One Sassy Grandma and Five Birthday Trips

Double names and nicknames seem to be multiplying like rabbits these days. Fact-checkers will insist it’s always been this way, but I don’t remember a single double name floating around my childhood. Not one.

Don’t get me wrong—I adore them. I’m practically a double-name collector. I have a godchild named Mary Heather. My youngest daughter is Sara Britton, and her daughter is Allie Boone.

But somewhere along the way, Sara Britton shrunk to SB and Allie Boone to AB. And AB’s circle of friends? Four of them have double names, and they all go by their initials too. One night, when she slept over, I found myself stammering through an alphabet soup of questions: “Are KT and TE at JK’s, AB?” Naturally, I got it wrong.

“Sassy, who are you even talking about?” she asked with that teenager’s tone. “I don’t know their names,” I quipped. 

Grandparents have their own name-game going on. Nobody wants to be Grandma or Grandmother anymore. No siree—today’s roll call sounds like a concert lineup: Gaga, Bebe, Mango and Mumbo. Four of my friends have chosen these names. 

Still in college—no husband, children or grandchildren in sight—I had already decided I would be Sassy one day. It paired neatly with Prissy, the nickname I’d carried since birth, and suited my oddball ways.

And one day, I became her, which brings me to how I ended up not just with a double name, but a double life—as Prissy to the world and Sassy to five grandchildren.

What I hadn’t expected was the frequency of its use. “Sassy, did you know…?” “Sassy, can I go…?” “Sassy, what is…?” One afternoon, out of curiosity, I counted 23 Sassys in one hour. 

Now, in my second decade as Sassy, something strange has started happening. Women from here, there and yonder began emailing, texting and calling to ask if they could borrow my name. I swear, how nice is that? 

Oscar Wilde said imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Well, I agree. 

Sassy Oh-So-Fun Day

When my two daughters had children, the three girls came first. I called them my Poodles. Then came two boys, and they quickly became my Mutts. “Poodles and Mutts” turned into a blog where I laughed at the modern juggle: two sets of working parents, car seat organization, school pickups and grandparents drafted back into active duty overseeing all of it. 

These days, you’ll find me in the same school pickup line where I once collected my daughters a lifetime ago with the same K-12 campus and noodle-wrapped line of cars. I sit idling, recounting the hours and years I’ve spent in that exact spot—same pavement, same pace, just a fresher set of Goldfish ground into the floor mats.

Nobody wants to be Grandma or Grandmother anymore. No siree—today’s roll call sounds like a concert lineup: Gaga, Bebe, Mango and Mumbo.
—Prissy Elrod

In my early Sassy days, I created Sassy Oh-So-Fun Day. Of course, in keeping with this family’s obsession with double names and initials, it quickly earned its own acronym: S.O.S.F.D. 

The concept was simple: a one-on-one adventure with each grandchild like an ice cream run or maybe a painting class. The girls’ favorite was the slumber party at Camp Sassy. I’d pull into the driveway, load up their Poodle gear and haul it back to my house. Up went the pink tent, crammed with sleeping bags, dolls, books and flashlights. They camped. I didn’t—end of story.

But, as usual, S.O.S.F.D morphed into Sassy Oh-So-Fun Travel. The tipping point was when Britton, the oldest Poodle, turned 8 years old. At the time, American Girl dolls were hot, so her mother and I plotted the ultimate birthday: tea at the Atlanta store, shopping and a swanky hotel.

The tea was perfect—mini cinnamon rolls, pizza, cupcakes and pink lemonade served from a teapot. We wore hats. We posed. We left with a brand-new doll.

And then, disaster. In the car, after five hours driving from Tallahassee, plus three hours of doll drama, the birthday girl wailed: “Why did you do this on my birthday? I wanted a party with my friends!”  

I drove to our hotel, marched into the lobby, informed the desk clerk that one of my “guests” wasn’t well and canceled the whole shebang. Back in the car I announced, “Buckle up, ladies. We’re heading home.” 

After that day, I changed the rules. No more grand adventures until age 13. Each would get a birthday trip with Sassy. From then on, they zigzagged through dream destinations as the years ticked closer. 

Britton was first. For her 13th adventure, she chose a trip to New York City during a July heat wave. Three years later, Kenley followed suit, and back to New York we went.  

Allie Boone had been counting down since she was 6. “Sassy, I can’t wait for my turn,” she said longingly. 

But when AB’s big day finally came, the news warned of riots and dire weather in New York. Her mother pulled the plug. I felt terrible.

So I pitched an alternate plan of The Cloister at Sea Island, Georgia: holiday lights, spa treatments, horseback rides and waiters serenading her over cake. She agreed. And yes, it was picture perfect—except it wasn’t Times Square. Her soft smile and quiet “thank you” spoke volumes. She was gracious, but the sparkle of her long-held dreams had dulled.

And with that, the three Poodles officially completed their 13th birthday adventures. My attention shifted next to my darling Mutts, the boy cousins. One was already 12, and the other was hot on his heels. Sassy’s playbook was about to get a rewrite. 

Boys Are So Easy

Thirteen-year-old boys are a dream to travel with. They pack light, eat whatever’s put in front of them and think any hotel with Wi-Fi is the Ritz. Hand them a pizza slice and point toward the nearest sports store, and they’re yours for the weekend. It’s zero drama and maximum fun.

When Raynes turned 13, he chose Boston. Unlike his sister Britton, he wanted our trip on his actual birthday. 

He built his three-day itinerary himself with a little help from ChatGPT. Then came the travel nightmare: Tallahassee flight delayed, Atlanta oversold, eight hours of running from gate to gate. Not once did the birthday boy whine or pout. He kept asking whether we’d make it, and when I said maybe, he shrugged and said, “It’ll be an adventure, Sassy.” Boys are so easy.

Their next questions—175 miles later—were about the six billboards advertising the “Largest Adult X Store.” “Sassy, what store is that?” Whit asked twice. I turned up the radio’s volume before he could ask a third time. Innocence is fleeting.
—Prissy Elrod

By the last flight, the gate agent in a red coat studied our tickets, frowned and declared a mistake had been made—then lifted his microphone. “We have a birthday boy today. Let’s sing.” Fifty strangers sang “Happy Birthday” while Raynes tried to vanish into the carpet. The captain toured him around the cockpit, then seated him in first class.

And Sassy? I was in the last row. Mid-flight, Raynes came up and said, “Sassy, please take my seat.” I stayed put. His offer was gift enough.

Then came Whit. My finale. He chose the Bahamas; his mother said no. I sold him Highlands, N.C., for a fishing trip. He accepted and invited cousin Raynes and his Pops, my hubby, as his sidekicks.

We packed the truck with fishing poles, golf clubs, luggage and snacks. Pops unfolded a paper road map across the dash. “What’s that?” the boys asked in unison. They’d never seen a map. “That’s history,” Pops said. The boys laughed. Their next questions—175 miles later—were about the six billboards advertising the “Largest Adult X Store.” “Sassy, what store is that?” Whit asked twice. I turned up the radio’s volume before he could ask a third time. Innocence is fleeting.

After eight hours of driving, we arrived at our destination. The Airbnb I’d booked looked perfect online. In person? Mold, a mystery smell and a shower I wouldn’t step in with boots. No one unpacked. I called for a refund as we fled. It was already 6:00 p.m.

There was a large wedding in Highlands that weekend. Everything was sold out. By 11 p.m., still homeless, we left Highlands, bound for another town. 

Our final stop was a two-star motel in Franklin, N.C. Four of us squeezed into two tiny beds. The boys set sound machines to drown out Pops’s snoring. I sprayed disinfectant everywhere and scrolled my phone for the next two hours, praying for salvation. By a small miracle, I found an available house, booked it and closed my bloodshot eyes. The next day we checked into a lovely home. The rest was exactly what Whit wanted: fly fishing, gem mining, golfing, mountain roller coasting and even family time. 

I wonder if there will ever be a fourth generation of Sassy Trips? The destinations may change but the takeaways won’t. It was never about the fish caught, golf balls lost or Broadway Playbills collected. The real souvenirs are the memories and heartfelt moments: Allie Boone’s sweet gratitude, Raynes turning his mined gem into earrings for Sassy and Whit’s daily texts reading, “Just checking on y’all.” Those are my treasures, and they last long after the trips end. 

---

To read more of Prissy Elrod’s wild rides, click here.

---