My favorite Grandson Jackson Danger came for a visit over Christmas and of course had to bring those two people who take care of him, namely Robbie and Catie.
During the visit, I was allowed to spend some time alone with Jackson (those “two people” don’t let me be alone with Jackson very much – I don’t know why) and I sang a little song to him which he seemed to greatly enjoy. It’s a gentle little song familiar to many redneck parents and grandparents who have sung it to their progeny over the years to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw”:
Oh, I had a little chicken but she wouldn’t lay an egg.
So I poured hot water up and down her little leg.
Oh, the little chicken cried and the little chicken begged,
But she wouldn’t even try to lay a hard-boiled egg.
Jackson seemed to like the little song and told me that he had written a second verse to this little ditty. He was gracious enough to share the second verse with me and in turn I share it with you here on Buddha Belly Farm blog:
Oh, I had a little chicken, but she wasn’t bar-b-qued.
She was roasted in the oven as a tasty Cordon Bleu.
With some lightly sautéed mushrooms and a fruity chardonnay,
She was much more appetizing than the egg she wouldn’t lay.
There is a certain sophistication and latent intellectualism revealed within Little Jackson’s lyrical ability. In fact, I think he is a child prodigy, a genius. The little fella brings tears of joy to these tired old eyes and a great sense of pride to my soul. I mentioned to Catie that it was so heartening to know that her son, my grandson, has so much in common with me, and was so much like me, his beloved and respected Grumpa. And I vowed to her that I would teach Little Jackson every thing I know.
Upon hearing these words, my loving daughter, mother to my grandson, gently placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Dad, it’s bad enough Jack has inherited your ‘physique’, such as it is. I certainly don’t want him to be afflicted with your warped sense of humor.” With that, she took Little Jackson from me and I heard her softly say to him as she walked away, “Mama ‘good’, Grumpa ‘bad’.”
Motherhood has not changed Catie too much – she’s still a rotten little girl.
