Papa Pooh

 

Last week's big news was Rowan Elliott Manis's entrance into the world. He clocked in at eight pounds, eleven ounces which is heavier than his dad and grandfather were at birth.

He was born at the same hospital, Kennestone (pronounced "Kenny Stone"), as his father, grandfather, and grandmother.

Kennestone is named Kennestone because when it was built in 1948, a person could see Kennesaw Mountain (which is no big whoop because it is practically next door) and Stone Mountain from the roof.

Rowan has ten toes and ten fingers. He is perfect in every way, in case you need to be reminded of that.

He is a very handsome baby. Probably the best-looking baby ever born at Kennestone. I might be prejudiced.

I'm not a person who gets all sentimental or ooey-gooey about events, but there is something very special  seeing your son holding his son for the first time.

Let me explain my grandfather history.

My mother's father died when she was sixteen, and it was a looooooooong time before I was born. My mother said he was the best man she ever knew.  She said he was kind and gentle.

Now my father's father, well, he died a couple of years before I was born and he was, as Southern women would say back then, a pill (pronounced "peal").

He was a "farmer" in the sense that he had some land with cows, horses, chickens, moonshine stills, etc.  My dad said he used to go on "cattle drives" with his dad.  Dad said he also saw him beat a hired hand with a chain. Not a nice guy.

My point is that I never had a grandfather, so I have nobody to model. So, Rowan, I'm just going to wing it.

Hopefully, I'll be able to give Rowan some pleasant memories, like John Prine had of his grandfather that he put in the song "Grandpa Was A Carpenter".

Grandpa wore his suit to dinner nearly everyday,

no particular reason he just dressed that way.

Brown necktie, matching vest, both his wing-tipped shoes;

he built a closet on our back porch, put a penny in a burnt-out fuse.

I am a little worried that one of these days, Rowan will write a song called "Grandpa Was A Blogger" or "Grandpa Was A History Major".

 

Knowing that I am somebody's grandfather is a tad bit weird. 

It seems like yesterday I was a "young man". Now, I must explain "Leave It To Beaver" to people.  ("It was about a kid named Theodore who they called Beaver, because, I don't know why they just did. Not much ever happened on the show, except Beaver joined a record club which my mom always referred to, but I never saw that episode and I never got that lesson. Wait, come back here!")

 

You shake your head thinking about the simple concepts people are missing today. For example, if you take a loan, you should pay it back, even if you went to a fancy hoop-de-do college. You hope your grandchild has good old fashion common sense, something his grandfather never had a lot of (see "majoring in history").

Mainly you hope your grandchild knows that his grandparents loves him simply because that's what grandparents do best.

In case you are wondering, we have announced our grandparent "names".  This is a big Boomer Generation deal, sort of like Woodstock

If you don't know, it is no longer "Grandfather and Grandmother."  Most of the time, the grandparent names Boomers give themselves sound like grunts coming out of the mouths of babies. 

Our names are "Moo-Moo" for my wife.  I am "Papa Pooh".   For this, you can blame Bill Wade.

Bill Wade was my friend who passed away last fall. He nicknamed me "Ally Pooh" in college. It is a long story. But, over time, it became  "Pooh".  I guess it sounded more masculine.

When Lori and I married, Bill called her,  "Lori Lou-Lou".  Somewhere along the line, it became "Moo-Moo".   Of course, my son had to explain to his future wife why he called his parents Moo and Pooh.  She married him anyway.

But, Rowan will call us what he wants and it will be fine with us because grandchildren are perfect and he is no exception.