Column: Driven to Distraction on "the" L.A. freeways

September 18, 2009, by Gale HammondPeople in Southern California love their freeways. Ask them how they get to work and they'll say, "Well, I hop onto the 405 but it'll likely be bogged down so I'll take the 5 'til I can grab the 101, then jump down, turn around and …" If you're confused, join the club. I mean, what's up with with our neighbors down south and all the "thes" in L.A.?

Speaking of "the" freeways, have you experienced rush hour in L.A.? And by rush hour I mean anywhere between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. - and that's just on weekends. Yep, rush hour in SoCal is approximately 27 hours long. Per day. And the abnormal occurrence when you actually find a freeway not strangled with vehicles? That's right. Traffic immediately clogs up because just ahead three lanes are now closed due to Caltrans sand-blasting graffiti from a freeway overpass at a cost of approximately $90 jillion, which has nothing to do with traffic, but still. I'm just saying.

And the term "rush hour?" What sicko thought that one up? When is the last time you "rushed" anywhere in L.A.'s rush hour traffic unless it's to a hospital to treat the lethal blood pressure you acquire as you sit trapped in a steel hotbox while a huge diesel big rig blows smoke up your tailpipe.

Something you should know about driving in L.A. is that you never arrive anywhere on the same day you left. I don't care if your destination is two exits down the road. You will encounter traffic jams the likes of which have never before occurred on Planet Earth. And carpool lanes? Forget about it. L.A. carpool lanes are scientifically designed to keep you from entering them. Ever. Unless possibly you are the driver of a hearse transporting a dead person because carpool lane signs don't technically state that all of a vehicle's occupants have to be alive.

But suppose you stumble upon one of those rare times when the planets all align in perfect order and you're maintaining the L.A. freeway required minimum speed limit of 97 miles per hour. Suddenly the road is teeming with drivers careening violently past you. This is the beloved L.A. phenomenon known as the "I'll-Drive-Like-A-Bat-Out-Of-Hell-Regardless-of-Where-I'm-Going-Just-Because-I-Can" state-of-mind. And that's just the CHP officers. Hahahaha - no, I just made that up. L.A. freeways are the last place you'll find a CHP officer. I mean, they'd be crazy to drive on those roads.

What you WILL find sharing the road with you in L.A. are fast, expensive cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. And at the other end of the spectrum? Ancient, custom-by-crash "muscle cars" that blow past you like you're standing still. But for heavens sake, DO NOT HONK at the other drivers. In L.A. honking or other signs of annoyance will get you shot. Seriously.

Occasionally you'll encounter drivers courteously using their turn signal indicating their intent to move to another lane. This is a major alert that you are following a car from another part of the country driven by an old person. That's right. It is against the law to use turn signals or to be old in L.A. Besides, L.A. drivers like to surprise you with their quick impulsive moves on the highway. Angelenos are just fun like that. So if you're following a vehicle with its turn signal engaged, it's safe to assume that said turn signal was activated by a geriatric driver somewhere around Bakersfield.



And I hate to complain but could those freeways get any more confusing with their myriad of names? Interstate 5 is called the Golden State Freeway or simply "the 5." If you're south of downtown, I-5 is the Santa Ana Freeway. Even further south, I-5 is the San Diego Freeway. As is the Big Daddy of all SoCal freeways, "the 405" - legendary as one of the country's most congested highways. But hey! It's the only place in L.A. where you can park for free!

You could call Interstate 10 plain old "Interstate 10," but where's the fun in that? It's referred to as the Santa Monica Freeway or the San Bernardino Freeway - depending on which direction you're traveling. Unfortunately I'm not making this up.

And the highway we know here simply as "101" or the Bayshore Freeway? Yep, those full-of-fun folks in L.A. have a whole bevy of names for that one. In some areas it's the Hollywood Freeway. Driving toward the southern coast? It's the Ventura Freeway. Or the Ventura Freeway could be SR-134 if you're in Burbank. Got all that? Nope, me neither.

So what do you do if you're going to L.A. and find yourself stuck on one of "the" freeways? You pray. You pray REALLY HARD that gas climbs to $20 a gallon. Now THAT would clear away some serious traffic!

Column: Don't mess with me: I can't find my can opener!

September 4, 2009, by Gale HammondToday, an important announcement: I have undertaken a risky project at Casa Hammond. Things could get ugly here, friends. I am re-organizing my kitchen cupboards. And as my friend Linda recently reminded me, "re-organizing" falsely implies that once they were organized.

This nonsense all started a few days ago when I couldn't find the orange that I swear I bought. I checked the fruit bin in the fridge. The kitchen countertops. Behind the coffee-maker. I even looked in the bowl containing the artificial fruit in case it had slipped in there unnoticed, attempting to make its getaway.

When my diligent search failed to produce the darned thing, I proceeded with Plan B. Since the orange was to be part of the evening's dinner salad, I'd go with the next best thing: canned mandarin orange sections. Yes, Julia Child would have been wringing her hands at my use of a "canned good," but hey! Somebody has to keep those packing plants in business!

Oh-oh, this wasn't good. My canned oranges were also MIA. Searching the pantry fruitlessly - and yes, that was a pretty awful pun but just roll with me here - I suddenly remembered that the canned oranges were wedged in next to the popcorn - and no, don't ask.

Canned oranges in hand, I paused to think: Where was the can opener? Now I know there are at LEAST three can openers in the utensil drawer (or rather "drawers" since every drawer in the place seems to contain multitudes of utensils of one kind or another. Where was the old, hard to hold and harder to crank "Early Marital" can opener? Or the more hand-friendly can-opening device I purchased when it appeared the marriage was going to last? I'd even settle for the ultra-technical can opener contraption that senior NASA scientists would have difficulty operating.


The last apparatus is an offering Mr. H. tried to anonymously dump under the Christmas tree a couple of years ago. I say "anonymously" because we'd had that "No Home Appliances for Christmas" talk before. You know; that's the talk on Christmas morning that follows your opening of a beautifully wrapped … toaster (or drill press or what have you). Mind you, I haven't eaten toast since approximately Woodstock. My spouse on the other hand? That's right; it's on his menu every morning, and that fancy new appliance certainly delivers a kick-start to his day. But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not me.

So the handwriting was on the kitchen wall. It was time to gut the cupboards and drawers because heaven only knows the last time this took place but I'd hazard a guess that my youngest was still in diapers.

And isn't going through the kitchen cupboards similar to an archeological dig? For example: There's the powdered milk I purchased during my Earth-Mother-Yogurt-Making era. Hopefully all the live cultures and freeze-dried bacteria made a respectable exit and aren't feeding a family of mice somewhere under the floor. And here are the Wonder Breakfast Cookies that were supposed to save me so much time when I was rushing off to work. The only "Wonder" was in how awful they tasted. Those hockey pucks were so nasty I wanted to stay in bed until lunch just to forego breakfast.

And wait! Hold on a second! What's this? Waaaaaay back in a hard-to-reach cupboard lay my old plastic-ware Jell-O mold. Back in the day we used to burp those plastic-ware bowls more than the baby. All that harmful air trapped inside until - whoosh! Your food could stay fresh for thousands of years! It was practically a religious experience, I'm telling you. And my right-of-passage into adulthood would have been complete with my plastic-ware Jell-o mold except for one tiny hitch. I never made Jell-o. Making Jell-o reminded me of … well, chemistry. Not that I'd ever taken chemistry, mind you, but if I had, it would have been hard.

Although organizing my kitchen was the order of the day, the real predicament came in figuring out what to do when I realized I had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight spatulas and half a dozen sets of measuring spoons. And what of those more obscure kitchen gadgets? I couldn't just go disposing of them all willy-nilly, could I? Good heavens! There may be Martha-Stewart-worthy dinner parties on the horizon that could never come off without my Indian wok or my clever little Spudnik potato masher.

Meanwhile, I must stay focused on getting organized so I can find my kitchen tools in a timely manner. Maybe I'll just take a couple of these spatulas and drop them off at the donation location downtown. But which ones? Wow. This is irritating. In the meantime, can I interest you in a nearly new, 30-year-old Jell-o mold?

Column: A Fathers Day Tribute

My dad, Galen Hoover. Photo was taken by my mother, Claice Austin Hoover and won a prize in a local photo contest hosted by the Pueblo Chieftain - our daily newspaper.

Fathers Lead the Way and Teach Us to Walk on Our Own
June 13, 2006
By Gale Hammond

Although it's a bit faded now, there's an old picture that I like to look at on Father's Day. In it, a blond 5-year-old girl stands in a pale red coat, too short in the sleeves, her brown, scuffed cowboy boots planted wide apart on the sunny surface of a bridge. She's holding a fish. Still on the line, the fish is small, but the little girl's grin is so wide that a wad of bubblegum escapes from one side. The image calls to mind memories much more vivid than the photograph …

They pulled in at the old fishing bridge around daybreak. Light frost iced the wild grasses and the wide timbers of the bridge. Gaps between its wooden planks showed slices of the river rushing below. The little girl stepped carefully onto the slippery surface of the bridge, cringing at the violence of the tumbling waters far beneath them. She wanted to take her father's hand, but didn't. Five years old meant she could walk beside him without holding his hand.

Stopping near the center of the bridge, the man placed their gear and a bucket of bait on the rough timbers nearest the rail. Frigid water pounded thunderously over speckled rocks far below. The sun peeked over the crest of the mountain, its sweet light poised to flood the valley, but right then it was cold. She wished for mittens to warm her freezing fingers, but she knew she couldn't bait her hook wearing mittens. And that was the deal; she'd promised her dad she would bait the hook herself.

Leaning their poles against the railing, he stooped to uncover the bucket containing the earthworms, his pant leg stained at the knee from the wet grass where he'd knelt in their yard to dig up the worms while it was still night. Reaching into the bucket, he pulled out a fat worm that wiggled in circles at both ends. Deftly he hooked it and cast off, then glanced in his daughter's direction. Unafraid to touch worms, she nevertheless was squeamish about sticking the hook into one. A deal was a deal, though, so she grasped a large one and threaded it on, trying not to think about the worm.

The damp, earthy reek of the old canvas bag filled with salmon eggs and fishing gear grew stronger in the warmth of the rising sun. Morning birds chattered to each other from massive cottonwood trees growing in a thick row along the banks of the Colorado. Holding her pole over the edge of the bridge, the line pulled along with the current below, its red and white bobber playing in the rapids. The man had already reeled in several fish, but still she waited. One worm was lost, and she affixed another while the shadows behind them grew shorter.

Growing tired, the little girl thought she'd rather join her mother on the bank of the river when she felt an abrupt tug at her line. Astonished, she looked to her dad who nodded at her reel, and she wound it in. A sudden flash of silver appeared at the river's plane. Thrashing, the small trout rode up and over the bridge's rail. Grasping the line, the girl whirled around to find her mother already up from the old quilt on the river bank where she'd been reading, her dark hair flying as she ran to the bridge to take a picture of their little girl with her first fish.

Seeing his tired young daughter, the girl's father offered her a ride on his shoulders back to the car. "No, thank you, Daddy," she explained. "I can walk by myself over this bridge."

That's what dads do, you see, and it's on Father's Day we remember. They lead the way as we learn to stand and walk on our own.

Her dad's been gone three years now, but there's a special place in a daughter's heart for her father. On Father's Day the old, faded photograph warms that place with memories because that was the day I learned to fish like my dad.

Aug. 21, 2009: Up a Stream-of-Consciousness without a paddle

Years ago when I was in college, the professor assigned a writing exercise using the literary technique known as "stream-of-consciousness." Seemingly perfect for my loose-knit brain, this is a free-flowing stream of thoughts written down as they occur. You know - letting loose, going with the flow. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, complete sentences or even making sense. Just tap into that "stream." It is liberating. It is thought provoking. It is crazier than bat poop.

Yes, I know, great writers like Faulkner practically created entire novels in this manner, crafting stunningly brilliant prose. Personally, my stream-of-consciousness writings would make psychologists sit up and take note. They would draw little arrows to one side of my rambling hen-scratches stating, "Watch this person: may have Manson-family-type tendencies."

Although my stream-of-consciousness musings weren't a raging success, something must have taken hold because here I am, years later, accepting the startling realization that I have taken stream-of-consciousness to a whole new level. I've turned it into a way of life. Yes, friends, I am living an unstructured, hanging loose, go-with-the-flow, crazy as bat poop lifestyle.

This is not how I intended it to be, mind you. I am in total awe of folks who begin their days with a neatly compiled list of activities and end those same days with a bunch of neat little check marks noting the successful completion of said activities.

Granted, I can compose a killer to-do list. I can make it purposeful and complete. I can even fool myself into thinking I will actually follow said to-do list. But then … you know. Even the most well thought out plans are victims of happenstance. Because stuff happens, people! For example:

Wednesday: To-do list

1. Water and prune container plants.
2. Take chicken out of freezer for dinner.
3. Go to gym; come home; shower; get dressed.
4. Meet Sally for lunch.
5. Go to bank, grocery store, cleaners.
6. Make appointment for vehicle servicing.
7. Bake brownies for book club meeting.
8. Make dinner; clean kitchen.
9. Bed.

Wednesday: Stream-of-consciousness edition

1. Begin watering plants; notice that deer are eating flowers on new plant. Go find big fat plant book to check if plant is deer resistant. OK; where is that book? Thought I put it here on the laundry room shelf next to the … oh-oh. Still haven't removed the wine stain on the ottoman because here's the stuff I bought to clean it with and … oh, never mind; I should definitely just recover the thing; never did care for that fabric anyway ...Let's see, where is the measuring tape, I'll get the ottoman's dimensions … since I'll be downtown I'll purchase new fabric and recover it tomorrow. Now. If the upholstery fabric is 54 inches wide I could … oops, forgot to take out the chicken. Walking to the fridge and - what on earth is that dog doing? Great, he's rolling in turkey do-do again. Grab the dog, fill the laundry sink, wash this mess out of his coat - what is the matter with him for the love of - yikes! Look at the time! Now there's no time for the gym; oh, well. I'll go tomorrow FOR SURE.

Showered and running out the door. Dang! Broke my sunglasses. Well, I can't be running around in this bright summer sun without them. Make a quick stop to buy sunglasses before meeting Sally, the store is practically next door to the restaurant, and I would've been right on time for lunch except the machine to charge the sunglasses to my credit card wasn't working so here I am almost 10 minutes late, and I'll just give Sally a quick call to let her know I'm almost there and - WHAT?? My cell phone isn't working? OH!!!!!

Have a fun (albeit late) lunch with Sally, we laugh and laugh and then I'd better see what's wrong with this dang phone and the salesman says it's going to take awhile to program my new phone, not to mention download all those precious pictures, because wouldn't you know the old phone is toast so I have time to run an errand, which is fortunate because we need dog food and the dog food purchase takes longer than I thought so finally back to the phone store and now what?! They lost all the pictures stored on my old cell phone! Well, great. Salesman is calling the technician for advice. Might as well get an ice cream cone while I'm waiting. There goes the diet.Two hours later and I have to leave behind a part on my old phone that may or may not retrieve my lost pictures so back home I go and oh, swell, it's time to make dinner. Chicken is still in the freezer. Better order a pizza, already blew the diet anyway, but first I'll just finish watering the plants …

It's a One-Way Ticket to Mimi's House of Pain

Aug 7, 2009 By Gale Hammond

Today I wish to report that I have a personal trainer. Yes, I do. I'll tell anybody who asks all about David and his proficiency as a personal trainer. David is wonderful. He takes my mournfully out-of-shape physique and whips it into shape. He listens politely to my painfully sad tales of woe about my bum knee, my achy back and makes me work out anyway. The benefits of having a personal trainer are limitless. In fact, I've made it my life's purpose to stay as far away as humanly possible from my personal trainer.

Now I should explain (and I know you will find this shocking) I am no spring chicken. Nope, I am a certified, and possibly certifiable, grandmother (a.k.a. "Mimi") with two little granddaughters and a grandson on the way. So in my opinion, personal trainers should handle me gently. With respect. Reverence, perhaps. Ok, perhaps not.

Let me tell you how it is when I meet with David. He feigns happiness to see me. He professes he's glad I'm back at the gym. And then he proceeds to kill me.

Look, I'll be the first to admit I am no accomplished athlete. Sure, back in school I could kick butt in track and field. But I had my weaknesses. Remember the climbing rope torture device that was part of P.E. class? Oh, mama!! How embarrassing was that? I'd approach the thick, braided cable with my heart stuck in my throat. Because this was going to be beyond bad. Way beyond. I'd drag myself onto the rope where I'd hang swinging in sad, slow circles, my feet planted on the knot, wondering how the heck I was going to get out of this one. Maybe somebody would pull the fire alarm. Hopefully the Russians would attack. ANYTHING to get me off this thing.

As I hung there willing my feet to do something besides twist themselves ever more tightly into the knot, my toes cramping inside my sneakers, I cursed my eternal weak spot. My arms. There was no way those weaklings would pull me to the top. Sure, many of my classmates - even GIRLS, for the love of God - could shimmy up the rope, tap the ceiling smartly and shimmy back down. Not me. Nope - those sad, slow circles. That's where I stayed.And I swear those dang ropes were a source of humiliation forever. From kindergarten until I was the approximate age of dirt, it seemed there was one of those blasted ropes waiting to be climbed. Seriously. Ok, maybe it just felt that way.

So I know my limitations. But David doesn't. No-siree-bob! After my "cardio," which consists of lacing up my tennis shoes, David sends me to the stationary bike. "Go ahead and do 15 minutes of warm-up," he instructs. What? What do you mean "15 minutes?" If I could do 15 minutes, would I need to be here? This is what I say in my head. To David I smile and say, "Sure! No problem!" I just hope he can't hear me grinding my teeth.

After I'm "warmed up," i.e. exhausted to the point that a week in a lounge chair on a beach in Barbados wouldn't revive me, he escorts me to the machines. Have I mentioned torture? Yes, friends, this is legalized cruelty to old people.

David sits me on a seat the approximate width of a 3-month old baby's hand. Next he hauls down a couple of bars that he has me grip. With David helping me hold the bars, I've assumed a dangerously false sense of security. Then he lets go. And instructs me to lower and raise those bars above my head. Holy cow."Why don't we just go to the parking lot and I'll bench press my car," I say. "That can be arranged," he replies

But let's be honest here; after several months' absence, it's time for me to go back to the gym. Let David drag out the old whips and chains. … Ahem. Whips and chains?

Ok, I suppose I COULD use a little toning (black leather boots) in a few spots (blindfold). My personal trainer IS, after all, a trained professional (handcuffs) and although I don't need the bulging bicep guns (chain mail) that some of those hulky bodybuilders have (Ravish-Me-Red lipstick), a firm physique WOULD allow me to get on the floor (spiked arm bands) and play with my grandchildren because life is just WAY too short (wrist restraints), isn't it? Nope! Never let it be said I was afraid to just jump right in there and give it a whirl (leather ceiling harness).

Well! I may be a grandmother, but who knows? This Mimi's House of Pain thing might be…fun? I'm just saying.

Column: A Mother by any other Name

Apr 29, 2009 By Gale Hammond

"Don't put that into your mouth; it'll make you sick." "Wash your hands after using the restroom." "Don't let the dog lick your face; he licks his bottom with that tongue." "Are you wearing clean underwear? What if you get into an accident and somebody sees it?" "I don't care who made this mess; I want it cleaned up right now!"

If cleanliness is next to godliness, then it's a pretty good bet that moms are destined to sit at the right hand of The Man Upstairs. We're remembering mom for many different reasons as we approach Mothers Day but one of her major mainstays in raising her brood was on keeping it clean.

So mothers everywhere must be fairly panting with admiration for University of Arizona professor of environmental microbiology, Dr. Chuck Gerba. "Dr. Germ," as the good doctor is nicknamed, has performed studies of microbes found on everything from the bottom of a purse to public restrooms to your kitchen sponge. Nothing has escaped Dr. Germ's trained eye of all things geared to make us sick.

Kinda like your mom. And if you lay claim to never hearing those Mom-isms cited above, I'm here to tell you that you were probably raised by wolves. Because anybody who's lived with a mother knows that the main manifesto of all things "mom" is that germs are out to get us.

As it turns out, Dr. Germ thinks so too. Back when he was a young pup, one of Gerba's professors introduced to the future germologist the idea of microbe transmission via the simple flushing of a bathroom toilet. Thus was born the theory of "toilet splatter," and this, people, is something even my own mother never thought of.

That's right, by merely depressing the handle of your commode, the contents contained inside the bowl launch bacteria into the air where it arcs and rains down all over the place. Items three feet away may be polluted, including your toothbrush or hairbrush. Sorry about this venture into "too much information," breakfast eaters, but may I please go on record here as saying this is just so eewwww …

Now if all this has completely grossed you out, take heart. Because your toilet isn't so unclean after all. Yep! Turns out Dr. Gerba's studies show that toilets are actually cleaner than restroom faucets, kitchen sinks and (yikes) your washing machine.

That's right, Dr. Germ runs his empty washing machine with bleach after washing his clothes. That's because these days more people are using cold water and manufacturers are making machines with shorter wash cycles. The result? According to Dr. Gerba the order in which you launder your clothes makes all the difference. In other words, wash your undies before your hankies and you're pretty much blowing your nose into whatever contents may have washed out of your dainties. Let's hear it people: ICK!

If shoes and purses are your thing, it turns out some pretty nasty organisms make them their thing, too. According to Dr. Germ, 93 percent of shoes worn for 90 days have E. coli on the soles. And purses? One woman's large handbag contained bacteria numbering at about half a million. And, I know, you don't normally go around licking the bottom of your shoes or handbag, but still.

Are you wondering how Dr. Germ gathers his "material?" Armed with a hand-held germ meter, he walks door-to-door asking folks to hand over their kitchen sponges and other likely culprits. Gerba finds women are usually cooperative. Guys on the other hand? Not so much. Gerba says guys that answer the door will offer something like, "What're you, some kind of pervert?" To which he'll answer, "No, I'm a scientist."

That's why it was so shocking recently when another health expert, Jane E. Brody, "The New York Times" personal health columnist, wrote that various continuing studies are showing evidence that ingesting a little dirt can actually be good for you. Yes, that theory is vile heresy to Mom but the so-called "hygiene hypothesis" suggests that bacteria, viruses and particularly worms that enter the body via the intake of "dirt" are apt to help us develop a good immune system. Hear that, Mom?

Now if I had to choose sides on the "germs" issue, I'd probably be in the camp of Ms. Brody and her researches. It just seems so much simpler somehow. This is why it's a good thing that my own mother, a fan of clean if there ever was one, isn't alive today to have to digest such conflicting information. I knew my mom pretty well, and if there is a probable stand-in for my mom and her philosophy on all things clean, I know who it would be.

And his name is Dr. Germ.

Warning! Warning! Grandparents on duty

Apr 14, 2009 By Gale Hammond

There is something I've been meaning to tell you. We're having a baby. Well, not "we" exactly, as in Mr. H. and I. Rather, we are getting a brand new granddaughter. Not that there was anything wrong with the old one, mind you, but a new baby sister was about to arrive. This meant while Daughter No. 1 and her hubby were at the hospital "picking out" new baby Emily, someone needed to watch "old" baby Gracie, age 21 months. So Mr. H. and I headed for Southern California. Yep: It was going to be Grandparents on duty.

Now this assignment should have been a snap because Gracie and I are pretty tight. We go back a long way. I spent the better part of Gracie's first year taking care of her in Long Beach while her parents worked full time. I learned about all the latest baby accessories while discovering modern baby gear involves massive numbers of batteries, music and moving parts. It made me wonder how my parents managed to bring up my brother and me without anything fancier than an old pot and a wooden spoon to bang it with. That was big-time fun back in the day.

But I digress. Nearly two years ago, when Gracie was born, I diligently re-learned all there was to know about new babies. I recognized when a cry meant "I'm hungry/wet/cold/hot" or simply "I'm a baby and I insist on being treated like a princess." I rediscovered the joyful feeling in your heart when a 6-month-old reaches out her chubby little arms for a hug. And I understood there wasn't too much on earth that I enjoyed as much as watching little Gracie grow.

So there we were, back again after all these months, waiting for the arrival of a second little miracle. When Emily's arrival was imminent, we set up shop again, Gracie, her grampy and I. With Mommy and Daddy entrenched in the hospital, we were on our own. But you would think by now I'd have had the whole thing down cold. Well. You would have thought.

And things did start off just fine. At naptime we read a book, enjoyed some milk and negotiated a diaper change. Being a warm spring day in Southern California, I left Gracie in her diaper and a light shirt; I deposited her in her crib with a few of her books and gave her a hug. This was so easy. "Night-night," Gracie called as I exited her room. "Love you …" she called. "How cute is that?" I asked the universe in general, closing her door softly.

So I was taken off guard when I peeked at the baby monitor shortly thereafter and saw my granddaughter perusing her books beside a puffy white object in her crib. Well. That certainly hadn't been there when I left her room. I grew more puzzled as I peered at the small screen because now Gracie was putting the mystery object on her head. Hmmm … Gracie was looking at books with … oh, dear Lord … she was looking at books with her diaper on her head. Yes, the diaper was definitely missing from, well … where a diaper normally belongs. Whew. Disaster was averted with a swift trip to securely reapply the diaper to the proper location.

Finally word came from the hospital that Emily had arrived and was ready for a visit from her big sister. Since meeting a brand-new baby sister is a momentous occasion, I was on a mission to dress Gracie perfectly including combing her hair into a new big-sister "do." I wanted this vision of Gracie loveliness to assure her parents that Gracie was in competent hands during their stay at the hospital. I mean, nobody needed to know about the unfortunate diaper-on-the-head incident, right? Right!

Scurrying out the door, I glanced down at Gracie's previously perfect wispy blonde curls. Oh-oh. Clutching the hairbrush in her chubby little fist, she now bore a regrettable resemblance to Donald Trump. Doing my best to smooth out her fresh "comb-over" we hustled on out to the car.

Arriving at the hospital we exited the car excitedly. Gracie reached back to grab a red object from the floor of the vehicle and we were off. Rounding the corner to the elevator I glanced down at my granddaughter for a last inspection before she met her new baby sister. And OK, it might be April, but Gracie had concluded the proper head attire for this important occasion was, well … her Santa Claus hat.

So on that lovely spring afternoon Gracie arrived at the hospital to meet her new sister Emily while wearing a perky red Santa hat. And, in the end, it was just fine. Because everybody knows that baby sisters, like Christmas, don't come everyday.