More Stories from Nana Kay's Kitchen Table

 When I was growing up, nobody had to arrange a playdate.

We didn't even know what a playdate was.

If you wanted somebody to play with, you walked outside.

Usually, somebody else was already there.

Our neighborhood had plenty of kids, and on summer days we seemed to find each other without making any plans at all. One kid would come outside, then another, and before long there was a whole pack of us trying to decide what to do.

We didn't have phones in our pockets. We didn't have video games to carry around. Nobody's mother had created a group text to figure out who was available.

We just showed up.

One of our regular activities was baseball in the front yard.

I use the word "baseball" rather generously.

We had a bat, a ball, and enough kids for one of us to bat while the others played outfield. 

We took turns batting. 

That was all the organization we needed. 

Usually, Robin’s mom would act as umpire to make sure we all played fair. She was hit by her fair share of thrown bats, usually not quite making it out of the way in time.

The front yard became the ball field.

Trees, bushes, sidewalks, driveways and anything else that happened to be there were simply part of the game.

There was no grounds crew.

There were no freshly painted lines.

Even though Robin’s mom was there to “referee”, we still settled disagreements the old-fashioned way.

We argued.

"You're out!"

"I am NOT!"

"Yes, you are!"

"No, I'm NOT!"

Eventually somebody would say, "Just play!"

And we did.

Five minutes later we'd forgotten what the argument was about.

There was no instant replay in those days. Probably a good thing.

When we were tired of baseball, we might switch to hide-and-seek.

Now that was serious business.

We had three neighboring yards that were considered fair game.

Anywhere in those three yards was legal.

That gave us a pretty impressive playing field.

Behind bushes.

Beside garages.

Around porches.

Behind trees.

If you could squeeze yourself into a spot and the homeowner hadn't specifically forbidden it, you had yourself a hiding place.

We knew those three yards better than some people know their own houses.

We knew which bushes were thick enough to hide behind.

We knew where somebody could crouch without being spotted from the street.

We knew the shortcuts from one yard to another.

And we knew that if you found a really good hiding place, you kept your mouth shut about it.

That was valuable information.

Of course, there was always that one person who hid so well that everybody eventually stopped looking.

You'd hear someone yell, "Come out! We're done!"

Nothing.

"We're playing something else!"

Still nothing.

Then somebody would finally crawl out from behind a bush, irritated because nobody had found them.

Technically, that meant they had won.

It didn't always feel like winning.

And then there were snacks.

Kids today have individually wrapped snack packs, juice pouches and all kinds of things made specifically for eating on the go.

We had dry Jell-O. I'm not sure our moms even knew about this, so, shhh.

Not Jell-O that had been made and put into little bowls.

That would have been much too civilized.

I'm talking about the powder.

Somebody would dump a package of dry Jell-O mix into a bowl, and we'd all sit in a circle in the yard. 

Then we'd lick our fingers and stick them into the powder.

The same bowl.

All of us.

Lick.

Dip.

Eat.

Repeat.

I can barely type that now without cringing.

There wasn't a serving spoon.

Nobody poured a little bit into each child's hand.

Nobody said, "Maybe we shouldn't all put our spit-covered fingers into the same bowl."

Apparently, that thought never occurred to a single one of us.

We were too busy trying to get enough Jell-O powder stuck to our fingers.

And it was good!

At least we thought it was.

That sweet, sour powder would stick to your fingertips and stain them whatever color we'd chosen that day.

Cherry red.

Lime green.

Orange.

Then we'd lick it off and go right back for another dip.

Today, if I saw a group of children doing that, I'd probably knock the bowl out of somebody's hands.

Back then?

"Move over. I want some."

It's funny how little we needed to keep ourselves entertained.

A ball could occupy us for an hour.

A good hiding place could become important neighborhood property.

Somebody's front steps could turn into the place where everybody sat when we needed a rest.

A patch of grass could be first base one minute and part of a hide-and-seek course the next.

And if we got bored, we didn't tell an adult and expect them to fix it.

We figured something out.

We made up games.

We changed the rules.

We wandered from one yard to another.

Sometimes we argued.

Sometimes somebody got mad and went home.

Usually, they came back.

Because that's where everybody was.

Outside.

I don't remember anyone ever saying, "Let's make some memories today."

We weren't trying to.

We were just kids playing in the neighborhood.

That's probably why so many of those memories are little things.

I don't remember the score of a single baseball game.

I don't remember who the best hitter was.

I couldn't tell you who won most of our hide-and-seek games.

But I remember the yards.

I remember the kids.

I remember that feeling when the whole afternoon stretched out ahead of us and nobody was in any hurry for it to end.

Eventually, somebody's mother would call from a doorway.

Then another would call.

One by one, our little neighborhood gang would disappear into our houses.

We knew we'd do it all over again tomorrow.

There was something wonderful about growing up when the neighborhood itself was our playground.

Three yards could become an entire world.

We didn't need much.

A few kids.

A little imagination.

A baseball.

Some good bushes to hide behind.

And apparently, one communal bowl of germs disguised as Jell-O.

I miss a lot of those days.

But the Jell-O bowl?

We’ll leave that in the past.

Some of my favorite childhood memories aren't really about anything important happening.

Nobody fell into a swimming pool.

Nobody got chased by a dog.

I was thrown by a pony once, but that’s another story.

They're just little pieces of ordinary days that somehow stayed tucked away in my memory.

One of those memories is going grocery shopping with my grandpa at the Piggly Wiggly in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. We’re talking mid to late 1960s.

My dad's family was from Sturgeon Bay, so visits there were a regular part of my childhood. 

When Grandpa needed groceries, if I was there visiting, I went along.

There was a cashier named Shirley. Grandpa always went through her line when she was there.

I don't remember much about Shirley except that she had tight gray permed curls and she always called my grandfather "Doc." Her smile was infectious.

"Hello, Doc." I felt special the day my grandpa introduced me, “This is my granddaughter, Kay”. Shirley gave me a big welcoming smile and said, “Hi there!”

I can still hear it.

Kids don't spend much time wondering why adults call your grandfather something different from what you call him.

To me, he was Grandpa.

To a lot of people in Sturgeon Bay, he was Doc.

Grandpa was a dentist—one of the earliest dentists in Sturgeon Bay.

His office was upstairs over a store downtown.

Today, some of his old dental equipment is owned by the Door County Historical Museum. It isn't always on display, but it's part of their collection and rotates through exhibits.

I think that's pretty special now.

As a little girl, though?

He was just Grandpa.

The man pushing the grocery cart through the Piggly Wiggly while Shirley called him Doc.

Grandpa had another side to him that didn't have much to do with dentistry.

He loved to cook.

And he loved to garden.

The gardening part required a little extra determination because the garden wasn't even at their house. It was at my Uncle Eddie's farm, about four miles away.

That didn't stop Grandpa.

Neither, apparently, did Wisconsin winters.

If you've never experienced winter in Wisconsin, let me assure you that February is not a month that normally makes a person look outside and think:

"Gardening weather!"

Grandpa disagreed.

By February and March, he was already putting out cold frames, getting ready for another growing season while winter was still hanging around outside, refusing to leave.

He loved it.

There was always something to plant, tend, pick, cook, or plan for next year.

Grandma, on the other hand, was not out there digging in the dirt.

Grandma was a lady.

And I mean a LADY.

That's simply how I remember her.

She was always nicely dressed and proper to the core. Her hair was always “just so”, never out of place. It was a requirement of hers.

Grandma didn't do much cooking, either.

That was Grandpa's department.

Looking back, I suppose their household was a little backward from what people expected in those days. 

Grandpa did most of the cooking. Grandpa gardened. Grandpa brought home the bacon and the groceries.

Grandma looked nice. She was also very social, attending many social events and gatherings.

And at five o'clock, Grandma (and grandpa, and any visitors) had martinis.

There were rules, of course.

Two.

That was the limit.

Grandpa was the bartender, unless Uncle Chuck happened to be there. Then he shared the bartending chores with grandpa.

I don't know whether five o'clock martini time was officially written into the household schedule, but in my memory, it might as well have been.

Five o'clock arrived.

Martinis were served.

And the world continued turning exactly as it should.

The more I think about the two of them now, the more they remind me of the old story about the city mouse and the country mouse.

Grandma was definitely the city mouse.

Proper clothes. Proper manners. Proper lady.

Certainly, without garden dirt under her well-manicured fingernails.

Grandpa could spend his professional life upstairs in his dental office as "Doc," then happily head a few miles out to Uncle Eddie's farm. 

He would look and figure out what he could coax out of the Wisconsin soil, before going home to their little cottage on Lake Michigan.

They were so different.

And somehow, they fit.

That's something I don't think I noticed when I was little.

Children don't usually study their grandparents.

We just accept them.

Grandma is Grandma.

Grandpa is Grandpa.

He makes dinner.

She doesn't.

He grows vegetables.

She dresses nicely.

Five o'clock means martinis.

Those were simply the facts of life.

It's only when we get older that we begin to realize our grandparents had entire lives before we came along.

Grandpa wasn't always a grandpa.

He was a young man who became a dentist and opened an office above a store in downtown Sturgeon Bay. He treated generations of people who knew him simply as "Doc."

At home, he had a wife and four children. They lived in town at that time. They moved to the cottage at the lake after their children were grown and gone.

Grandma wasn't always a grandma, either.

She had her own life, her own personality, her own way of doing things. Her children, bridge club, society events, and charities kept her busy.

And somehow these two very different people chose each other and built a life that worked for them for over 50 years.

Maybe there is a lesson in there somewhere.

Or maybe there doesn't always have to be one.

Sometimes a memory is worth keeping simply because it takes you back for a minute.

Back to Sturgeon Bay.

Back to the Piggly Wiggly.

Back to Shirley and those tight gray curls.

Back to Grandpa pushing the grocery cart through the line while she greeted him with, "Hello, Doc."

I didn't understand then that I was walking through a town with a man who had become part of its history.

I was just going grocery shopping with my grandpa.

And I think I like remembering him that way best.