Tonight, Teddy ate four pierogies during dinner. I'll explain the relevance of that fact later. But first, a lengthy digression.
We spent the recent Thanksgiving holiday with my Dad's family in Ohio. It's always a big event that draws our increasingly dispersed clan to the same place every year. One of the people that we all come to see is my paternal Grandmother. Grandma M is a bit north of 90 years old and has lived in northern Ohio for her entire life. Despite some recent medical hiccups, she's doing really well. She finishes the crossword in the time that it takes me to puzzle through the first few clues. And last year, she subtly berated me for the shotgun marriage that my employer brokered between a prominent Cleveland bank and its acquirer from Cleveland's arch rival city, Pittsburgh. While one could quibble about the details surrounding that complaint, my colleagues all nodded ruefully when I told them about my Grandma's admonishments. In short, she's one of the most remarkable people I've ever known.
However, it's taken me years to realize that fact. Most prominently, it's taken me years to realize that my Grandmother tends to be right about many things that I pooh-pooh'ed in my early years. Some examples.
Football is a stupid sport. I can remember watching college football games at my Grandmother's house during past Thanksgiving visits. As the broadcast showed pictures of the offensive linemen, my Grandmother would always say, often with a dismissive glance at the TV, "No neck, no neck, no neck" for each picture. At the time, I basically ignored these seemingly irrelevant comments, but now I realize that my Grandmother was taking a subtle, and quite justified, dig at football. Basically, football - specifically, the American version - involves a bunch of really fat guys who crouch down for a few seconds before they all suddenly run into each other and fall down. Then, they all get up and, after a minute or so, do it again. The clearest evidence that football is a stupid sport is that no one else in the world plays football. Unlike baseball, basketball or other American exports, no one (except for Canada which doesn't really count) has latched onto football, regardless of their level of development or links to us. Think about it a bit and find me another major sport that is so unique to a single major country (and I'm not talking about hurling or other minor sports that are practiced in only one country).
To be honest, I do still watch football games. And my Grandmother probably didn't intend to besmirch football to the same extent that I just did. Nevertheless, I've realized that her overall skepticism of the sport is certainly warranted.
Second, interstate highways. When driving around northern Ohio, my Grandma would often take secondary roads rather than highways. I recall being irked by this behavior. Why take the secondary highway when the interstate would get you there much faster? Now, however, I hate driving on the interstate. Even if I'm driving fast, there are too many other people driving fast or not paying attention to what they're doing. As a result, when we head up to Philly, we take an awesome back route up the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland. Sure, it takes a bit longer, but it's an immensely more pleasant trip than the hectic drive up I-95 through Baltimore. On a recent trip, the traffic on Hwy 301 was so light that we were able to slow down to watch a bald eagle that was circling just above us. Do that on I-95, and you'll get rear-ended by a big truck.
Next, the length of the Christmas season. I can recall my Grandmother commenting on how the Christmas season starts too soon. At the time, this involved Christmas ads starting just before Thanksgiving. Way too early, my Grandmother would suggest. Now, I see Christmas ads shortly after Halloween. And I hear Christmas music in stores in early November. Completely nuts, especially for the poor folks working in the stores who now have to listen to these hokey songs for an additional full month.
(A separate digression reflecting some words of wisdom from Mark. I often tell my research assistants that every young person should work three jobs. First, fast food. After you see how fast food is produced, you'll never want to eat it again. Which is probably for the best. Second, a warehouse job or other job involving manual labor. After a few weeks of complete tedium, you'll realize that you're going to school so that you don't end up doing such stuff for the rest of you're life. Finally, retail. So that you can see how badly others treat people working in retail, and you'll treat those people with a bit more decency.)
And, at last, pierogies. My Grandmother used to get pierogies from a nearby church where they were made in the basement by immigrant ladies from Eastern Europe. I recall being very suspicious of the whole deal. Potato pierogies? Sauerkraut pierogies?? And, god forbid, prune pierogies???? It wasn't clear that such exotic items were actually edible.
Of course, I now love 'em. Bought six boxes of frozen pierogies from the grocery store when they were on sale this week. The frozen ones are a poor substitute, I'm sure, for those made by the immigrant ladies in the church basement, but Teddy definitely loves them too. He started out with two on his plate, but ended up plowing through four by the end of dinner.
In the end, the lesson is twofold. First, Teddy is a trooper when it comes to food. Not only is he pretty adventurous - in addition to pierogies, he'll eat Indian food or pretty much anything else we put in front of him - but he's got a good appetite. When he puts his mind to it. As in everything, he can be stubborn, but that doesn't usually reflect an objection to a particular dish. Instead, it's just Teddy being his stubborn little self. Once we get something in his mouth, he'll typically eat it and will ask for more.
Second, as I get older, I recognize the wisdom possessed by people older than me. Certainly, I recognize the wisdom of my Grandmother. (Also, my maternal Grandfather who was right when I argued with him about the merits of Broadway musicals vs. Bob Dylan. Dylan certainly is ok, but he's not really that much better than South Pacific or other Rodgers and Hammerstein-type musicals, despite my stubborn insistence to the contrary when I was convinced of Dylan's genius in high school.)
And, I suppose, this second lesson also applies to the wisdom possessed by my parents. Of course, I had far more battles with them when I was young, so it may take a bit more time to acknowledge that they might have, just might have, on occasion, been right about something. (We won't even touch the potential wisdom of the in-laws.)
After all of that blather, some pictures of the last month and a half:
