Friday, April 27, 2007

Spring! Friend! Neglect! Sloth!

John Prine and Steve Goodman wrote a song that contained everything that had ever been in any of the country and western songs they had ever heard. Dallas, dope, divorce, dead dogs, trains, prison Christmas, mothers, farms, and trucks - you know the stuff. The verse of it I remember is:

Ever since the dog died and mama went to prison
Ain't nothin' round this old farm that's been the same
You know when mom broke out last Christmas
She drove her pickup truck into a train

That’s what this post should be: an excuse for not blogging that includes all my excuses for not blogging. Spring came… gardening… a chum from Toronto was here on a genealogy hunt… the horses broke the pasture fence… the pile on my desk got so high it blocked my view of the computer screen… and each of those things sub-divides into a bunch of tasks.

So, friends, I must catch up on some responsibilities around here. I hope to be back real soon.

Monday, April 23, 2007

What's In a Word...

Have you noticed what animists young kids are?

When I was little, there were mice and ducks and dogs that talked. We took for granted that a certain yellow canary was verbally sassy: "I tawt I taw a puddy tat! I did! I did taw a puddy tat! Bad old puddy tat! " and that Sylvester would answer with a salivating, "Sufferin’ succotash!" These days, cars are anthropomorphic.

And so it is that my four-year-old grandson is terrified of ... THE BOILER... The boiler "lives" in our mudroom, making vague firing noises when water needs to be heated or if the woodstove goes out. Grandson is absolutely scared to death of the thing. Luckily, there is a door between the "play room" and that mudroom, apparently making the play space safe for four-year-olds (when the door is closed).

Saturday the little guy was here and headed for the play room when he saw that someone had left the protective boiler shield open. I was busy in the kitchen and didn't notice his distress as he asked - more than once - "Gramma, will you shut the door?"

Finally, in desperation he yelled, "Shut the damned door!!!" which launched me to explain to him that "shut the damned door" isn't a good way for little boys to talk. He listened, looked at me sweetly and said, "Gramma, please shut the damned door."