Mom absolutely loved being a grandma. Over the years, she and Dad were blessed with seven grandchildren.

Many summers ago, they enjoyed hosting five of those little varmints while vacationing in Ogunquit, Maine. (James and Lucy weren’t born yet.)

Here’s a story Mom wrote 30 years ago, remembering that special time.

Half a Hot Dog with Johnny

It is October and three of our grandchildren are in school and thriving. I think of last August and the various times the five of them were with us. Fast asleep on the apartment couch in his new white shirt like Dad’s is three-year-old Gordon. He’s done in by a morning’s tour on the trolley bus, all over Oqunquit with Grandpa and big sister Becky. I see six-year-old Becky by my side, smiling and eager to explore more family stories that make her laugh and wonder.

Then off to a school playground with five-year-old Andy, pretending we were safe on a ship while sharks were searching below us. And from Indiana came our oldest grandchild, Tom, at seven-years old. He climbed rocks with Grandpa and lunched in the “lobster shack” with Grandma, hoping that his favorite trolley bus, Petunia, would appear for the ride back to the apartment.

It was one-year-old Johnny, however, we entertained the most so his mother, Paula, could spend more beach time with big brother Tom. Off in his stroller went John, to sightsee and be admired, to nap and wake up rearing for lunch. At this point, I was ready, too, with the sea air and walk on The Marginal Way fanning my appetite.

Johnny tended his bottle of juice until we came to a favorite coffee stop where, my husband declining, I ordered one long hot dog and divided it.

Johnny’s half was plain but mine was draped with mustard and relish and everything else I found room for.

Although I still love hot dogs, I seldom indulge but for Fourth of July and family picnics. Somehow sharing that hot dog with Johnny made it a feast and summarized the whole vacation.

Perhaps when he’s a little older our youngest grandchild will, like his cousin Becky, be hungry for family stories and I will happily tell him this.
~ Joan Vayo, October 1992

Paula’s note: That was also the summer a certain airline lost our luggage! I won’t sully Mom’s lovely memories with my bitter tale. (I’ll save that for another time, though, as it’s just about as juicy as that hot dog by the beach.)

“Half a Hot Dog with Johnny” © 1992 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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