The World has gone to Hell!

Watching the grandkids playing in the backyard over the weekend a few days ago, I was amazed at their resourcefulness. During the most recent sojourn to A-Town the rain limited their outside activities quite a bit. They were finally outside in the back in PupLand and up, down, on the slide and swinging own their own at the PupHouse.

The six-year-old (just a month shy of seven) decided to resurrect the Club she had initiated the last trip. We had to run over the secret Hand Shake, two strong glad hand movements and then the thumb to the forehead and four fingers waving in the breeze. They remember the sequence well and are proficient in no time whatsoever.

Then once again, the old argument as to the appropriate name arose. I suggested, as usual, my old standby: The He-Man Woman Hater’s Club. If it’s good enough for Spanky, Alfalfa and the rest of Our Gang, it’s good enough for a run of the mill backyard PupLand club. Well the six year old is having none of that and soundly rejects my suggestion. Mind you, she doesn’t have a better choice, at least not right away. But still I say: The He-Man Woman Hater’s Club and still she insists on having her way, well eventually. Her almost-four-year-old brother doesn’t care one way or the other. He’s still workin’ on the handshake.

The six-year-old again asks my advice on a club name and I repeat my suggestion: The He-Man Woman Hater’s Club and again, as you might expect it is once more vetoed. If she doesn’t want my opinion, she shouldn’t ask. But maybe that’s asking far too much for a six-year-old to undertake. Grand Dad’s just outta get more respect, don’t ja’ think?

Time passes and she, the six-year-old that is, comes to inform me that she has now decided on a name for the club. It turns out the feller getting the glory this time is my pup Gus. The club is to be called The Gus Club. Grand Dad lost out to his own dog, imagine that?

The play continues and I keep somewhat of a watchful eye. They have decided to try swinging from the ladder to the clubhouse. This is a rather unusual feat for them as they aren’t usually that adventuresome. It all works out OK and nobody is snagged on the swing chain that the almost-four-year-old has somehow managed to unravel completely. The last time it took me un-told hours of manipulation to get this deal back in working order. I remove the bad swing seat from the immediate area and the club functions continue.

The next departure from the norm was the assignment of individual secret codes to every member. The six-year-old has to make positive sure, that each of us has our own code and it is scribed on a piece of paper that we are to maintain individually. No one is to know our code. It doesn’t seem to matter that we are all discussing this feature of the game aloud so the entire neighborhood can eavesdrop on our code.

I insist on a three-digit code. I’m old, I tell the six-year-old and cannot remember a string of numbers longer that three. It somehow seems that I am finally granted a waiver and can have a three-digit code. Next up for assignment is the almost-four-year-old. He cannot begin to come up with a code on his own. For some reason it just isn’t in him. The six-year-old tries combination after combination. Every set meets with failure from the four-year-old. Finally, through shear determination the six-year-old and the almost-four-year-old settle on the set: 1-2-3-4. All seems to be right in the world now.

I had removed myself from the immediate area of the Club and was observing the club play from the deck when I was astounded by the new requirement for club membership and activity compliance.

The six-year-old announces to all within earshot that we must now, using our secret code, LOG-IN to secure entrance to the club house.

I tell you the World has gone to Hell in a hand basket!