Author Archives: Ginny O'Donnell

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.

My bucket list is really more like a sand-pail list. It isn’t very big, and it isn’t very serious.

Yesterday, to celebrate my 56th birthday, I emptied one must-do from my pail. I marched into the Bollywood Salon and motioned that I’d like a henna design on my hand! I’m not really sure when I added mehndi to my list of stuff to do before checking out, but I’m guessing it was either watching Monsoon Wedding or reading Sister of My Heart that stirred my desire.

Yes, I motioned. I thought I was clear that I wanted a simple design on the top of my hand. Small. Like a swirl of paisley. Or a flowery medallion. And artist Reshma nodded that she understood. And then artist Reshma proceeded very quickly and tickly to pipe chocolate-colored icing up my wrist, all over my hand, and down my fingers!

Whaddayagonnado?

Laugh, live, and learn, that’s what. And bring a design with you, next time.

Because there WILL be a next time. Shorts and sandal weather will be here soon, and nothing says crazy old lady like a mehndi ankle bracelet!

Namaste, ya’all.

Last Tuesday afternoon, I took a new 2014 Resolution for a test drive. I ran “To Be a Kinder Person” off the road within minutes. Totaled it about six hours before midnight.

Shaken, I decided I should try renting a few Resolutions. Kick their tires. See how they handle in city traffic.

Wednesday, I looked at “Be More Patient.” They were temporarily out of this best-selling model, and I couldn’t wait.

Thursday, I checked out “Eat Less, Exercise More.” The engine wouldn’t even turn over.

Friday, I took “Floss Every Day” around the block. It was great! But there were strings attached.

Saturday, I called to see if they’d gotten another “Be More Patient” in, and they put me on hold. Seriously?

On Sundays, the Resolution Dealerships are closed. Although I did see someone driving a “Cut Back on Salt.” It was surprisingly tasteless.

By Monday, I was getting desperate. The “Volunteer” was looking pretty good. I liked its little halo hood ornament. And it comes in colors like Altruism and Virtue. Can you believe the key broke in the lock?

Today is Tuesday. One week without a Driving Resolution for 2014.

Perhaps a good “Walk” is the drive I need in 2014.

I was just digging through my file drawer labeled “It’s a Wonder We Survived Childhood,” and found this gem tucked between “Car Seats (None)” and “Electric Toy Iron.”

This folder is labeled “Daddy, Christmas Tree.”

When we lived in Kentucky, this is how we got our Christmas tree every year.

Late in the afternoon on December 20, Daddy would announce that he was ready to take us for our Christmas tree. In other words, he was feeling the spirit. Ahem. We all–Mama, Bucky, Grandmother and Granddaddy Graham, and I–loaded into the car, and into the trunk he threw a saw, some rope, and a loaded shotgun.

Then Daddy drove us down some narrow backroad, probably near Burgin. And he’d pull over and we’d all climb out. It would be getting on toward dusk by now. And he’d make a gap in the rusty barbed-wire fence, and tell us to be careful climbing through it. Because we could get lockjaw and die.

“Whose farm are we on, Daddy?”

“Don’t you worry about that. We’re only taking a couple of trees. Nobody will miss them. Let’s just be quiet though.”

Great, now that we’ve made it through the death fence, we’re probably going to get caught and sent to jail for stealing Christmas trees.

Picking out the cedar trees never took too long. But the sawing did. We all had a turn at pushing and pulling the dull blade through the slender trunks. Then we’d quietly drag the trees back to the fence, where Daddy and Granddaddy would heave them up and over.

Can’t we just climb back into the getaway car and go home?

Nope.

Daddy and Granddaddy would now proceed to shoot down mistletoe from the branches of tall, leafless oaks and maples.

What the heck happened to the “be quiet” part of not getting caught? Why don’t we all just stand around shouting “We’re here! Come arrest us!”

Then, Daddy would tell us to be very careful as we ran to the spot where the mistletoe landed. “Be sure you get all the berries.” He’d say. “They’re very poisonous and can kill a sheep or cow or a farm dog, if they eat them.”

So here were were, Bucky and I, frantically searching for poisonous berries in the dark, waiting for an angry farmer to show up and arrest us for trespassing and stealing his trees and potentially killing his beloved farm dog.

Phew. We’re finally back in the car. Safe ‘n’ sound. No more worries. Getting the feeling back in our frozen fingers. And Daddy would say over his shoulder, as he pulled onto the dark and winding Kentucky back road…

“Okay, you two, your job is to keep an eye on the trees to make sure they don’t come loose and fall off the car.”

Daddy would then drive as fast as he could, rounding curves like a crazy man, while we screamed that the trees were falling off. They never did. But still.

Finally home, he and Mama would get our tree in the stand and feed it with sugar water. Daddy would fix himself a drink, and would sit back and watch us begin to hang candy canes and sugar cookies. One by one, Mama would drape strands of her precious silver and lead tinsel to the tips of the branches. (Remind me to add a folder titled “Lead Tinsel.”)

We’d be just about ready for bed, when Daddy would very solemnly say, “I sure hope there are no birds in that tree that’ll thaw out overnight.”

And people wonder why I have an artificial tree.