photo and fly compliments of morguefile. None of ours would sign a photo release.
Boy one is taller than the rest of us and hoping to grow more. Looming manhood seems so inevitable, unstoppable and near that I forget how much he is still a boy. The moments he reminds me are treasures. His boyhood feels like a work of art, an exquisite castle carved in sand with the waves about to reach shore.
As noted before, this son was born with a serious approach to life. All realizations are immense. All perceptions of reality are carried with the weight of unquestionable truth. All thoughts, developing or otherwise, are generously shared. The boy who doesn’t joke had this to say last week.
Did I tell you what I have Girl one doing to help me with chores these days? he asked. Well, I think it’s really helping, he said. It’s helping Girl one, but I think it’s helping Misty too. Girl one is reading to her. Every night. She brings a book out to the barn, sits on the rail and reads. Misty loves it. I mean, I don’t think she understands the story, but she hears Girl one’s voice. She feels loved.
There was the smallest question in his voice. A tiny part of him not 100% sure but what the pony might understand at least a little of the story.
The waves are rolling in to cover up the castles but they’re not here yet. He’s taught himself to juggle. Eggs, he confessed are calling his name. How many might he have and where could he practice?
Girl two invited me to play hangman but there was a twist, invented she explained by Girl one who had decided that hangman made no sense. How would you hang a person one body part at a time? she said when I asked. I’d never considered the question but her solution was delightful. Do yourself a favor and try this version of hangman sometime this weekend.
- Get a pencil, and eraser and a pen (pen is optional)
- Use only a pencil to draw a full body stick figure hanging from the gallows
- Use pen to draw a shark with open mouth and teeth below the body.
- Choose word or phrase and begin game.
- For every missed letter, erase one body part from the stick figure. Redraw the body part inside the mouth of the shark (preferably with pen for extra drama). Losing players may watch themselves be eaten bite by delicious bite.
The only thing the flies missed seeing was the lawn. Boy two mowed for me. Walking by the next day I saw patches missed all over the place. He doesn’t drink. What had he been thinking? I looked again. All thirty or so unmowed intermittent grass patches were full of daisies. My artist hadn’t missed them, he had seen them!
Saturday was a deep thought day. I wasn’t feeling great. No suffering worth empathy, but my body was tired and fighting something. Of more significance, my insides were pensive, broody, and on the slow churn sorting out my trials. I was in the girls room because: a) it has a couch, b) it was quiet, and c) unlike my room, it is warm without blankets and a winter hat.
I stayed for a while. When I stood up to go, I noticed a small sign on the floor. In pink chalk, I read the words, “fly home.”
It felt like an answer. Fly home. Maybe it’s that simple, I said.
Fly where? said my other self.
Home. Simple. No matter the darkness, sometimes we just need to fly home. I could feel my spirit’s lifting. The magic, the miracles. Here, right when I needed it, a tiny message written for me. Fly home. Even written from hand of one of my lovely children.
Which is when my other side said – Why would they write that?
I took another look.
It wasn’t a sign. It was a little black box. Click. Processing information. Click.
So yeah. “Fly,” was an adjective explaining what kind of home the box was, not a verb followed by a destination.
I pondered it all for a minute. My disgusting children who cannot be convinced that flies are disease transport vehicles with bulging eyes. The helpful results of my misread. I thought about destroying yet another bug captivity contraption, but really what’s the use? I went and got the camera.
What the heck. It was good advice all around. Flying. Home. Kids to keep your feet on the ground. There’s gold in them there hills.
Misty the pony: extremely not impressed that we had her best friend shipped elsewhere. Not interested in speaking to humans. Will tolerate them if she gets to speak to an apple or a carrot.
Anabelle the cow: all the change in the air has made her pregnant self grumpy. She takes it out on the sheep. Grazing for a while, drive them all to the next field. Drive some more. Graze. Drive. My children do this to each other also except they don’t eat grass in between figuring out how to annoy each other.
Sheep (population 12) and Chickens (population 43) are happy and content. If it doesn’t work out to be a writer, I think I would like to be a sheep or a chicken.
Cluster flies (population 1500 plus in house alone): They are in their drunken buzzing phase, perpetually disoriented and therefore bumping into things like me. I love our farm. I love our province and our country . . . but boy do I hate those flies. Self calming now involves not only vacuuming them from the windows, but taping the hose nozzle on the vacuum after every killing spree – – otherwise I can’t stop picturing them inside mating like mad and then flying out in droves while I sleep. I look at the little Japanese beetles (population in house of at least 17 too many). . . who apparently aren’t actually Japanese but do belong to the beetle family . . . and I shake my head at how worthless they are. Like lady bugs but NOT lady bugs and they don’t even eat flies. Pathetic.
Rats (population unknown – closer to 0 than a month ago): seem to have either finally developed a taste for the poison we bought for them, or found other quarters. Either option suits us and the chickens they tried to move in with.