Interior Design with Boys

Blackrock has no shortage of antiques and spectacular pieces of furniture, but my favorite of all is what we call The Long Table. 

It is, as you might expect, a long table. But such a table. It's long (I think you've gathered that by now), and it's wide, and it's really, really old. Maybe as old as 17th century, although we don't know for sure. What we do know for sure is that they definitely don't make 'em like that anymore.

The Long Table is in the living room, and it makes a very nice display area, as you can see in this very old photo in which it was the punch bowl station for a really big party we had.

Obviously a pre-child party.

One of the things I love about this table is that it's so large that it can look uncluttered even with a few things on it. When it's relatively clear and properly dusted, it's all shiny and smooth and very pleasant to look at.

Unfortunately, the flipside of having a large clear surface is that it's like a magnet for junk. Don't know what to do with that pile of papers? There's plenty of room on The Long Table! Need to get that big library book out of Jack's destructive reach? Just put it on The Long Table for now.

And then it becomes a Long Table of Crap.

I try really hard to keep it clear, though, because it's good for my mental health to have at least one surface in the house clear of crap. A couple of days ago I set myself the task of putting away all of the random stuff strewn over all the tables and desks in the living room and then dusting. My reward for accomplishing this was to cut a bunch of lilacs and put them in a pretty vase in the center of The Long Table.

Ahhh. So tidy, so nice, so serene . . .

So short-lived.

Does something look a little . . . jarring to you in this tablescape?

Those are very important battle ships that could not be dismantled at pick-up time last night. And so they were carefully put away on top of my shiny, uncluttered, flower-bedecked Long Table. 

Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.

The Anticipation Builds

The (very, very small) school that Cubby attends performs a play every year at the end of the school year. This is something that Cubby has been looking forward to pretty much since he started school. It's a Big Deal. They do it on the big stage in the auditorium of the college in the village. There are sets and costumes and they choose pretty ambitious plays for a group of kids who are all under the age of 13. Last year it was Peter Pan. The year before was Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. This year . . . I can hardly say it without doing a little dance of joy.

This year it's The Princess Bride. 

I really cannot convey to you how happy I was when Cubby announced this to me a month or so ago. Though he actually didn't know the name of it, and just gave me a garbled plot synopsis along the lines of, "It's about a man who wears black all the time and there's a giant and swords and a lady named after a flower." Such is my love for this story that I figured it out just from that.

The movie is one of my favorites ever. The book is similarly beloved. I can't believe that Cubby gets to be in a play based on it.

Not that he has a big part, obviously. He's only six. I have no doubt he could memorize lines (he memorizes entire long books, why not lines?), but I think the idea of stage direction or acting with others is a little beyond him. There are quite a few very young kids at the school this year, so they get to be Prince Humperdinck's soldiers (though Cubby insists he's going to be "a knight") and--this is the best--"The Ancient Booers."

Remember the scene where Buttercup has a dream that she's being introduced as Prince Humperdinck's bride and an old lady in the crowd starts booing and saying she threw true love away and that she's the queen of refuse? Yeah, that. Those lines have been split up for all the little kids, so they all get to boo--which I'm sure they love--and then they take turns with the other lines.

Cubby brought home his script yesterday. He's Ancient Booer #2. Ancient Booer #1 says, "Your true love lives!" And then Cubby says, "And you marry another!"

Suitably dramatic, no? I do sort of wish he got to be Ancient Booer #6, whose line is, "Bow to the queen of slime."

But still. I can't wait to see this. And I really can't wait to see who they cast as Fezzik the giant.

A Trinity of Boys

It has just recently dawned on me that I no longer have two boys and a baby. I definitely have just three boys.

Wheresoever Cubby and Charlie be, there be Jack.

Brothers by blood, and brothers by muddy boots and buzzcuts. Amen. (Also, please notice that every dang one of 'em is wielding a stick. In Jack's case, it's only about two inches long, but still. He's learning fast.)

A Stinging Rebuff

I suppose it's a lingering effect of my suburban upbringing that I still don't feel entirely comfortable in the woods alone. Not that we have particularly dangerous woods around here. No bears, no wolves, not even any moose*.

This does not mean that I can't imagine dangers so remote as to be ludicrous, however.

I have ample opportunity to dream up these unlikely scenarios as I do my very early morning trail runs up to the Plantation, because it's not quite light when I go. Light enough to see where I'm going, but the sun isn't up all the way yet at 5:30 a.m. That time just before dawn is the best time to see animals in the woods. Or the worst, if you don't actually want to see animals.

So far I've only seen small birds and deer, and heard a lot of wild turkeys gobbling in the gully. But I can imagine that there are rabid raccoons just waiting around the curve in the path up ahead. Or, worse thought, a coyote.

This is not as unlikely as it might be, actually, since there are big coyotes in those woods. You may remember A.'s helpful comment that they would only attack children and small women. I don't want to know if I'm considered small enough for a coyote to attack.

I still remember seeing a coyote right in the Plantation several years ago when I used to walk the dogs up there every morning. I almost walked right past it, it was so still. When I caught sight of it, I stopped immediately, and just stared at it. It did the same. Then the four large dogs in the vicinity came bounding up the gully bank and the coyote disappeared. It was a memorable experience, and not one I would wish to repeat without my furry security contingent.

This morning when I went out at 5:30, it was darker than usual because it was raining and the cloud cover had blocked the dawn light. I thought maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a dog with me again, just to ease my suburban-reared mind, you see. Mia is too stiff and gimpy these days to run much. The puppy would be no use whatever (except as a smaller and slower sacrificial offering--but I didn't think of that at the time). That left Otty.

I let Otty out of the back hall and started up the lane to the pasture.

She didn't follow.

I called her. Still nothing.

I walked back down, found her, and announced with appropriate excitement, "C'mon, Otty! We're going for a walk! Let's go for a walk!"

She looked at me for a second, then turned around and went the other way.

"Fine, Otty," I yelled. "I'm going on a walk without you and if I get eaten by a coyote, you'll be sorry."

Obviously, I did not get eaten by a coyote. I am still burning from that canine diss, though.

Harsh, Otty. Way harsh.

* Sometime I should tell you about the time I saw a moose on my way to the bus stop in Alaska, about a quarter mile from our house. I was nine years old. It was pitch black--as it always is at 8 a.m. in the Alaskan Interior in the winter---and I was walking along with my tiny Maglite, and there was a noise, and there was a really big moose on the side of the road, so I turned around and went home. I . . . guess that's it.

Welcome to the Wolf Pack

I don't care how impressive a dog's pedigree is, it still has the base instincts of a wolf. If you show the champion of the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show (a.k.a. the dog show that comes on after the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade) a moldy old bone, he will be all over it.

Like so. Get it, Sky.

Gifts From the Heart

Both Cubby and Charlie came home from school on Thursday with Mother's Day gifts for me, all wrapped up and ready for today. Cubby has been asking every day since if it was Mother's Day yet. Upon hearing this morning that the blessed day had finally arrived, he ran off to get my gift and I brought out Charlie's gift too, so I could open them at the same time.

Charlie's gift was a bracelet made of plastic beads strung by his very own small hands. "Thank you, Charlie!" I said. "Should I wear it right now?"

"No," he said, reaching for it. "I'll wear it."

"I thought you made it for me," I said, trying not to laugh, because this was so very Charlie.

"I made it for everyone," he replied. "So I'll wear it so everyone can see it on me."

Right. The joy is in the giving for Charlie, obviously.

Next was Cubby's gift. It was a small wooden box in the shape of a treasure chest. Inside were ten little pieces of folded paper, on which Cubby had written the word "love." He explained that it was a kiss box with ten kisses inside, and when I missed him, I should take a kiss from the box.

Oh. Well, thanks for breaking my heart, Cubby's teacher. Sniff.

Further investigation revealed something glued to the bottom of the box, which, when the kisses were removed, turned out to be a photo of Cubby. And what a photo.

Will he kiss her or kill her? Stay tuned to find out!

Mother's Day gifts from little kids are the best. The end.

And I Didn't Even Blink

I was outside with all three boys this morning when Cubby called me to the front porch, announcing, "You HAVE to see this."

That's how I knew it would be something I probably wouldn't actually want to see, but I went anyway.

It was a dead grackle. Yup, could've happily skipped that one.

I could tell from the fact that the grackle was directly under the parlor window that it had flown into the window. I was almost certain it was dead, although I did have a momentary flash of horror as Cubby bent to pick it up that it might have just knocked itself out and would come back to consciousness right there in Cubby's hands, at which point I'm pretty sure I would have had a stroke.

It didn't, though. It was very dead, with a broken neck. And I know it was broken, because Cubby spent several minutes in a minute examination of the deceased bird, pulling out its wings, feeling its beak, touching its creepy sharp talons, and all the while its head was flopping grotesquely about on its broken neck.

"It's so beautiful," he said. "But so sad."

I assume he meant sad that it was dead, because the grackle was quite clearly beyond any emotion.

Cubby then danced the grackle about on the porch railing, singing an original song with the refrain of, "I'm the beautifullest gracklegracklegrackle, graaaa-CULL!"

And then Charlie had to have a turn, of course.

Some of you may be wondering how I could have let my sons play with a dead bird. Well, it's not the first time, you may remember. And I did insist that they could only play with it this afternoon, at which point we would bury it in the gully because it would start to rot. I also insisted they wash their hands thoroughly when they were done with it. See? Totally responsible!

In the end, I suppose I just didn't care that much if they were playing with a dead bird because, well . . . this is our life. And this is the sort of thing they do. Country boys gonna be country, and nothing I can do will change that.