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Observed…

On the sidelines of my daughter’s soccer game yesterday, three young boys were playing a game of “Star Wars.” I don’t know exactly what the game involved, but one of them had a flashlight and there was some mention of “protecting” people. “You go protect your mom,” one said to another, maybe five years old. Then, the one who issued the order, who was about six, brought the other boy to meet his own mother. “This is my friend, Mom,” he said. Very cute. Very nice.

A third child tagged along. He was no more than four, with a blond crew cut and shirt that spelled something about an all-star team.

“You can protect your mom, too,” the older one told him.

“My mom’s not here,” the little one said.

“Okay. Protect your dad.”

“I don’t have a dad,” he said, as if he was describing a shoelace. My first thought was that the man died. Then I wondered who brought him to the game. “He’s in jail,” the child said.

The other kid didn’t ask what the man did to be sent to jail. I would have thought a six year old would ask. I wondered why the boy thought his dad was dead, when he was living. Maybe he did something terrible, and the mom told her son that his dad was dead. Maybe he was, in fact, dead, or died in jail, and the four year old got his facts wrong. It was all very disturbing, to me, anyway. The boy didn’t seem distressed, at least, not yesterday. They didn’t figure out who the child was going to protect, so he just ran along side the older one, the leader’s assistant. He was fortunate to have found a good leader, I thought. 


Happy Birthday, Princess Twyla

In 1991, I rescued a tiny bijon-poodle from an animal shelter in Briarcliff Manor, New York. She didn’t like it in the pen, and tried to dig her way out of the chicken wire, despite the wounds she was inflicting on her paws and nose. I adopted her as soon as I could, the next morning. Noticing supreme feats of aerodynamics, I named her Twyla, for Ms. Tharp. Last week, or thereabouts, she celebrated her nineteenth birthday.

Every year, the girls and I have a party. We make an egg cake, and let Twylee eat it at the table, off of a paper birthday plate from the party store. We light the candle, give her cards and presents and take photos, which we then hang on the wall above her bowls. Each year, for the past few, we think it might be the last birthday, then stop ourselves from thinking it.

“She is so old because we spoil her, and we spoil her because she is so old,” we say. 

She wears a burberry coat, a hand-me-down from her pal, Barney, who lived only to twelve. She likes to shut the cabinets in the kitchen, if we forget to close them all the way, and knows where the vegetable bin is in the fridge. I bet she’d have a lot to say.

Happy birthday, Princess Twyla. 




Hold It Up High

The other day, I saw a commercial on television for a new gizmo from the “i” people. This is what it can do: If a song is playing in the atmosphere around you, and you do not know its name but want to have it as your own, you can hold up your tiny machine into the ether and it will name the tune. Just like that. Raise the thing into the air as if you were a sailor assessing the wind, and poof…title, artist, musical xerox.

I do not understand why people would need or want this capability. I do not understand why people carry these pods, or whatever they are called, in their pockets, to begin with. When your ears are stopped up with metal, you can miss what is happening in front of you. You can trip on the sidewalk or fail to notice a mugger. Mostly, though, I can’t fathom why the technological energy and brainpower would be devoted to such an invention unless, say, it has ramifications elsewhere, you know, like with national security.

Speaking of national security, two seconds after I saw the advertisement with the man holding the song-snatching gadget over his skull, I heard on the news that the chance that the United States would be attacked by weapons of mass destruction some time in the next few years had increased. It will, no doubt, happen while music-loving Americans are pointing their pods to the heavens, like followers of some supreme deity. I am struck by the priorities some people set. Shouldn’t there be some unified effort—among government, educators, law enforcement, ditty duplicators—to keep the significant goals at the top of the list. Get to the moon first. Cure cancer. Keep biological, chemical and nuclear warfare at bay. My father, a surgeon, told me that if a career didn’t lead to saving a life, then it was silly. Arrogant, perhaps, but philosophically sound. If you are not around to dance to the music pulled from the skies, then what’s the point of being able to pull it.

Given the plummeting interest and performance among American school kids in math and science, and college students in fields such as engineering, I think that it would make sense to harness the talent we do have in specific ways that would protect and enhance our existence on Earth. This does not mean channeling Rihanna, as much as I love her. I think it means handing out assignments.  Computer people, you get to disrupt nuclear smuggling rings. Laboratory researchers, you work on technology to reduce the bioweapons threat. Governmental and other agencies, monitor and enforce treaties. Everyone else, be aware, volunteer, use your skills to play a part.

And if we want to groove a little while we’re saving the planet, how about pushing the button on the radio. 

What is Potential, Anyway?

Today, my sixth grader has a science quiz on potential and kinetic energy. It shouldn’t be too difficult, just the basic concepts and definitions, and then, some examples. On the way to school this morning, I reminded her to take a quick look at her notes before class, to remind her brain about what she studied last night. Then, I explained that her brain was, in fact, a nifty representation of the idea.

It is full of stored energy, I told her, and when it takes in information from the world, the energy becomes kinetic, or is set in motion. Crazy ideas flying all over the place. She seemed to like the concept, so I suggested that she include it if she is asked to provide one. Your teacher will think you are clever, I told her, feeling clever. Sometimes, kids don’t take you up on your suggestions, even though they are good ones that come from having been a sixth grader already. Unfortunately, it’s not always enough just to know things. You have to show people that you  know them, particularly teachers. They do not live with you. They do not know that you are always clever, especially after dinner, or when you’re brushing your teeth. They only get to see it sometimes. This is a time.

I hope she uses the brain idea. Actually, I hope she comes up with another thought that is just as smart, but more of her own. That’s the definition of potential.

A Texas Evening

There is a drive-in movie theatre a half hour south of our house. On the way back from Houston on Friday, an idea sprouted in the back seat. It was a terrific idea, actually, to stop along the way, catch a flick in a field, sitting in your car. I told the kids what it was like, from what I could remember of the experience. Something about hanging speakers on the window.

The Galaxy had a marquis, right on the highway, and we had a phone. The movie was at eight. We would be too late. Instead, I thought we could come back the next day, spend a little time beforehand exploring the local territory. This is Texas, after all, and we are northeasterners. It is all an adventure, even if they don’t remember being born in Boston. 

I made a plan. We would leave the house at 2:30 and head for what I learned was a “historical town” created to accommodate a railroad back in the 1800s. Brick sidewalks, flat-topped Western buildings, tearooms and antique shops. Fabulous. An outing. We’d walk around, mingle with the townsfolk, eat crumpets and experience what it was like growing cotton in the heartland. Then, we’d see the movie.

So, we arrive in Ennis, Texas–rhymes with “tennis”–full of expectation. We take the wrong exit, but manage to locate the downtown historic district like homing pigeons. Having grown up traipsing the northeastern corridor in search of Colonial candlemakers and pilgrims of every sort, I have an internal tracking device when it comes to American landmarks. I see red brick in the distance. 

“Kids, look, brick!”

We drove two blocks instead of one, and had to turn around because we had gone through the downtown historic district as quickly as we entered it. There were Wild West storefronts and wide streets. It looked old. It looked historic. 

“Mommy, it looks abandoned,” came the assessment from behind me.

“What are we going to do here for two hours?”

Well, the children had raised valid points. No one was present on the sidewalks. All but two diagonal parking spaces in the two block square were deserted. We pulled up next to the parked cars. 

“Hey, here’s something that’s open, kids,” I said, enthusiastically. At 11 and 13, kids get sarcasm. We went into a collectible shop and found old Coke bottles and Elvis records, Archie comic books like the ones I read at Camp Towanda, and jukeboxes. It smelled a little funny.  We found a lady behind a desk. 

“Excuse me,” I said, like a cheery tourist. “Are there any restaurants around here?”

“Not open,” she mumbled. “Everything closes at 2pm.”

“On Saturday?”

“Yep.”

We left, and went into the other open shop, a florist, where “the ladies looked nicer.” We made the same query, and were directed to a place called Bubba’s. Who can refuse a place called Bubba’s, especially if it’s right on the highway. From the outside, of course, it did not look functioning, or safe or advisable. The younger thought that, maybe, we should select another option. The more experienced child liked the trekkiness of it and knew well the books and covers concept.

We chose the barbecue “line,” rather than the menu or the pick-you-own-meat option. At the front of the restaurant, a refrigerator displayed various cuts of beef, each individually wrapped and priced. People, we came to see, walked in, took a slab and handed it to the waitress. For all we knew, the cows could have been in the back. There are a lot of cows in Texas.

Anyway, we loved Bubba’s. The lights were made from milk buckets. The waitresses had nifty hairdos, each one different. The brisket was delish, and the patrons, regulars. Mostly older couples out on a Saturday night. A few families, like us. One cowboy in a hat.

“Don’t they have to take off their hats inside,” I asked.

“Not cowboys,” the kids said.

We left our new favorite restaurant and headed up the highway to the theatre, where for $14, three people could see two movies. For the price of one soda in a regular theatre, three people could have hot chocolate, twelve pounds of popcorn and seventeen candy bars. The ticket-seller instructed us to tune our radio to a certain station and leave the ignition key turned. I asked her if that would deplete our battery. She said that it might, but that they had jumper cables we could use after the movie. Once we figured out how close to park to the poles holding the speakers, which had really short cables, we were able to hang one on the window. We thought this was a smarter idea than the radio. The girls sat in the front seats, with blankets. I slunk down in back. 

The next morning, we found corn kernels and chocolate wrappers all over the floor. 


Lessons All Around

My eleven year old wanted to see the photograph of the kids, the kids of the mom who was killed here in Dallas in May. She knew I was writing about the murder. (mckinneymurder0012) Yesterday, the story came out and at first, she only wanted to see the pictures of the girls. But then, she began to ask what happened, how it happened, where it happened, why the police couldn’t prevent it. Whether she died at the scene or the hospital.  I told her that the man who killed her, her ex-husband and the children’s father, was emotionally unstable, and became violent once his wife divorced him. 

“I would have stayed with him, just so he wouldn’t do what he did,” she said.

I told her to pick well, so it wouldn’t ever get to that decision. Make sure you trust your instincts, because they are usually right. If you think something funny is going on, it probably is. If you feel uncomfortable in a group of people, get up and leave. If something looks odd on the sidewalk in front of you, cross the street. If your brain rests on some thing, some remark, some behavior, and it sits there, don’t ignore it. 

“What will the kids do if the Grandma dies?” she asked.

She’d not dying, I told her. She nodded. It felt right.



C’mon Hillary

Though I thought she’d be tapped for the Health and Human Services slot, I am confident that Hill will do a bang-up job at State, if she takes the job. I am glad that President-elect Obama found a good spot for her, as she was in need of one. And, look at Bill, agreeing to all sorts of divulgings today. Very nice. They look like a really happy couple these days, to me, anyway, from the outside looking in…supportive, chummy, affectionate. Love love love it. 

A lot of PunditPeople think, though, that maybe she and Barack have too much under the bridge to appear as that unified stuck-together one-view chemical compound that they must be. They say that other world leaders can see in a nanosecond if there is light in between them, the way a child might play one parent off the other. That is so dumb. Clearly, if a smart woman takes a big job, she will be smart about it. If she isn’t, she will be ineffective, which is one thing the Clintons don’t know how to be.



 



Don’t Touch My Face

I do not go to shopping malls, if I can help it. Usually, I can help it, since the stores in a mall, if I need them, can be found with a sidewalk in front. Never a movie in a mall, or a restaurant. Anyway, I needed a particular kind of store today, and there were four of them in the mall, in one place. I had to research an item, so it made logistical sense to do it in one place. 

So, I’m walking through the department store, the “anchor,” as the mall people say, when a woman approaches me. I had stopped to look at a bracelet, which was next door to the makeup section on the first floor. 

“Would you like to sit down for a perk-me-up?” she asked me, looking serious.

She did not have a white coat on, oddly, like the other makeup ladies. For a second, I wondered if she was a decoy and a thug was stealing my wallet. “You know, a touch up?”

“No thanks,” I said, pressing my purse into my shoulder.

I circled the wristwatch case, seeing nothing, and moving on, into the heart of the mall structure.

“Wouldn’t you like a perk-up?” she asked again, not smiling.

How odd. She asked me twice. There were 8,000 people at the wristwatch case, this being Dallas. I did not need to be perked up, I thought. I am perky. Why did she think I wasn’t? Did I look not perky, not touched up, not, well, cheery and spry?

It was late in the day. I had already been places, done things. So maybe I looked a tad windblown. She didn’t look so hot, I thought, checking the closure on my bag. 

“No,” I told her, firmly. I made a beeline for the big hallway outside, with the ducks. There are ducks in this particular shopping place. They climb on a bridge, if you are lucky. 

I did not find what I was looking for, after all. On the way back to my car through the department store, I took another route to the door. I kept checking left and right for the makeup lady. Imagine, avoiding a makeup lady. It was time to go home.