"Where the Magic Happens"

By Jerry Zezima

Being a grandfather can be magical — as long as you don’t end up in jail.

That’s the lesson I learned recently when my wife, Sue, and I got together with our five grandchildren and their parents for a week in which I assisted in science experiments performed with a magic wand, was nearly bitten by a king cobra and trampled by a hippopotamus, ran around a playground to the point of collapse, was served a delicious dinner of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, engaged in battles with a kung fu master and was arrested multiple times by the world’s youngest cop.

It’s a wonder I wasn’t rushed to the hospital.

But the real wonder came when my 7-year-old grandson wowed me with his science magic kit. His most impressive feat involved bending a paperclip out of proportion, dropping it in a bowl of hot water, waving his magic wand and making the clip bend back — by itself! — to its original shape.

“That’s amazing!” I gushed. “How did you do it?”

“It’s magic,” my grandson replied.

“I can do magic,” I told him.

“How?” he wanted to know.

“Whenever your grandmother wants me to do something around the house,” I said, “I disappear.”

“You’re silly,” my grandson said.

“It’s magic,” I replied.

His younger brother, who’s 5, also wowed me with his knowledge of the animal kingdom.

“Did you know,” he asked me, “that a hippopotamus can kill a crocodile with its big mouth?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe I could do that, too. I have a big mouth.”

“I know you do,” the little boy replied. “But you don’t have tusks. And by the way, ‘hippopotamus’ is a really long word.”

“That’s why his friends call him ‘Hippo.’ It’s his nickname,” I said.

“And did you know,” my little grandson went on, “that a cheetah can run 70 miles an hour?”

“That’s over the speed limit,” I said. “He could get a ticket.”

“I’m gonna give you a ticket!” my grandson said. “You’re going to jail!”

Then he assumed a karate pose, yelled “Hi-ya!” and gave me a chop to my left arm, followed by one to my right arm and ended with a kick that would have landed on my left knee if I hadn’t jumped out of the way and bumped into a chair.

After that, he went on his device and showed me various creatures, including the fox, his new favorite animal (for a while, he was enthralled with African wild dogs and wanted to be one).

“I like the black fox,” he said. “What fox do you like?”

“Megan Fox,” I responded.

“And I like the king cobra,” he added. “Watch out! If you get bit, you could die. But what’s that thing on his head?”

“A hood,” I said.

“Why does he have a hood?” my grandson inquired.

“In case it rains,” I said.

“Hi-ya!” the boy yelled in another flurry of karate chops. “You’re going to jail!”

Meanwhile, my three granddaughters, ages 11, 8 and 5, introduced me to their stuffed toys, which they brought to the playground, where I was in charge of coordinating activities that included catching them as they flew down the slide with llamas and unicorns.

I also helped all five kids on the jungle gym, ran around until my lungs almost exploded and, of course, engaged in further karate fights with the young kung fu master.

That evening, the children set up a restaurant downstairs at the kids’ table, with small chairs that Sue and I sat on, a little uncomfortably, while we perused menus written in crayon.

I chose an entree of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, which was served in a plastic bowl.

“This is scrumptious!” I said as I munched away.

Sue, who had a bowl of chips, agreed.

For dessert, we had marshmallows from a box of Lucky Charms.

All in all, it was a magical week. And the best part is that somehow I didn’t end up in jail.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"She's Got My Number"

By Jerry Zezima

According to statistics that must be true or I wouldn’t have made them up, 87 percent of grandfathers couldn’t pass a third-grade math test.

This is shocking because it represents almost half the grandpa population.

Unfortunately, I am in this group because I recently got taken to school by my 8-year-old granddaughter, who is in third grade, has an A average in math and gave me a lesson in basic arithmetic by showing me that what I learned when I was a third-grader no longer adds up.

“Math is my favorite subject,” my granddaughter said. “On my last test, I got 100.”

“You answered all the questions correctly?” I said.

“That’s what 100 means, Poppie,” she informed me.

Then my granddaughter played teacher, with me as the student, by giving me a division problem.

“What’s 35 divided by 7?” she asked.

As I began to calculate it in the recesses of my brain, which was active only during recess when I was in school, my granddaughter said, “There’s a strategy.”

“You mean I should use a calculator?” I said.

My granddaughter sighed and said, “Seven times blank equals 35. You go by fives: 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35. That’s 7 fives. Five times 7 equals 35.”

“I used to just memorize the times tables,” I said.

“That’s not the right way to do it,” my granddaughter said. “You have to show how you got the answer.”

“Even if the answer is wrong?” I wondered.

She sighed again and gave me another one.

“Nine times 3 equals blank,” she said. “You have to use your hands. Two fingers on your left hand and seven on the rest of your two hands: two on the left and five on the right. The answer is 27.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Two and seven,” my granddaughter said. “Twenty-seven.”

“I can just imagine if I tried to pull this on the IRS,” I responded.

“Now you ask me a question,” she said.

“OK,” I said, figuring I’d really stump her. “What’s 75 divided by 15?”

“You skip count by 5,” my granddaughter said. “The answer is 5. The number you skip count by, that’s your answer.”

“I must have skipped that one in class,” I said.

“Is that why you became a writer, Poppie?” she asked. “Because you can’t do math?”

“I can’t do the new math,” I told her. “But my decision to become a writer could be encapsulated in one word: algebra.”

“Dad asked me an algebra question once and I got it right,” my granddaughter said.

“See if you can figure this one out,” I said, giving her the typical algebra problem. “The Smiths are leaving New York for Boston at 9 a.m. averaging 55 miles per hour.”

“I’ve been to both New York and Boston,” my granddaughter chirped.

“I know, but this isn’t a geography question,” I said, continuing: “And the Joneses are leaving Boston for New York at 10 a.m. averaging 50 miles per hour. At what point in the 200-mile journey will they pass each other?”

“Who cares?” my granddaughter said.

“Exactly!” I replied.

I pulled out an old book I found in my office, “Beginning and Intermediate Algebra,” and opened to Chapter 1, Example 1: “Insert (less-than symbol), (greater-than symbol) or (the equal sign) in the space between the paired numbers to make each statement true.”

Statement: “2 (blank) 3”

Solution: “2 (less-than symbol) 3 since 2 is to the left of 3 on the number line.”

“That’s easy,” my granddaughter said. “The less-than symbol looks like an alligator. And an alligator will always eat the bigger number. My first-grade teacher told us that. I’m in third grade now.”

“This is why I let your grandmother balance our checkbook,” I said.

“You should go back to school, Poppie,” my granddaughter said. “But I don’t think you’d get an A.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Tooth or Consequences"

By Jerry Zezima

My orthodontist is a gem. That’s why he suggested I buy an ultrasonic retainer cleaner that my wife can wash her jewelry in.

I got retainers several years ago when I decided to go straight, not because I was a crooked jewel thief, but because two of my teeth were crooked and needed straightening.

I went to the Stony Brook University School of Dental Medicine on Long Island, New York, so my right upper lateral incisor and my left central lower incisor could be rotated back to their original positions with invisible braces, which weren’t actually invisible because otherwise, let’s face it, how could I find them?

Once my wayward ivories were realigned, which saved me the trouble of going to a mechanic, I got retainers. I wear them at night to keep my teeth on the straight and narrow, even though the mouth where they reside is deep and wide.

On a recent visit to Stony Brook for my yearly follow-up, I met Dr. Andy Lin, the latest in a long line of orthodontic residents who have had the dubious honor of treating me.

“Please pop your retainers in so I can see how they fit,” Dr. Lin said.

I did as instructed, first the top, then the bottom.

“They’ve kept your teeth nice and straight,” he noted. “But part of the top retainer on the left side has broken off. I can clip the end and smooth it out with an acrylic bur so it won’t cut your tongue.”

“While I’m still wearing it?” I asked nervously.

“No,” the good doctor assured me. “You wouldn’t want a bur in your mouth.”

“You could probably fit a jackhammer in there,” I said.

“We use that for drilling,” said Dr. Lin, who took my upper retainer to a back room, clipped and smoothed it, and returned a few minutes later. “Try it now,” he said.

I popped it in.

“It feels much better,” I told him. “Now I won’t speak with a forked tongue.”

Dr. Lin spoke with a funny tongue when he told me that he was the class clown in dental school.

“I did a lot of stupid things,” he said. “In an oral surgery class, when we were shown how to do stitches, we had to bring in bananas. I brought in a watermelon.”

“Did you have braces as a kid?” I asked.

“Yes, four times,” said the doctor, flashing a nice smile. “But I never had retainers. I’m too lazy.”

“I’ve been told the best way to keep them clean is with dishwashing liquid,” I said. “It might be easier just to put them in the dishwasher.”

“They’d come out in clumps,” said Dr. Lin, adding that I could use water and hydrogen peroxide or get a box of retainer tablets.

The best way to clean retainers, he said, is with an ultrasonic cleaner, a small, plastic and stainless steel machine that uses UV sterilization.

“I use one to clean my jewelry,” Dr. Lin said. “I even put my glasses in there.”

“Can I clean my wife’s jewelry?” I asked.

“Sure,” said the doctor. “But maybe you should start with your retainers.”

I went online and ordered the device, which cost $49.99. When it arrived, I plugged it in, filled it with water, put in my retainers, closed the lid and pressed the button.

Five minutes later, my retainers were spotless.

“They’re nice and clean,” said my wife, Sue.

“Do you want me to clean your jewelry?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

Undeterred, I took off my silver wedding band, the only piece of jewelry I own, and put it in the ultrasonic machine. When the ring came out, it looked like new, even though it’s 46 years old.

“It shines!” Sue exclaimed.

“Now do you want me to clean your jewelry?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It has stones. If they get ruined, you’ll have to buy me new ones.”

“I’ll stick with cleaning my retainers,” I said. “I can’t afford to put my money where my mouth is.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima