"The Birthday Girl"

By Jerry Zezima

My mother was the life of her 100th birthday party.

She also was the star in our little family band — three children, one daughter-in-law, five grandchildren, three grandchildren’s spouses and five great-grandchildren — who gathered at Zody’s 19th Hole, a popular restaurant at the E. Gaynor Brennan Municipal Golf Course in our hometown of Stamford, Connecticut, to honor Mom on her turn of the century.

Mom doesn’t play golf, but she’s definitely a champion, which, as I said, is the “fairway” to describe her.

She rolled her beautiful blue eyes at yet another of her son’s silly jokes.

I am the one who saddled her with a 10-month pregnancy and set the now-70-year-old, never-to-be-broken Stamford Hospital record as the most overdue baby. I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. I was even late to the party.

I also was born during a blizzard and, as Mom agreed, have been perpetrating snow jobs ever since.

And I’m the wayward child who, much to Mom’s chagrin, fell in love with the Three Stooges and have grown up, loosely speaking, to become a newspaper columnist whose work has no redeeming social value.

For all of that, Mom long ago forgave me.

Still, she bears some responsibility for my admittedly offbeat sense of humor, which I inherited from her and my late father, the original and best Jerry Zezima.

Asked to make a wish when she cut the first slice of her birthday cake, Mom said, “I want everyone here to be happy, healthy and” — a pause and a smile — “funny.”

Asked to what she attributes her longevity, she said, “Clean living and a good sense of humor. It’s a little distorted, but that’s OK.”

It’s also warm and gentle, as she showed when our terrific server, Alexis, asked my mother if she would mind meeting another birthday girl, Grace, who was celebrating her first year of life with her own party at the restaurant.

Mom and Grace, 99 years and just as many smiles between them, really hit it off.

“You’re beautiful!” Mom told Grace, who extended a tiny hand so my mother could kiss it.

Both were dressed to the nines — or, considering we were at a golf course, the front and back nines. Grace was adorable in a pink and white checkered dress and a white party hat topped with a pom-pom. Mom was resplendent in a shimmering gold dress with a sash that appropriately featured the number 100. She also wore a crown.

“Grace is already more mature than I am,” I noted.

Mom nodded and said, “Who isn’t?”

That got a laugh from Alexis, who told me, “Your mom is amazing!”

Alexis is familiar with Zezima zaniness because she is “half-Zezima” on her mother’s side. “That makes us something like fourth cousins twice removed,” Alexis said.

“Everyone wants me removed, but I keep finding my way back,” I said.

“We can’t get rid of him,” Mom told Alexis.

The party was breaking up, but it continued at my mother’s house, where all 18 of us shared stories, photos and, of course, laughs.

The great-grandkids played a central role in the festivities, marching through the house with three big gold balloons, a “1,” a “0” and another “0,” brought back from the restaurant along with the rest of the cake, four floral centerpieces and a large corkboard filled with family photos, new and old, including a picture of my mother on the morning of her first holy communion when she was a kid.

“And I had my confirmation in the afternoon,” she recalled like it was yesterday. “I kept God busy.”

Mom, also known as Nini to her grandchildren and Gigi to her great-grandchildren, pointed to her prized possession, an embroidered pillow given to her last Christmas by two of her great-granddaughters. It reads: “Thank you for being my Gigi. If I had a different Gigi, I would punch her in the face and go find you.”

It was a day to remember for a mother, a grandmother and a great-grandmother who is beloved by her family and admired by all who know her.

Cheers to Rosina Zezima! One hundred years young and still the life of the party.

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"Coach Poppie's Grandparent Tips"

By Jerry Zezima

Ever since I became a grandfather, and have proudly remained the most immature member of the family, I have often been asked if I spoil my grandchildren.

“No,” I always reply. “That’s my wife’s job. My job is to corrupt them.”

This makes me supremely qualified to be a grandparent coach.

I got the idea for this heretofore nonexistent job after reading an item in the Old Farmer’s Almanac about empty-nest coaches, who are “giving advice to parents whose offspring have left for college.”

As the father of two daughters who flew the coop long ago and are now the mothers of my five grandkids, I have these important pieces of advice for abandoned parents:

(a) Rest assured that the kids will return home periodically to mooch meals, do laundry, use your car and ask for money.

(b) Even after they move out for good, the nest will never be empty because a lot of their stuff will still be in your house.

Now, as the grandfather of three girls and two boys ranging in age from 11 to 5, all of whom consider me their favorite toy, I have these important pieces of advice for fellow grandparents who could use a little coaching:

(a) Never turn down an opportunity to see your grandchildren, especially when you can do fun things with them like going to the zoo, baking cupcakes, riding on a carousel, going out for ice cream, blowing bubbles, playing hide-and-seek, splashing in kiddie pools, attending dance recitals, painting pictures, pushing them on swings, jumping on trampolines, giving horsey-back rides and so much more.

(b) Get rid of your adult children’s stuff and make room for toys, games, books, clothes, musical instruments, watercolors, paintbrushes, colored pencils, drawing paper, artwork, homemade birthday cards, candy dishes, plastic chairs, small tables, little step stools, rubber duckies, Wiffle balls, flip-flops, dollhouses, costume jewelry and other priceless things that can be hazardous if you trip over them but will make your grandkids feel right at home.

A grandparent bonus: Starting at age 5, your grandchildren can be your technical support system. This comes in handy if you don’t know how to find their favorite cartoons on your own television or where to download a sports app on your smartphone, which obviously has a dumb owner.

Another great thing about being a grandparent is hearing your children say the same things to their kids that you used to say to them.

“Eat your vegetables or you don’t get any dessert!”

“Brush your teeth and go to bed!”

“For crying out loud, get off the phone!”

“Pick up your toys! What do you think this is, a pigsty?”

You can then smile knowingly and say, “Don’t be so hard on them.”

This will put you in your grandchildren’s good graces forever.

It will also make the young ones happy to be seen with you. I’m sure you remember when your kids were in school and didn’t want their friends to know you even existed.

When you are a grandparent, however, you can flaunt the undeniable fact that your grandkids love your company.

This is especially true if you spoil them, as my wife does, by giving them candy or lollipops when their parents don’t want you to.

Or you can take it a step further by corrupting them, as I do, which entails telling silly jokes, doing Three Stooges imitations or singing like a chicken.

But the most important things you can do as a grandparent is to show your grandchildren how much you love them and to acknowledge that your children are good parents. My wife, Sue, and I, known to our grandkids as Nini and Poppie, are proud to say that our daughters are wonderful mothers. And their husbands are terrific fathers.

That’s why we have the best grandchildren on earth. Sorry, fellow grandparents, but it’s just a fact.

So take the advice of Coach Poppie and you’ll be a winner with the kiddies. You might even achieve the ultimate goal of being your grandchildren’s favorite toy.

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"Look Who's Walking"

By Jerry Zezima

My heart surgeon told me to take a hike, so I bought a pedometer. Then he told me that my surgery was canceled and I didn’t have to take a hike. But I already had the pedometer.

So I took a hike.

It was a walk in the park — or, actually, around the neighborhood — compared to the excessive ambulation I would have to do each day while recovering from the surgery I never had.

But since most of my walking is done in the middle of the night (to and from the porcelain convenience), and it’s a good form of exercise that isn’t so stressful that I would need heart surgery, I decided to get outside on a sunny morning and take my pedometer in stride.

According to the diminutive digital device, for which I spent the whopping sum of $9.49, sparing no expense for my health, I took only 47 steps before I was almost run over by someone backing out of a driveway (in a car, not on foot).

It was an inauspicious start to the first leg of my journey. (The second leg followed or I would have fallen down.)

Around the corner, I encountered two people, a young man and a young woman, walking their dogs, each a young husky, on the other side of the street.

“Good morning!” I chirped.

No reaction from the humans.

“Woof!” I barked.

The pooches reacted excitedly.

“Woof!” each one replied, almost yanking their two-legged companions off their feet and dragging them, face-first, across the road.

I wasn’t sure if the dogs wanted to kiss me or bite me, which in either case would have required them to get shots, so I picked up the pace, wondering as the foursome lurched away if the dogs were taking the humans for a walk.

While trudging up a small hill, my bad breath coming in short bursts, I checked my pedometer and saw that I had taken a thousand steps.

I also saw Arnie the mailman.

“I thought you were in the hospital,” he said from his truck.

“I may end up there after this,” I replied, explaining that, contrary to what I had told him a couple of weeks before, I didn’t need heart surgery after all.

“That’s amazing,” Arnie said. “By the way, I put some bills in your mailbox. I hope they don’t affect your heart.”

“Do you see a lot of walkers?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “Everyone is health-conscious these days. But there are a lot of people on bikes, too. One guy, Bob, rides around the neighborhood. He always whizzes past my truck. I can see him coming in my side mirror. I’ll yell, ‘Bob, what are you doing? Be careful!’ One day he ran into the back of a bus.”

“Was he hurt?” I wondered.

“No,” Arnie said. “And he’s still riding. Maybe he should walk.”

“If I get too tired, will you drive me home in your truck?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said with a smile. “You don’t know how many walkers ask me that.”

Up the street, I stopped to chat with Lillian, 86, who was using a walker to get the mail Arnie had left for her. I told her about my canceled cardiac surgery.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “I have a heart problem. In fact, I have to go to the doctor this afternoon. It’s my social life now.”

“Do you walk?” I asked.

“Only around the driveway,” Lillian said. “A pedometer wouldn’t do me much good.”

But it worked pretty well for me. After walking past a house where the sprinklers had just come on, I arrived home, damp and winded, with my heart beating fast in anticipation of seeing how many steps I had taken.

The count on my pedometer: 3,552. It amounted to about a mile and a half.

“How do you feel?” my wife asked.

“Not  bad,” I said. “But if I can’t make it back tomorrow, check the mailbox. Arnie’s going to make me a special delivery.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima