Mind your own beeswax

"Mind your own beeswax.''

It's a slow day when you find yourself talking to squirrels. They are upset with me because the lawnmower makes their life more difficult. Each pass hurls acorns and walnuts through the air and makes it more work for them to gather.

My niece — the same age as me and sort of a guiding light — often used the beeswax phrase when I butted into her business. It isn't said much anymore on playgrounds, which is understandable. The admonition was most popular in the 18th century, when women used beeswax to hide scars caused by smallpox. Heat caused the wax to melt, and those who noticed exposed scars would say "better mind your own beeswax.''

I like squirrels — even angry ones. I don't have much use for acorns now, but I once did. When toys were scarce, we made do with what we had. Slingshots made from inner tube pieces, wood and nails became guns that fired acorn bullets. A well-made slingshot was a powerful weapon, which prompted my parents to confiscate them. A poor shot could knock an eye out.

Disagreeably disarmed, we moved on to safer things. Inflated inner tubes made for dizzying downhill rides. Two chicken tail feathers stuck in corn cob butts became wondrous whirlybirds that defied gravity. When the baseball's cover gave out and its innards exploded, corn cobs filled in.

We didn't know it at the time, but the acorn supply in our grove was a potential gold mine. Chefs have discovered hogs fed acorns produce deliciously tender meat consumers are willing to pay a premium for. Our hogs — lean and sometimes mean — were treated to the milk left over after the cream had been separated. Milk-fed hogs produce a more whitish meat, proving they, like us, are what they eat.

The slingshot and whirlybird world changed for what we thought was the better when Dad brought home a new black-and-white TV. He was motivated to do so by Friday night boxing, Sunday pro wrestling and baseball games. Mother watched Archbishop Fulton Sheen deliver sermons on morality. We piled on the overcrowded davenport to watch Saturday morning cartoons.

The new world came, and its influence never left.

It told us we must have one and maybe even two hula-hoops. We were jealous because the doughnuts advertised on the cartoon shows looked so much better than the sugar- and jelly-filled ones Mother fried in lard. Wonder Bread seemed so much finer than homemade.

It occurs to me that some bad came along with the good.

It concerns me when I watch grandson Elliot dance his fingers across the keys on his computer games while his grandfather fumbles. He will not need perfect penmanship in a world where instant communication occurs with a few key strokes.

I pull him away from that and go outside where a plastic ball can be hit and multi-colored chalk makes his name appear as if by magic on the concrete.

Together we admire the goldenrods and marvel at a fat caterpillar's patient march across the road. The cool wind shapes clouds into dinosaurs and rabbits while a jet paints its trail. Elliot sees but does not understand. I see and remember when I wondered where the jet was bound and if it was true that angels rode among the clouds. Imagination thrives beneath a soft maple's shade, and a fallen twig becomes a snake that Elliot kills by breaking it in half.

Grandpa fell asleep in the shade with one eye open until a stick poked him in the ribs. Elliot said it was time for ice cream, and I couldn't disagree.