I have been introducing my grandson to the “Radio Swiss Classic” lifestyle; we listen to the internet classical music channel, which merely postannounces the music and ID’s the channel, 24/7, at home and in the car. My grandson has a very good ear. I listen to the French version (as opposed to the German or Italian; for some reason, no Romansch version). If I say “Radio Swiss Classic,” he corrects me: “Radio Suisse Classique, Abba.”

My daughter bought a container of cookie dough, and my grandson and I rolled it into balls and placed it on a sheet of parchment paper in a baking pan. His previous effort had resulted in a unicookie. We tried spreading the balls apart and rolling smaller balls. Mihir would consistently grab my balls, peel off about a third of the dough and have me reroll them,

Instead of one unicookie, we ended up with several smaller ones that were easier to break apart once cooled. My MIT friends suggested doing cookies in a muffin tin, being careful to insure that the center is cooked. They also suggested smaller balls and wider spacing. I think my grandson is ready for MIT.

She is developing so quickly: she can sing Twinkle Twinkle and The Itsy Bitsy Spider. Her brother prefers Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat,” first sung by Lewis Carroll’s Mad Hatter.

My son-in-law has taught our grandson how to do a magic trick with the calculator on his phone, in which you swipe ones off the screen and blow them away. We need to buy this kid a magic trick kit. He already has a disappearing coin box, but I think he’s ready for sleight of hand.

I practice the Radio Swiss Classic lifestyle: it is my sound track at home and while driving. Until recently I turned it off when I picked my grandson up from school.

I left it on recently, and was surprised to hear him identify every solo instrument, then ask me about conductors, orchestras and concertos. They have a music program at his school and it is apparently quite effective.

I asked Spotify for a flute concerto, but the one it picked was heavy on orchestra and light on flutes. I whimsically said, “Get out of the way orchestra, we want the flutes.” He repeated it and has used the same sentence structure to ask the orchestra to clear out and stop covering clarinets and horns.

I played him my only love song arranged for an 80-piece band (If Offered A Choice), and he asked if I had conducted it or written the music. This led to a discussion of lyricists, his learning that singers rarely conduct simultaneously, the role of arrangers, and what an orchestra score does.

To say I was surprised is to put it mildly.

My mom treated my brother and I like adults, which is why when I was 10 and he was 7 and she was in college, she taught us two drinking songs.

O, it’s beer, beer, beer
That makes you want to cheer
On the farm, on the farm!
It’s beer, beer, beer,
That makes you want to cheer
On the Leland Stanford Junior Varsity Farm!
My eyes are dim.
I cannot see.
I have not brought my specs with me.
I have – hey! – not – ho!
Brought my specs with me.

I taught the second half to my grandson, Age 5. Then I tried to sneak in the first part. “Oh it’s Cats, Cats, Cats that make you want to chat.” He has no idea what the Leland Stanford Junior Varsity Farm is, but his dad wouldn’t mind if he goes there. I’m, unsurprisingly, pulling for MIT.
We came up with a half dozen couplets, each as good as whiskey/frisky, vodka/oughta, and of course the cappers, cold roast duck/crumpet and split pea soup/cracker. See what they did there?
I have yet to teach him mom’s other favorite (I only remember this part):

Beer Beer Beer for old Benson High
You bring the whiskey, I'll bring the Rye.
Send the Freshmen out for gin,
Don’t let a sober sophomore in.
We never stagger, we never fall,
We sober up on wood alcohol…

No wonder I drank Dr. Pepper and vodka in college.

I am keeping a journal for my grandson. I told him he might want to read it when he gets older and can no longer remember what he did and said when he was five. “I’ll remember,” he said. I still think he might appreciate it.

He used to insist on cooking after school, like his dad. For some time he asked for Gummi Bears and Rescue Rangers (having moved beyond Roadunner and Tom and Jerry). Or at least he did until last week; now he wants me to read and re-read David Egger’s first juvenile book, The Eyes Aand The Impossible. Does my pride about him know no end? Apparently not. Surely I would never have chosen a novel over television in 1957. But then, maybe children’s books were worse and TV was better.

I was responsible for my grandson becoming an official artist; I gave him his first commission. I asked him to duplicate a drawing of a leprechaun in a hat. It was elaborate. The leprechaun had pink eye (for reasons I don’t understand). Previously, he had built a leprechaun trap out of construction paper.

I was telling him why it was important to park inside the lines: “so there’s room for a person to park next to you.” He answered “plenty of room if they’re on a motorcycle.”

Which reminded me of a piece of doggerel I knew from a half century ago: “I don’t want a pickle, just wanna ride on my motorcycle.”

He asked me what a pickle was, but quickly it became clear he was kidding. I started to explain and he said it’s made from a cucumber.

“Is a pickle sour?”

I said yes and there’s also another kind.

He said “sweet?”

“How did you know that?”

“It just seems obvious if one is sour the other is sweet.”

I find it hard to believe anyone spent that much time talking with him about pickles before. It also seems unlikely anyone read him a story about pickles, or that the subject came up in the Gummibears, Chip And Dale Rescue Rangers, or Coyote/Road Runner.