Although I have some concrete assignments I should be hashing out, I keep thinking about Scout, my actual dog and the inspiration for the young adult book I am working on.
The thing I keep thinking about is this:
Three or four times a day I walk Sadie and Scout around our neighborhood, and unless it is pouring rain, or I am 9 1/2 months pregnant, I enjoy it pretty much every time. I love the dogs, I love to walk, I love my neighborhood, and I love the little interchanges we have with people: alternately comical, poignant, friendly, nonsensical.
Lately, however, Scout's neuroses have been emerging on our walks, and occasionally, for no apparent reason, a dog passing by will agitate him so that he barks loudly and fiercely and pulls at the leash until the offending dog is out of sight. I would say this happens on one out of ten walks, maybe not even that often, so it is not a daily stress but an occasional source of distress. It upsets me on a number of levels, though, but perhaps most markedly in that it reveals Scout to me as a dog who still feels--several years after we adopted him from a collie rescue organization--fundamentally insecure.
It also must be said that I don't like being that person walking down the street with a giant dog that is barking and lunging like a lunatic and scaring small children and dog-shy adults alike. Only I know that when challenged by one of these dogs in even the slightest way Scout cowers behind me and whimpers, gives up the ghost altogether. If I were walking by us when he is in one of these states, I too would be nervous, especially if I'd had a bad dog experience, which I know some of my neighbors have, or were a small child or with one.
So for quite some time, as soon as I got the first intimation from Scout that he was about to have a Cujo moment, I would cross the street, turn around, go back inside, all the while pulling at his leash--he is at least 80 pounds--and saying some variation of, "No, Scout! Stop it right now, Scout! No, no, no!" When he starts to bark I become incredibly tense, much in the way I do when Lily makes bones about making a scene in a public place, which happens blessedly rarely, and when I am tense, Scout is tense, has been from pretty much the beginning of our relationship. The pulling on the leash is relatively ineffectual. I am not strong, and he is, and although the jerking can't be comfortable for him, he refuses to give in and keeps pulling, leading to a sort of dog/human tug-of-war with happy-go-lucky Sadie standing watching, wagging her tail.
One morning, I saw a prissy, prancing standard poodle Scout for some reason equates with the Son of Sam or some dog-loathing villain coming out of a building up the street. I saw him first and started to turn back, but Scout must have sensed my anxiety, or the other dog's presence, as he turned and began his barking show. For some reason, instead of yanking at his leash and yelling right back at him, or holding his mouth closed and incurring his wrath and only slightly muffled barks, I crouched down by him and put my arms around his neck. I stroked his head while saying in a low quiet voice, "You're a good boy, Scout. It's okay. We're all okay. You're a very good boy."
He barked a few more times, and then visibly relaxed. His head settled back onto his neck, his body became much less rigid. I kept petting him, looking into his eyes, talking to him, as Sadie--who would keep doing so as the Titanic sank--stood wagging her tail aggressively at passers-by. The poodle passed. Scout tensed up a little again when I got up, but we kept walking, in the direction we'd been going, and he was pretty calm for the rest of the walk.
Since that morning, I have been using this technique whenever I sense an impending bark storm, one of these seemingly random episodes triggered by something I can't see, smell or identify, something that is so clearly related to Scout's past that he may as well have told me so in plain English. And although he hasn't stopped entirely, it is amazing how much more effective my soothing voice, expansive pets and kind words are than my previous leash pulling and angry, embarrassed pleading and yells.
Anyway. That's all. Again, I suspect I'm stating the obvious for many people, but as Lily says, "If I didn't know it already (not to modify her clothing with scissors, tie Annika to the stroller, etc.) you can't get mad at me."
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Sour Cherries, Part Two (Because I Know the Suspense is Killing You)
Finally, I found some jarred sour cherries at an enormous grocery store in Buffalo. I bought some, brought them home, and baked a pie. It was good, very good, even, but it was not transcendent. It didn't come close to the pie I'd had at the potluck. I couldn't quite talk myself into the exorbitant price of the mail-ordered frozen cherries, and as I lived uptown, and did not frequent the greenmarket yet, I didn't know that for a slightly less exorbitant price, sour cherries could be had for a few weeks each year right here in Manhattan.
About nine years ago, we bought a little farmhouse in Easton, Connecticut, about an hour out of the city, where we live. The house had a nine-car garage, for my husband, and enough land for me to do what I like to do on the weekends, which is grow things, and cook with them. One of the first things I did when we moved in was research sour cherry trees; I suspected if they grew so well in Michigan, they'd manage quite nicely in the northeast.
And I was right. We put in six trees that first year, knowing they would take several years to bear fruit. Because we don't use any chemicals in our gardening, and didn't spray them, the first years the trees did bear fruit, birds and insects got almost all of them. A few years ago, though, I had enough for a pie: one pie. It was the best pie I have ever made, and it was the best pie I have ever eaten. The past two summers, the weather has not been ideal for cherries. I had enough for a pie and a few jars of jam one year, another year we were out of the country when the trees bore fruit, and we missed them altogether.
But last weekend, when we drove up to the house, the bright red cherries were visible as soon as we rounded the corner, from all the way up the street. I had been waiting weeks, maybe even months, and when Lily and I ran to investigate, it was even more glorious a display than I'd anticipated. Each tree was covered; the fruit was either perfectly ripe or almost so, meaning we needed to harvest half of it right away, the other half the following weekend. Ben brought us a ladder; we brought a basket to share. And then we picked.
Lily climbed up the ladder to pick the higher cherries. I picked the lower ones, too high for her to reach while standing. We filled the basket again and again, transferring the fruits of our labor into Ziplock bags. All I could think about as I picked was pie. And jam, too, but mostly pie.
Tonight, I pitted the first bag and sealed it, placing it in the freezer for an unexpected treat sometime later in the year. Tomorrow, with my rendered leaf lard from the greenmarket, Lily and I will make the crust, bake a pie. Possibly two. And although my back aches from standing at the kitchen counter and pitting all those cherries, I will do it again tomorrow, and as many times as it takes to pit every single cherry.
At one point, as we picked, I stopped to watch Lily, thrilled to be allowed so high on the ladder, deliberately evaluating cherries for ripeness, picking them carefully off the stems, depositing them gently on top of the growing pile in the basket. She caught me. "Why are you watching me, Mama?"
"Because you're doing such a good job," I said. "And because you look so happy." She considered this, then nodded, a bit solemnly.
"It's cool that we made these," she said.
"Yes," I agreed. To be honest, nothing I have ever grown has given me as much pleasure as this first whole thriving crop of sour cherries.
"And I really want to taste the pie," she added.
Amen.
About nine years ago, we bought a little farmhouse in Easton, Connecticut, about an hour out of the city, where we live. The house had a nine-car garage, for my husband, and enough land for me to do what I like to do on the weekends, which is grow things, and cook with them. One of the first things I did when we moved in was research sour cherry trees; I suspected if they grew so well in Michigan, they'd manage quite nicely in the northeast.
And I was right. We put in six trees that first year, knowing they would take several years to bear fruit. Because we don't use any chemicals in our gardening, and didn't spray them, the first years the trees did bear fruit, birds and insects got almost all of them. A few years ago, though, I had enough for a pie: one pie. It was the best pie I have ever made, and it was the best pie I have ever eaten. The past two summers, the weather has not been ideal for cherries. I had enough for a pie and a few jars of jam one year, another year we were out of the country when the trees bore fruit, and we missed them altogether.
But last weekend, when we drove up to the house, the bright red cherries were visible as soon as we rounded the corner, from all the way up the street. I had been waiting weeks, maybe even months, and when Lily and I ran to investigate, it was even more glorious a display than I'd anticipated. Each tree was covered; the fruit was either perfectly ripe or almost so, meaning we needed to harvest half of it right away, the other half the following weekend. Ben brought us a ladder; we brought a basket to share. And then we picked.
Lily climbed up the ladder to pick the higher cherries. I picked the lower ones, too high for her to reach while standing. We filled the basket again and again, transferring the fruits of our labor into Ziplock bags. All I could think about as I picked was pie. And jam, too, but mostly pie.
Tonight, I pitted the first bag and sealed it, placing it in the freezer for an unexpected treat sometime later in the year. Tomorrow, with my rendered leaf lard from the greenmarket, Lily and I will make the crust, bake a pie. Possibly two. And although my back aches from standing at the kitchen counter and pitting all those cherries, I will do it again tomorrow, and as many times as it takes to pit every single cherry.
At one point, as we picked, I stopped to watch Lily, thrilled to be allowed so high on the ladder, deliberately evaluating cherries for ripeness, picking them carefully off the stems, depositing them gently on top of the growing pile in the basket. She caught me. "Why are you watching me, Mama?"
"Because you're doing such a good job," I said. "And because you look so happy." She considered this, then nodded, a bit solemnly.
"It's cool that we made these," she said.
"Yes," I agreed. To be honest, nothing I have ever grown has given me as much pleasure as this first whole thriving crop of sour cherries.
"And I really want to taste the pie," she added.
Amen.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Can She Make a Cherry Pie?
When I was in graduate school, and potluck get-togethers were frequent, a woman who spent summers in Maine showed up at some event one evening with a cherry pie. I was organizing the food, and when she handed me the pie, she said, "It's sour cherry. Have you ever had one?" I hadn't, and I didn't tell her that I had been thinking: Cherry pie. Yuck. In my very limited experience with them, at diners and fast food joints, cherry pies were filled with gloppy, sickly-sweet, barely recognizable cherries that were swimming in corn syrup and stained my tongue with dye. Intrigued by the notion of a fruit I had never tasted, I took a slice. She watched with a knowing expression. I have never looked back.
I am not a dessert person. I will almost always choose savory over sweet, and when it comes to pie--not a favorite--I have always focused on the crust, finding the fillings insipid or mushy or both, with the exception of my own pecan pie, which I have tweaked by eliminating most of the sugar. But a sour cherry pie, made well! It is a thing of beauty and a joy for, well, about 24 hours, which is as long as they last in my house, thanks mostly to me.
A sour cherry pie, in a crust made with rendered lard, the way my great-grandmother must have made it, is perhaps my favorite dessert; it certainly elevates the pie to heights unimaginable by those who use a can opener to start their recipe. After I tasted that first sour cherry pie, I grilled its baker. She told me that sour cherries were very hard to find, which proved to be true. She picked hers in a friend's private orchard and froze them so she could make a few pies a year. She told me they grew mostly in the midwest and could be mail-ordered but were considered old-fashioned by even gourmet markets, which almost never carried them. I tried anyway.
To be continued...
I am not a dessert person. I will almost always choose savory over sweet, and when it comes to pie--not a favorite--I have always focused on the crust, finding the fillings insipid or mushy or both, with the exception of my own pecan pie, which I have tweaked by eliminating most of the sugar. But a sour cherry pie, made well! It is a thing of beauty and a joy for, well, about 24 hours, which is as long as they last in my house, thanks mostly to me.
A sour cherry pie, in a crust made with rendered lard, the way my great-grandmother must have made it, is perhaps my favorite dessert; it certainly elevates the pie to heights unimaginable by those who use a can opener to start their recipe. After I tasted that first sour cherry pie, I grilled its baker. She told me that sour cherries were very hard to find, which proved to be true. She picked hers in a friend's private orchard and froze them so she could make a few pies a year. She told me they grew mostly in the midwest and could be mail-ordered but were considered old-fashioned by even gourmet markets, which almost never carried them. I tried anyway.
To be continued...
Friday, June 27, 2008
June 27, 1998...
was the day I got married.
In an unrelated turn of events, am getting migraine symptoms so will take medication and return tomorrow.
ASW
In an unrelated turn of events, am getting migraine symptoms so will take medication and return tomorrow.
ASW
The Other Island, drastically cut and closer to better
The Other Island
By Amy Wilensky
One morning, as the sand glinted in the sunlight and the waves sent white froth up on the shore of a beautiful island, two friends were sitting on a pile of smooth grey rocks, gazing out at the horizon. The friends were Felix, a small but very determined bird, and his best friend Boo, the kindest, most good-natured giraffe you could ever hope to meet. The object of their gaze was another island: a speck in the distance that seemed about a million miles away.
All around Felix and Boo, their own island bustled with life. As many kinds of birds as there are shells in the sea trilled and warbled in their cozy nests. Friendly speckled crabs scurried about on the soft white sand, and lean gentle wolves with mournful howls rested beneath the pomegranate trees. Giraffes lay in hammocks, humming along to the birdsong.
Boo thought their island was just about perfect, which was she was so surprised when Felix started complaining. “It’s so boring here,” he said.
“Boring?” said Boo, who had just been thinking how happy she was.
“Yes,” said Felix, in a super grumpy voice. “There’s nothing to do on this boring old island.”
“We could organize a crab race,” Boo suggested. Felix loved crab races.
“Again?” Felix said. “We did that three times last week.”
“We could teach the wolves to…tap-dance?” Felix was still staring out to sea. All of a sudden he flew straight up into the sky. “I’ve got it,” he shouted. “The best Big Idea ever!”
Which is how Boo found herself dragging logs down to the beach from the woods in the middle of the island, as Felix plucked reeds with his beak. A few hours later, they had constructed a simple but very sturdy raft, complete with a sail stitched together from pomegranate leaves.
“I wonder if they have peacocks over there?” Felix mused, as they pulled the raft into the water and hopped on.
“I doubt it,” said Boo quietly, her head drooping just a little.
“And coconuts!” Felix added, ignoring Boo. “I hear coconut milk is indescribably delicious.” Boo imagined little Felix, fierce as he was, trying to peck a hole in a rock-hard coconut.
“Felix?” said Boo.
“What, Boo?” said Felix.
“Can we just sail quietly for a while?” Felix was so excited he didn’t notice that Boo’s eyes were filled with tears.
“Sure, whatever,” said Felix, hopping from log to log with excitement.
The other island got closer and closer. Soon, the raft bumped up on the sand. “Land ho!” shouted Felix. They climbed off and stood on the beach, which was pink, not white, looking around. Suddenly, they both jumped, at the sound of a voice near their feet.
“And who are you?” It was a turtle, not much bigger than Felix, with a mottled dark shell and inquisitive face. “Or should I say, what are you?”
“Um, I’m a bird,” said Felix. “Like a peacock?” he said.
“I don’t know what that is,” the turtle said, turning his tiny head to look at Boo. “And you?”
“I’m a giraffe,” said Boo said. The turtle looked perplexed.
“My name is Horace,” he said. “And I, of course, am a turtle. I don’t know what use we have for birds and giraffes around here, but we don’t get many visitors. Actually, I’m almost four hundred years old, and you’re the first in my lifetime. Would you like to see the rest of the island?” Felix sighed happily.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Felix and Boo followed Horace into a cool, piney forest, through a meadow, where wildflowers bloomed in bursts of orange and red like miniature planets and suns, and up a long, high hill, where he finally stopped.
“Well? “ said Horace. Felix and Boo looked down and saw a brilliant patchwork quilt with squares of pink flowering trees in full bloom, the greenest pastures, and buttery yellow sandy stretches rippled with blue bubbling brooks. Boo had to admit it. The other island was spectacular. Felix’s beak was open in awe.
Suddenly, they realized they were surrounded. Turtles large and small had gathered in clusters around them, along with tan, horse-sized creatures with humps on their backs and faces like llamas. “Camels,” whispered Felix to Boo. “I saw them in a book once.”
“This is Felix and Boo,” announced Horace. “They’ve come from, well, somewhere else, and they want to see our island.” Felix waved his wing at the crowd. Boo rolled her eyes. Felix always liked an audience.
It was arranged for a couple of camels to take them touring and show them the sights. But first: a feast. Platters of woven reeds were brought out, holding piles of brown fuzzy fruits cut open to reveal green insides flecked with tiny black seeds. Felix and Boo ate the kiwi, which tasted a little like lime, a little like banana, but was more delicious than either. They sipped what turned out to be coconut milk from actual coconuts, and even Boo had to admit it was like drinking an afternoon breeze. A camel stood behind each of them as they feasted, and on the back of each camel sat a turtle, with an enormous fan made of kiwi tree leaves.
All that afternoon, they explored the other island. The camels took Felix and Boo to a spring where water bubbled up in all the colors of a sunrise, a cave with walls like crystals, and a spot in a forest where stars shone in the sky not just all night but all day long. When they were thirsty, turtles appeared with coconut milk. When they were hungry, turtles appeared with slices of kiwi on ice.
When dusk fell, and the sun hovered low, Felix and Boo found themselves back with Horace on the beach with their raft.
“Felix and Boo,” began Horace. “The Turtle Council made an important decision while you were exploring. We are honored by your visit. We would like you to stay.”
“You mean to live?” asked Boo.
“Exactly,” said Horace. “We have already started building your palace.” Boo looked at Felix. Felix looked out at the ocean, where their boring old beautiful island could be seen as a speck in the distance. Suddenly he found himself, for the first time all day, craving a pomegranate.
"That's so lovely of you," Felix said, "but no thank you. If we leave now, we'll make it home before bedtime." Boo breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
A little while later, after Horace had pushed them off into the sea, Boo sat on the raft watching Felix sleep. He had one orange wing around a coconut he'd sweet-talked off Horace. Above the friends, the moon was a crescent in the navy expanse. Across the water, the sounds of the evening concert at home could be heard, ever so faintly. Boo was glad they had gone to the other island, after all.
Sometimes you need to leave to come back home.
By Amy Wilensky
One morning, as the sand glinted in the sunlight and the waves sent white froth up on the shore of a beautiful island, two friends were sitting on a pile of smooth grey rocks, gazing out at the horizon. The friends were Felix, a small but very determined bird, and his best friend Boo, the kindest, most good-natured giraffe you could ever hope to meet. The object of their gaze was another island: a speck in the distance that seemed about a million miles away.
All around Felix and Boo, their own island bustled with life. As many kinds of birds as there are shells in the sea trilled and warbled in their cozy nests. Friendly speckled crabs scurried about on the soft white sand, and lean gentle wolves with mournful howls rested beneath the pomegranate trees. Giraffes lay in hammocks, humming along to the birdsong.
Boo thought their island was just about perfect, which was she was so surprised when Felix started complaining. “It’s so boring here,” he said.
“Boring?” said Boo, who had just been thinking how happy she was.
“Yes,” said Felix, in a super grumpy voice. “There’s nothing to do on this boring old island.”
“We could organize a crab race,” Boo suggested. Felix loved crab races.
“Again?” Felix said. “We did that three times last week.”
“We could teach the wolves to…tap-dance?” Felix was still staring out to sea. All of a sudden he flew straight up into the sky. “I’ve got it,” he shouted. “The best Big Idea ever!”
Which is how Boo found herself dragging logs down to the beach from the woods in the middle of the island, as Felix plucked reeds with his beak. A few hours later, they had constructed a simple but very sturdy raft, complete with a sail stitched together from pomegranate leaves.
“I wonder if they have peacocks over there?” Felix mused, as they pulled the raft into the water and hopped on.
“I doubt it,” said Boo quietly, her head drooping just a little.
“And coconuts!” Felix added, ignoring Boo. “I hear coconut milk is indescribably delicious.” Boo imagined little Felix, fierce as he was, trying to peck a hole in a rock-hard coconut.
“Felix?” said Boo.
“What, Boo?” said Felix.
“Can we just sail quietly for a while?” Felix was so excited he didn’t notice that Boo’s eyes were filled with tears.
“Sure, whatever,” said Felix, hopping from log to log with excitement.
The other island got closer and closer. Soon, the raft bumped up on the sand. “Land ho!” shouted Felix. They climbed off and stood on the beach, which was pink, not white, looking around. Suddenly, they both jumped, at the sound of a voice near their feet.
“And who are you?” It was a turtle, not much bigger than Felix, with a mottled dark shell and inquisitive face. “Or should I say, what are you?”
“Um, I’m a bird,” said Felix. “Like a peacock?” he said.
“I don’t know what that is,” the turtle said, turning his tiny head to look at Boo. “And you?”
“I’m a giraffe,” said Boo said. The turtle looked perplexed.
“My name is Horace,” he said. “And I, of course, am a turtle. I don’t know what use we have for birds and giraffes around here, but we don’t get many visitors. Actually, I’m almost four hundred years old, and you’re the first in my lifetime. Would you like to see the rest of the island?” Felix sighed happily.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Felix and Boo followed Horace into a cool, piney forest, through a meadow, where wildflowers bloomed in bursts of orange and red like miniature planets and suns, and up a long, high hill, where he finally stopped.
“Well? “ said Horace. Felix and Boo looked down and saw a brilliant patchwork quilt with squares of pink flowering trees in full bloom, the greenest pastures, and buttery yellow sandy stretches rippled with blue bubbling brooks. Boo had to admit it. The other island was spectacular. Felix’s beak was open in awe.
Suddenly, they realized they were surrounded. Turtles large and small had gathered in clusters around them, along with tan, horse-sized creatures with humps on their backs and faces like llamas. “Camels,” whispered Felix to Boo. “I saw them in a book once.”
“This is Felix and Boo,” announced Horace. “They’ve come from, well, somewhere else, and they want to see our island.” Felix waved his wing at the crowd. Boo rolled her eyes. Felix always liked an audience.
It was arranged for a couple of camels to take them touring and show them the sights. But first: a feast. Platters of woven reeds were brought out, holding piles of brown fuzzy fruits cut open to reveal green insides flecked with tiny black seeds. Felix and Boo ate the kiwi, which tasted a little like lime, a little like banana, but was more delicious than either. They sipped what turned out to be coconut milk from actual coconuts, and even Boo had to admit it was like drinking an afternoon breeze. A camel stood behind each of them as they feasted, and on the back of each camel sat a turtle, with an enormous fan made of kiwi tree leaves.
All that afternoon, they explored the other island. The camels took Felix and Boo to a spring where water bubbled up in all the colors of a sunrise, a cave with walls like crystals, and a spot in a forest where stars shone in the sky not just all night but all day long. When they were thirsty, turtles appeared with coconut milk. When they were hungry, turtles appeared with slices of kiwi on ice.
When dusk fell, and the sun hovered low, Felix and Boo found themselves back with Horace on the beach with their raft.
“Felix and Boo,” began Horace. “The Turtle Council made an important decision while you were exploring. We are honored by your visit. We would like you to stay.”
“You mean to live?” asked Boo.
“Exactly,” said Horace. “We have already started building your palace.” Boo looked at Felix. Felix looked out at the ocean, where their boring old beautiful island could be seen as a speck in the distance. Suddenly he found himself, for the first time all day, craving a pomegranate.
"That's so lovely of you," Felix said, "but no thank you. If we leave now, we'll make it home before bedtime." Boo breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
A little while later, after Horace had pushed them off into the sea, Boo sat on the raft watching Felix sleep. He had one orange wing around a coconut he'd sweet-talked off Horace. Above the friends, the moon was a crescent in the navy expanse. Across the water, the sounds of the evening concert at home could be heard, ever so faintly. Boo was glad they had gone to the other island, after all.
Sometimes you need to leave to come back home.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Forward Progress, Still No Dog
“Nope. I walk. And my friend’s going to be here any second, so I’ve got to run.” He wolfed down the last few bites as his grandfather watched, in silence. He thought about picking up the bowl and slurping the rest of the milk, but then thought better of it as his grandfather picked up his napkin and patted gently around his mouth. Andy noticed how thin and veiny the skin on his face was. You could almost see through it. Andy got up. “So I guess I’ll see you later,” he said, although he suspected he would not. His grandfather had requested dinner on a tray in his room the previous evening, which Andy had thought would please his mother—no change in routine—but instead had seemed to annoy her. There was no reason to think tonight would be any different. And besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have time to eat dinner. He’d need to be doing his project.
As soon as he reached the curb, he could tell that Mia was distracted. She barely looked at him as they started walking toward school. It was chilly for March, and their breath made little clouds in front of their faces as they walked. For a few seconds Andy just watched the puffs of breath form: gas to solid, sort of, he thought. That was a science project, wasn’t it? No. “So?” he finally said.
“So what?” said Mia, quickening her pace. Andy felt his chest tighten a bit.
“My project? Do you have an idea for me?” Mia stopped walking, abruptly. Andy stopped too.
“No, Andy,” she said, speaking very slowly, as though he didn’t speak English and she was trying to give him directions to somewhere important. “I do not have a project for you. I guess you are just going to have to do the work yourself this time.” Andy’s face felt hot, in spite of the temperature. Mia was so rarely annoyed, he didn’t know what to do, how to react. For a moment he forgot all about the science project. They started walking again, even more quickly than before, thanks to Mia’s pace.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “What’s going on with you? You sound, well, a little weird.” Mia gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Nothing I feel like talking about.” The school appeared in front of them then, an old-fashioned brick building with odd, 1970s additions in dark wood with slanted roof panels. Andy flipped open his cell phone. They had two minutes to get to homeroom.
“If you change your mind—“ he said, letting the sentiment drift off.
“Yup. Whatever,” said Mia. “I’ll see you at lunch.” She adjusted her backpack and ran into the school ahead of him. Andy stood on the courtyard for a moment, letting hurried students and teachers stream past him, occasionally knocking into him with a bag or a book. For once, the cockeyed, friendly building seemed ominous. At the very last second, as the last bell chimed, he ran in, too. It was unavoidable. Skipping out would just make it worse.
By the time sixth period rolled around, Andy had worked himself into a state. He waited until everyone else had filed into the classroom, then slipped in at the last possible second, into the seat by the radiator that nobody ever wanted to sit in, as it sputtered hot water and hissed periodically, making it hard to hear Mr. Gallagher, who believed in “notebook checks,” meaning that one actually had to take notes. Good ones. But the seat had one distinct advantage. It was in the back right corner of the classroom, about as far as it was possible to sit from Mr. Gallagher’s desk at the front of the room by the door.
“So today,” Mr. Gallagher began, “I’m going to go over the checklist for your invention projects. You should be basically done, but there are a few details I want to make sure we’ve reviewed, and of course, I will also take all of your last-minute questions. I don’t need to remind you how important this project is. It will be 75% of your grade this semester.” A few students opened their notebooks. Everybody took out the project instruction handouts. Claudia Dragun, the best student in the class, immediately raised her hand.
“Mr. Gallagher?” she began. Andy rolled his eyes. Claudia was so predictable. This would be the question designed to show how on top of things Claudia was. He and Mia had once decided that Claudia was the kind of person who would, ten years down the road, sit in job interviews telling people that her negative trait was being “too much of a perfectionist.” “I was wondering if you wanted our bibliographies to be annotated.” Even Mr. Gallagher looked taken aback. Andy was pretty sure most of the class didn’t even know what that meant. He did, because Mia had taken a class at the community college during the summer and had explained it to him. But even Claudia knew that annotated bibliographies were not generally required of junior high students.
“A regular bibliography, per the handout, should suffice, Claudia,” Mr. Gallagher said, sounding—was it possible—a little bit weary. Andy surveyed his classmates. There was nobody in the room, he knew, who did not have a finished, or nearly finished, project at home. There were no slackers in this group. It was a fast track class, the “smart kids,” as the other kids called them. Claudia may have been the most annoying, but she wasn’t the best student, the most organized, the most eager to please. Andy’s chest felt even tighter. He was doomed.
As soon as he reached the curb, he could tell that Mia was distracted. She barely looked at him as they started walking toward school. It was chilly for March, and their breath made little clouds in front of their faces as they walked. For a few seconds Andy just watched the puffs of breath form: gas to solid, sort of, he thought. That was a science project, wasn’t it? No. “So?” he finally said.
“So what?” said Mia, quickening her pace. Andy felt his chest tighten a bit.
“My project? Do you have an idea for me?” Mia stopped walking, abruptly. Andy stopped too.
“No, Andy,” she said, speaking very slowly, as though he didn’t speak English and she was trying to give him directions to somewhere important. “I do not have a project for you. I guess you are just going to have to do the work yourself this time.” Andy’s face felt hot, in spite of the temperature. Mia was so rarely annoyed, he didn’t know what to do, how to react. For a moment he forgot all about the science project. They started walking again, even more quickly than before, thanks to Mia’s pace.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “What’s going on with you? You sound, well, a little weird.” Mia gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Nothing I feel like talking about.” The school appeared in front of them then, an old-fashioned brick building with odd, 1970s additions in dark wood with slanted roof panels. Andy flipped open his cell phone. They had two minutes to get to homeroom.
“If you change your mind—“ he said, letting the sentiment drift off.
“Yup. Whatever,” said Mia. “I’ll see you at lunch.” She adjusted her backpack and ran into the school ahead of him. Andy stood on the courtyard for a moment, letting hurried students and teachers stream past him, occasionally knocking into him with a bag or a book. For once, the cockeyed, friendly building seemed ominous. At the very last second, as the last bell chimed, he ran in, too. It was unavoidable. Skipping out would just make it worse.
By the time sixth period rolled around, Andy had worked himself into a state. He waited until everyone else had filed into the classroom, then slipped in at the last possible second, into the seat by the radiator that nobody ever wanted to sit in, as it sputtered hot water and hissed periodically, making it hard to hear Mr. Gallagher, who believed in “notebook checks,” meaning that one actually had to take notes. Good ones. But the seat had one distinct advantage. It was in the back right corner of the classroom, about as far as it was possible to sit from Mr. Gallagher’s desk at the front of the room by the door.
“So today,” Mr. Gallagher began, “I’m going to go over the checklist for your invention projects. You should be basically done, but there are a few details I want to make sure we’ve reviewed, and of course, I will also take all of your last-minute questions. I don’t need to remind you how important this project is. It will be 75% of your grade this semester.” A few students opened their notebooks. Everybody took out the project instruction handouts. Claudia Dragun, the best student in the class, immediately raised her hand.
“Mr. Gallagher?” she began. Andy rolled his eyes. Claudia was so predictable. This would be the question designed to show how on top of things Claudia was. He and Mia had once decided that Claudia was the kind of person who would, ten years down the road, sit in job interviews telling people that her negative trait was being “too much of a perfectionist.” “I was wondering if you wanted our bibliographies to be annotated.” Even Mr. Gallagher looked taken aback. Andy was pretty sure most of the class didn’t even know what that meant. He did, because Mia had taken a class at the community college during the summer and had explained it to him. But even Claudia knew that annotated bibliographies were not generally required of junior high students.
“A regular bibliography, per the handout, should suffice, Claudia,” Mr. Gallagher said, sounding—was it possible—a little bit weary. Andy surveyed his classmates. There was nobody in the room, he knew, who did not have a finished, or nearly finished, project at home. There were no slackers in this group. It was a fast track class, the “smart kids,” as the other kids called them. Claudia may have been the most annoying, but she wasn’t the best student, the most organized, the most eager to please. Andy’s chest felt even tighter. He was doomed.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Pants Are Always Patterned on the Other Side of the Bus
I took a few days off. With no notification or explanation. And guess what? I'm not going to explain myself now. Is that wrong? All I will say is that I was wondering over these past few days if I would be able to write productively, or at all, if I didn't know that I had to write here, and guess what? I didn't. So the blog's back on. Big time. Because boy do I need to be writing. It feels awful not to be.
To ease back in, I will relay an anecdote from a ride on the bus last week with another mother and daughter, whom Lily and I both love.
We are seated across from each other: me and Lily, this mother and her girl, who's a year older than Lily, almost exactly. It's been a long day for everybody. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Lily bursts into tears, remains quietly sobbing. What's wrong? I ask her, putting my arm around her shoulders, raising my eyebrows at the other mom. She sniffles and finally is able to get out the words: It's my pants. I just hate all of my pants. Did she say "pants?" I ask myself, because it makes no sense to me, this has never come up before, she is not particularly into clothes, and she happens to be wearing really cute new pink linen pants that I bought knowing she would love them because I am prone to pink-aversity, meaning she knows this was a gift from the heart. Yes, my pants, she wails, quietly, as we are, after all, on the bus. Why? I sputter, at a loss. Because they're plain. They have no patterns. Every other kid in the world has patterns on their pants. I resist the urge to spout the "if every other kid in the world jumped off a bridge" chestnut as I notice that our young friend in the seat facing us is wearing camouflage pants. Aha. Honey, I say, as comfortingly as I can manage considering the ludicrousness of the situation, I think we can find you some pants with patterns. This is a solvable problem. Just then the wearer of the coveted camouflage pants starts to sob a little herself. Her mother's eyebrows shoot up too. What's wrong? the mother says, and we all await the answer. Of course. I should have seen it coming. Are you ready? Here it is. I want my pants to be plain.
There is a parenting lesson here, inherent to this story, but I will leave it unanalyzed, will let the pants, in this case, speak for themselves.
To ease back in, I will relay an anecdote from a ride on the bus last week with another mother and daughter, whom Lily and I both love.
We are seated across from each other: me and Lily, this mother and her girl, who's a year older than Lily, almost exactly. It's been a long day for everybody. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Lily bursts into tears, remains quietly sobbing. What's wrong? I ask her, putting my arm around her shoulders, raising my eyebrows at the other mom. She sniffles and finally is able to get out the words: It's my pants. I just hate all of my pants. Did she say "pants?" I ask myself, because it makes no sense to me, this has never come up before, she is not particularly into clothes, and she happens to be wearing really cute new pink linen pants that I bought knowing she would love them because I am prone to pink-aversity, meaning she knows this was a gift from the heart. Yes, my pants, she wails, quietly, as we are, after all, on the bus. Why? I sputter, at a loss. Because they're plain. They have no patterns. Every other kid in the world has patterns on their pants. I resist the urge to spout the "if every other kid in the world jumped off a bridge" chestnut as I notice that our young friend in the seat facing us is wearing camouflage pants. Aha. Honey, I say, as comfortingly as I can manage considering the ludicrousness of the situation, I think we can find you some pants with patterns. This is a solvable problem. Just then the wearer of the coveted camouflage pants starts to sob a little herself. Her mother's eyebrows shoot up too. What's wrong? the mother says, and we all await the answer. Of course. I should have seen it coming. Are you ready? Here it is. I want my pants to be plain.
There is a parenting lesson here, inherent to this story, but I will leave it unanalyzed, will let the pants, in this case, speak for themselves.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Bones of an Assignment/Again Forcing a Plunge
I knew somehow the moment we lay eyes on each other.
There had been others: one too timid, another so assertive I felt myself retreat. One tried too hard; I caught a whiff of desperation. A cruel business, this. Another was too familiar, too soon. I felt smothered. They came and went, one after another, and there was always something not quite right. Often it came down to a simple inability to communicate. And then. The door opened. I looked up. I knew.
After 5 minutes, I had made my decision. After 10, I had started to make plans. After all, this--this relationship--meant the de facto start of the rest of my life. Suddenly, shockingly, I was my old self again, but better. Filled with a sense of possibility.
For a woman who works, who cares passionately about both her work and children, a nanny becomes in many ways the most important figure in her life. And in many ways, choosing a nanny--and being chosen by one, for it is always a two-way street, overtly or not--is like falling in love. It is about the impossible to define entity we call chemistry, which persists in the face of all other factors and finally forces us to, well, settle down. This time, for the second time: as the most conflicted person on earth.
early days: tiptoeing around each other, super polite, accommodating to the extreme, trying to impress, best foot forward
honeymoon period: comfort, familiarity, understanding, everything like clockwork, finishing each other's sentences, anticipating each other's needs
reality sets in: little quirks become irritating, white lies, eyeing the competition, eye-rolling, bickering, boredom
marriage: ups and downs, settled in, routine down to a science, occasional flares
midlife crisis: confrontation, recovery
the ending: warning signs, timing, necessity, regret, fortunes inextricably linked
But the major difference is this: The finite nature is unspoken, sure, but implicit in every moment. Nobody's nanny is forever; everybody's children grow up. Thus the illusion, the temporary lie: You are helping me raise my children; you are helping me survive. But someday, when I no longer need you, you will go. I will spend every minute when we are together pretending this is not so, but we both know it. It is the essence of the job.
Anyway, I said "bones." I begin...
There had been others: one too timid, another so assertive I felt myself retreat. One tried too hard; I caught a whiff of desperation. A cruel business, this. Another was too familiar, too soon. I felt smothered. They came and went, one after another, and there was always something not quite right. Often it came down to a simple inability to communicate. And then. The door opened. I looked up. I knew.
After 5 minutes, I had made my decision. After 10, I had started to make plans. After all, this--this relationship--meant the de facto start of the rest of my life. Suddenly, shockingly, I was my old self again, but better. Filled with a sense of possibility.
For a woman who works, who cares passionately about both her work and children, a nanny becomes in many ways the most important figure in her life. And in many ways, choosing a nanny--and being chosen by one, for it is always a two-way street, overtly or not--is like falling in love. It is about the impossible to define entity we call chemistry, which persists in the face of all other factors and finally forces us to, well, settle down. This time, for the second time: as the most conflicted person on earth.
early days: tiptoeing around each other, super polite, accommodating to the extreme, trying to impress, best foot forward
honeymoon period: comfort, familiarity, understanding, everything like clockwork, finishing each other's sentences, anticipating each other's needs
reality sets in: little quirks become irritating, white lies, eyeing the competition, eye-rolling, bickering, boredom
marriage: ups and downs, settled in, routine down to a science, occasional flares
midlife crisis: confrontation, recovery
the ending: warning signs, timing, necessity, regret, fortunes inextricably linked
But the major difference is this: The finite nature is unspoken, sure, but implicit in every moment. Nobody's nanny is forever; everybody's children grow up. Thus the illusion, the temporary lie: You are helping me raise my children; you are helping me survive. But someday, when I no longer need you, you will go. I will spend every minute when we are together pretending this is not so, but we both know it. It is the essence of the job.
Anyway, I said "bones." I begin...
NBA World Champions
Blog has been suspended for one night due to resounding Celtics victory!
Back tomorrow.
ASW
Back tomorrow.
ASW
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Massively Revised The Other Island, still too long....
The Other Island
By Amy Wilensky
Once upon a time there was a bird named Felix and a giraffe named Boo who lived on the most beautiful island in the world.
Although they were nothing alike, Felix and Boo were the best of friends. Felix was small, with blue-black feathers that shimmered in the sunlight, and Boo was tall, with a spotted neck so long that she could peer into Felix’s nest to see if he was awake in the mornings.
Which she did one morning, at sunrise, but the nest was empty. “Felix?” she called. No answer. Finally she found him down on the beach, perched on a pile of smooth, grey stones.
“What are you doing?” asked Boo.
“Look at that island,” said Felix, gesturing at a tiny speck in the distance with one orange wing. “I wonder who lives there.” Boo suddenly felt a little bit nervous.
“Probably just some crabby old crabs,” said Boo. Felix hated crabs. They always tried to pinch at his wings.
“No,” said Felix, in a dreamy voice Boo had never heard before. “There aren’t any crabs there. I just know it somehow. That island is the most beautiful island on earth.”
Boo raised her eyebrows as high as they could go. (yes, some giraffes have eyebrows.) Was Felix kidding? Everyone knew their island was the most beautiful island. She followed Felix’s gaze. All she saw was a little green speck.
“Felix?” she said. Boo did not like where she sensed this was going. “Let’s go to my hammock and eat pomegranates and listen to the other birds wake up and sing.”
“No way.” said Felix, who was not flying in circles above Boo’s head, the way he did when he was coming up with a Big Idea. “I have a Big Idea. We’re going to have an adventure!”
For the next few hours, Felix and Boo worked as hard as a bird and giraffe could work. Felix stitched a sail from pomegranate leaves and reeds with his beak, and Boo dragged driftwood logs for the raft. As they worked, Felix talked nonstop. Boo couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Coconuts! They must have coconuts. I’ve always wanted to taste a coconut,” Felix said, and exhausted Boo imagined him pecking away at a hard brown shell with his delicate little beak.
“I like pomegranates,” she whispered. Felix didn’t hear.
When it was done, Boo pushed the raft out into the water. They both got on. “I will be the captain,” announced Felix. Boo didn’t care. She already felt homesick, and they weren’t even over the sandbar.
“Ship ahoy!” yelled Felix, as the sail caught a breeze. They were off.
As the other island grew closer, Felix’s tail feathers shook and shook. All Boo could think about was her little clearing, surrounded by trees with the most delicious leaves a giraffe could ever hope. All Felix could talk about was how boring their island was and how great the other island was going to be. “We might not even want to come back,” he said, and then the raft bumped up on shore.
They got off, and for a moment just stood there, taking it in.
Boo had to admit it: The other island was beautiful. The sand was white instead of pink but as soft as powder. The trees bore large brown fuzzy fruits. “Coconuts!” cried Felix, upon noticing. “I knew they’d have coconuts.”
“Come on, Boo,” shouted Felix, flying in circles again, then landing on her shoulder. “Let’s explore.”
They walked along the beach, and then into a cool, piney, forest, then through a meadow in which wildflowers bloomed in bursts red and orange like miniature planets and suns.
Finally, they came to the top of a hill. They could see the entire other island. It looked like the most colorful patchwork quilt imaginable, with squares of flowering trees in bloom, greenest pastures, buttery yellow sand rippled with bluest brooks.
“I want to see more,” said Felix, after a few minutes. They started down. All afternoon they explored. They saw a spring where the water bubbled up in all the colors of the rainbow. They saw a cave with walls of crystal. And coconuts, thousands of coconuts.
When dusk fell, Felix and Boo found themselves back at their raft. Felix cleared his throat, which meant he had something to say. Boo felt a lump in her throat the size of a coconut.
“Boo?” he began.
“Yes, Felix,” she said, afraid to look at him because tears were welling up in her eyes. She didn’t want to stay but she would if Felix wanted to.
“You see that boring old beautiful island over there?” He gestured with one wing.
“Yes,” said Boo. It was just light enough to make it out on the horizon.
“It’s time to go home,” said Felix.
On the ride back, Felix fell asleep, one wing wrapped around the coconut he’d insisted on bringing. Boo looked up at the moon as the raft pulled smoothly through the gentle waves, a crescent in the navy sky. She was glad they’d gone to the other island after all. Sometimes you have to leave to come back home.
By Amy Wilensky
Once upon a time there was a bird named Felix and a giraffe named Boo who lived on the most beautiful island in the world.
Although they were nothing alike, Felix and Boo were the best of friends. Felix was small, with blue-black feathers that shimmered in the sunlight, and Boo was tall, with a spotted neck so long that she could peer into Felix’s nest to see if he was awake in the mornings.
Which she did one morning, at sunrise, but the nest was empty. “Felix?” she called. No answer. Finally she found him down on the beach, perched on a pile of smooth, grey stones.
“What are you doing?” asked Boo.
“Look at that island,” said Felix, gesturing at a tiny speck in the distance with one orange wing. “I wonder who lives there.” Boo suddenly felt a little bit nervous.
“Probably just some crabby old crabs,” said Boo. Felix hated crabs. They always tried to pinch at his wings.
“No,” said Felix, in a dreamy voice Boo had never heard before. “There aren’t any crabs there. I just know it somehow. That island is the most beautiful island on earth.”
Boo raised her eyebrows as high as they could go. (yes, some giraffes have eyebrows.) Was Felix kidding? Everyone knew their island was the most beautiful island. She followed Felix’s gaze. All she saw was a little green speck.
“Felix?” she said. Boo did not like where she sensed this was going. “Let’s go to my hammock and eat pomegranates and listen to the other birds wake up and sing.”
“No way.” said Felix, who was not flying in circles above Boo’s head, the way he did when he was coming up with a Big Idea. “I have a Big Idea. We’re going to have an adventure!”
For the next few hours, Felix and Boo worked as hard as a bird and giraffe could work. Felix stitched a sail from pomegranate leaves and reeds with his beak, and Boo dragged driftwood logs for the raft. As they worked, Felix talked nonstop. Boo couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Coconuts! They must have coconuts. I’ve always wanted to taste a coconut,” Felix said, and exhausted Boo imagined him pecking away at a hard brown shell with his delicate little beak.
“I like pomegranates,” she whispered. Felix didn’t hear.
When it was done, Boo pushed the raft out into the water. They both got on. “I will be the captain,” announced Felix. Boo didn’t care. She already felt homesick, and they weren’t even over the sandbar.
“Ship ahoy!” yelled Felix, as the sail caught a breeze. They were off.
As the other island grew closer, Felix’s tail feathers shook and shook. All Boo could think about was her little clearing, surrounded by trees with the most delicious leaves a giraffe could ever hope. All Felix could talk about was how boring their island was and how great the other island was going to be. “We might not even want to come back,” he said, and then the raft bumped up on shore.
They got off, and for a moment just stood there, taking it in.
Boo had to admit it: The other island was beautiful. The sand was white instead of pink but as soft as powder. The trees bore large brown fuzzy fruits. “Coconuts!” cried Felix, upon noticing. “I knew they’d have coconuts.”
“Come on, Boo,” shouted Felix, flying in circles again, then landing on her shoulder. “Let’s explore.”
They walked along the beach, and then into a cool, piney, forest, then through a meadow in which wildflowers bloomed in bursts red and orange like miniature planets and suns.
Finally, they came to the top of a hill. They could see the entire other island. It looked like the most colorful patchwork quilt imaginable, with squares of flowering trees in bloom, greenest pastures, buttery yellow sand rippled with bluest brooks.
“I want to see more,” said Felix, after a few minutes. They started down. All afternoon they explored. They saw a spring where the water bubbled up in all the colors of the rainbow. They saw a cave with walls of crystal. And coconuts, thousands of coconuts.
When dusk fell, Felix and Boo found themselves back at their raft. Felix cleared his throat, which meant he had something to say. Boo felt a lump in her throat the size of a coconut.
“Boo?” he began.
“Yes, Felix,” she said, afraid to look at him because tears were welling up in her eyes. She didn’t want to stay but she would if Felix wanted to.
“You see that boring old beautiful island over there?” He gestured with one wing.
“Yes,” said Boo. It was just light enough to make it out on the horizon.
“It’s time to go home,” said Felix.
On the ride back, Felix fell asleep, one wing wrapped around the coconut he’d insisted on bringing. Boo looked up at the moon as the raft pulled smoothly through the gentle waves, a crescent in the navy sky. She was glad they’d gone to the other island after all. Sometimes you have to leave to come back home.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
On the Occasion of Father's Day
Once many years ago by accident I found a card in my father's den that he had tucked in the pages of a fairly obscure political book. I didn't recognize the handwriting, and I read it. It was a thank you note from a woman I knew had done some secretarial work for my father around this time. Apparently my father had helped this woman send her daughter to a summer program of some kind that she had not been able to afford on her own. I happened to know this woman was a single mother raising two children, while working full-time, as well as a kind and lovely person. But it never would have occurred to me that my father would have done something like this--we did not have vast funds lying around for such purposes--and I was also surprised that he had not told us he had done it.
When I asked him about it, he was embarrassed. It's nothing, he mumbled, effectively terminating the discussion. But I didn't think so then, and I don't think so still, when I stop to think about all of the times my father has done something to help someone, gone out of his way to be loving or kind, made someone who is marginalized feel special, sacrificed his own time, energy, comfort, or preference on behalf someone he loves. I wonder sometimes how many other stories, thank you notes, like this one he has; I suspect it is a number larger than most people can lay claim to. It reminds me of my father's favorite expression: Judge people not by what they say but by what they do. Clearly, he applies this standard to himself.
My father tends to attribute my sister's and my best qualities entirely to my mother, whom he worships. Although he is confident about many things, he has always suffered from a lack of confidence in his parenting, in spite of our constant ringing endorsements. I suspect this is because he feels he did not have a good role model as a father himself and still--with two children approaching forty fast--fears that he is winging it, while everyone else has the answers.
Nobody has the answers. As a parent of two myself, I see this now so clearly. And although my mother is a wonderful parent, in every possible way, my father is such an integral part of who we are--the best parts of both of us, that I need to tell him again, in a different way than I have before, so maybe, this time, he will believe it.
Dad, every time Alison and I walk down the street and it feels like we know everyone in our respective neighborhoods, that is you. Your ability to make people feel like a part of something, to remember and acknowledge faces, to read people, to ease into a scene, any scene, by being your own quirky, funny, unabashed self, to spearhead groups and bring people together, to lighten a mood, to become the ultimate "regular"--all these have made you an excellent dad.
I remember a little ripped out piece of newspaper you kept pinned above your desk when I was a child. It was something about how the magic of JFK was his ability to treat people equally, be "at home with" people equally, whether paupers or kings. Your children never saw you treat anyone with disrespect, ever; don't underestimate the impact of your decision to make this a core value on your children.
In at least 40 years, probably 50, you have never once walked by a lemonade stand--or a child selling anything--without stopping to buy. You have pulled over in traffic to do this, made U-turns to do this, borrowed money from a stranger to do this, and for about 20 years now, I have--to myself, until now--followed suit. You think of this as a small thing, a sentimental thing. I beg to differ. I have seen too many of the children's faces in response.
Although we always knew, in our own ways, that we--with mom--were the loves of your life, I also knew from very early on that you had a life, and other loves: animals, politics, basketball, your own loyal, funny friends, your equally life-loving sister, your work, your home, reading, and more. This has shaped me as a parent, my memories of how alive you were, have always been, remain, how engaged with the world, how protective of your passions. You taught me that children don't need to be ostentatiously made the center of the universe, they need to be raised by people who show them the possibilities of fully realized personhood while loving them so hard they never for a fraction of an instant ever question it.
So on Father's Day, for Father's Day, I offer you this. Words, I know, only words, but I like to think that at our very best, in our actions, the way we walk through the world, we are living proof of who you are and what you have done. I hope you think so too.
When I asked him about it, he was embarrassed. It's nothing, he mumbled, effectively terminating the discussion. But I didn't think so then, and I don't think so still, when I stop to think about all of the times my father has done something to help someone, gone out of his way to be loving or kind, made someone who is marginalized feel special, sacrificed his own time, energy, comfort, or preference on behalf someone he loves. I wonder sometimes how many other stories, thank you notes, like this one he has; I suspect it is a number larger than most people can lay claim to. It reminds me of my father's favorite expression: Judge people not by what they say but by what they do. Clearly, he applies this standard to himself.
My father tends to attribute my sister's and my best qualities entirely to my mother, whom he worships. Although he is confident about many things, he has always suffered from a lack of confidence in his parenting, in spite of our constant ringing endorsements. I suspect this is because he feels he did not have a good role model as a father himself and still--with two children approaching forty fast--fears that he is winging it, while everyone else has the answers.
Nobody has the answers. As a parent of two myself, I see this now so clearly. And although my mother is a wonderful parent, in every possible way, my father is such an integral part of who we are--the best parts of both of us, that I need to tell him again, in a different way than I have before, so maybe, this time, he will believe it.
Dad, every time Alison and I walk down the street and it feels like we know everyone in our respective neighborhoods, that is you. Your ability to make people feel like a part of something, to remember and acknowledge faces, to read people, to ease into a scene, any scene, by being your own quirky, funny, unabashed self, to spearhead groups and bring people together, to lighten a mood, to become the ultimate "regular"--all these have made you an excellent dad.
I remember a little ripped out piece of newspaper you kept pinned above your desk when I was a child. It was something about how the magic of JFK was his ability to treat people equally, be "at home with" people equally, whether paupers or kings. Your children never saw you treat anyone with disrespect, ever; don't underestimate the impact of your decision to make this a core value on your children.
In at least 40 years, probably 50, you have never once walked by a lemonade stand--or a child selling anything--without stopping to buy. You have pulled over in traffic to do this, made U-turns to do this, borrowed money from a stranger to do this, and for about 20 years now, I have--to myself, until now--followed suit. You think of this as a small thing, a sentimental thing. I beg to differ. I have seen too many of the children's faces in response.
Although we always knew, in our own ways, that we--with mom--were the loves of your life, I also knew from very early on that you had a life, and other loves: animals, politics, basketball, your own loyal, funny friends, your equally life-loving sister, your work, your home, reading, and more. This has shaped me as a parent, my memories of how alive you were, have always been, remain, how engaged with the world, how protective of your passions. You taught me that children don't need to be ostentatiously made the center of the universe, they need to be raised by people who show them the possibilities of fully realized personhood while loving them so hard they never for a fraction of an instant ever question it.
So on Father's Day, for Father's Day, I offer you this. Words, I know, only words, but I like to think that at our very best, in our actions, the way we walk through the world, we are living proof of who you are and what you have done. I hope you think so too.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Vignette
I remember this one day, a summer afternoon, when for some reason only my cousin Brandon and I were at my grandparents' house, where we all spent most summer days, thanks to the pool. My grandfather, whom we worshipped, had to run an errand and he asked if we wanted to go along, in his little white MG.
We both sat in the back, on the little ledge that was not really a seat but which we were used to, becasue of my mother's little green MG, and because now that I think about it, I think my grandmother went too.
I don't remember where we went--what he needed to do. I remember the novelty of being somewhere with this particular foursome, and in fact, this was probably the only occasion in my life that the four of were ever alone. I remember that we were taken to the penny candy store on the way home, and that I had some of those little edible paper flying saucers with the tasteless little sugar dots in them, and that the wind was blowing my hair across my face, and in my mouth, and that I was happy.
We both sat in the back, on the little ledge that was not really a seat but which we were used to, becasue of my mother's little green MG, and because now that I think about it, I think my grandmother went too.
I don't remember where we went--what he needed to do. I remember the novelty of being somewhere with this particular foursome, and in fact, this was probably the only occasion in my life that the four of were ever alone. I remember that we were taken to the penny candy store on the way home, and that I had some of those little edible paper flying saucers with the tasteless little sugar dots in them, and that the wind was blowing my hair across my face, and in my mouth, and that I was happy.
Friday, June 13, 2008
"You Missed a Page"
Right now, I use this as a warm-up (related in a few ways, actually) to something I am struggling with and will post when completed. I just need to get the juices flowing, which seems within the parameters I set for myself when I started this.
Tonight, Lily and I were tired. We'd been at our friends' house, and we got back home, Annika was just awake and not tired at all, and for a few hours we let her climb on us, follow us around, demand our near-constant attention, and we were both surprised when it was finally bedtime. I was sort of hoping Lily would say she was too tired for a book, which she does on occasion, and I think she had even thought about it, but ultimately she trudged wearily over to me with her choice in her hands: a fairly scientific book on sharks, called, creatively, Sharks.
Needless to say, I did not feel like reading Sharks. I did not feel like reading at all, but if the selection had been mine, which it is sometimes, I surely would have gone for Jenny the cat and her birthday, or Charlie and Lola or George and Martha--short, funny, done. We got into bed, Annika between us, which worked for one second, after which she was deposited unceremoniously on the floor. I opened the book again. The words swam in front of my eyes, no pun intended: the skin that was eight inches thick, the four rows of teeth, and on and on.
And then, for the first time in my life I succumbed to a parental bad habit I'd always been horrified by. I skipped some lines. My father used to do this when we were very small. He was curbed of the habit by the fact that my sister and I were extremely early readers, who began catching and calling him on it surely years before he would have liked. I remember even as a five year old thinking there was no greater sin, at least one I could imagine at the time (I've since become more worldly, slightly), feeling as though the sin of omission, in this case, should be punishable by law.
I couldn't believe it even as I was doing it. But I found myself excruciatingly bored by the sharks, whose tome I've read many times and never fully enjoyed, and falling asleep as I read, and feeling Lily jerk her eyes open, falling asleep herself, and worried about what Annika might find to eat on the floor that was not actually food, and I did it. It was the only time I have ever done it, and I think it is safe to say that I will not do it again, but I did it, committed the ultimate literary sin.
As a penance, when Lily asked, as she sometimes does, that I read the inside back cover of the book on which biographical information about the author or technical information about the publication is sometimes included, I did it. Down to the zip code of the city in which the book was published. And ultimately, which seems right in the end, I don't even think I saved any time.
Tonight, Lily and I were tired. We'd been at our friends' house, and we got back home, Annika was just awake and not tired at all, and for a few hours we let her climb on us, follow us around, demand our near-constant attention, and we were both surprised when it was finally bedtime. I was sort of hoping Lily would say she was too tired for a book, which she does on occasion, and I think she had even thought about it, but ultimately she trudged wearily over to me with her choice in her hands: a fairly scientific book on sharks, called, creatively, Sharks.
Needless to say, I did not feel like reading Sharks. I did not feel like reading at all, but if the selection had been mine, which it is sometimes, I surely would have gone for Jenny the cat and her birthday, or Charlie and Lola or George and Martha--short, funny, done. We got into bed, Annika between us, which worked for one second, after which she was deposited unceremoniously on the floor. I opened the book again. The words swam in front of my eyes, no pun intended: the skin that was eight inches thick, the four rows of teeth, and on and on.
And then, for the first time in my life I succumbed to a parental bad habit I'd always been horrified by. I skipped some lines. My father used to do this when we were very small. He was curbed of the habit by the fact that my sister and I were extremely early readers, who began catching and calling him on it surely years before he would have liked. I remember even as a five year old thinking there was no greater sin, at least one I could imagine at the time (I've since become more worldly, slightly), feeling as though the sin of omission, in this case, should be punishable by law.
I couldn't believe it even as I was doing it. But I found myself excruciatingly bored by the sharks, whose tome I've read many times and never fully enjoyed, and falling asleep as I read, and feeling Lily jerk her eyes open, falling asleep herself, and worried about what Annika might find to eat on the floor that was not actually food, and I did it. It was the only time I have ever done it, and I think it is safe to say that I will not do it again, but I did it, committed the ultimate literary sin.
As a penance, when Lily asked, as she sometimes does, that I read the inside back cover of the book on which biographical information about the author or technical information about the publication is sometimes included, I did it. Down to the zip code of the city in which the book was published. And ultimately, which seems right in the end, I don't even think I saved any time.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
On With the Show
Today Lily's class put on a performance. There were three "shows," and each child appeared in one. One child, as I was told a number of times by Lily, appeared in two because "she really wanted to be the hen, and there was a hen in two of the shows." The children chose the three stories they adapted themselves. They decided which show and which role they wanted on their own. They designed and made their own costumes, the sets, the curtain, the signs on the door, the drawings in the program, and the carrot cake they served us afterward, most of which they ate themselves. These children, mind you, are 4; in fact, two of them are still only 3.
Lily played a carrot in the adaptation of Harold and the Carrot Seed, a book we own and have read many times. She has been very interested in planting and growing this year, so it didn't surprise me that this was her show, although I will confess to having been a bit perplexed by the descriptions I had been hearing of the preparations for the show at home. "Are there lines?" I asked one evening. "No, Mama," with frustration. "It's not that kind of a show." So it's a silent show? I wanted to respond but didn't.
By this morning, I knew what role each child was to play, although I couldn't get the names of the other two shows out of her. I heard drama surrounding some conflicting desires as to roles, which I understood during perhaps my favorite moment of the Harold play, when Harold's father--and then his other father--were introduced. "I hope there's a third," I whispered to the parent on my left. "This is why I live in New York."
But I am getting ahead of myself. I must confess, although it is possible this speaks volumes about my social life these days, that I had been looking forward to this performance all week. Longer. As a child who spent her formative years directing her sister and cousins in dozens of "shows," and the daughter of a mother who apparently did the same, I have been delighted by Lily's interest in what we shall call the Home Dramatic Arts. We have sat through any number of performances, ranging from harmonica concerts to tap dancing, many involving the actors from today's three shows.
Also, I have come to love this class, these children, a varied, eclectic, emotional, strong-willed, hilarious group; I knew that the shows would contain unforgettable moments both choreographed and not, and I entertained myself beforehand trying to imagine who would be overwhelmed by the attention, who would melt down from sheer anticipation, who would unexpectedly emerge as a natural. And the fact that I knew that none of this was actually predictable enhanced my own anticipation.
The best part of waiting for the show, however, over these past few weeks, was how indescribably excited Lily and her classmates were about what they were doing. I overheard snippets of conversations both in and out of school about costumes and colors, animal sounds, and rehearsals. When Lily talked about "being the carrot" it was with such manifest pride and ownership that it made my throat swell.
And when we were allowed into the classroom, I looked around the room at the eager faces, the prematurely tear-stained ones, the shining eyes and giddy hoppers, I felt not for the first or even fiftieth time how lucky we have been to have our children in this classroom, with Leo and Sharon and every parent's new hero: Lynn. The equally disparate group of parents, many of whom would never be in the same room with each other if their children were not in the class together, beamed at each other, at each other's children, felt communal pangs of sympathy and pride for each other and each other's children, and generally reveled in our good fortune at having had this year.
And the show itself! I can imagine how beautifully it had been performed in rehearsals. The bones were there; the more seasoned performers intact or quick to recover, the more reticent ones foreseen. The serious actress of a reader who did, actually, have lines, the slight, curly-haired donkey with the gentle kicks, the enthusiastic and barely reined in duck and cat, the gentle snuffles of the fierce yet somehow also demure pig, the reluctant members of the cast who did their duty, the golden sun who stepped in later and pinch-hit for a missing sheaf of wheat, Harold, who had a shining moment and stayed in sweet character throughout his show in spite of all possible distraction, my own little carrot, who rose from the ground with balletic moves and then immediately tore off her amazing, intricate costume and hurled it to the ground--it could not have been more perfect, more genuine, more moving, more memorable, and it is one of my favorite parenting memories thus far already.
I was fortunate enough to be raised by a woman, a teacher, who knew that empowering children to find themselves was infinitely more valuable than teaching them ways to be. I'm not sure I ever thought I'd be lucky enough to find a teacher like my mom for my children, but today, as I watched the transformed Harold pour imaginary water on the tightly furled seed that was my Lily, I knew that I had.
Lily played a carrot in the adaptation of Harold and the Carrot Seed, a book we own and have read many times. She has been very interested in planting and growing this year, so it didn't surprise me that this was her show, although I will confess to having been a bit perplexed by the descriptions I had been hearing of the preparations for the show at home. "Are there lines?" I asked one evening. "No, Mama," with frustration. "It's not that kind of a show." So it's a silent show? I wanted to respond but didn't.
By this morning, I knew what role each child was to play, although I couldn't get the names of the other two shows out of her. I heard drama surrounding some conflicting desires as to roles, which I understood during perhaps my favorite moment of the Harold play, when Harold's father--and then his other father--were introduced. "I hope there's a third," I whispered to the parent on my left. "This is why I live in New York."
But I am getting ahead of myself. I must confess, although it is possible this speaks volumes about my social life these days, that I had been looking forward to this performance all week. Longer. As a child who spent her formative years directing her sister and cousins in dozens of "shows," and the daughter of a mother who apparently did the same, I have been delighted by Lily's interest in what we shall call the Home Dramatic Arts. We have sat through any number of performances, ranging from harmonica concerts to tap dancing, many involving the actors from today's three shows.
Also, I have come to love this class, these children, a varied, eclectic, emotional, strong-willed, hilarious group; I knew that the shows would contain unforgettable moments both choreographed and not, and I entertained myself beforehand trying to imagine who would be overwhelmed by the attention, who would melt down from sheer anticipation, who would unexpectedly emerge as a natural. And the fact that I knew that none of this was actually predictable enhanced my own anticipation.
The best part of waiting for the show, however, over these past few weeks, was how indescribably excited Lily and her classmates were about what they were doing. I overheard snippets of conversations both in and out of school about costumes and colors, animal sounds, and rehearsals. When Lily talked about "being the carrot" it was with such manifest pride and ownership that it made my throat swell.
And when we were allowed into the classroom, I looked around the room at the eager faces, the prematurely tear-stained ones, the shining eyes and giddy hoppers, I felt not for the first or even fiftieth time how lucky we have been to have our children in this classroom, with Leo and Sharon and every parent's new hero: Lynn. The equally disparate group of parents, many of whom would never be in the same room with each other if their children were not in the class together, beamed at each other, at each other's children, felt communal pangs of sympathy and pride for each other and each other's children, and generally reveled in our good fortune at having had this year.
And the show itself! I can imagine how beautifully it had been performed in rehearsals. The bones were there; the more seasoned performers intact or quick to recover, the more reticent ones foreseen. The serious actress of a reader who did, actually, have lines, the slight, curly-haired donkey with the gentle kicks, the enthusiastic and barely reined in duck and cat, the gentle snuffles of the fierce yet somehow also demure pig, the reluctant members of the cast who did their duty, the golden sun who stepped in later and pinch-hit for a missing sheaf of wheat, Harold, who had a shining moment and stayed in sweet character throughout his show in spite of all possible distraction, my own little carrot, who rose from the ground with balletic moves and then immediately tore off her amazing, intricate costume and hurled it to the ground--it could not have been more perfect, more genuine, more moving, more memorable, and it is one of my favorite parenting memories thus far already.
I was fortunate enough to be raised by a woman, a teacher, who knew that empowering children to find themselves was infinitely more valuable than teaching them ways to be. I'm not sure I ever thought I'd be lucky enough to find a teacher like my mom for my children, but today, as I watched the transformed Harold pour imaginary water on the tightly furled seed that was my Lily, I knew that I had.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A Moment, A Window
So I've been running, running, running: from about 6:00 in the morning when the household awakens, first Annika, then everyone else by default, until 1 in the morning, when I have been going to sleep most nights, generally pleased by the time I've had to myself and unperturbed by the impending 5 hours of sleep. And in a funny way, it's not so bad. I think temperamentally I am pretty languorous, although that sounds more glamorous than what I mean, which is that if I were left to my own devices on a deserted island I'd be pretty happy just to lie around in a hammock and read. But somehow when my life is very full and even frenzied I slip into another self that is somehow just as much me, if that makes any sense: a me who thrives on casting a wide net out into the sea of life (oy, sorry) and managing everything that comes back to me.
But when I'm in this full and frenzied mode, I almost never stop. It's almost as though I can't or I wouldn't be able to get started up again. And tonight, after working, picking up Lily at her friend's house, delivering a disc to another friend's house for a project we're doing together, coming home, making dinner, putting both girls to bed, and sitting at my computer for a couple of hours, I decided to sew a button on Ben's shirt, which he needs for a trip tomorrow.
My sewing basket was in Lily's room, so I pushed open the door, gently, but instead of just taking the basket off the bureau and tiptoeing back out, I went over to her bed to see how she was sleeping, which I do most nights, at some point: adjusting the covers, straightening her out, smoothing her hair off her face. For some reason, I felt moved to lie down beside her, so I did, which she would have loved had she been awake (Mama, SLEEP with me, she says, every night, knowing I will smile and give her another kiss and another hug but eventually go back out). I lay on my side beside her, placed my hand on her side and felt her ribcage rise and fall, listened to her breathe.
And I lay like that for a little while, until I felt that I would fall asleep if I stayed, and when I got up I noticed that she'd moved her little chair by the side of her bed, and on it sat a little tin cup full of water. Essentially, she'd made a little night-table for herself, with a drink on top, which struck me as almost inconceivably poignant. You see, I know that Lily is intrigued by night-tables, for some unknown reason. She has asked a few questions, made a few comments, that have let me know this is so, and the fact that she had decided she wanted one of one of her own and rigged this up, filled the cup in the bathroom herself, and set it there beside her bed, made me feel in the moment her full complexity, her independence, her own-ness, so strong already, in a way that I think would not be evident to anyone but me.
Anyway. I guess the point is that I'm glad I slowed down, lay down, stopped. And feeling thankful for the right things. At least right now.
But when I'm in this full and frenzied mode, I almost never stop. It's almost as though I can't or I wouldn't be able to get started up again. And tonight, after working, picking up Lily at her friend's house, delivering a disc to another friend's house for a project we're doing together, coming home, making dinner, putting both girls to bed, and sitting at my computer for a couple of hours, I decided to sew a button on Ben's shirt, which he needs for a trip tomorrow.
My sewing basket was in Lily's room, so I pushed open the door, gently, but instead of just taking the basket off the bureau and tiptoeing back out, I went over to her bed to see how she was sleeping, which I do most nights, at some point: adjusting the covers, straightening her out, smoothing her hair off her face. For some reason, I felt moved to lie down beside her, so I did, which she would have loved had she been awake (Mama, SLEEP with me, she says, every night, knowing I will smile and give her another kiss and another hug but eventually go back out). I lay on my side beside her, placed my hand on her side and felt her ribcage rise and fall, listened to her breathe.
And I lay like that for a little while, until I felt that I would fall asleep if I stayed, and when I got up I noticed that she'd moved her little chair by the side of her bed, and on it sat a little tin cup full of water. Essentially, she'd made a little night-table for herself, with a drink on top, which struck me as almost inconceivably poignant. You see, I know that Lily is intrigued by night-tables, for some unknown reason. She has asked a few questions, made a few comments, that have let me know this is so, and the fact that she had decided she wanted one of one of her own and rigged this up, filled the cup in the bathroom herself, and set it there beside her bed, made me feel in the moment her full complexity, her independence, her own-ness, so strong already, in a way that I think would not be evident to anyone but me.
Anyway. I guess the point is that I'm glad I slowed down, lay down, stopped. And feeling thankful for the right things. At least right now.
Still No Dog, but Almost a Chapter
“That sounds great, Mia,” Andy said. And it did. And for the rest of the evening, Andy felt optimistic, for the first time in a long time. Mia would save the day, find a project for him to do, provide him with all of the research and help him execute the invention itself. Dr. Gallagher loved Mia; she was the best student in the class. Maybe she could even go with him, wait outside the office for him, make him look good. He had thought about calling to ask her but decided against it. He could ask her on the way to school. It wasn’t like he was going to forget.
The next morning, when Andy woke up, he was still in a guardedly good mood. It was a warm day, a spring day, and he had a track meet after school. The only part of his day he was NOT looking forward to was his meeting with Dr. Gallagher. For once, he was showered, dressed and ready early enough to have actual breakfast, as opposed to grabbing a bagel thrust at him by one of his parents as he sprinted past them out the front door. When he entered the kitchen, however, he was taken aback when he realized that only his grandfather was seated at the table, the new table—high enough for the wheelchair to be pulled up to and then under it.
“Good morning, Andrew,” his grandfather said, in his new, shaky voice. Andy didn’t really remember his old voice, but his mother kept saying how different he sounded, how unlike how she remembered him, and Andy had started to think “new voice” every time his grandfather opened his mouth. As for the "Andrew," he didn’t take it personally. It wasn’t indicative of his grandfather’s formality, and he wasn’t trying to bug him. The truth was, Andy had realized pretty quickly, that his grandfather simply didn’t know that nobody else called him that. He hadn’t ever been around enough to find out.
Andy rummaged around in the cabinet until he found a box of cereal. Before junior high, he’d had cereal every morning. He and his dad, also a runner and an early riser who liked to jog at dawn when it was still cool, and the sidewalks clear, would sit together, as the sky lightened behind them in the kitchen window, and Andy’s mother slept.
“Hey,” he said, not rude, not friendly, just neutral. He’d decided that was going to be his tone with his grandfather. It was fitting, a reflection of how he actually felt about the man. To be totally honest, he didn’t even know him well enough to feel sorry for him. I mean, it was obvious that things weren’t good. Even if his mother hadn’t over-shared, he would have sensed this, caught a whiff of death as he passed what had been the den, would surely be the den again before too long. He had not actually seen his grandfather get out of the chair, although he knew that he could; his mother had told him so.
“School today?” his grandfather asked. Andy was surprised. Were they going to have an actual conversation? He sat across from his grandfather and stirred his cereal, drowning the dry pieces on top.
“Yup,” he answered. “Regular day.” Although of course it wasn’t. He hoped Mia had had one of her famous middle-of-the-night revelations; she kept a notebook by her bed solely for recording them. He could just see it: her sitting up in bed, reaching out for the notebook with a huge grin on her face, having just conceived of the best science project ever for him, possibly even better than his own. Well, he would know soon enough.
“Do you take the bus?” his grandfather asked, as though to a stranger, conversationally. Andy checked his watch.
“Nope. I walk. And my friend’s going to be here any second, so I’ve got to run.” He wolfed down the last few bites as his grandfather watched, in silence. He thought about picking up the bowl and slurping the rest of the milk, but thought better of it as his grandfather picked up his napkin and patted gently around his mouth. Andy noticed how thin the skin on his face was. You could almost see through it. Andy got up. “So I guess I’ll see you later,” he said, although he suspected he would not. His grandfather had requested dinner on a tray in his room the previous evening, which Andy had thought would please his mother—no change in routine—but instead had seemed to annoy her.
The next morning, when Andy woke up, he was still in a guardedly good mood. It was a warm day, a spring day, and he had a track meet after school. The only part of his day he was NOT looking forward to was his meeting with Dr. Gallagher. For once, he was showered, dressed and ready early enough to have actual breakfast, as opposed to grabbing a bagel thrust at him by one of his parents as he sprinted past them out the front door. When he entered the kitchen, however, he was taken aback when he realized that only his grandfather was seated at the table, the new table—high enough for the wheelchair to be pulled up to and then under it.
“Good morning, Andrew,” his grandfather said, in his new, shaky voice. Andy didn’t really remember his old voice, but his mother kept saying how different he sounded, how unlike how she remembered him, and Andy had started to think “new voice” every time his grandfather opened his mouth. As for the "Andrew," he didn’t take it personally. It wasn’t indicative of his grandfather’s formality, and he wasn’t trying to bug him. The truth was, Andy had realized pretty quickly, that his grandfather simply didn’t know that nobody else called him that. He hadn’t ever been around enough to find out.
Andy rummaged around in the cabinet until he found a box of cereal. Before junior high, he’d had cereal every morning. He and his dad, also a runner and an early riser who liked to jog at dawn when it was still cool, and the sidewalks clear, would sit together, as the sky lightened behind them in the kitchen window, and Andy’s mother slept.
“Hey,” he said, not rude, not friendly, just neutral. He’d decided that was going to be his tone with his grandfather. It was fitting, a reflection of how he actually felt about the man. To be totally honest, he didn’t even know him well enough to feel sorry for him. I mean, it was obvious that things weren’t good. Even if his mother hadn’t over-shared, he would have sensed this, caught a whiff of death as he passed what had been the den, would surely be the den again before too long. He had not actually seen his grandfather get out of the chair, although he knew that he could; his mother had told him so.
“School today?” his grandfather asked. Andy was surprised. Were they going to have an actual conversation? He sat across from his grandfather and stirred his cereal, drowning the dry pieces on top.
“Yup,” he answered. “Regular day.” Although of course it wasn’t. He hoped Mia had had one of her famous middle-of-the-night revelations; she kept a notebook by her bed solely for recording them. He could just see it: her sitting up in bed, reaching out for the notebook with a huge grin on her face, having just conceived of the best science project ever for him, possibly even better than his own. Well, he would know soon enough.
“Do you take the bus?” his grandfather asked, as though to a stranger, conversationally. Andy checked his watch.
“Nope. I walk. And my friend’s going to be here any second, so I’ve got to run.” He wolfed down the last few bites as his grandfather watched, in silence. He thought about picking up the bowl and slurping the rest of the milk, but thought better of it as his grandfather picked up his napkin and patted gently around his mouth. Andy noticed how thin the skin on his face was. You could almost see through it. Andy got up. “So I guess I’ll see you later,” he said, although he suspected he would not. His grandfather had requested dinner on a tray in his room the previous evening, which Andy had thought would please his mother—no change in routine—but instead had seemed to annoy her.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Trying to Get to the Dog Part
"I've got to say, you're in serious trouble," she said now, back to her old self. "I can't really imagine how you think you're going to pull this off in four days. There's no time to build it, to get the materials." Every year, the eighth graders at their school were given the same assignment: to design, build and demonstrate an invention.
“Well, that’s very helpful,” said Andy, as sarcastically as he could manage, considering his temples were starting to throb. “That’s why I called you, actually. So you could remind me how much trouble I’m in. I almost forgot.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “You’re right. Have you thought about going in to see him, asking him—begging him—for help?” It was one of the things Andy liked most about Mia: she was an eternal optimist. He knew that if he made an appointment during Mr. Gallagher’s office hours, the man would be waiting for him like a spider in her web. He’d only lectured them every day for a month about “managing their time” and “spreading out the workload.” Each day Andy had carefully written the same note in his school-issued planner: Start Science project. And each night he had crossed it off, uncompleted, telling himself that he’d begin, for real, the following day.
“Won’t work,” Andy said, glumly. “Have you forgotten that he already, well… hates me? I need a project, and I need one fast, or I’ll fail science, and they won’t let me run track. High school will be even more miserable than I even thought it would be.” He could hear Mia rustling around in what he assumed was a kitchen cabinet, probably for a late-night snack.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “You’re right, I guess. And if you can’t run, then you might as well not even be in school.” Mia hated running, always said she didn’t see what the point was unless you were being chased, but she knew how much it meant to Andy. For the past few years she had been waiting at the finish line with her dad as Andy approached the old Presbyterian church in the center of town after the annual 5K. She was holding a bottle of cold water for him the last time around, and Andy’s mother had said, “Well, isn’t that a sweet thing to do?” in a way that had made Mia feel like an idiot. “Let me think about it. Okay? I’ll make myself a goal: project idea within 24 hours.”
“That sounds great, Mia,” Andy said. And it did. And for about 12 hours, Andy was feeling optimistic for the first time in a long time. Mia would save the day, find a project for him to do, provide him with all of the research and help him execute the invention itself.
The next morning, when Andy woke up, he was still in a guardedly good mood. It was a warm day, a spring day, and he had track practice after school. The only part of his day he was NOT looking forward to was his meeting with Dr. Gallagher.
“Well, that’s very helpful,” said Andy, as sarcastically as he could manage, considering his temples were starting to throb. “That’s why I called you, actually. So you could remind me how much trouble I’m in. I almost forgot.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “You’re right. Have you thought about going in to see him, asking him—begging him—for help?” It was one of the things Andy liked most about Mia: she was an eternal optimist. He knew that if he made an appointment during Mr. Gallagher’s office hours, the man would be waiting for him like a spider in her web. He’d only lectured them every day for a month about “managing their time” and “spreading out the workload.” Each day Andy had carefully written the same note in his school-issued planner: Start Science project. And each night he had crossed it off, uncompleted, telling himself that he’d begin, for real, the following day.
“Won’t work,” Andy said, glumly. “Have you forgotten that he already, well… hates me? I need a project, and I need one fast, or I’ll fail science, and they won’t let me run track. High school will be even more miserable than I even thought it would be.” He could hear Mia rustling around in what he assumed was a kitchen cabinet, probably for a late-night snack.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “You’re right, I guess. And if you can’t run, then you might as well not even be in school.” Mia hated running, always said she didn’t see what the point was unless you were being chased, but she knew how much it meant to Andy. For the past few years she had been waiting at the finish line with her dad as Andy approached the old Presbyterian church in the center of town after the annual 5K. She was holding a bottle of cold water for him the last time around, and Andy’s mother had said, “Well, isn’t that a sweet thing to do?” in a way that had made Mia feel like an idiot. “Let me think about it. Okay? I’ll make myself a goal: project idea within 24 hours.”
“That sounds great, Mia,” Andy said. And it did. And for about 12 hours, Andy was feeling optimistic for the first time in a long time. Mia would save the day, find a project for him to do, provide him with all of the research and help him execute the invention itself.
The next morning, when Andy woke up, he was still in a guardedly good mood. It was a warm day, a spring day, and he had track practice after school. The only part of his day he was NOT looking forward to was his meeting with Dr. Gallagher.
One of Two
So yesterday, as I sat down to write, a button popped off the side of my wireless keyboard and the batteries slid out. Okay, I figured out quickly. It needs new batteries. So I replaced them, but I couldn't get it to work, and although I opened every file on the hard drive in a desperate attempt to make the thing functional, no dice. The message on the screen said I needed to make sure the keyboard was "turned on," but the keyboard itself is so sleek and streamlined that I couldn't imagine how this would be done--there was nothing to switch. Until this morning, I took another look and realized that on one side there was a flat button that looked like the top of a screw. I pressed it: a light went on, and suddenly the message on the screen disappeared. So today I have been able to write, although I am not going to post what I have been working on until later. Instead, a little interlude, if you will. But because of my equipment glitch, today I will post twice.
This is what Lily thinks happens when she goes to sleep: The door of her room closes, and I immediately start dancing around the apartment in glee with Annika. We both sit in the middle of the living room rug surrounded by sweets--cookies, candy, ice cream bars, as well as potato chips and gum, mountains of gum. And juice boxes. Towers of them. Then, we turn on the television and watch shows with superheroes in them and that sponge character that is featured prominently in the window of the bakery and who she knows I think is not really appropriate for kids--unless they're nine months old and her substantially younger sister, in which case, bring it on, sponge man. Then, we have a very gratifying conversation about how funny it is that Annika gets to stay up later than Lily even though Lily is substantially older, and how nice it is that we get to have this special, sugar-fueled, one-on-one time without any four-year-olds around to muck up the works.
No, she knows that is not what happens when her bedroom door closes behind me, mostly because she gets up and peeks out to check up on me. This may be what she dreams happens, but I know what she really thinks. She thinks I stand at the kitchen counter eating all of the food I have hidden from her: the cookies on top of the fridge, the chocolate in the top rack of the freezer, the chips at the back of the highest shelf. She thinks I order take-out food with white not brown rice and no vegetables and drink carbonated beverages and watch television shows that are not for children or lie in the reclining chair with a magazine that is less than six months old or the choice sections of last Sunday's New York Times or try to catch a little snooze before sitting back down at my computer, and most of all pretending, for an hour or two, that time will stretch out like it used to and bend back when I'm ready.
This is, indeed, what happens.
This is what Lily thinks happens when she goes to sleep: The door of her room closes, and I immediately start dancing around the apartment in glee with Annika. We both sit in the middle of the living room rug surrounded by sweets--cookies, candy, ice cream bars, as well as potato chips and gum, mountains of gum. And juice boxes. Towers of them. Then, we turn on the television and watch shows with superheroes in them and that sponge character that is featured prominently in the window of the bakery and who she knows I think is not really appropriate for kids--unless they're nine months old and her substantially younger sister, in which case, bring it on, sponge man. Then, we have a very gratifying conversation about how funny it is that Annika gets to stay up later than Lily even though Lily is substantially older, and how nice it is that we get to have this special, sugar-fueled, one-on-one time without any four-year-olds around to muck up the works.
No, she knows that is not what happens when her bedroom door closes behind me, mostly because she gets up and peeks out to check up on me. This may be what she dreams happens, but I know what she really thinks. She thinks I stand at the kitchen counter eating all of the food I have hidden from her: the cookies on top of the fridge, the chocolate in the top rack of the freezer, the chips at the back of the highest shelf. She thinks I order take-out food with white not brown rice and no vegetables and drink carbonated beverages and watch television shows that are not for children or lie in the reclining chair with a magazine that is less than six months old or the choice sections of last Sunday's New York Times or try to catch a little snooze before sitting back down at my computer, and most of all pretending, for an hour or two, that time will stretch out like it used to and bend back when I'm ready.
This is, indeed, what happens.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Forcing Myself to Plow Ahead with Saving Scout
This is hard. Really hard. And more so then many of my essays, I feel awkward posting it, as it's so rough and such a new form for me, at least in terms of trying to do it well. But the truth is, the fact that I am working on it on the blog is perhaps the primary reason I am getting anything done, as I have such limited time in which to do this kind of writing, and I am now using the essays--even the good ones--as an avoidance tactic. They come more easily, naturally to me. But this project has more immediate potential for publication, if I can keep pushing ahead, and so I will, for a few more days, anyway, until I feel confident enough to go "offline" and keep going.
Here goes...
When Andy was finished, had told about the awkward pushing of the wheelchair up the ramp that his father--as it turned out--had not properly installed, about the way his grandfather had even more awkwardly hoisted himself out of the chair, onto the bed, and then turned on his side so his back was to them, and that Andy had seen (for the first time in his life) tears in his grandfather's eyes, Mia was silent.
"Well?" he finally said. She cleared her throat.
"There's not much to say," she said. Andy was annoyed. Mia was the kid the teacher had to ask NOT to raise her hand. She never had nothing to say.
"Can you believe my mother actually said that?" he pushed. "To me? It's like: deal with it. You're the grown-up." His face felt hot, remembering. Although for some reason he hadn't told Mia, the news had shocked him. He hadn't actually expected his grandfather to die. Or to die right there, in the guest bedroom of his own house, with his school pictures on the wall, the wheelchair blocking the doorway.
Again, Mia was quiet, but then she said, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, "It's got to be terrible for your mom." Mia and Andy's mom had never quite clicked. Andy suspected his mother thought it was strange that his best friend was a girl but not his girlfriend. For the first few months of their friendship, whenever Mia called, or came over, his mother would ever so slightly raise her eyebrows with a little smile that made Andy want to crawl out of his skin.
Once she had said to him, "You know, in a few years I think Mia's going to be quite attractive," and Andy had seethed, said in his head: You know, just because you and dad don't like each other doesn't mean I can't have a friend who's a girl. But he hadn't. And after a while, with no reaction, she'd stopped. Suddenly Andy was feeling annoyed with Mia. What kind of a friend defended the enemy? She was supposed to be on his side. What else was the point?
"You know what?" he said. "Forget about it. You're right, she's just stressed out, and the whole thing's not a big deal. I won't even see him. He eats in the bedroom. On a stupid tray. Now can we please talk about my science project?"
Andy's science project had become the bane of his existence. He hated science; it was his worst subject every year, and this year was especially bad because his teacher, Mr.Gallagher, hated him. Whenever he expressed this complaint, Mia went off on her list of theories about Mr. Gallagher--he sidelined in Internet porn, he bought vintage GI Joe dolls on ebay, and on and on--Andy got the distinct feeling she was skirting around the reality of the situation, which was that Mr. Gallagher really didn't like Andy.
"I've got to say, you're in serious trouble," she said now, back to her old self. "I can't really imagine how you think you're going to pull this off in four days. There's no time to build it, to get the materials." Every year, the eighth graders at their school were given the same assignment: to design, build and demonstrate an invention.
Here goes...
When Andy was finished, had told about the awkward pushing of the wheelchair up the ramp that his father--as it turned out--had not properly installed, about the way his grandfather had even more awkwardly hoisted himself out of the chair, onto the bed, and then turned on his side so his back was to them, and that Andy had seen (for the first time in his life) tears in his grandfather's eyes, Mia was silent.
"Well?" he finally said. She cleared her throat.
"There's not much to say," she said. Andy was annoyed. Mia was the kid the teacher had to ask NOT to raise her hand. She never had nothing to say.
"Can you believe my mother actually said that?" he pushed. "To me? It's like: deal with it. You're the grown-up." His face felt hot, remembering. Although for some reason he hadn't told Mia, the news had shocked him. He hadn't actually expected his grandfather to die. Or to die right there, in the guest bedroom of his own house, with his school pictures on the wall, the wheelchair blocking the doorway.
Again, Mia was quiet, but then she said, in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, "It's got to be terrible for your mom." Mia and Andy's mom had never quite clicked. Andy suspected his mother thought it was strange that his best friend was a girl but not his girlfriend. For the first few months of their friendship, whenever Mia called, or came over, his mother would ever so slightly raise her eyebrows with a little smile that made Andy want to crawl out of his skin.
Once she had said to him, "You know, in a few years I think Mia's going to be quite attractive," and Andy had seethed, said in his head: You know, just because you and dad don't like each other doesn't mean I can't have a friend who's a girl. But he hadn't. And after a while, with no reaction, she'd stopped. Suddenly Andy was feeling annoyed with Mia. What kind of a friend defended the enemy? She was supposed to be on his side. What else was the point?
"You know what?" he said. "Forget about it. You're right, she's just stressed out, and the whole thing's not a big deal. I won't even see him. He eats in the bedroom. On a stupid tray. Now can we please talk about my science project?"
Andy's science project had become the bane of his existence. He hated science; it was his worst subject every year, and this year was especially bad because his teacher, Mr.Gallagher, hated him. Whenever he expressed this complaint, Mia went off on her list of theories about Mr. Gallagher--he sidelined in Internet porn, he bought vintage GI Joe dolls on ebay, and on and on--Andy got the distinct feeling she was skirting around the reality of the situation, which was that Mr. Gallagher really didn't like Andy.
"I've got to say, you're in serious trouble," she said now, back to her old self. "I can't really imagine how you think you're going to pull this off in four days. There's no time to build it, to get the materials." Every year, the eighth graders at their school were given the same assignment: to design, build and demonstrate an invention.
Felix and Boo to Come
Am working on this, needs to be cut back significantly and simplified, per editor's input, but don't want to post until I have a decent whole draft.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tonight, a Post from Mome
You know when you're doing something, when you're right in the middle of doing it, and a voice in your head that seems to be separate somehow from the action says to you: What are you doing? Do you know how crazy this is? I would have used stronger language, but I know my father is reading this. I think you get the point without the profanity, though.
Lately I have been feeling this way whenever I find myself fully enmeshed in an argument--a battle of wills or wits--with Lily, who I must remind you is 4 years old. When you find yourself losing an argument to a 4-year-old, lots of them, actually, it's time to take stock.
The thing that interests me most about my arguments with Lily is that they happen at all. Before I had a 4-year-old (or a 3- or a 2-year-old for that matter), I didn't know they could argue. I sort of thought that they did what you asked them to, and if they didn't, you wagged your finger or said "no ice cream" and they either got sad and went in their rooms or complied. I don't remember arguing with my mother until much later, maybe 8 or 9, but she assures me that Lily is merely following in my illustrious footsteps, as well as the footsteps of millions of 4-year-olds before us.
Don't get me wrong. Lily is no pint-sized Dershowitz; her actual arguing skills are certainly weaker than mine, but still I lose, over and over, because the arguments themselves take on a Dali-esque quality and are unwinnable by normal, adult standards of logic and debate, and so because the topics are more in her league, I find myself floundering, trying to get on solid ground, saying things that don't make any sense to her, and repeating them as she melts like the clock in the painting. While screaming.
Let me give you an example. Pants. Today, Lily decided she did not want to wear them. Now, if shorts or a skirt were involved in her outfit, I would have been down with the no-pants thing, but we're talking: shirt, no pants. To her ballet recital. So I said, and I will try to recreate the dialogue accurately to be fair. Me: Honey. You need to wear something on the bottom, over your leotard. It doesn't have to be pants. It can be anything, anything at all.
Lily: WHHHHHYYYY ARE YOU MAAAAKING MEEEE WEAR PAAAANTS?
Me: That's actually not what I said. I said you need to wear something, anything, on the bottom.
Lily: I DON"T FEEEEEL LIKE WEAAAARING PAAAAANTS!
Pause here and imagine a variation on this exchange for about five more minutes at which point I punched my fist through the wall in the dining room. No, I didn't really, but I would have, if my pain tolerance weren't so low, and if Ben weren't too busy to fix it.
Anyway, I don't really have any grand, sweeping, wise, insightful, or questioning conclusion here. I know this is par for the course; I see it in other children every day, and Lily is actually much less argumentative than many kids I know, a few of whom should be doing their act before the Supreme Court...on Jupiter, that is.
I do think it's worth noting, however, in the vast sea of parenting literature and chit-chat that is either earnest or instructive, heartwarming or proscriptive, something gets lost, and it's something I'd like to write about. Life with a 4-year-old (or a 3- or a 2-year-old) can be a total nightmare--your worst nightmare on acid--and as you find yourself shouting at a person who is about 35 inches tall about the need for pants in public, you sometimes need to just stop and listen to the voice in your head that is also saying: Walk away. You will lose.
So what I have been building up to is this. After Lily hit me on the arm with a sweater and was sent to her room (where she yelled: That's fine with me! I felt like playing in here anyway! she also yelled: And you need to come here because I have written you a VERY IMPORTANT SIGN.
I came. The sign read: MOME IS THE MENIST MOME.
Anyone translate? I turned away, and I laughed.
More Saving Scout
Andy could tell she regretted it as soon as she’d said it, but she didn’t apologize. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her now cold breakfast coffee nearly untouched in front of her, and she reached up one hand and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Andy looked away, out the window over the sink at the back yard where he could see the skeleton of his old swingset by the trees that divided their yard from the neighbors’.
“That’s great, Mom,” he said, as sarcastically as he could manage. “Thank so much for sharing.”
“Andy,” she said, as he pushed his own chair back and got up, walked over to the sink. There was a red bird, a cardinal, at the top of the slide, which Andy hadn’t been on in years. Occasionally, he’d go out and sit on one of the swings if he needed to be alone, but the slide, no. It was yellow, falsely cheerful it seemed to him now, as he watched the bird fly out and up, over the row of pines.
“Forget it. I’m fine,” he said, walking out, leaving her sitting there with her head in her hand.
After helping his father get his grandfather settled, Andy walked out into the backyard, past the swingset, all the way to the pine trees. He sat in his favorite spot against the trunk of the largest one, where he could not be seen from the house. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. The rough bark dug into his skin, but he didn’t move. He wondered how long it would take his grandfather to die. To be honest, he didn’t even seem that sick, he seemed exactly the same as he had the last time Andy had seen him, about six months before, when his father had made them drive to New Jersey, where the facility was.
“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” his father had hissed to his mother through clenched teeth in the front seat of the car. Andy had almost said, “I’m not actually deaf,” but had decided against it. The tension was thick enough, and besides, he didn’t really care. He knew that his mother hadn’t wanted to come. He didn’t quite get their thing, why she hated his grandfather so much, or what was so bad about his grandfather. It’s not like he was taking Andy to Yankees games or even asking about school or anything, but he was always friendly, polite. Andy had known from as far back as he could remember that the man had little interest in him, but he had his father’s parents, who were like television sitcom grandparents, seriously: rosy cheeks, candy dish, presents, lasagna and tossing the baseball around in the yard. It was almost too corny sometimes, but it was nice.
That visit had gone badly. After about ten minutes of sitting on a threadbare chair in the big open room full of other dying old people that smelled like citronella and vanilla and something much less pleasant all at the same time, Andy had stood up and walked out, and nobody had noticed, or at least nobody had said anything at the time. He’d walked out back where there was what the nurses called a “garden” but looked like a parking lot with a few also dying geraniums in cracked pots.
“I cannot believe how expensive this place is,” his mother had muttered one afternoon, looking over a bill or a brochure or something, and his father had said, ironically it turned out, “What? You’d rather have him come here?”
After another half hour or so, Andy’s mother emerged from the entrance, where Andy was sitting on the bench playing a game on his cell phone. He looked up; his father was behind her, and he shook his head at Andy in a kind of a warning, which Andy decided to take. He got up, and the three of them walked to the car in total silence, which lasted all the way back to Massachusetts, through three states, although his father found a terrible radio station, the kind where they played classical music and then talked about it in the most excruciating way possible, so there was at least some sound to cover the awful silence.
Later, lying in bed with the covers over his head, Andy had described the afternoon to his friend Mia, who called most nights once she knew he was almost asleep. It was a routine they had developed over the course of the previous year, and on the nights when she didn’t call, for whatever reason, Andy always fell asleep feeling vaguely unsettled, as though he weren’t sure what had happened to him had really happened without the opportunity to run it by Mia.
“That’s great, Mom,” he said, as sarcastically as he could manage. “Thank so much for sharing.”
“Andy,” she said, as he pushed his own chair back and got up, walked over to the sink. There was a red bird, a cardinal, at the top of the slide, which Andy hadn’t been on in years. Occasionally, he’d go out and sit on one of the swings if he needed to be alone, but the slide, no. It was yellow, falsely cheerful it seemed to him now, as he watched the bird fly out and up, over the row of pines.
“Forget it. I’m fine,” he said, walking out, leaving her sitting there with her head in her hand.
After helping his father get his grandfather settled, Andy walked out into the backyard, past the swingset, all the way to the pine trees. He sat in his favorite spot against the trunk of the largest one, where he could not be seen from the house. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. The rough bark dug into his skin, but he didn’t move. He wondered how long it would take his grandfather to die. To be honest, he didn’t even seem that sick, he seemed exactly the same as he had the last time Andy had seen him, about six months before, when his father had made them drive to New Jersey, where the facility was.
“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” his father had hissed to his mother through clenched teeth in the front seat of the car. Andy had almost said, “I’m not actually deaf,” but had decided against it. The tension was thick enough, and besides, he didn’t really care. He knew that his mother hadn’t wanted to come. He didn’t quite get their thing, why she hated his grandfather so much, or what was so bad about his grandfather. It’s not like he was taking Andy to Yankees games or even asking about school or anything, but he was always friendly, polite. Andy had known from as far back as he could remember that the man had little interest in him, but he had his father’s parents, who were like television sitcom grandparents, seriously: rosy cheeks, candy dish, presents, lasagna and tossing the baseball around in the yard. It was almost too corny sometimes, but it was nice.
That visit had gone badly. After about ten minutes of sitting on a threadbare chair in the big open room full of other dying old people that smelled like citronella and vanilla and something much less pleasant all at the same time, Andy had stood up and walked out, and nobody had noticed, or at least nobody had said anything at the time. He’d walked out back where there was what the nurses called a “garden” but looked like a parking lot with a few also dying geraniums in cracked pots.
“I cannot believe how expensive this place is,” his mother had muttered one afternoon, looking over a bill or a brochure or something, and his father had said, ironically it turned out, “What? You’d rather have him come here?”
After another half hour or so, Andy’s mother emerged from the entrance, where Andy was sitting on the bench playing a game on his cell phone. He looked up; his father was behind her, and he shook his head at Andy in a kind of a warning, which Andy decided to take. He got up, and the three of them walked to the car in total silence, which lasted all the way back to Massachusetts, through three states, although his father found a terrible radio station, the kind where they played classical music and then talked about it in the most excruciating way possible, so there was at least some sound to cover the awful silence.
Later, lying in bed with the covers over his head, Andy had described the afternoon to his friend Mia, who called most nights once she knew he was almost asleep. It was a routine they had developed over the course of the previous year, and on the nights when she didn’t call, for whatever reason, Andy always fell asleep feeling vaguely unsettled, as though he weren’t sure what had happened to him had really happened without the opportunity to run it by Mia.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
A Beginning
Saving Scout
By Amy Wilensky
Chapter 1:
The day they moved him in was rainy and cold. An omen, thought Andy, as he watched from his bedroom window on the second floor. First, a van turned into the driveway and pulled up to the house near where the ramp had been installed leading up to the rarely used side door. Then, the driver and a young guy wearing some sort of uniform—a nurse, Andy figured—got out of the van and said something to Andy’s mom, who was standing with her arms folded tight across her chest, back to the van. She shook her head no. He could see her hair swing with the force of it.
“Andy?” his dad yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Can you come give me a hand?” Andy stood up. His legs ached from crouching, so he pulled one foot back for a stretch, then the other, as though preparing for a run. He wished he were going for a run; he felt a nearly irrepressible urge to run down the stairs, past his cowardly father, past his angry mother, past the van from the hospital and down to the river, where the air would be colder, bitter, even, and his palms wouldn’t feel sweaty and the tears forming in the corners of his eyes would sting in a way that felt good, like the way running did when he’d run so long that he could no longer feel his legs, his feet roll one after the other on the pavement.
“Coming,” he yelled back, with a final glance out the window. He caught the back half of the wheelchair, a glimpse of his grandfather’s shock of white hair.
Andy had been surprised when his mother had told him his grandfather, her father, would be coming to stay with them. His mother had never been close to her father. At thirteen, Andy had probably met the man a dozen times, if that, at relatives' weddings, a tense family reunion outside of Los Angeles, once in New York City, when he and his mother had taken the train in from the station in Fairfield because his grandfather had been giving a lecture at NYU.
Andy knew his grandfather was a professor, and he knew that he had cancer, was dying, he thought, from the snippets of conversation he’d overheard late at night, when his parents thought he was sleeping and felt safe to argue, their voices becoming sharper and louder as the arguments intensified.
“I thought he was dying,” Andy had in fact asked his mother, when she’d broken the news, and for a moment he thought he saw her eyes flicker, the suggestion of sadness. But then she’d tilted her head, almost imperceptibly, and he decided he'd imagined it: a trick of the light.
“He is,” she said. He’s coming here from the hospice. He’s lived longer than they thought he would, and he can’t stay any longer. He’s coming to die.”
By Amy Wilensky
Chapter 1:
The day they moved him in was rainy and cold. An omen, thought Andy, as he watched from his bedroom window on the second floor. First, a van turned into the driveway and pulled up to the house near where the ramp had been installed leading up to the rarely used side door. Then, the driver and a young guy wearing some sort of uniform—a nurse, Andy figured—got out of the van and said something to Andy’s mom, who was standing with her arms folded tight across her chest, back to the van. She shook her head no. He could see her hair swing with the force of it.
“Andy?” his dad yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “Can you come give me a hand?” Andy stood up. His legs ached from crouching, so he pulled one foot back for a stretch, then the other, as though preparing for a run. He wished he were going for a run; he felt a nearly irrepressible urge to run down the stairs, past his cowardly father, past his angry mother, past the van from the hospital and down to the river, where the air would be colder, bitter, even, and his palms wouldn’t feel sweaty and the tears forming in the corners of his eyes would sting in a way that felt good, like the way running did when he’d run so long that he could no longer feel his legs, his feet roll one after the other on the pavement.
“Coming,” he yelled back, with a final glance out the window. He caught the back half of the wheelchair, a glimpse of his grandfather’s shock of white hair.
Andy had been surprised when his mother had told him his grandfather, her father, would be coming to stay with them. His mother had never been close to her father. At thirteen, Andy had probably met the man a dozen times, if that, at relatives' weddings, a tense family reunion outside of Los Angeles, once in New York City, when he and his mother had taken the train in from the station in Fairfield because his grandfather had been giving a lecture at NYU.
Andy knew his grandfather was a professor, and he knew that he had cancer, was dying, he thought, from the snippets of conversation he’d overheard late at night, when his parents thought he was sleeping and felt safe to argue, their voices becoming sharper and louder as the arguments intensified.
“I thought he was dying,” Andy had in fact asked his mother, when she’d broken the news, and for a moment he thought he saw her eyes flicker, the suggestion of sadness. But then she’d tilted her head, almost imperceptibly, and he decided he'd imagined it: a trick of the light.
“He is,” she said. He’s coming here from the hospice. He’s lived longer than they thought he would, and he can’t stay any longer. He’s coming to die.”
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Saving Scout Redux
So I have been challenged, in a way that could have some positive professional ramifications, to write as much as I can of a young adult novel in the space of a week. I've spent the last few days thinking about the challenge, and here's my idea:
The book is to be called: Saving Scout. It is about a thirteen-year-old boy whose ailing grandfather comes to live with his family, putting additional strain on his parents' already tense marriage. An incident at school alienates him from most of his friends and leads him to a required community service stint at an animal shelter. While working there, he ends up taking home one of the rescue dogs, who has arrived in terrible shape. The story is about how the boy's relationship with this dog helps him through a very difficult period in his life and ultimately plays a huge role in his transition to adulthood. So it is a coming-of-age story that I would like to be as realistic as possible and to appeal to boy readers, as middle school boys are notoriously resistant to reading, and they are right to feel that they do not have as many options as girls in terms of subject matter, appealing narrators, and so on.
I am going to have to dive in tomorrow and start writing if I hope to have gotten anywhere by the Friday deadline, but I am still grappling with a few questions. What is this boy's name, where does he live and who is he in terms of his personality? I can't see him yet. What is the problem with his parents' marriage and why does the arrival of the grandfather push it to the breaking point? Do they actually split up or have to for there to be sufficient tension in the story? What is the incident at school? Does our narrator get unjustly accused of something or is he actually guilty of something. Either way, what? How can I have the relationship with the grandfather be background music and not the melody of the story? How can I make the relationship with the dog poignant and important but not schmaltzy? Is our narrator an animal lover to begin with or is it something about this dog in particular that strikes a chord with him? How can I avoid a wrap-it-all-up happy ending in favor of a more nuanced, although satisfying ending that is convincingly optimistic for the narrator?
Anyone? Anyone? I know. I'm hoping some of these answers may come to me when I am asleep. If I get anything good, I will post some of it tomorrow or later in the week. But I'm excited. A new challenge. And I have been tossing around this Saving Scout idea for a while. I think the idea has finally found its venue.
The book is to be called: Saving Scout. It is about a thirteen-year-old boy whose ailing grandfather comes to live with his family, putting additional strain on his parents' already tense marriage. An incident at school alienates him from most of his friends and leads him to a required community service stint at an animal shelter. While working there, he ends up taking home one of the rescue dogs, who has arrived in terrible shape. The story is about how the boy's relationship with this dog helps him through a very difficult period in his life and ultimately plays a huge role in his transition to adulthood. So it is a coming-of-age story that I would like to be as realistic as possible and to appeal to boy readers, as middle school boys are notoriously resistant to reading, and they are right to feel that they do not have as many options as girls in terms of subject matter, appealing narrators, and so on.
I am going to have to dive in tomorrow and start writing if I hope to have gotten anywhere by the Friday deadline, but I am still grappling with a few questions. What is this boy's name, where does he live and who is he in terms of his personality? I can't see him yet. What is the problem with his parents' marriage and why does the arrival of the grandfather push it to the breaking point? Do they actually split up or have to for there to be sufficient tension in the story? What is the incident at school? Does our narrator get unjustly accused of something or is he actually guilty of something. Either way, what? How can I have the relationship with the grandfather be background music and not the melody of the story? How can I make the relationship with the dog poignant and important but not schmaltzy? Is our narrator an animal lover to begin with or is it something about this dog in particular that strikes a chord with him? How can I avoid a wrap-it-all-up happy ending in favor of a more nuanced, although satisfying ending that is convincingly optimistic for the narrator?
Anyone? Anyone? I know. I'm hoping some of these answers may come to me when I am asleep. If I get anything good, I will post some of it tomorrow or later in the week. But I'm excited. A new challenge. And I have been tossing around this Saving Scout idea for a while. I think the idea has finally found its venue.
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