Monthly Archives: December 2015

Last Friday, my friend Fran (grandma of two) was excited to tell me how she had just showed her sister (a new grandma) our website (you know, the one that I “Like” about a billion times a week). And that her sister had gone bonkers for our books, and had promised to Share and Like and get all of her new-grandma Friends to Share and Like, too!

(And sure enough, at our Social Media meeting yesterday, we noted a mysterious spike in our Page Likes last Thursday. Go figure. Go grandmas!)

Today, while I was hanging out at the beauty parlor while my out-growth met its match, I tuned into more than one grandma who was bragging about her grandchildren.

It is a cozy salon, full of eye contact and smiles. It wasn’t terribly weird for me to work into a conversation here and there that I work in children’s books. And OH! Let me see if I have a card.

(So that you can visit our website and buy some books and tell your friends about the woman with the awesome highlights who is your new best friend, so that they must also buy books.)

All my business cards handed out, I thought — Hey, this is a bonafide grass-roots initiative!

No, Ginny, this is a gray-roots initiative.

Early summer 1970, we moved from Nashville to New Hampshire. Daddy was flying for American Airlines out of Boston, Mama was all set to teach high-school English, Monty would begin first grade at Rockwell Elementary, Bucky would be in fifth grade at Atkinson Academy, and I would be the new girl in the seventh-grade class at Timberlane Regional High School.

We had nearly three months to get somewhat acclimated. The neighbors on Hog Hill were lovely and inclusive. There were bunches of kids to match all of us in age. So by the time the school bus rolled around, I pretty much felt like a native.

I wore “dungarees.” The blueberry muffins at Jordan Marsh were “wicked good.” As were the steak “bombs” at Boulay’s. Ground beef was “hamburg.” American cheese was white, and hot-dog buns were shaved on each side. If you wanted a milkshake to go with any of the above, you ordered a “frappe,” which rhymes with, um, “frap.” Hee-yah, thay-uh, ay-uh. I was ready for them.

But were they ready for me?

In my very first Social Studies class, I answered Mr. Hubbell’s first question with a “yes, sir.” And boy-o-boy, was I in for it. Mr. Hubbell was NOT standing for my smart mouth. I would apologize RIGHT NOW. And…

…then later that same day, he would meet the new English teacher, Gee Gee Graham. Who just moved here with her family. From the South. Where children say stuff like “no thank you, ma’am, “pleased to meet you,” and of course, “yes, sir.”

I have always loved Mr. Hubbell for the impromptu lesson he prepared over that night. After a gallant apology for having misunderstood my respectful answer, he proceeded to teach the class about “spickets” and faucets, “pokes” or bags, “spiders” versus frying pans, “eyes” mean burners, and “y’all” are just you-guys. I never felt so welcomed in my life.

Bless his heart.

Call it the Adele Effect. Call it the Legacy Effect. Heck, call it a taxi. Doesn’t matter. It just feels really right to blog again. Because, you know, in my mind…I’ve blogged about a thousand tiiiiiiiiiimes.

I stopped writing two years ago, for a really good reason. Something was percolating, and I just didn’t want to be public about it. And it was so important and wonderful, and I just needed to be there. Instead of here. But today, my wonderful thing is off its training wheels. And I can let it go long enough to write a little something of my own. (Queen of Mixed Metaphors, sorry.)

What is my wonderful thing? An independent children’s book company that publishes the best-ever books for babies and toddlers. I got to help found and launch it. Love.

What made me realize I wasn’t finished with my dear ginnygram? Well, thinking that I needed to close down my stories to free up important interspace, I found a printer to bind up my blogs for posterity. The book arrived yesterday. I didn’t even remember half the stories. I loved reading them. I cracked myself up…and made myself cry.

But the real realizing wasn’t because of a what. It was because of a who. My long-ago boyfriend read the book and said I needed to repeat dial.

Thank you, my now-husband.