6:30 PM
I walk into Wegmans with Bill, holding James, who has buried his face into my shoulder. His arms around my neck as he clutches Steven and George, and he refuses to look up or be put down. I ask him if he's okay.
"Yeah."
"Are you scared of Bill?"
"Yeah."
"Is Bill scary?"
"He's scary, Daddy."
"Can I set you down now?"
"No."
"Are you afraid Bill is going to get you?"
"Yeah."
8:30 PM
J pulls into the parking lot of our apartment complex and James screams with giddy glee as he jumps up and down in the back of Bill's pick-up truck. As she gets out of her car she's met by the following torrent of trebly two-year-old speech:
"Mommy, the garage door is UP an' we went to eat dinner at MEMWANS (Wegmans) an'I gotta AHS'-CREEM and PECKUP (ice cream and ketchup) on my dinner an' we drove inna car and Daddy got sungasses an'I got sungasses an I drove a cart at Memwans, Mommy, an'I gotta cookie an saw d'train an get in Bill's truck and Mommy gonna sit RIIIGHT HERE an' a garage door is up an'a cars comin' in an' go in d'GARAGE door and Bill has a garage door an'a TRACTOR an'a tractor is lellow and I fell down an' it was funny, Mommy, an' I wear my sugasses and Daddy wear his sungasses an' Daddy sit RIGHT HERE an'a cars go to Mommy' church an' now the geen car is HOME-YAY!!!!!-an' tomorrow is Friday an' the garage doors gonna go up an'a tractor's gonna come out an' mow the grass, that's right Daddy, that's right Mommy, an' we're gonna see Bill's garage door an' there's a lellow TRACTOR in a garage door an'a tractor's gonna come out an' mow the grass an' I'm'a throw sticks in Papa's POND!"
Friday, June 20, 2014
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Recently Reading
The Witch of Blackbird Pond
I never read this as a child, and I don't really know why. I remember seeing it on the Accelerated Reader list, I remember loving Sign of the Beaver, and I remember continually passing on it in the library. Probably because there was a girl on the cover and I figured it was going to be all about girl stuff. It was fine. Between Hawthorne and Arthur Miller, I feel like the American Puritans are already over-represented in American literature and not too historically. Might have to read some American history at some point if I want another side of the story.
The Old Arcadia
A huge, sprawling book. Impossible for me to appreciate before about five years ago, because so much of it assumes a working knowledge of Greek poetry, history and style. (I'm sure a lot of it still went over my head.) A wonderful tale though, and incredible craftsmanship in the eclogues and the structure. Put me in the mood for a Shakespeare or two after a longish winter off. The story centers around two princes who try to get to two secluded princesses by dressing as a woman and a common shepherd, with all sorts of confusion following each.
Hatchet
I read this book over and over as a child, and I remembered lots about the hatchet and the fires and the airplane, but almost nothing about the divorce and the personal metamorphosis of Brian. A wonderful book, just as good as I remembered on re-reading.
How to Eat Fried Worms
An accurate description of little boys in every possible way.
The End of Poverty
Jeff Sachs' book on the Millennium Goals, global economics, and American indifference. Tightly structured, engaging, and compelling. It was written in 2002, and I'd like to find some information about how his projects have progressed since then. Mostly I just haven't mustered the energy to do a google search. (Yes, he is right on about American indifference.) The problem with being incredibly ignorant about a subject (like economics) is that when you read someone who writes well about a contentious issue, you run the risk of becoming a blind disciple without ever hearing the other side of the story. I think I might be about ready to be a blind disciple of Jeff Sachs.
The Bacchae
A wild, nearly terrifying play about the arrival of Bacchus in Thebes and the death of the unbelieving King Pentheus. Very interesting to read about the ideas of reverence due to the gods, the penalties of unbelief, the nature of mortal hubris, and the demands of justice in a purely pagan context.
ei d'estin hostis daimonon huperphronei,
es toud athresas thanaton egeistho theous
If there is anyone which despises the gods,
looking unto this man's death let him reckon the divine.
I never read this as a child, and I don't really know why. I remember seeing it on the Accelerated Reader list, I remember loving Sign of the Beaver, and I remember continually passing on it in the library. Probably because there was a girl on the cover and I figured it was going to be all about girl stuff. It was fine. Between Hawthorne and Arthur Miller, I feel like the American Puritans are already over-represented in American literature and not too historically. Might have to read some American history at some point if I want another side of the story.
The Old Arcadia
A huge, sprawling book. Impossible for me to appreciate before about five years ago, because so much of it assumes a working knowledge of Greek poetry, history and style. (I'm sure a lot of it still went over my head.) A wonderful tale though, and incredible craftsmanship in the eclogues and the structure. Put me in the mood for a Shakespeare or two after a longish winter off. The story centers around two princes who try to get to two secluded princesses by dressing as a woman and a common shepherd, with all sorts of confusion following each.
Hatchet
I read this book over and over as a child, and I remembered lots about the hatchet and the fires and the airplane, but almost nothing about the divorce and the personal metamorphosis of Brian. A wonderful book, just as good as I remembered on re-reading.
How to Eat Fried Worms
An accurate description of little boys in every possible way.
The End of Poverty
Jeff Sachs' book on the Millennium Goals, global economics, and American indifference. Tightly structured, engaging, and compelling. It was written in 2002, and I'd like to find some information about how his projects have progressed since then. Mostly I just haven't mustered the energy to do a google search. (Yes, he is right on about American indifference.) The problem with being incredibly ignorant about a subject (like economics) is that when you read someone who writes well about a contentious issue, you run the risk of becoming a blind disciple without ever hearing the other side of the story. I think I might be about ready to be a blind disciple of Jeff Sachs.
The Bacchae
A wild, nearly terrifying play about the arrival of Bacchus in Thebes and the death of the unbelieving King Pentheus. Very interesting to read about the ideas of reverence due to the gods, the penalties of unbelief, the nature of mortal hubris, and the demands of justice in a purely pagan context.
ei d'estin hostis daimonon huperphronei,
es toud athresas thanaton egeistho theous
If there is anyone which despises the gods,
looking unto this man's death let him reckon the divine.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Things James Did Today
Visited the coffee shop across the road. "Daddy, I wanna bagel." Read Curious George Home Run six times in the coffee shop and paid for the bagel with his very own fistful of quarters.
Drove Daddy's car. Not the new car, but the old derelict Neon. He rolled the windows up and down, twisted the steering wheel, and informed me multiple times that the car didn't work and that Uncle Tim should fix it, and that the car was dirty and that we needed to take it to the spish-spish.
Came to a brass quintet recital for the promised bribe of a hot dog. With there being no hot dogs present, got to sit on Mommy's lap and play with her iPad for 40 minutes while I performed. "Daddy, I watched THREE Georges."
Pit-patted down a sidewalk in downtown Rochester yelling "I'm RUNNING!!!" at the top of his lungs while I, with a gig bag on my back and a bagful of music in one hand and a music stand in the other, used my music stand to herd him away from the edge of the sidewalk and force him to stop when he came to intersections.
Learned how to count down at red lights and try to guess exactly when they're going to turn green. "Green means go, Daddy." Each time the light turned green he requested that I find another red light, please.
Eat at Wegmans. Specifically, the East Ave Wegmans. (You should have seen the look on his face when he realized there is more than one Wegmans in the world) He got to sit in a cart at "'nother one memwins" and pick out strawberries and grapes and pizza to eat for lunch. Then he pointed out to me about two dozen times that we were sitting under an umbrella and that it was up high. This was probably a better decision than the hot dog.
Have several extended conversations with the cat next door, who he calls "my friend, meow-meow."
"Daddy, I'ma go talk to my friend, meow-meow." <walks across courtyard> "Hi meow-meow! Watcha doin' meow-meow? Daddy, meow-meow got up from nap! Meow-meow, tomorrows FRIDAY. On Friday d'tractors gonna mow d'GRASS! Meow-meow, I'ma go see garage doors."
Informed me that he'd rather have a cat than a baby brother or a baby sister.
Make friends with two sets of elderly neighbors, both of whom he convinced to put their garage doors up and down multiple times. Both couples fawned over Curious George and his tricycle and how cute he is. James just pointed to the garage door button by the basement entrance and said "Garage door down, peez."
Drove Daddy's car. Not the new car, but the old derelict Neon. He rolled the windows up and down, twisted the steering wheel, and informed me multiple times that the car didn't work and that Uncle Tim should fix it, and that the car was dirty and that we needed to take it to the spish-spish.
Came to a brass quintet recital for the promised bribe of a hot dog. With there being no hot dogs present, got to sit on Mommy's lap and play with her iPad for 40 minutes while I performed. "Daddy, I watched THREE Georges."
Pit-patted down a sidewalk in downtown Rochester yelling "I'm RUNNING!!!" at the top of his lungs while I, with a gig bag on my back and a bagful of music in one hand and a music stand in the other, used my music stand to herd him away from the edge of the sidewalk and force him to stop when he came to intersections.
Learned how to count down at red lights and try to guess exactly when they're going to turn green. "Green means go, Daddy." Each time the light turned green he requested that I find another red light, please.
Eat at Wegmans. Specifically, the East Ave Wegmans. (You should have seen the look on his face when he realized there is more than one Wegmans in the world) He got to sit in a cart at "'nother one memwins" and pick out strawberries and grapes and pizza to eat for lunch. Then he pointed out to me about two dozen times that we were sitting under an umbrella and that it was up high. This was probably a better decision than the hot dog.
Have several extended conversations with the cat next door, who he calls "my friend, meow-meow."
"Daddy, I'ma go talk to my friend, meow-meow." <walks across courtyard> "Hi meow-meow! Watcha doin' meow-meow? Daddy, meow-meow got up from nap! Meow-meow, tomorrows FRIDAY. On Friday d'tractors gonna mow d'GRASS! Meow-meow, I'ma go see garage doors."
Informed me that he'd rather have a cat than a baby brother or a baby sister.
Make friends with two sets of elderly neighbors, both of whom he convinced to put their garage doors up and down multiple times. Both couples fawned over Curious George and his tricycle and how cute he is. James just pointed to the garage door button by the basement entrance and said "Garage door down, peez."
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Lux Aeterna
The light in the bandshell is sickly and flourescent. My skin looks pallid, I see funny spots when I blink, and it seems to match the air. There are no windows in here, just four bare plaster walls. The air and the light move too slowly here. If ever a place was stagnant, it's this one. It smells like greasy teenagers and valve oil. The carpet it damp with June humidity. The light in here is always just a little wrong.
At 6 AM in our apartment, the rising sun is blazing in our front windows. We leave the windows open overnight, and you can smell the dew in the courtyard trees just a few feet away. I usually spread out with my books and coffee on the floor. If you try to sit in the the chair the sun will peek over the building opposite us and nearly blind you until it passes overhead around 7:30. That sort of light is like washing your face after sleeping in the dark of our bedroom all night.
At the hall in Syr---e, the lights are far far overhead in the big vault over the stage. If I crane my neck back over the black cloth of my seat, the four big lights above me blend together into one huge glow. During performances you come out to warm up and the house lights show all the audience clearly. It's a funny sensation to see them all drift into shadow and black while the light that's on you stays as bright as ever. It's a brilliant white sort of light, so that the black ink of the music really pops out at you on your music stand. It smells nice onstage, unless you're on your fourth consecutive evening of Holiday Pops. There's a chalky sort of smell, and the clean hardwood floor of the stage.
At Roberts, I always tried to take the largest practice room on the third floor. The light overheard was just a single household bulb with a drawstring, but I think they took that out and put in flourescents a few years ago. I'd be up there from about 8 in the evening to 10:30 or 11 with a mountain of music on top of the piano and trumpets lying about in open cases, reflecting the lightbulb back. I'd pull up the blinds most nights, and watch the huge floodlamp on the Science Center. In the winter, you could see the snow coming down for 50 yards around that light, and you'd know what it meant for snow to fall "softly."
The light in our bedroom is a string of Christmas lights that wreathe the mirror on our dresser and then sprawl across my desk. I put up other lights around the bedframe and tacked up some more than hang in a line by the chinese lanterns in the corner, but it's nice to just have the one far-off set on. This is soft, dark light that reflects in my wineglass and just barely illumines your wife's face as she kisses you. Too dark to read by, just bright enough to talk at the end of the night in bed.
And then there is the June sunshine, blazing overhead in a spotless blue sky. I've gotten in the habit of sunglasses, but James won't have anything to do with them. I still remember how shocked I was to realize what a theologically traumatic event indoor lighting must have been. The sun is a star, after all, and it burns my sweating neck as I shepherd James back towards shade. He's pushing his bike around, playing with rocks, and loving all the vivid color of the real "outside" world. We'll go in shortly to the wood and carpet and indoor lights that we call home...it will be cool and he'll enjoy it. But if you're two years old, you prefer bathing in sunshine to bathing in water.
At 6 AM in our apartment, the rising sun is blazing in our front windows. We leave the windows open overnight, and you can smell the dew in the courtyard trees just a few feet away. I usually spread out with my books and coffee on the floor. If you try to sit in the the chair the sun will peek over the building opposite us and nearly blind you until it passes overhead around 7:30. That sort of light is like washing your face after sleeping in the dark of our bedroom all night.
At the hall in Syr---e, the lights are far far overhead in the big vault over the stage. If I crane my neck back over the black cloth of my seat, the four big lights above me blend together into one huge glow. During performances you come out to warm up and the house lights show all the audience clearly. It's a funny sensation to see them all drift into shadow and black while the light that's on you stays as bright as ever. It's a brilliant white sort of light, so that the black ink of the music really pops out at you on your music stand. It smells nice onstage, unless you're on your fourth consecutive evening of Holiday Pops. There's a chalky sort of smell, and the clean hardwood floor of the stage.
At Roberts, I always tried to take the largest practice room on the third floor. The light overheard was just a single household bulb with a drawstring, but I think they took that out and put in flourescents a few years ago. I'd be up there from about 8 in the evening to 10:30 or 11 with a mountain of music on top of the piano and trumpets lying about in open cases, reflecting the lightbulb back. I'd pull up the blinds most nights, and watch the huge floodlamp on the Science Center. In the winter, you could see the snow coming down for 50 yards around that light, and you'd know what it meant for snow to fall "softly."
The light in our bedroom is a string of Christmas lights that wreathe the mirror on our dresser and then sprawl across my desk. I put up other lights around the bedframe and tacked up some more than hang in a line by the chinese lanterns in the corner, but it's nice to just have the one far-off set on. This is soft, dark light that reflects in my wineglass and just barely illumines your wife's face as she kisses you. Too dark to read by, just bright enough to talk at the end of the night in bed.
And then there is the June sunshine, blazing overhead in a spotless blue sky. I've gotten in the habit of sunglasses, but James won't have anything to do with them. I still remember how shocked I was to realize what a theologically traumatic event indoor lighting must have been. The sun is a star, after all, and it burns my sweating neck as I shepherd James back towards shade. He's pushing his bike around, playing with rocks, and loving all the vivid color of the real "outside" world. We'll go in shortly to the wood and carpet and indoor lights that we call home...it will be cool and he'll enjoy it. But if you're two years old, you prefer bathing in sunshine to bathing in water.
George Counting
It's fascinating to watch children learn. Last night when James was avoiding our dinner guests at all costs he took out his current favorite book (Curious George Counts from 1-100) and began reading it to himself on the couch. He had only ever met our friends once or twice, and he was still in the initial phase of acclimation (don't make eye contact, don't answer any of their questions, pretend that they aren't in the room, and make all communication in a hushed whisper) and hadn't yet reached stage two. (Demand all of their attention, babble incessantly, show off his wordly goods, and violently protest any suggestion that they might not stay forever)
"Has he memorized that book? It sounds like he's in there reading it to himself?"
"Yes," said J proudly, "he's only had it out of the library for a few days and he can pretty much do the whole thing by heart. He's a sponge for books."
The truth is, he hasn't yet learned how to NOT memorize books. When we read him something he likes, he wants it to be read over and over again. And then over and over again some more. For a long time it was George Car Wash, then George Hospital, George Birthday, and George Ice Cream all took turns. Reading different books for most kids is something of a learned taste. I think most of them want to do what James does...to repeat the same experience over and over again and get lost in the rhythm of the text, the sound of their parent's voice, and the familiar illustration.
The technical term for it is mimesis. The way that our world (or at least the old Western world) treats reading tends to steer us away from mimesis. Formal schooling teaches us to read with a certain set of purposes, and most writing is done to accomodate those purposes. George Counting is blatantly biased towards teaching James a bunch of facts. (Namely, the order of numbers between 1 and 100.) This is probably a good thing, since his current counting order is 1,2,6,7,8,9,10,12.
But James, still being two and not having learned our way of learning, reads the book mimetically. He memorizes not just the words, but the cadence of the words as they are spoken. When George rides a bike, James gets his bike from the bedroom and stands with it. When he sees George's fire truck, James gets his fire truck. James isn't reading a text about counting, he's acting in a play.
I've given a lot of thought to our schooling strategies. We've made some choices that are very much in line with the way that we were educated and some choices that diverge sharply. (Usually in an effort to reach back several hundred years, not to jump forward.) Sometimes though, when I see my son reading and learning and thinking "in the wild" and using a mind utterly different than the type of mind I'm going to attempt to mold, I'm deeply frightened. But I suppose this is part of the terrifying adventure of parenting--he's been born, and we must teach him something.
"Has he memorized that book? It sounds like he's in there reading it to himself?"
"Yes," said J proudly, "he's only had it out of the library for a few days and he can pretty much do the whole thing by heart. He's a sponge for books."
The truth is, he hasn't yet learned how to NOT memorize books. When we read him something he likes, he wants it to be read over and over again. And then over and over again some more. For a long time it was George Car Wash, then George Hospital, George Birthday, and George Ice Cream all took turns. Reading different books for most kids is something of a learned taste. I think most of them want to do what James does...to repeat the same experience over and over again and get lost in the rhythm of the text, the sound of their parent's voice, and the familiar illustration.
The technical term for it is mimesis. The way that our world (or at least the old Western world) treats reading tends to steer us away from mimesis. Formal schooling teaches us to read with a certain set of purposes, and most writing is done to accomodate those purposes. George Counting is blatantly biased towards teaching James a bunch of facts. (Namely, the order of numbers between 1 and 100.) This is probably a good thing, since his current counting order is 1,2,6,7,8,9,10,12.
But James, still being two and not having learned our way of learning, reads the book mimetically. He memorizes not just the words, but the cadence of the words as they are spoken. When George rides a bike, James gets his bike from the bedroom and stands with it. When he sees George's fire truck, James gets his fire truck. James isn't reading a text about counting, he's acting in a play.
I've given a lot of thought to our schooling strategies. We've made some choices that are very much in line with the way that we were educated and some choices that diverge sharply. (Usually in an effort to reach back several hundred years, not to jump forward.) Sometimes though, when I see my son reading and learning and thinking "in the wild" and using a mind utterly different than the type of mind I'm going to attempt to mold, I'm deeply frightened. But I suppose this is part of the terrifying adventure of parenting--he's been born, and we must teach him something.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Triptych
Sunday Morning
I am sitting in a Japanese restaurant at the UB campus. I'm in a funny shaped red plastic chair, all alone except for the chef and the cashier. There is a lake no more than 20 feet outside the window, and a rabbit is nosing in and out of a bush in front of me. I decided not to get sushi, but I'm eating rice, egg, and a teriyaki beef. It looks like it might rain soon.
I played a rehearsal at 10 AM of horrible contemporary music. There was no tune, and my part was an assortment of odd and angry sounding notes that added nothing but an ever-decreasing shock to the already confused listener. Once rehearsal was over I packed my trumpets away and walked down to the student union looking for something to eat. Being a Sunday morning and mid-June, everything was closed except this one Japanese restaurant. It's the first time I've missed church since January. I think there might be a Korean service in one of the classrooms above me, but I choose to pick at my rice and read my book. The book is called The End of Poverty, and its about world peace and aid to third world countries.
I realize I've become a hippie.
Monday Evening
J is lying on the couch and hardly conscious. It was a typical day with James, which means that he was sweet and angelic for five minute intervals and then either in a raging tantrum or asking incessant questions to which he already knew the answer. A half an hour ago we loaded the dishwasher to the brim and abandoned the stack of dishes that was still left in the sink. We packed away the macaroni and cheese that James refused to eat, and then set to work on picking up the toys that he'd scattered all over the house. There are blocks under the couch, toy cars in the closet, and two stuffed animals on the floor. I take them into his room and put them in his bed.
Now she lying on the couch and trying to summon the energy for a conversation with me. I'm stretched out on the floor below her with my head resting on one arm and the other arm draped over one of her long bare legs. The sun is starting to go down, and one of us should get up to close the blinds. She mentions how nice it would be to have a glass of wine tonight. We'll know the gender of the new baby on Friday.
Sunday Evening
James is climbing trees. I hold him under his arms and he puts his feet against the tree trunk and walks up until I set him up in the branches. Steven and George are lying in the grass below, along with a plastic bin full of rocks. He pushed the box of rocks all the way up the courtyard and all the way back, stopping every 20 feet or so to throw in another rock and then asking me to carry it because it is too heavy.
He grins as he perches up in the tree and points to a high branch. "Daddy, I'ma climb waaay high up there!" I smile back and tell him to go ahead. He giggles and then points to another branch. "Daddy, I'ma climb waaay high up there." I tell him to go ahead again and he asks how Steven is doing. Steven is doing fine. He tells me that he's going to jump out of the tree and that I'll catch him.
"You can jump out of the tree and Daddy will catch you, but you need to tell me when you jump."
Without warning he hurtles out of the tree and I catch him awkwardly against my side. He smiles up again and says: "Daddy, I jumped!"
I am sitting in a Japanese restaurant at the UB campus. I'm in a funny shaped red plastic chair, all alone except for the chef and the cashier. There is a lake no more than 20 feet outside the window, and a rabbit is nosing in and out of a bush in front of me. I decided not to get sushi, but I'm eating rice, egg, and a teriyaki beef. It looks like it might rain soon.
I played a rehearsal at 10 AM of horrible contemporary music. There was no tune, and my part was an assortment of odd and angry sounding notes that added nothing but an ever-decreasing shock to the already confused listener. Once rehearsal was over I packed my trumpets away and walked down to the student union looking for something to eat. Being a Sunday morning and mid-June, everything was closed except this one Japanese restaurant. It's the first time I've missed church since January. I think there might be a Korean service in one of the classrooms above me, but I choose to pick at my rice and read my book. The book is called The End of Poverty, and its about world peace and aid to third world countries.
I realize I've become a hippie.
Monday Evening
J is lying on the couch and hardly conscious. It was a typical day with James, which means that he was sweet and angelic for five minute intervals and then either in a raging tantrum or asking incessant questions to which he already knew the answer. A half an hour ago we loaded the dishwasher to the brim and abandoned the stack of dishes that was still left in the sink. We packed away the macaroni and cheese that James refused to eat, and then set to work on picking up the toys that he'd scattered all over the house. There are blocks under the couch, toy cars in the closet, and two stuffed animals on the floor. I take them into his room and put them in his bed.
Now she lying on the couch and trying to summon the energy for a conversation with me. I'm stretched out on the floor below her with my head resting on one arm and the other arm draped over one of her long bare legs. The sun is starting to go down, and one of us should get up to close the blinds. She mentions how nice it would be to have a glass of wine tonight. We'll know the gender of the new baby on Friday.
Sunday Evening
James is climbing trees. I hold him under his arms and he puts his feet against the tree trunk and walks up until I set him up in the branches. Steven and George are lying in the grass below, along with a plastic bin full of rocks. He pushed the box of rocks all the way up the courtyard and all the way back, stopping every 20 feet or so to throw in another rock and then asking me to carry it because it is too heavy.
He grins as he perches up in the tree and points to a high branch. "Daddy, I'ma climb waaay high up there!" I smile back and tell him to go ahead. He giggles and then points to another branch. "Daddy, I'ma climb waaay high up there." I tell him to go ahead again and he asks how Steven is doing. Steven is doing fine. He tells me that he's going to jump out of the tree and that I'll catch him.
"You can jump out of the tree and Daddy will catch you, but you need to tell me when you jump."
Without warning he hurtles out of the tree and I catch him awkwardly against my side. He smiles up again and says: "Daddy, I jumped!"
Saturday, June 7, 2014
James Smith: Big Brother
He sat at the table, looking sleepy and dipping his carrot sticks into a dish of hummus.
"James," I asked him "are you so excited for Mommy to have a new baby?"
He scowled and shook his head, then put an elbow on the table and leaned his head towards his plate.
"We're going to find out in one week whether it's a boy or a girl. Do you think Mommy should have a baby girl, or a baby boy."
He waits a moment, then mutters "Baby boy."
"A baby boy like Silas?"
"Yeah."
"Do you love baby Silas?"
"Yeah."
"Would you like it if a little baby boy like Silas came to our house to live with us?"
<shakes head "no">
"Do you think the baby is going to sleep in your room?"
<shakes head "no">
"Do you think the baby is going to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's room?"
<shakes head "no">
"Well, where should the new baby sleep?"
"Aunt Kyee's house."
"What kind of friends do you think the new baby will have? Do you think his friends will be an owl or a dog?"
"Okay."
"Would you share any of your friends?"
<shakes head "no">
"Sometimes you share Steven when you see a baby who is crying. If new baby was crying, would you let him hold Steven Bear?"
<shakes head "no">
"Would you help make the new baby feel better if it was crying?"
<shakes head "no">
"New baby will probably cry a lot at first. But you can show the new baby how to be a big boy. Will you show him how you go on the potty?"
<shakes head "no">
"Maybe you could show new baby how to play with trains or make a carwash?"
"I want trains. I wanna hold trains."
"Should Daddy hold you?"
"Okay."
"James," I asked him "are you so excited for Mommy to have a new baby?"
He scowled and shook his head, then put an elbow on the table and leaned his head towards his plate.
"We're going to find out in one week whether it's a boy or a girl. Do you think Mommy should have a baby girl, or a baby boy."
He waits a moment, then mutters "Baby boy."
"A baby boy like Silas?"
"Yeah."
"Do you love baby Silas?"
"Yeah."
"Would you like it if a little baby boy like Silas came to our house to live with us?"
<shakes head "no">
"Do you think the baby is going to sleep in your room?"
<shakes head "no">
"Do you think the baby is going to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's room?"
<shakes head "no">
"Well, where should the new baby sleep?"
"Aunt Kyee's house."
"What kind of friends do you think the new baby will have? Do you think his friends will be an owl or a dog?"
"Okay."
"Would you share any of your friends?"
<shakes head "no">
"Sometimes you share Steven when you see a baby who is crying. If new baby was crying, would you let him hold Steven Bear?"
<shakes head "no">
"Would you help make the new baby feel better if it was crying?"
<shakes head "no">
"New baby will probably cry a lot at first. But you can show the new baby how to be a big boy. Will you show him how you go on the potty?"
<shakes head "no">
"Maybe you could show new baby how to play with trains or make a carwash?"
"I want trains. I wanna hold trains."
"Should Daddy hold you?"
"Okay."
Thursday, June 5, 2014
A Wild Civility
A man ydrove to Target store some fancies for to find
To please his wife and make disport withouten any wine
At Target on a cluttered shelf a label-maker lay,
It boughten was to make a date at end of weary day
The day was weary even though the sun was shining mild
For every day is weary when ye have a two year child
The child was put into his bed, his prayers were allen made
The man turn'd to his wife and next her to their couch he bade
He offered her the present and made gift with alllen pomp,
But she ylooked upon like it were a muddy swamp
"O husband mine, now think ye that our labels are amiss?
I never for our date tonight would have expected this."
The man said "Wife I bought ye this and listen to me please,
For now we might tell difference among our many keys."
"The key that locks the dead-bolt looks to me alway the same
As the key that shuts the latch and now we may give them a name."
"I looked on the ynternet to find of blogger's telling
But its use was never told of much as straightening of spelling"
"And ordering our house is just as holy and as meet
As clothing well our bodies with fine clothes and scentes sweete."
"For scripture says (I thynken) that to godliness is nigh
All cleanliness although I can't tell where or why."
"I thynken though we happy be when all is right arranged
For when the home is filthy you are wont to be estranged"
"And will not come ysport in bed, but storm with faces dour
And must not rest until the kitchen floor ye mighten scour"
"So now we wenden unto sleep and know all set in place
And ye will come to bed with joy and peace all in your face"
And thus he ended making speech of words he thoughten deep
But while he sermons made his wife had fallen all asleep.
To please his wife and make disport withouten any wine
At Target on a cluttered shelf a label-maker lay,
It boughten was to make a date at end of weary day
The day was weary even though the sun was shining mild
For every day is weary when ye have a two year child
The child was put into his bed, his prayers were allen made
The man turn'd to his wife and next her to their couch he bade
He offered her the present and made gift with alllen pomp,
But she ylooked upon like it were a muddy swamp
"O husband mine, now think ye that our labels are amiss?
I never for our date tonight would have expected this."
The man said "Wife I bought ye this and listen to me please,
For now we might tell difference among our many keys."
"The key that locks the dead-bolt looks to me alway the same
As the key that shuts the latch and now we may give them a name."
"I looked on the ynternet to find of blogger's telling
But its use was never told of much as straightening of spelling"
"And ordering our house is just as holy and as meet
As clothing well our bodies with fine clothes and scentes sweete."
"For scripture says (I thynken) that to godliness is nigh
All cleanliness although I can't tell where or why."
"I thynken though we happy be when all is right arranged
For when the home is filthy you are wont to be estranged"
"And will not come ysport in bed, but storm with faces dour
And must not rest until the kitchen floor ye mighten scour"
"So now we wenden unto sleep and know all set in place
And ye will come to bed with joy and peace all in your face"
And thus he ended making speech of words he thoughten deep
But while he sermons made his wife had fallen all asleep.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Orchestra Duty
Judge Doug Duggerson wearily unzipped his judgely robes, laid his gavel inside his desk, and sat down into his comfortable chair after a long day of judging. He scratched the back of his neck where the robes chafed him, and started to sort through his mail. A bill, another bill. The jury today had been particularly dull. Where did they get these people from? And they all looked so gloomy and unhappy...
He paused and puzzled over a sort of blue envelope he had never seen before. It was sealed tightly shut and marked "OPEN IMMEDIATELY." When he pulled out the letter inside he was surprised to see that the return address was from the local symphony orchestra. He hadn't been to a concert in years, and had never donated any money. Why were they sending him mail?
As he read his face first took an expression of puzzlement, then of wide-eyed disbelief, then shock bordering on laughter. He was being summoned for orchestra duty!
"Mr. Duggerson, please call the orchestra office immediately if you are not a US citizen or are not a resident of this county. You may be permitted to postpone your orchestra service (which requires your commitment to serve at a future time) or, you may be eligible to apply for a deferment. All requests are to be made as soon as possible."
"All musicians must complete all forms below. Please see driving directions attached. When you report, please dress in an appropriate manner. Do not park at a parking meter. A refrigerator and microwave are available if you choose to bring food. All substitute musicians will be paid a total of $80 per service. If you wish to donate your services to the orchestra, please check the box below."
Doug the judge scanned through the document several times looking for a phone number, and eventually found a number with extension for someone called the "personnel manager." He rang the number and got no answer, then hung up before it could go to voicemail. The report date and time was listed as tonight at 8:00--and it was already past 7! He thought for a few moments about blowing the letter of entirely, but then he uneasily remembered the strong language about the penalties that could be imposed if he refused to show up for orchestra duty.
Doug the judge trudged out to his car, fumbled with a map for directions to Orchestra Hall, and then made his way through the thick evening traffic down the expressway and into the heart of downtown. It was just past 8:00 when he arrived the parking garage. He'd circled almost the entire way around Orchestra Hall before he found the musician entrance, and when he went inside he could hardly believe that THIS was what was behind that beautiful stage. There were bare pipes, the sound of hissing steam, and cobwebs dangling down above his head. The lighting was dim, the floor unfinished, and he smelled an ancient stink of unwashed ballet dancers and old tuxedos.
As he made his way through the dark hallway a severe looking woman suddenly appeared and startled him. "You're late!" she hissed "They've already started the first piece! That's going to be a fine off of your paycheck. And you're in the wrong dress too...that will be another fine."
Taken aback by her sudden appearance and harsh voice, Doug stepped back and began to mumble an apology. But before he could get a word out she shoved a old trumpet case into his hand with only one working latch. "Hurry up and get onstage!"
Doug half ran up the steps and by the time he reached the stage door was very much aware that it would be hard to play his instrument while he was out of breath. The applause from the first number died down and he made his way over to the trumpet section. He blushed as he looked down at his clothes, clearly different than the other 80 members of the orchestra. As he sat in the trumpet section, one of the players whispered to him that he'd brought out the wrong trumpet...but it was too late to go back and get another, for the conductor had started the piece.
He completely missed the first trumpet entrance, but to his surprise he recognized the piece...it was Thus Spake Zarathustra, which he'd heard on a hundred soundtracks. As the low strings and organ rumbled by, he remembered vaguely playing some trumpet in high school band and tried to recall some of the fingerings.
All of a sudden there was a tinkling of flutes and high strings, and he saw in the trumpet part that he was supposed to play a perilous looking fanfare. As he counted the rests before his entrance he suddenly became profoundly aware that he would be playing alone, and that every eye in the concert wall was fixed upon him. He looked down at the metal tube in his hand and fear rushed through his whole body. How was he supposed to play such an exact and demanding entrance with any sort of precision when he'd hardly warmed up?
He held up the trumpet and beads of sweat trickled down his face. He looked up into the eye of the sinister face of the conductor, and watched for the cue.
His first note spoke with only a minimal crack, but he could tell as soon as he started playing that there was no chance for the high note. A lower note splatted pathetically, aired out entirely, and then sagged into a comically bad bray.
Looking up out of the corner of his eye, the judge could see audience members looking at him with concern, pointing and whispering. The conductor had turned red with silent fury, and none of the other trumpet players would even look at him. He set the trumpet down on the chair and slinked offstage as quickly as he could, hearing whispers about "amateur" and "never again" as he passed the back row of violins.
The judge awoke with a start in his own bedroom, gasped, and tried to stop his hands from trembling. And then he promised himself that he would never ever ever ever ever ever again summon a musician for jury duty...because they had enough to worry about playing their instruments at the symphony hall.
He paused and puzzled over a sort of blue envelope he had never seen before. It was sealed tightly shut and marked "OPEN IMMEDIATELY." When he pulled out the letter inside he was surprised to see that the return address was from the local symphony orchestra. He hadn't been to a concert in years, and had never donated any money. Why were they sending him mail?
As he read his face first took an expression of puzzlement, then of wide-eyed disbelief, then shock bordering on laughter. He was being summoned for orchestra duty!
"Mr. Duggerson, please call the orchestra office immediately if you are not a US citizen or are not a resident of this county. You may be permitted to postpone your orchestra service (which requires your commitment to serve at a future time) or, you may be eligible to apply for a deferment. All requests are to be made as soon as possible."
"All musicians must complete all forms below. Please see driving directions attached. When you report, please dress in an appropriate manner. Do not park at a parking meter. A refrigerator and microwave are available if you choose to bring food. All substitute musicians will be paid a total of $80 per service. If you wish to donate your services to the orchestra, please check the box below."
Doug the judge scanned through the document several times looking for a phone number, and eventually found a number with extension for someone called the "personnel manager." He rang the number and got no answer, then hung up before it could go to voicemail. The report date and time was listed as tonight at 8:00--and it was already past 7! He thought for a few moments about blowing the letter of entirely, but then he uneasily remembered the strong language about the penalties that could be imposed if he refused to show up for orchestra duty.
Doug the judge trudged out to his car, fumbled with a map for directions to Orchestra Hall, and then made his way through the thick evening traffic down the expressway and into the heart of downtown. It was just past 8:00 when he arrived the parking garage. He'd circled almost the entire way around Orchestra Hall before he found the musician entrance, and when he went inside he could hardly believe that THIS was what was behind that beautiful stage. There were bare pipes, the sound of hissing steam, and cobwebs dangling down above his head. The lighting was dim, the floor unfinished, and he smelled an ancient stink of unwashed ballet dancers and old tuxedos.
As he made his way through the dark hallway a severe looking woman suddenly appeared and startled him. "You're late!" she hissed "They've already started the first piece! That's going to be a fine off of your paycheck. And you're in the wrong dress too...that will be another fine."
Taken aback by her sudden appearance and harsh voice, Doug stepped back and began to mumble an apology. But before he could get a word out she shoved a old trumpet case into his hand with only one working latch. "Hurry up and get onstage!"
Doug half ran up the steps and by the time he reached the stage door was very much aware that it would be hard to play his instrument while he was out of breath. The applause from the first number died down and he made his way over to the trumpet section. He blushed as he looked down at his clothes, clearly different than the other 80 members of the orchestra. As he sat in the trumpet section, one of the players whispered to him that he'd brought out the wrong trumpet...but it was too late to go back and get another, for the conductor had started the piece.
He completely missed the first trumpet entrance, but to his surprise he recognized the piece...it was Thus Spake Zarathustra, which he'd heard on a hundred soundtracks. As the low strings and organ rumbled by, he remembered vaguely playing some trumpet in high school band and tried to recall some of the fingerings.
All of a sudden there was a tinkling of flutes and high strings, and he saw in the trumpet part that he was supposed to play a perilous looking fanfare. As he counted the rests before his entrance he suddenly became profoundly aware that he would be playing alone, and that every eye in the concert wall was fixed upon him. He looked down at the metal tube in his hand and fear rushed through his whole body. How was he supposed to play such an exact and demanding entrance with any sort of precision when he'd hardly warmed up?
He held up the trumpet and beads of sweat trickled down his face. He looked up into the eye of the sinister face of the conductor, and watched for the cue.
His first note spoke with only a minimal crack, but he could tell as soon as he started playing that there was no chance for the high note. A lower note splatted pathetically, aired out entirely, and then sagged into a comically bad bray.
Looking up out of the corner of his eye, the judge could see audience members looking at him with concern, pointing and whispering. The conductor had turned red with silent fury, and none of the other trumpet players would even look at him. He set the trumpet down on the chair and slinked offstage as quickly as he could, hearing whispers about "amateur" and "never again" as he passed the back row of violins.
The judge awoke with a start in his own bedroom, gasped, and tried to stop his hands from trembling. And then he promised himself that he would never ever ever ever ever ever again summon a musician for jury duty...because they had enough to worry about playing their instruments at the symphony hall.
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