CrackFizzBOOM!
Independence Day is more meaningful to me through these four eyes. These eyes are my periscope to the world, penetrating the thick layers of seemingly blind patriotism up into the joyful, sparkling night horizon. But passion, no matter the subject, is a powerful and human emotion. That said, I had a beautiful Fourth, perhaps more meaningful to me than any in my years before. The children, once again, helped me to see the Fourth for the fireworks.
School Days
School. The nourishing routine began. They needed this. And Chas started kindergarten.
With this came new friendships, early mornings slicing carrots, spreading jam, checking homework. Chas is eager to please his teacher; he often reminds me of the one important thing to do when I am bogged down in these daily details.
“Mommy, are you staying with me at school today?”
I volunteer now, like many other parents at our school. On Mondays I spend the entire day in the school garden, raking, mulching, planting, weeding, thinning, harvesting, my handiwork echoed sixfold by eager little kindergarten helpers. They take turns. When teacher Kathy isn’t looking, I let the most dexterous child handle the pruning shears to collect rosemary sprigs. He is ready, despite the rules.
Chas plays alongside us in the garden, with no interest in garden maintenance. There are bridges to build and battles to fight under the live oak canopy. He steps back into the sunlight occasionally and his flaxen halo glows in the bright morning light.
It is the little school up in the mountain. We love it here.
Ford is in a classroom with seventeen other children, mostly girls, and, according to his teacher, he is raising his hand at every question, jumping at each opportunity. In the whole-school music class, he volunteers to sing solo. At the same time he is navigating new social ground. He made two close friends on the first day of school, a magnetic, spinning connection over goofy faces, animated gestures and general silliness. And he has discovered the comic book.
In the car on the way to Santa Cruz, on a golden Friday afternoon, Ford sits in the backseat of the car with a stack of paper and a pencil. He draws. By the time the sun has set and I lay the board back atop the car, I look into the backseat to find a stack full of comics that he has drawn. They include page upon page of alien species on lush, fruity topography choosing flowers to eat, introducing themselves to other species. There is no war, no battles, no conflict other than which flowers to eat. There are so many, after all, from which to choose.
