From Hotdish to Grandude: The Language of Growing Older TLWH 8.28.26

Coming of age in Minnesota means learning local words and believing they're the only ones that exist. Only when thrust into other cultures did I realize how pervasive those beliefs are, for cryin’ out loud. 

Some easy ones are hotdish instead of casserole. Calling pop 'soda.' A “cold one” meant a description of a January day here. In some places it means your favorite beer, as in, “Let’s grab a cold one.”

In the South, the word "Coke" can refer to any carbonated soft drink. The Southerner who pointed out my lack of knowledge ordered a “Coke” and received a Dr Pepper. He corrected me when I pointed out what I thought was a mistake. Where he was from, it is routine to order a "Coke" and have the server ask, "What kind? Dr Pepper, Sprite, or Coca-Cola?"

My fixation with different nouns for similar things gained steam when we became grandparents. In the lily-white suburb of Richfield where I started this life, everyone had a grandpa and a grandma, dead or alive. As far as I knew, those were the only labels that applied to people whose parents had parents.

We were in our late 40s when we became grandparents. Our eldest daughter Stephanie, pregnant with our first granddaughter, Abbey, called to ask what we wanted our lovely granddaughter to call us. 

My answer: “Huh? Grandpa and Grandma, of course. Why?” 

Sighing, she explained that her in-laws wanted to be called Nana and Papa, and she wanted to make sure we didn’t have any preferences that might conflict with our family history or the in-laws. Thus another aggravating burr appeared under my saddle to go along with the overuse of journey, bucket list, and “what did you do for fun?”

I’m not unaware of the monikers different cultures attach to grandparents. The Hispanic Abuelo and Abuela, Oma and Opa for the Germans, and the Italian Nonna & Nonno. 

But Steph’s in-laws are, like us,  USA baby boomers with a Midwest heritage. Somehow, Nana and Papa are among the most popular combined pairings for grandparents, but at the time I thought it was a meaningless affectation. I despise affectations. At least they didn’t opt for Meemaw and Pawpaw. 

A current trend among first-time grandparents is picking custom, non-traditional names that sound younger or sleeker. Gigi, Mimi, Honey, Lovey, Glamma for the female grandparent and Grandude, Captain, Duke, Chief, G-Pa for the male elder. 

It’s all too much like teeth whitening, hair coloring, and virility augmentation pharmaceuticals. Anything at all to pretend aging isn’t happening. 

On the other hand, if I had it to do over, I’d demand to be called Grandude by the five offspring of our offspring. Not just because they’d get a kick out of it, but it would constantly remind me of Jeff Bridges and The Big Lebowski. Dudeism, I get it.

Speaking of raging against aging, faithful readers may remember another of my pet peeves: being asked, "Did you do something fun this weekend?" Now that I'm retired, every day is a Saturday, so I rarely consider weekends special or reason enough to go chasing "fun."

On the other hand, I did do something last Saturday that was great fun. I joined our daughter Jess in a run around the bases at Wade Stadium here in Duluth. Built as a WPA project in 1941 using bricks salvaged from Superior Street’s old streetcar lines, the park still retains its vintage charm—even with the city adding artificial turf and upgraded lights back in 2014.

Picture a fit 40-something and a crumbling 70-something shuffling around that infield. The great Lou Brock would have made the circuit three times in the time it took us to jog around and pounce on home plate, but doing it, I felt like a kid again, almost. It was fun, if not just funny.

Every summer, Wade is home to the Duluth Huskies of collegiate baseball’s Northwoods League, but last Saturday it hosted DBS Fest 2026—an annual summer picnic for the folks who handle all things basementy in our neck of the woods.

Along with hot dogs, hamburgers, beverages, and the T-shirt we wore to show we belonged, the Fest included games set up in the outfield. The Bohunk and I played Cornhole for the very first time, and later, Jess and I did our circuit of the bases.

As we rounded second, Jess asked me when I’d last run the bases. It was during a softball game almost 25 years ago in Summerlin, about the time I’d become Grandpa. I was too old to run ‘em then, but touching ‘em all with a daughter at my side brings back fond memories. 

And then, when the family dropped me at home after the Fest, granddaughter Chloe exited the back seat as I began walking to the porch. Wanting a farewell hug, she said, “Hey, GRAMPS.”