Some Boys are Born to Wander
By Walt McDonald
From Michigan our son writes, How many elk?
How many big horn sheep? It’s spring,
and soon they’ll be gone above timberline,
climbing to tundra by summer. Some boys
are born to wander, my wife says, but rocky slopes
with spruce and Douglas fir are home.
He tried the navy, the marines, but even the army
wouldn’t take him, not with a foot like that.
Maybe it’s in the genes. I think of wild-eyed years
till I was twenty, and cringe. I loved motorcycles,
too dumb to say no to our son—too many switchbacks
in mountains, too many icy spots in spring.
Doctors stitched back his scalp, hoisted him in traction
like a twisted frame. I sold the motorbike to a junkyard,
but half his foot was gone. Last month, he cashed
his paycheck at the Harley house, roared off
with nothing but a backpack, waving his headband,
leaning into a downhill curve and gone.
Playing Go Fish! with Ian: me, Kelly, and Ya Ya. We all know his hand, because he proudly announces each card as it’s drawn. Plus he drops them.
He has a monkey; we try to help. ‘Ian, Mommy just asked Ya Ya for a monkey. What does that mean?’
He grins and doesn’t know. He moves from face to face, looking for the punchline. ‘If Mommy asked Ya Ya for a monkey, that means she must have a monkey, right?’
He frowns before his eyes grow wide, like his smile. He looks at Mommy and takes a deep breath, a boy with a clever secret he’s dying to share.
‘Mommy, do you have a chair?’
sweating, struggling, we’re lugging
the bin over grass and gravel,
sticks and stones
to the mound of broken trees,
the earth hot and dry like
Hemingway or Steinbeck;
man and boy toiling through
the fading sunlight.
you wait at the edge, eager,
forward and back again as
i shovel and grunt.
your fingers twitch.
dust rises and you cough,
shielding your face
from the grit and sun;
still, you watch
and finally ask, ‘can I?’
of course, though you can’t,
possibly, lift even the blade.
i pass the handle, and you grin.
i wait at the edge, eager,
forward and back again as
you place your hands and grunt,
frowning but not asking for help.
your hands slide forward, seeking
the physics you don’t understand,
and you do, lift. and more, you
shove and lift again,
over your waist, shoulder, head,
blade full by anyone’s measure,
and tip the chips into (mostly)
the bin.
the blade drops with your hands,
clanging on the hard-packed dirt.
you breathe heavy and sigh.
‘I think I’m too little.’
[if mama / could see]
By Lucille Clifton
if mama
could see
she would see
lucy sprawling
limbs of lucy
decorating the
backs of chairs
lucy hair
holding the mirrors up
that reflect odd
aspects of lucy.
if mama
could hear
she would hear
lucysong rolled in the
corners like lint
exotic webs of lucysighs
long lucy spiders explaining
to obscure gods.
if mama
could talk
she would talk
good girl
good girl
good girl
clean up your room.
Ian helped clean up last month, after the CCFA walk. He walked through the park, scouring the ground for wrappers and paper and popsicle sticks. He helped because we asked, but he often picks up trash while we’re walking and playing in parks. Sometimes he’s being considerate; often he just likes picking things off the ground.
By contrast, on the way home from work today I saw a young woman toss a soda can to the curb as she walked to work. There was a Big Gulp waiting for me in the front yard when I arrived home. Last week, a couple exited a McDonald’s parking lot and pulled in front of me, flattened ketchup packages flying from the passenger window. Yesterday two young men started playing catch with a discarded Gatorade bottle they found in the park, and left it lying in the grass when they’d finished.
Are these people kidding me? Woodsy’s, what, thirty-seven years old? Nearly forty years wearing that feathered cap, and people still think it’s acceptable to litter. I thought littering was one of those dimwit phases we all go through, like 4:20 references or Adam Sandler movies. Something we’ve all done despite knowing better, and no one does anything to stop us except roll their eyes because we’re not worth the effort.
Sure, a cartoon owl isn’t all that inspiring, but do you really need to be told not to litter? It’s about good stewardship, sure. But the further you get from the age of five, the less it’s about the environment and the more it’s about you simply being stupid.
My four-year-old son, who can spell his name and little else, knows enough to throw his trash away. He enjoys helping me take the garbage out, and emptying the recycling bin. He may litter the house with half-finished drawings and bits of paper, but we’re the only ones who have to live with it, and only until we tell him to pick it up.
Give a hoot, stop acting like a moron and put your trash in a can, cupholder, or even your pocket. Take your pick. I don’t care. I’m trying to keep this place clean for my son.
Remember DadBloggers? Yeah, I’m still over there, too:
‘Ian’s impromptu flights of imagination are harder to catch. His world is fully regulated, documented, and signed in triplicate. You cannot enter unless you’ve read the rulebook, which has yet to be published for all its revisions. He analyzes and tweaks and draws his boundaries with a straight-edge ruler. He has a very large eraser.’
Ian finally received his replacement Thomas engines after this summer’s recall. In appreciation for his patience, and as an apology for distributing poisoned slow coaches, RC2 Corp. sent Ian new additions to his collection: two repair vehicles, one with a cherry-picker and one with a search light.
He was playing with them in the kitchen this morning, while I made our lunches. I started singing (like I do), with KC and the Sunshine Band as my inspiration:
‘Ian Philip…Ian Philip…has some new trains! Has some new trains!’
To which he replied:
‘I have trains! But they’re not trains! They are tru-ucks! They are tru-ucks!’
Later, on the way to his grandparents’, Ian made up a song about winter to the tune of All for the Best, from Godspell.
Anyone have the number for Wayne Brady’s agent?
Ian’s getting better at using the telephone. He speaks into the mouthpiece, and no longer simply talks about what he sees as if the caller can see it, too. He also says ‘yes’ or ‘no’, instead of nodding and shaking his head.
Now if only we could stop him pushing the ‘End’ button with his face.
The Cut
By Ann and Jane Taylor
WELL, what’s the matter ? there’s a face
What ! has it cut a vein ?
And is it quite a shocking place ?
Come, let us look again.
I see it bleeds, but never mind
That tiny little drop ;
I don’t believe you’ll ever find
That crying makes it stop.
‘Tis sad indeed to cry at pain,
For any but a baby ;
If that should chance to cut a vein,
We should not wonder, may be.
But such a man as you should try
To bear a little sorrow :
So run along, and wipe your eye,
’Twill all be well to-morrow.
