Molly: Can you go to university when you're dead?
Me: No.
Molly: Can you go if you're invisible?
Me: I don't know.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Friday, February 03, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Spring time
Molly didn't really play with toys as a baby: She would pick
something up, turn it around in her hands, maybe shake it once or twice, then
let it go. It wasn't out of sight after that but it was out of mind.
Then, as a toddler she did two things that I remember clearly and
these puzzled me: She had a baby cup with lid and some pennies, and she carried
these around everywhere. She had fashioned a toy that had some versatility:
coins in or out, rattle, carrying case for towers that she intended to build,
etc.
But if she had created the cup-and-pennies combo for the purpose
of construction, she used objects at hand for incidental destruction. Namely,
pens and flashlights--these disappeared at a noticeable rate.
It was probably a good thing, then, that my husband and I
effortlessly accumulated pens and flashlights before children arrived. Years
later, we would find a flashlight or pen on the floor and pick it up only to
discover that it was a mere shell of its former self. The kid didn't intend to
destroy these objects, but in taking them apart she would lose or break
something critical in the assembly and render it useless to us.
The loss of household objects was very minor compared to the
benefits that Molly derived from their discovery. When toddler Molly told me
about the two different kinds of pens--those with springs and those without--I
was happy to hear the excitement in her voice.
She loved the springs, so mystery solved, right? But what of
the flashlights? I couldn't crack that one for, oddly enough, whenever I found
her with a flashlight, the damage had already been done.
This happened so often that, at times, after our initial
collection dwindled, I couldn't determine if we were buying flashlights so
often to replenish our own supply or to replenish hers.
At any rate, we would hide the more expensive ones and, sometimes,
we'd be down to our last flashlight only to turn around and discover it in
Molly's hands. Somehow, she always found them.
Being less than Martha-like in keeping my home, the cases of the
lights and the pens didn't disappear. Today, I discovered that Molly had a
proprietary attachment to this collection at the time and even now, more than
two-and-a-half years later.
"Could I have a box of things to take apart again?" She
asked this morning.
I explained that she was welcome to take things apart--and she
didn't ever really stop--provided that she now ask beforehand out of respect
for the other family members.
"Could I take apart this pen?" She asked at lunch.
It was a good pen. I mean, it had been a pen that I really liked
but, as she held it up to me, I thought of "The
Little Prince" by Antoine
de Saint-Exupéry and the narrator's bitterness at having been discouraged
from the pursuit of art in his childhood. If I stopped her now, would
she, like the narrator as an adult drawing only a boa constrictor eating an
elephant, only ever be able to figure out pens and flashlights? Would I be
inhibiting the growth of a future scientist?
"Sure," I said, already mentally trying to replace the
pen with another.
A few minutes later, she sat on her knees at the dining room
table, peering through a heavy magnifying glass.
Indeed, it is spring-time in our house again but I did save the
universe from losing a scientist before getting lunch on the table. I guess it
all evens out.
Saturday, December 03, 2011
A wishlist grows . . .
The Granta Book of the African Short Story edited by Helon Habila
In the introduction to this extremely welcome collection, Helon Habila mentions that it’s often, far too often, supposed that African Literature begins and ends with Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart.-- From The Skinny via Book Riot
Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah
Thirteen-year-old Hayaat is on a mission. She believes a handful of soil from her grandmother's ancestral home in Jerusalem will save her beloved Sitti Zeynab's life. The only problem is the impenetrable wall that divides the West Bank, as well as the check points, the curfews, the permit system . . .-- From the official Randa Abdel-Fattah site
I am pretty sure that my husband reads my blog. So, dearest, where words fail, consider this post to be the equivalent of your wife jumping up and down while frantically waving her arms in the air to get your attention: "These! Over here!" I'm shouting. "I want these!"
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Notes/Canada Reads
If I make a list of New Year resolutions . . .
(N.B. Prisoner of Tehran by Marina Nemat defended by Arlene Dickinson.)
(CBC/Books)
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