Old PIctures

In the Japanese tradition, on New Year's Day we dove into our house and tried to deeply declutter. Only two closets and two rooms in we had about eight trash bags of stuff to go, and were sneezing from old dust. LIberating. Freeing. Today the purge will continue.

BUT, in the midst of the purge I came across an old roll of film. (film. remember film?) J snuck off and developed it this week and it was like a time capsule from four years ago. It was a series of photos from Xmas of 2008--we estimate. There are clues, but we cannot be certain.

There are our boys, in their footie pajamas. Theo, already himself in hair, personality, expression. But Benji, so different. And I remembered again, how odd Benji was. He emerged into the world so clingy, so needy, so uncertain. Even Theo picked up on it--there he is with that Benji expression, mouth open, staring slightly dumfounded into the camera, as if to say. "Why am I here? Why do these people drag me to these strange places? Make me wear these strange hats? Who are they and what do they want?"

He used to not meet Jonathan's eyes. He did not talk until he was nearly three. He was unbelievably clingy--always leaning, needing, wanting, even in his sleep.

It was if he were born with a cloud over him, some shadow from a past life. It was as if he had a horrible past life, and he could not believe he had to return and do this all again. Life. He was born weary. Not wanting to be here. But then around three or four the cloud dispersed. He became himself. He started to talk. To be mischeivous. That lost, mouth-open why-am-I-here expression disappeared.

He is here now. Ready to be here. Still snuggly, but not in need of warmth on his cheek from the mama every second. He is in this life and believes life can be good. The shadow of his past life--or whatever that was--is gone.

Checking in with My Gardening Muse

It's year two of my garden and I feel less fear. I have also given less attention.

But I do feel different; I have faith the plants will grow, some will die, and most of it will not be my fault as long as I turn up and water. That is just the cycle of things.

I tried not to overcrowd my plants, because last year I crammed so many plants in each box that the plants had to grow OUT of the boxes seeking sun, and some died beneath the leaves of others.

I had compost this year to use for planting. A year of vegetarian trash has been converted into deep, loamy soil filled with earth worms. I was amazed. Jonathan really could not believe it.

Also, after two years at LCW and gardening classes, Theo really is confident in the garden. He knows what he is doing, and he does it without fear. He shakes out the roots and plants them tenderly. He grows potatoes and plants seedlings. He could work in a nursery. He just inspires confidence.

I put in peas and tomatoes (a big variety, no neurotic heirlooms) and squash and cucumbers and eggplant and zucchini and three sweet caroline watermelons (a weakness: sometimes I pick my plants just for the poetry of their names)

I went up to visit my fledgling garden on Sunday and nothing seemed to have grown. Animals had dug holes, and a few plants had lost their lives. It was neither exciting, nor depressing. But I was nervous to show Jill Tanner, my gardening muse.

But today I invited her up for a look. She climbed up the terraces in her stylish black top, designer sunglasses and black flats, and praised me and encouraged me.

Oh, I lapped it up like child.

"Your garden looks great!" She said. "Great job with the compost! Oh, your plants look so healthy. Your peas won't survive, you need some new watermelons, plant them in the other corner for more sun, and I would err on the side of overcrowding. Yes, I will give you a sungold seedling (our most favorite tomato--so sweet it tastes like candy). Oh, you are doing so well!"

I felt like an initiate. Still a beginner, but more confident. I can do it.

This weekend, watermelons, pole beans, and some wacky strains of cucumber (last year I fell in love with an Armenian cucumber, all prickly and lemon-flavored).

I feel proud. Very proud.

Pictures to come. I promise.

Stories

Tuesday night we drove back from Mammoth in the dark. The sun set, the road was two lanes and narrow. There were no lights, except cars shooting toward you in the opposite direction. The great dark hulk of the Sierras lay to the right like a sleeping monster. Driving took concentration, and we still had a long way to go.

So Jonathan came up with a game. The boys would come up with the elements, and we would tell the stories. Jonathan asked questions: Funny, funny-scary, or scary? (funny-scary, said Benji). Real or unreal (unreal, said Theo). Fable or fairy tale or science fiction? (fable, said I).

Then you are on. You have to think on your feet and keep weaving your tale, judging your audience reaction by giggles, complaints, and sighs of pleasure and satisfaction. When the story goes off track the audience chimes in to complain. (That is not a fable! or That is not very funny!) Because the goal is to pass the time, you also have to keep the story going as long as possible, so the miles fly by, and hopefully, boys will be lulled to sleep. Jonathan's was great, about a strange visitor, who makes all sorts of wonderful things happen, and solves all the family's problems. But in the end he was not real. The moral: You cannot wait for a stranger to solve all your problems. You have to figure it out yourself."

None of us saw that coming. We were disappointed. The imagination part of the story was very alluring.

Then it was my turn. I got three words: Weird (Theo), Ocean (Benji) and cat (Jonathan). I got to suck in my breath, imagine a setting, then dive in. It is like a strange sort of mental exercise--perhaps the way improv goes if you are really good. I started, and Theo yelled out (you are copying a book, and I know which one!). Harsh audience!

But I wove my tale, about a blue cat who takes to the sea, and eventually saves his mother. There is a lot more to the story, and I will not bore you with it here.

But in the end, I got the most gratifying reward.

I finished, and Benji let out a long, perfect, contented sigh.

"That was good," he said.

Oh, it was the perfect gift for a night-time storyteller. I had cast the spell and he was smitten.

"Did you like Blue?" I asked. (Blue was the name of the sea kitten).

"I want to be Blue," he said.

Oh, be still my beating heart.

No amount of money could compensate me for that perfect appreciation.

Love at 5

Theo found his soul mate at Canyon School, when he was three years old. He can still see that girl all these years later and they have some deep bond that no one can touch. It is as if they knew each other in another life. We adults all step back in awe. When you see it, you cannot deny its existence.

But Benji never had a soulmate like that.

Until now.

This year in kindergarten he found Avery. She is so cute that everyone who sees her is smitten. Teachers, parents, other children, every boy in her class, and the principal, too. She is half-Filipino with red red cheeks a heart-shaped face. She is quiet, but then smart and intelligent like an adult.

Benji says she is his best friend. And yes, she says he is hers. They sit beside each other at their table, and on the carpet.

She has come over to play a few times.

She came over Friday, and I got to see my proud son in courtship mode, showing her everything that matters deeply to him.

"These are our plants," he said, showing her our herb garden. "Do you want to water with me? I will water the strawberries. You can water everything else..."

Then, as they sat eating popsicles Benji finished first.

"Would you like me to play a song for you on the piano?" he asked her. He laid out all his music books on the floor and asked her to pick one. She did. And the serenade began.

"Mommy, sing with me," he shouted imperiously, like a night club performer. So I stood behind and sang. Then Avery sat perched beside him on the piano bench like a Forties film star, legs crossed, sitting almost side saddle, leaning into him while he played.

They finished off playing with Benji's remote control car. Benji would control it and try to catch her, chasing her around the house with his remote control dune buggy. She shrieked for joy and laughed uncontrollably.

Love at 5.

It is the sweetest thing ever.

I swear, it nearly broke my heart.

May he always be so free and open with his emotions, sharing his plants, his music, and his remote control technology!

Zlateh the Goat

Two nights ago, as I was tucking Theo in, he said, "Mommy, read this story. I like it a lot. I want you to read it and tell me what you think."

He passed me "Zlateh the Goat," a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer. The book itself is a gift from his poet, intellectual cousin Susan.

I opened the story so curious. He has told me about stories, before, and asked me questions. But this was different. This was like when you are older, and you give a story, or a music tape to someone you love. You are telling them, "Read this, Listen to this and Know me. Hidden in these words, this music, this art, is something very important to me that I cannot put into words. Also, I love it and I want you to love what I love."

The story was beautifully written. Several cuts above most children's modern literature. It is a touching story about a Russian boy who must take the family goat he loves to be slaughtered, because his father is a furrier, the weather has been warm, no one wants fur coats, and they have no money. The whole family loves the goat, but the boy most of all. And it is he who must lead this animal he loves to his death.

So the beginning is awful. You know the goat is going to die. And you know the boy's heart is going to be broken. And the goat is going along so happily, trusting the boy completely, because it is his very best friend.

But shortly after they set out for the next village a horrible blizzard arises and they get lost and they have to take shelter inside a haystack. They are there for three days and three nights. The goat eats the hay, the boy makes the hole. The boys finishes his food, but then the goat lets him drink milk from her udder, which the boy squirts right into his mouth. They survive. After three days the storm stops and the boy digs out. He has made up his mind. He returns home with the goat. HIs family had given him up for dead, and he is alive, and the goat gets to live, and because of the snow his father gets lots of furrier business and all is hunky dory.

It is a very moving story.

Still, I asked Theo what he liked about it. He said he liked the adventure. He said he liked the surprise in the story, that it did not turn out the way you expected. And he said he liked that you thought the boy was going to save the goat's life, but instead the goat saved the boy's life.

All true.

It is hard to put into words. But I do feel like my emotionally enigmatic boy shared some deep part of himself with the story.

I am grateful.

Has that ever happened to you?

My Man, In Miniature

My husband is a delight in a social situation. He is keenly observant and takes it all in. He has on ongoing patter (whispered in my ear) that is so devastatingly on target that it makes me giggle wherever I am, and he takes away snippets of conversation that are better than the best gossip column.

When I was a reporter I would take him to events and set him free and he would come back with some of the best anecdotes of the evening.

Last night I went to an art show/cocktail party by one of my favorite friends. We know her art, we own her art, we will buy more of her art, but we were there to support, to love. I dragged my boys to this fashionable gathering, because it was the only way I could go. So there we were, squished into a tiny boutique on Melrose, me, and my two boys.

I stationed them at the counter with a brownie, told them not to knock over any mannequins, and set off to air kiss, meet and greet, and congratulate my friend.

Fifteen minutes later we were out the door. A platter had crashed to the floor near the expensive clothing on the way out, but it wasn't my well-behaved boys, it was a Dad! Bad Dad!

We walked out the door and I asked the boys what they thought. (They love the artist.)

"Well, there wasn't very much art for an art show," said Benji. "I thought there would be more art."

So Jonathan. Cutting to the chase. The truth in one devastating sentence.

"The woman who owned the store said she had never had so many people in her store in her whole life," said Theo.

The snoop and the truth-teller. My husband, divided in two, genetically spread out over my two boys.

I told Jonathan he doesn't even need to come any more. I have him beside me, in the form of Theo and Benji.

But of course, I do. I love the original.

And the little ones delight me as much as the Big One.

My Boys.

You Never Know What Matters...

I try so hard to feed my sons' brains and hearts and souls. To expose, but not pressure, to encourage discipline, but not cripple with expectation. It is hard. I feel I have no model. I had lots of exposure--by Seventies standards--but not much attention to me, and what I might have been good at. Whatever. I am just trying to pay attention for my boys.

Theo has music at school. It is a sweet program and I like the teachers. They have been doing a lot of Peter, Paul and Mary--which is an orgasmic experience for me, the child of the Sixties. It was a time when folk music was so far-reaching that even my buttoned up US Navy father played the guitar, the ukelele and endlessly played Peter Paul and Mary. We sang those songs over and over, in the car, in the rocking chair, everywhere.

So now Theo learns.

A few weeks ago they started learning This Land is Your Land. He learned one verse, and he was proud. And when we drove to Phoenix through the desert he sang it. I told him there were more verses, and I tried to remember. I stumbled through a few. When we got home I searched on the internet and printed out the words. Sometimes I come into his room after I have tucked him in bed, and there is the piece of paper with the words, folded and unfolded, lying on his bureau. He got up to verse 2, then verse 3.

Last night I told him I would come to school sing today. This morning, after I hauled him out of bed, I saw him crouched on the floor in his bedroom with the piece of paper, reading and rereading the verses. Hurry, I shouted. Hurry.

We went, and sat as his class sang with Teacher William. I saw Theo crouching behind his friend, with his wad of paper unfolded, all the verses of This Land Is Your Land in front of him. He was ready to sing, verses I-5.

They didn't sing that song today. But of all the things I do, who would have thought that printing out the words to that song would have meant anything at all?

I guess you just have to throw it at the wall and see if it sticks...