Blake, our oldest grandchild, is 17 today. We had a great little party at Tower of Pizza, complete with Dairy Queen ice cream cake, Blake's favorite. As I thought about the day Blake was born, I remembered his first visitors, including a vanload of cousins and aunts and a great-grandma. Blake was a smiley little guy from the start, and he always impressed everyone with how he could drop-kick a soccer ball and hit a whiffle ball by the time he was 1 1/2. I did the preschool run every day for a couple of years, and in that time, I got to know very well what was going on in that little mind. Blake was a curious one, wanting desperately to learn to read by the time he was 4. We chatted about everything. I remember a story of Great Grandpa Harold and Blake making the trip from Jacksonville to Quincy in the little truck. When they arrived, Great Big Papa, as Blake called his great grandpa, referred to Blake as a "chatterbox and a chow hound." Seems the two had stopped at Barry for some burgers and fries at Wendy's, and Blake had no trouble putting his portion away. But Great Big Papa didn't share anything about the chatterbox part. God only knows what those two talked about. Well the next one will be #18, and that meant one thing at our house: if the cops haul you down to jail for anything, don't call Mom til morning!!! (I wonder if Chris remembers me telling him that a dozen or so times after he turned 18! Thankfully, I never got a call from jail, and I hope Carrie doesn't either!) Another good line of Great Grandpa's, and he would know: Nothing good happens after midnight. So get it all done before 12, Blake! And happy, happy birthday from Grandma Ginny, who is still crazy about ya. :o)
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