My second oldest grandson just had his tonsils out.
Poor little guy.
But they were so huge that they made it difficult for him to swallow and were constantly getting infected.
There were perks.
For a week, he got to live on freezies and fruit pops and jello and things cold and wet.
He is feeling much better now.
And able to swallow, perhaps for the first time in his life.
Bless modern medicine.
It was day surgery. In and out.
The whole experience reminded me of my older brother, George.
Who had the same problem, fifty years ago.
Are we seeing a pattern, here?
George had a big appetite.
And a small throat.
He would chew and chew and chew on a piece of tender, wonderful roast beef.
Chew and chew and chew.
Then, finally, give up in despair and sit there, morosely, with a lump of meat in his mouth that he simply couldn't swallow.
My Dad took pity on him and told him to spit his mouthful into Dad's hand.
Which he did.
And which my Dad then disposed of.
Then George would happily move on to the potatoes and gravy.
For a couple of years, the same scenario was played out at the Stringam dinner table.
George starting out with things chewy and delicious.
Then moving on to things mushy and easier to swallow.
Finally, it became so common that Dad didn't even get the chance to offer to help.
George would chew and chew and chew, then reach for Dad's hand and spit his mouthful into it.
Often without Dad realizing it.
Until it had happened.
Sort of hard to ignore then . . .
When he did it at a restaurant, my parents decided that something had to be done.
Diagnosis: large tonsils.
Back then, though the operation was common, it meant several day's stay at the local hospital.
But with lots and lots of ice cream and jello.
Modern medicine has come so far.