You know, raising kids is a
full time job for most responsible parents. For me, as I drive a truck over the
road with just a three-day weekend at home every couple of weeks, it actually
isn't as full-time as i would like. What happens is that it becomes more or
less double-time for my long-suffering wife, what with five maniacal imps of
chaos spending their time disassembling the house and wreaking havoc in various
other ways that I won't go into. Sometimes it seems like the kids are growing
up more like those wolf-changelings so common in Hindu folklore, like old
Rudyard Kipling's Mowgli.
What in the world possessed
Rudyard Kipling's parents to choose to name their son "Rudyard?"
Anyway, what this means is
that generally when I do come home, it's to a skeptical group of self-aware and
highly critical scary geniuses, ranging in age from six to fourteen. At that
age, fathers often know very little about the real world, and are generally not
competent to venture an opinion that a sub-adult offspring can respect. Golden,
my youngest, puts his hands on his hips and speaks slowly and clearly to me
when he decides that I need to be educated about how things really work, while my
oldest just shakes his head and storms off in frustration. The three in the
middle generally roll their eyes when I tell them something, the old "Oh
no, here we go again. Don't be fooled . . . " My
life at home is full of denunciations of what I know, including the memorable,
"Well, when you were young cities weren't invented and everybody lived in
grass huts."
So when I do achieve a
measure of public validation at home, it's a red-letter day, one that I chalk
up in my bank account of credibility that my kids will start withdrawing from
in ten or twenty more years, by which time I will hopefully have learned a
great deal. And recently, I had not only one good day, but three in a row—three
good days in which grizzled old Kevin demonstrated a level of competence in urgent
affairs in the life of mice and men that hopefully made an impression on my flinty-eyed
brood. Maybe only a temporary impression, possibly, but it was very good while
it lasted, and I'll take what I can get, you know.
The First Day: Broadband
The first good day was my
first day at home. Since the invention of the internet, my household has
remained separated from the dominant culture in a lot of ways, as a result of
our choice to live off the beaten path. One of them has been the internet. We've
actually had net access for several years, but not in the way that many people
consider adequate. After all, we live in a ramshackle old farmhouse, for a
hundred years the last house on our road, until Jim dragged an old mobile home
down into the copperhead-infested bottom a mile below us and installed power. Not
a lot of high-tech compatibility in a house built without running water or even
anything thoughtful in the way of electrical wiring.
We had a telephone, although
not much of one, so we could have dial-up. But our telephone lines are old, and
solid copper. That means that with local dial-up net access, our data speeds are
positively chelonian, and it gets worse whenever the wind blows and makes the
wires bounce around, or when it rains. But we were used to pressing
"enter," and then having to wait two or three minutes for the screen
to paint. My kids used the net more or less sparingly, because it was always
more exciting to go outside and watch the old trucks rust.
But now things were going to
be different, because Kevin was bound and determined to Do Something. I had met
another truck driver at a rolling mill in Cleveland, and he had a little gizmo
that he took around with him that accessed the net through a cellular telephone
connection, right out of his truck, and gave him WiFi broadband more or less
wherever he went. What an excellent concept, I thought, and an improvement over
the clunky air cards of several generations back (see, you're old, too, now). So
when I arrived home, I visited the local telephone company and brought back a
little thing about the size of pack of Lucky Strikes, with one button and a
little light. A MiFi, they called it. It was even smaller than the little brochure
that pretended to be the manual that came with it.
I took it back and plugged it
in, which these days is essentially all you have to do with new hardware. After
a bit, the little light started flashing purple, and a dialog box on the lap
tops' computer screens suddenly inaugarated a new world of broadband net access
to the family. We were connected.
"Wow," said my
skeptical imps, one after the other. "Look, YouTube even works."
YouTube, of course, is
inaccessible without broadband, as are many net features the dominant culture
takes for granted, like utilities websites, or the abortive net-based home-schooling
program offered by our state board of education. Before, one minute of YouTube
took about one hour of download, so we just didn't bother. Now, however, the
kids were exploring a world of internet trivia that they had never before
thought possible. News, and games, and heavens forbid, FaceBook.
"You're on FaceBook?
Since when?"
"We use the WiFi at the
McDonald's."
I remember signing onto FaceBook, from about
the first day it went online. But it quickly turned into more of an annoyance to me than
it was worth, and I deleted my account. I haven't been back since, but my kids
got on all by themselves.
Even Shawna was impressed, which
takes a lot as well. I tried to present it in its best light.
"Look, Shawna. Now you can
pay all the bills online, twice as fast as before."
"Thank you. Very nice."
And so the day was a
success. Dad had demonstrated himself competent on the cutting edge in the modern
world of high tech, and introduced something previously unheard-of to the
household electronics menagerie. Even if he couldn't figure out how to make the
mean-faced little mercenary jump out of the attack boat in his son's murderous
video game, at least he could install broadband. The kids disappeared to
investigate the stimulating new world of intermittent high-speed internet, and
Kevin retired to the couch.
And the evening and the morning were
the first day. And it was good.
The Second Day: The High Board
The second day was clear and warm,
with a blue sky that just invited a day outside for the whole family. And so, of
course, we drove all the way to the local public swimming pool in town.
We have a perfectly good tree-shaded
swimming hole just down the road from where we live, past the abandoned
schoolhouse and the flat spot by the creek where the blacksmith used to be. But
there's nothing like novelty to excite the kids, and the swimming pool in town
has real diving boards, after all.
Now, diving is not something that
one normally practices in the kinds of swimming holes that we have near the
house, both because the only available places to dive from are generally the
old bridges across the creek, and because the water under them is not usually
deep enough to go into headfirst anyway without risking cervical readjustments
of the type not normally recommended by the local chiropractor. But the pool in
town has two diving boards, one about four feet up, and another way up in the
sky.
"Kevin, you're going to dive
off the high board," challenges Griffin, my Number One son, and the one
most skeptical of my general abilities and wisdom.
"Okay," I say
nonchalantly, looking up at the underside of the board, way, way up there in
the clouds.
I looked it over while the kids
got wet. Out here in Appalachia, the high boards are more or less considered
crazy zones by everybody. Nobody ever goes off them headfirst, for two
reasons. First, there simply isn't any good reason to go and do something as
dumb as dive headlong off a little springy platform up in the altosphere, and second,
there is no need for any other reason beyond the first.
But today, Kevin had a good
reason, because the kids were watching, and gauging, and making conclusions.
"Have any of you kids ever dived
off the high board before?"
"No."
"Low board?"
"Of course," says Griffin.
"And I've jumped off the high board, too."
"I've jumped off the low
board," says Devra.
"Me too," says Paoli.
"All right," I say,
heading for the ladder. "You all watch."
Up on top, I look down into the
cool water far below. It's really only twelve feet, but to leap off anything
from twelve feet headfirst is not something that is instinctively attractive.
But I step to the end of the board, give a big bounce, and do a test jump into
space, feet-first.
Wham! The water hits my feet like
a flat paddle and I'm instantly enveloped in the cool blue wetness. Not so bad,
I think, surfacing and swimming to the side. Hauling myself over the edge,
beard dripping, I get back in line for the high board, with the kids still watching
critically. Nobody, ever, dives off the high board at this pool. My moment has
come.
At the very top, I wait patiently
until it's my turn to walk the plank. I pause halfway out, judge my
distance, and with three quick steps and a jump, I launch my fat old fatherly
figure into the air, arching into my best interpretation of a classic swan
dive, heels together, toes extended, arms out and then swept into position in
front of me, as the blue blue of the water rushed forward into my face as I descended.
Wham! Old dad hits the water in a
vertical dive. Probably not something to score for at the Olympics, but the
first dive off the high board this little pool has seen all week, I imagine. I arch
up to miss the bottom, and break the surface in the middle of the deep end, flicking
my head to clear my ears while I tread water.
To my great satisfaction, I am
facing a row of open-mouthed astonishment, as my kids observe that once more, useless
old Dad can accomplish something that nobody else dares. This is too good not
to milk some more, I decide, and head up the ladder to the high board again. My
triumph is reinforced again and again, as I repeat the performance under the
eyes of my children, until I finally decide that even I have had enough
accolades, and take a break.
And the evening and the morning were
the second day. And it was good.
The Third Day: The Serpent
Out in the sticks, we have a lot
of wildlife, of various kinds, sizes, and taxonomic affinities. Some of them
are snakes. We have copperheads, the beautiful but poisonous pit vipers down in
the bottom lands. We have a myriad of lined snakes, ribbon snakes, garter
snakes, and so on, down in the grass and on the edges of the swimming hole, all
Thamnophis, but beyond that beyond my remembering. We have the clownish black
and brown hognose snakes, always ready for a bout of playing possum. And we
have the elegant rat snakes, Elaphe obsoleta.
The rat snakes are viewed with
suspicion by the locals.
"Those black snakes are
interbreeding with the copperheads, you know," Jim tells me.
"How do you know that?"
"Just look at 'em," he
says. "You can tell."
I happen to love the Elaphes, and
catch all that I can get hold of to let go around the house to keep the mice
down. This often makes for amusing travel, as after I pick one off the road I have to drive
home in the old one-ton, shifting the four speed while holding a struggling three
or four-foot snake in my gear shift hand. Once I had to stop as one tried to
escape down the ventilator duct on the floor of the truck. Not a good place for
a snake to die, so I held tightly onto his tail and eventually coaxed the busy
end back out of the hole. Elaphes are pretty docile, as snakes go, although
they will happily bite you a good one if you introduce yourself to them too abruptly.
"Dad, there's a snake on the
porch," announces Devra, my number one daughter.
"That's nice," I say.
"Is it alive?" First things first. With cats and dogs in the house,
we have lots of things show up on the porch that aren't alive, and in many
cases aren't even anatomically complete. So I always ask.
"Yes. Come and see."
I get up from my lunch and step out
onto the kitchen porch, where all five kids are staring intently at something
half-concealed in the tall weeds that fringe the ancient concrete slabs I dragged
there when we re-did the meeting house sidewalks. We're cheap, so I'll make a
porch out of anything handy, and these old slabs of sidewalk work great, both
for us, and as warm relaxing places for visiting snakes.
Resting calmly on the concrete is
the head and a few coiled inches of a large snake. A good-looking black one. So
far so good.
I step over to the snake and look
down, making sure I know what I've got. We don't have cottonmouths this far
north, but whip snakes and racers are sometimes dark, and they're nervous
snakes, prone to bite. The hognose snakes won't bite, but this isn't one of
them. It's a nice big rat snake, maybe even one of the ones I dropped off on
the property a season or two before. No way to tell how big it is, as it's
mostly hidden in the weeds.
Shawna stands inside the kitchen, watching
through the screen door and trying not to look anxious. She's not scared of
snakes, really, at least when she's inside and they're not, but she'd usually
just as soon not have them surprise her by twisting and writhing under her bare
feet when she steps onto the porch in the morning. Mice are another thing
entirely, and will always cause her to scream as they scurry across the kitchen
floor, tail straight up and diving for shelter. But the kids watch me and the
snake closely, looking to see what I'll do with this interesting anomaly.
And I know just what to do with
big snakes, which is always what I do: pick 'em up and see what they look like.
I carefully reach down to grasp the rat snake behind the head, but as soon as I
touch it, it jerks its head backwards and scrambles for safety, the weeds next
to the slab suddenly coming alive as it boils and loops itself around to
disappear.
But I'm prepared for this, and
quick as I can I reach down grab the snake by the middle, and swing it up out
of the grass, where it hangs reeling at both ends like a flexible black
thunderbolt in the hands of Zeus.
And like Zeus, I triumph over
nature. I spin, gently swirling the snake out like a rope, and then quickly
swing it between my legs and clamp them shut on it, trapping its head behind me
with its tail end still firmly in my hand. But my triumph is somewhat marred, as
I inadvertently leave too much snake loose behind me, and the offended reptile
lunges its snaky head around my leg and firmly bites down on my trousers, a bit
too close to my trouser fly for comfort.
Shawna gasps and wrings her hands
from behind the kitchen door. The kids stand and stare, and Dad carefully
disengages the lovely four-foot snake's jaws from his unharmed leg and loops
the body around his forearm, in the correct herpetological manner of holding a
snake to both calm it down and keep it from harm. The snake becomes immediately
docile, and I invite the kids over.
"You can tell it's a rat
snake because it has a completely flat belly, with the body like a loaf of
bread in cross section. See the white belly with the little dots?"
"Can I touch it?" asks
Starbuck.
And so as the evening progresses
into a gentle calm, and the lightning bugs venture out to illuminate the
hilltop, I spend a few minutes basking in the warm glow of accomplishment. And
I realize that this was the evening and the morning of the third day, and it
was just as good as the two just preceding it. In a scant three days, I had
demonstrated a practical grasp of modern high-tech computer science, physical
bravery in the face of almost certain death, and a mastery of the mysterious
things of biology heretofore only expected of nature gods and other fabulous
characters.
And I also know enough to enjoy it
while it lasted, because one of the things that grizzled old gray hairs know
for sure is that the memories of the young are ephemeral things, and while I'm
looking good today, tomorrow won't be building itself on any foundation older
than its own sunrise.
But by gosh, it's good to look
good, every now and then. And doing it three days in a row was a gift that
doesn't come often.