And the Princess of Darkness and the SpiderLad mean business. (Ages: Laney, 3½; Jackson, 8 months; furnishings in the background, God only knows.)

Because everybody just loves gratuitous grandchild photos, here's a couple of them. First, Laney contemplates that mysterious girl in the mirror; next, Jackson observes from a safe distance. (Bigger versions are just a click away.) Clearly they've gotten this hair from their mom: there aren't any carrot-tops on my branch of the family tree.

And speaking of Alicia, she's been very good about delivering photos to us Distant Relatives, and this seems like as good a time to thank her. I couldn't ask for a better daughter-in-law. (After all, it takes a remarkable woman to put up with one of us Hill guys. Ask any of us.)

"She would have been eleven today."

There's an old joke about a child who never speaks. He cried a bit when he was a baby, but they all do that; once he got over it, he never said a word.

Somewhere around age five, the family was having dinner, and suddenly he spoke up: "Mom, the turkey is dry."

The parents — well, you can pretty well imagine. After they calmed down, Mom asked: "You can talk??"

"Of course I can."

She gave him That Look (you know the one) and asked, "How come you never said anything before?"

"Up to now, everything was okay," he explained.

I'll bet almost anything Drake Esmay knows that joke.

But no pix yet, reports daughter-in-law:

For those keeping score, this is grandchild #4. As for the name, hey, I'm just happy they didn't name him after me.

Shel Silverstein wrote, and Johnny Cash sang, a ballad about a boy who grew up with the name "Sue," and you'll remember that Sue grew up bitter and resentful — eventually, weapons were involved — as a result. I have no idea whether this sort of thing will happen to a girl named Metallica or a boy named Jihad, but I don't think it's really useful to have laws against such names: "Earning the lifelong resentment of their ill-named progeny should be punishment enough."

Keep in mind that my daughter came this close to being named for a Beatles song — one by McCartney, at that — and I have a grandchild named "Gunner."

First shot of Gunner, born on the 28th of March. Still has that rich tomato-ey glow. (Runs in the family, I think.) Personally, I think Alicia and Russ were trying to save some money on birthday parties, since Laney's the 29th of March and Gunner's the 28th. (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it as long as I think I can get away with it.) Oh, and don't even think about calling him "Gunsy." (Addendum: I really think they're going to quit after three, but then I really thought they were going to quit after two, so pay no attention to me.) (Further addendum: For some reason, I decided that this picture would look better somewhere other than hung off the right edge of the page, so I moved it in. Wouldn't be the first time I made some dubious aesthetic judgment.)

Above, Jackson contemplates his sphere of influence; below, Laney channels her inner Amazon.

A couple of weeks ago, I might have left the impression that a new low in baby names had been reached, what with a Swedish infant being tagged with the name "Metallica".

Veronica (a perfectly lovely name, by the way) reminds us that it could be much, much worse:

Little Eukanuba Suspensor thanks you for number three.

Thirty months old, and already he's wearing glasses? Bad eyes must run in the family or something. Anyway, here's Jackson, just shy of 2½, getting a good look, which would have been a better look had there been a real camera instead of a cell phone handy.

Disclosure: I got glasses at fifteen. Horn rims, because I aspired to wear tweed jackets and date girls who could write sonnets on short notice.

Dinner this evening with Russ and Alicia and their three quasi-hellions at O'Charley's, a place Russ suggested, I suspect, for its noise level: whatever unearthly shrieks the children emitted would scarcely be noticed. And actually, the two boys were relatively placid, comparatively speaking.

I shot this in front of Gwendolyn's rear bumper right afterwards. You'll notice that Laney is trying to bounce out of the picture, that Jackson won't give up that last chicken strip, and that Gunner is trying to ignore the whole procedure. (Click to embiggen.)

Later they were bribed with ice cream, I am given to understand.

My daughter advises that this is the last birthday she plans to celebrate, and that in future years she will celebrate the anniversary of this birthday.

Under the circumstances, I don't blame her.

What's its basis? Gold, silver, petroleum, T-bills? Nope. It's the humble cuss jar:

The March of Dimes was never like this.

Writer Chick gets a look at Kid Nation, and probably won't watch it again:

Cut to this story from six summers ago:

(Previously reposted here; I still think this is one of my better pieces from 2001. Title swiped from this.)

They, by which I mean "Gerald Ford," used to say that about Ronald Reagan back in the day, but I think this more truly represents the spirit of the color, especially since it's October and all. And I'm hoping that, given this much of an unruly mop at a mere six months, this child will end up closer to his grandma's side of the family, hair-wise, than to mine, and that he'll retain it for longer than the twenty-four years I did before things began to thin out. (Then again, I got married at twenty-four. Coincidence? I'm starting to wonder.) Full 640 x 480 dimensions here.

Three grandchildren, one floor, possibly one photo session:

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm hanging stuff like this out at Flickr these days; you may see rebigulated versions there.