t feeling well. He was coming down with a virus. It was a first, because he never got sick and never missed work. In my estimation, he couldn’t have picked a better time for that first.

The two would be mini-mafia goons never bothered me again. If the mafia didn’t eventually recruit them, I suspect the National Football League probably drafted them. I mean, neither one had a discernible neck.

Dad never heard from either of their fathers, ever. The two creeps were dummies to be sure, but I think Dad must have knocked some sense into their skulls, literally. They apparently developed just enough smarts not to admit to their fathers that a little girl’s dad bashed their heads together because they were bullying his daughter.

Dad seemed at least a foot taller to me after that momentous rescue. He was my hero from then on. Although he’s gone now, he still lives on as my hero in my favorite Dad Memory. He always will.

Does anyone out there have a favorite Dad Memory to relate? Share, please.