I’m headed to Merced, California with my sons on Wednesday. My grandmother lives there, and her children and great-grandchildren will all be there. I’m very much looking forward to seeing my family. I was last in Merced when I was pregnant with Grey. We’d come out to California for a wedding and took the extra few days to take the train in to Merced. I recall sleeping a lot. When I was a child, I lived there for about a year. We visited often when I was growing up.
I’m not really looking forward to two transcontinental redeyes in four days with a 4.5 year old and 21 month old, by myself. They’ll sleep, right? Of course they will. No doubt. Heaven help me.
Anyway, in preparation for this great gathering of great-grandkids (ok, there are only five of them, but I did my share), I have cleaned off my memory card. It’s a challenge taking pictures of these kids. Neither one is very interested in, you know, looking at the camera. And they move fast. But still! We have camping. We have the park. We have the town pool. We have the back yard. And we have our pastor with a donkey and a sheep. I like to keep you on your toes.
Our toilet started running. At 11:15 pm on a day that started at 6:15 am (with another 6:15 morning looming), this is the last thing I wanted to notice. I brushed my teeth eeeeexxxtra slowly, hoping I was hallucinating. Finally I gave in to the cascade sounds and watched the water in the tank run and run. Hmmmm. A quick tap on the float and it raised itself back up, stopping the waterfall. “Maybe,” I thought, “Maybe this is a one time thing?!”
My ears were extra-vigilant for bathroom noises. They are anyway… with a 21 month old and a 4.5 year old, you stay vigilant for sounds that indicate someone is drinking out of the toilet, or taking a bath. And sure enough, that dreaded hiss of water! Truly, this was a problem that must be solved.
I’ve entered this unpleasant stage of life. Let’s call it the “Harry Truman” stage. When I was a girl, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. As a teen, I might have told my parents. Probably not. As a young adult, I would’ve called my landlord and it would’ve been his problem. But now, squarely into my fourth decade, the problem was mine. All mine. Note that I’m not the final stop of the Responsibility Train for just toilets. No. My purview includes dietary choices, project dates, playground time, what we can and cannot afford, appropriate number of treats per day (and whether Flav-r-pops count as a whole treat), business rules for new applications, and how stained is too stained for a shirt to continue in a wardrobe. In so many areas, there is no one for me to escalate problems to.
Thus, the toilet.
Back when other people had all the responsibilities, in Junior High, I decided that shop sounded waaaaay more interesting than Home Economics. I’m old enough, I suppose, to have had gender-segregated classes. The plan was that the girls got a year and a half of Home Ec and one semester of shop, and the boys had a year and a half of shop and one semester of home ec. I got through my first, divided year, and emerged convinced that if I never saw another apron pattern in my life, it was too soon for me. So I ended up the only girl in a class of 26 guys and a poor, harried Mr. Jones.
In that year I made a bowl on a lathe. I turned metal. We rebuilt lawnmower engines. We wired and drywalled a fake wall with real electricity. We plumbed, carefully fitting together the tubes with all the various goos. I used the jigsaw, the planer, the lathe, the scroll saw. I used wrenches and hammers and WD-40. I also learned that just because I had no clue how to do something, it didn’t mean I couldn’t learn. The most arcane of masculine skills were not out of my reach; I simply had to find a book and/or a mentor and roll up my skirt.
This came back to me as I gazed into the swirling waters of the toilet. OK, so I didn’t know how to fix this. I knew how to begin. I pulled out the books on home repair (toilet technology in the US hasn’t changed that much in the last 50 years, and our toilet is probably that old). I observed and tinkered to figure out where the problem was. (The floaty thingy wouldn’t float.) I learned the correct name for it, and proceeded to giggle uncontrollably. (It’s a ballcock. I couldn’t wait to go to Lowe’s and tell them that my ballcock wouldn’t rise. Sadly, they proceeded to help me right away.) I bought the spare parts I needed. I turned off the water. I drained the tank. I spent about 2 hours trying to get frozen, rusted bolts to give, until they finally admitted that I was more stubborn than they. I installed the new fitting. And it worked perfectly. I looked down at my hands – black grease embedded stubbornly under my fingernails. It looked better than the finest manicure, to me.
This is a small thing in the realm of home maintenance. Just saying that I can figure out how to fix my toilet, that’s minor. But one of the lessons I think I internalized in that shop course, as I learned about masculine and feminine fittings, was that I could learn about things about which I was completely ignorant. I learned that just because I knew squat about what I was doing right now, that didn’t mean that I had no chance of doing it. I just needed to start at the beginning and follow it through. That lesson, there, is extremely relevant to my Life As a Grownup. Don’t know how to run a meeting? Start at the beginning. What does a meeting look like? Don’t know how to program in Java? Start at the beginning. Find a site or a book with a good overview. Don’t know how to pick a life insurance policy? Start at the beginning. What are the options?
To me, that is the height of what education really is. It’s not about dates or facts or information, although that background is important. It is about the tools to break down problems in areas where you are ignorant, and the confidence to believe that you can learn about things you don’t know. Perhaps other people learn these same lessons doing algebraic equations, or parsing the meaning out of “A Tale of Two Cities”. For me, it came at the business end of a wrench, unveiling the cam shaft of a geriatric lawnmower.
Last year, summer was replaced by several months of late April. I recall one or two blessed moments of warmth, between rain storms, but the camping last year was heavy on tarps and light on swimming. This year, so far, the weather has been fantastic!
I recall last year, when Thane was a 9 month old patiently accompanying us in his stroller, thinking that this was the hardest camping would be — it would never be so hard again. HA! My youngest child, delight of my heart, is a fantastic sleeper with one caveat: only when he is at home in his own bed an his own circumstances. Given the novelty of a bed where moving around is possible, he took full advantage of his liberty in order to not sleep. Howdy howdy howdy. I'm a cowboy.
Example Scene:
-Thane is obviously tired: eye-rubbing, cranky and easily upset
-Mom reads Thane several books, lays him gently on the air mattress, gives him Puppy and says “night night”!
-Thane looks angelic, thumb in his mouth with his hand wrapped around Puppy’s ear. (Note: Puppy is a rabbit. Ours is not to question why….)
-Thane lets out a deep sigh of contentment and says, blissed out, “Puppy”
-Mom leaves the tent (nearly tripping) certain that Thane will now go to sleep like he would in his bed
-A voice emerges as she zips up, “Mama?”
-More insistent “Mama? Mama. Mama! MAMA!!!!!”
-A Thane-shape appears outlined in the green nylon of the tent “MAAAAMAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!”
-Mom returns to the tent. Tucks Thane in with puppy. He gives an angelic sigh and sucks his thumb…. rinse and repeat. For several hours.
On the fourth of July, he got up at around 5:45 and caught only about half an hour’s nap. He stayed up until after the fireworks… nearly 11 pm. This from a kid who usually wakes up around 6:15, takes a 2.5 hour nap between 1 – 3:30 and goes to bed at 7:15 sharp (or you pay for it).
But other than the complete and utter lack of sleeping children, we had an awesome time camping. We’ve gone with the boys five times now? At five times, your traditions start to feel like real traditions. You begin to be an old hand. There are ways you “usually do things”. Camping boys
One of the neatest parts of this particular camping trip is that it marks the first time Grey has been part of a kid-herd. These phenomenon, a relic of simpler times, have more or less disappeared from suburban neighborhoods (at least mine). On either side of our campsite was a gaggle of children, roughly Grey’s age. Both gaggles invited him to tag along. So for hours at a time I could SEE him, but he was over there, playing with the other kids, swapping silly bands and playing those imaginative games I remember so fondly from my youth. It was wonderful to have him safe, making friends, and playing outside (while I attempted to keep Thane from launching head-first into the fire or eating the Cheerios he’d dropped on the ground).
We did a lot of swimming this last time, since the weather was perfect for it. It’s a nerve-wracking time. When *I* was 4 I knew how to swim, or at least well enough. I didn’t have swimming lessons until I was 9 or so, but I recall being perfectly happy in the water, even when my feet didn’t touch. Grey isn’t there – not at all. We did swimming lessons last summer, but we missed half of them because we were camping. (Ah! Irony!) So we figured this year we’d wait until fall. In the interim, though, we keep Grey very close. Thane, in his continuing quest to give us gray hair, loves the following water sports: flinging yourself backwards until your ears are under water, falling down in the water (forward – allows you to see if your arms are long enough to reach the ground AND keep your mouth above water), falling down in the water (backward – babies have no core strength and really can’t do a “situp”), eel-imitation, and sand-eating. Also, taking whatever toys are unguarded on the shore.
There were notably fewer calm and relaxing swims out to the bouys this time than there were last summer.
Our big “car walk” this trip was up to Mt. Washington. I would hereby like to apologize for all my snide Northwest superiority regarding our mountains. I have long felt that any mountain you could drive up was no mountain. Then I drove the road up Mt. Washington. Now, I’m an experienced mountain driver. I grew up on car-commercial roads. But the 16% grades and no guard rails… well. Actually, I’m not so sure that’s a new experience (I remember particularly vividly a trip we took up to some Lion rock or some such thing up a one-lane logging road that had recently had a washout…. and let’s not even discuss the state of the road last time I went up Llad pass), but it was a rather daunting one. And Mt. Washington is pretty extreme. We went on a very, very hot day — temperatures in the mid-80s to low 90s. At the windswept top of the mountain it was about 50. And there was snow. So I’ll admit it. It’s a real mountain. Adam & the boys at the top of New England
On my way back down, pausing to cool the brakes, I had the momentary thought that maybe, just maybe, on this adventure so like my childhood adventures (see also: Llad Pass) I was the first Johnstone to do this very-Johnstoneish trip. I reveled in the thought that there was a crazy, mountainous adventure that I got to first. Then I called my parents, “Yeah, that’s quite a road isn’t it?”
I should’ve known better. The boys and me at the same spot - the hat does move around!
It was a wonderful time. I really like camping. I like being out in the woods. I like resetting my view of the world. I like the depth and breadth of time I spend with my family. And I like cooking everything in bacon grease. I would really like to find some “camping buddies” — folks who wanted to share those bacon-grease cooked eggs, or who can handle a s’more with the best of them. Ideally, perhaps, someone with a few kids so we could have a built-in gaggle. (Also because anyone without kids would likely be really annoyed at the stuff it’s hard to do while camping AND be a responsible parent of young children.)
And this is obviously the hardest time of life to go camping. Next year? Will definitely be easier. Next year, just wait mom!
That may not sound significant or momentous to you. Perhaps you live in a place where you can see stars in the night sky — more than the 20 or so that outshine the ambient light of cities. Perhaps you have ample opportunity, on your drives home, to pull over and admire a particularly brilliant night. Perhaps you can’t exactly recall the last time you saw a shooting star — you’re sure you have, sometime — but it doesn’t matter because astronomical events just aren’t that important to you.
These may be some of the ways you and I are different, then.
Ten years, now, I have lived in places where you could not see shooting stars. For ten years, I have lived within a ten mile radius of the City of Boston, with the orange omnipresent glow that ranges, with the humidity, between present and overwhelming. Ten years, the same feeble 20 stars have been my rare nightly companions. For nearly half that time, approaching five years now, I have been tethered to my home at night. It’s not entirely safe to walk alone in the dark, although I do so. And almost always, one of us (my husband or I) must be at home to listen for the late night cries of our children. I could not see the stars even if they were clear, because I cannot look.
Before that ten years, the stars were very much a part of my life. New London, Connecticut has lights. Certainly. But many fewer and weaker and further down the hill. I used to love walking around Harkness Green in the evenings – from the soft first evenings of September through the bitter colds of February and back to the noisy darkness of May. Sometimes alone, often with friends, I would walk: South overlooking the estuary of the Thames, West towards Winged Victory and the party noises emanating from Freeman, North facing Harkness Chapel then East across the new sun dial. My eyes ranged out and up. It was dark there (with one particular light that always seemed to either go on or off as we approached). The stars were present in greater numbers. For one glorious year, the Hale-Bopp comet hung directly over Knowlton, where young girls had danced with Coast Guard cadets in long-gone times.
My love of the skies had not started with college, though. Even before that, I lived high in the mountains. Growing up, I could see the Milky Way spread out across the sky. I didn’t know that for the urban world it was an unthought-of myth. I remember one particular night when I was driving home, late, and the astonishing brilliance of a moonless starry sky was so incredibly distracting that I pulled over and just looked until I was thoroughly chilled. I used to go to the graveyard — a flat, long horizoned space with no lights — to watch the stars in the dark of the night. I recall one rather ominous occasion when a herd of elk traveled across the clearing while I was there. I rarely brought a flashlight, and the large thumping shapes were frightening in the dark of the cemetery.
In all my sky-gazing youth, the most precious moments were the shooting stars. Have you ever seen one? Do you remember it? My passion for them started during a summer camp. We’d gotten rained out from our backpacking trip, and were sleeping under the stars in fields just to the north of Mt. Rainier. It was during the Perseid meteor shower, although I didn’t know that at the time. It was a super clear, high, moonless night and the stars fell nearly every minute. I loved them. I loved the surprise gift – the reward of watching and waiting with alertness. They were thrilling. Since then I’ve considered meteors to be gifts, benedictions, blessings from a loving creator.
I do not know exactly how long it’s been since I last saw a shooting star. More than three years, almost certainly. Perhaps more than five. I do make visits to places where stars can be seen, but often it’s cloudy that particular night, or I cannot leave my sleeping babes, or the moon steals the stars from my sight. But on Saturday, after all my boys had gone to bed, I crept away from the dying embers of my New Hampshire campfire and walked in darkness to a small clearing near the lake where the loons mournfully cried. I laid on my back in the grass on a warm summer’s evening, marveling at how many more star there were than even my memories portrayed, still knowing I was seeing only a portion. And just before I stood to return, there across the sky sped a streak of light, gone before my eyes could turn fully to take it in. A shooting star. A blessing and a benediction. And I returned with joy to my family.
It’s late and I’m tired. So you might think I’d go to bed. Ha! You and your logic! The thing is, I miss you guys. I’ve been super-uper-duper busy, even by my standards. As usual, it’s a mix of work (it’s amazing what happens when you have a job that really needs your brains!), kids, things you have to do as a grownup (like paying the bills and doing the laundry), church, and fun activities that are more important than you are (sorry!).
Things that I have neglected to tell you about include the really amazing experience of participating in an ordination. It was wonderful, profound and meaningful. I’d love to share it with you. Maybe someday, but not tonight. Still, you’re not 100% out of luck since I posted some pictures here. (Note to the unfamiliar: not all ordinations feature cakes with replica chocolate hats as a central feature. Only the really cool ones do that.)
Then there was a week of worky worky worky. Friday after work we drove up to the Middle Of Nowhere Maine, took a left, and went to a little resort for the night and then went whitewater river rafting on the Dead River in the morning. Then we drove back. It was completely awesome and nuts and fun. There was a dinner in which we went from the standard “What’s the most obscure Shakespeare play you’ve ever seen” (Mine is Coreolanus) to “Which Zombie movies are the best and why.” That, my friends, is how you know you’re having a good dinner. Sadly, there is no photographic evidence any of this took place, so I might have had an extensive and enjoyable hallucination.
Now it’s back to worky worky worky again. Or, more appropriately, sleepy sleepy sleepy.
On a ninety degree June day, on the shortest night of the year, I have set aside my first batch of jam for the year. It’s strawberry — a dark, extremely ripe batch of strawberry jam, with berries coming from a farmer’s market in Cambridge (our fair city). The aftermath of my canning
Last year I made seven batches of jam: two blueberry, two strawberry, one peach, one plum and one apple butter. (OK ok so apple butter isn’t jam. So sue me.) For all the real jams (not the apple butter), I use the simplest canning method: liquid pectin. Ah, Certo! What service you give me! Anyway, each batch makes about 6 – 10 jars of jam, depending on size.
In my cupboard there are currently 9 jars of jam: five blueberry, two peach, one strawberry and one apple butter. If anyone wants blueberry jam, let me know. After years of having made it I’ve finally reached the conclusion that it’s simply not worthwhile. The only thing the spoiled people around here are willing to use blueberry jam for is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then only if I sneak it in. The peach jam was really a disappointment. Instead of being a whiff of my favorite fruit, a glimpse of the brief moment of summer carried throughout the winter (what I hoped), it ended up being an overly sugary, sugar-type-substance. It crystallizes in the jar if left too long (not a problem I’ve encountered before) and is generally eh. Clearly, the highest best calling of a peach is a tight race between eating it over the kitchen sink (if you don’t need to eat it over the sink it’s not a good peach) or peach pie. Mmmmmm peach pie.
The strawberry is the old standby of jams. It’s fine in most everything. It is the staple of my cupboard, for sandwiches or spread over my husband’s toasted bread at night before we retire. The apple butter was a revelation. It has found it’s true calling spread thickly over cornbread. That might not permit you to get through about 12 jars of apple butter, but a fortnight does not pass but we have chili and cornbread. And the apple butter makes a favorite meal even more a thing of joy!
But the plum. Oh, the plum! The tartness, balanced with delicate perfection of the sweetness of jam. It dances on the tongue, bringing delight. Just the memory if it scintillates my taste buds. There were some wonderful nights this winter, blooming tea in the glass teapot, sugar cubes next to the porcelain teacup, hot toast with butter and plum jam, and a rousing game of St. Petersburg. Delight, my friends. I have to admit that, to me, the farm share was worth it if it only presented me with a quantity of plums that needed something to be done with them, to this result.
My family agrees. You will note there is no plum jam in my “left over” count — the only kind of canning I’m completely out of. And unlike my other batches, I shared nary a jar of the plum with anyone. I parcelled out peach judiciously, strawberry with grace, and apple butter with the corn bread recommendation. But the plum I kept to myself.
So this year, I have already made one batch of strawberry jam. Fear not, sons of mine, your PB&Js are secure. I’ll probably make another batch with farmshare strawberries. I will make two, maybe three batches of plum jam. Because really, it was that good. I thought, in addition, I’d made an apricot jam this year. I’m on the hook for another batch of apple butter, no doubt. I’m hoping that maybe one of my friends wants to come and make it with me, because peeling that many apples and the stirring required is lonely work without a chatting partner.
I can’t help but think, though, that there is room to continue to grow in this canning endeavor. I think I’ve mentioned that canning is a family heritage. My great-grandmother was in her 20s during the Great Depression. I remember a neglected apple tree near our home. My grandmother spent hours, hours upon hours, peeling, coring and cooking those apples to make applesauce, only because she couldn’t bear to see such good food going to waste.
When my brother was about Thane’s age, maybe a little younger, my great grandmother, Grandma Finley, came to stay with us for a month or two during the summer. I can still remember the exact threes in our backyard: the raspberry bushes (for jam – I distinctly recall getting chastised for having eaten the bushes bare when mom planned on jamming that weekend), the Politician’s elm, the crabapple tree, the two dogwoods, and the stand of slender white birches in the middle.
I loved the dogwoods, I climbed the elm, I admired the paperlike bark of the birches, but I’d never really noticed the crabapple. My great grandmother, on the other hand, knew just what to do with it. She made crapapple jelly. I remember being amazed by the color of it – this incredibly clear red. Like plums, the crabapples were quite tart, so the jelly danced between tart and sweet on the tongue. I wonder if she had a recipe, or used pectin? I wonder if that was just the sort of thing a hard-working Christian woman who’d lived though the depression knew how to do.
What I really wonder, of course, is whether I can get my hands on any crabapples this summer. The remnants from last year
PS – if anyone does have a crabapple tree nearly and would let me glean, let me know!!
It’s hot out. 90 degrees. My company just sent out a notification that we’re in voluntary energy reduction to try to prevent rolling blackouts. That’s how you know it’s summer… when the electrical grid is struggling to keep up and you’re glad that your California-raised mother taught you how to keep a house reasonably cool without AC.
And Sunday is the equinox, the longest day of the year! Last night I was coming home from the Plato book club discussion at about 9:30, listening to the Celtics on the radio as I drove through Boston. On the horizon, that late at night, there was still the touch of color from a sunset that has not quite succumbed to night.
It’s so amazingly liberating to bare skin. There is a phenomenal feeling to the hot sun against your skin, melting away the shell of winter. There’s the omnipresent buzz of summer: of lawnmowers and chainsaws and insects and leafblowers and circular saws slicing out new porches for backyard barbecues. There’s the nightly throwing-open of windows, to invite in the sounds and smells and relative coolness of the brief dark of night, which inevitably leads to you being awoken at 5 am by a rousing chorus of birdsong in the dawn.
And there’s the food — the amazing bounty of the land. December knows nothing like a June strawberry, and February has forgotten the explosion of taste that comes with a sunwarmed raspberry eaten straight off the bush in the backyard. The winter-dulled palate is amazed by the variety, abundance and excellence of everything, until it becomes sated and blase by the oppressive humidity of August.
But now, in June, this liberation is new and freeing. The blow-up pool in the back yard doesn’t have that patina that such pools so quickly obtain. The stack of swim diapers is high. The jug of bubble-stuff nearly unmolested. We have forgotten the sensations of sunburn and bugbite, and see only the brightness, and the undimmed memory that with heat comes leisure. (I confess that I wonder if my sons will have any such associations — my sister recently “booked” her summer and realized that her kids only get about 4 weeks of Doing-Nothingage, which I recall being the dominant component of my summers when I was their age.)
There is swimming ahead, and parks. There are camping and hikes. There are roadtrips across haze-shrouded hills when the black asphalt waves in the heat. There’s whitewater river rafting (for reals!), ocean-cool downs and back yard BBQs.
And as quickly as it comes, I know, it fades again into the joyful and exuberant solemnity of autumn. But that is beyond tomorrow, and next week, and next month. It is a full season away. Today, my friends, we celebrate summer.
I’m still here. I exist. Work is eating my brain. Nom nom nom. Today I got there at 7:30 am. At my old job, I rarely got up by 7:30 am. I had German cultural training. I discovered that I am everything German’s hate: positive, optimistic, agile, smiley…. I am not heartened.
Then I went and got lost in South Boston going to go practice my trumpet for an ordination this weekend. This was followed by a book club discussing Plato. We can’t figure out if he was being ironic in the Republic, if Plato is making fun of Socrates, or if this is all sincere. My brother, the classics major, says that “yeah, it’s pretty lame”. (NOTE: This is the funniest of his comments and do not reflect the full and complex dialog regarding his understanding of the historical and cultural importance of Plato.) This does not fill me with motivation to read the remaining 60% of the book. I am also reading a fascinating book about competing on Analytics. Yes, that is my sarcastic voice.
But the boys are very, very cool lately. Grey is in this awesome affectionate stage, mixed in with neat questions and cool phrases and a deep desire for candy. Thane is unclinging just a little. For example, in the mornings he now reads quietly in his room while I get dressed. It makes dressing much easier when no one is surgically attached to your leg.
I made risotto for guests on Tuesday. I think you level up as a chef when you’ve made risotto. It was extremely tasty.
My farm share started on Monday. I successfully used peas & garlic scapes. Up next: fun with beets.
My sons have the world’s shaggiest hair, and I have no idea when we can get them haircuts.
Have I told you that Thane tells knock-knock jokes? Here’s how they go:
Thane: Knock knock
You: Who’s there
Thane: (inaudible)
You: Inaudible who?
Thane: Inaudible + weird syllables
CUE RIOTOUS LAUGHTER
It’s pretty funny to have a practically preverbal kid telling knock knock jokes that are only marginally less funny than his 4 year old brother’s.
We’re going white-water river rafting next week. Doesn’t that sound awesome and adventurous and not at all boring? Yes, I think so too.
Ok, I think you’re now up to date and hopefully confident that I haven’t PERMANENTLY abandoned you. Just, you know, until things calm down a LITTLE.
Last night my husband and I took advantage of the phenomenon known as “visiting grandparent” and went to see the new Jackie Chan “Karate Kid”. My beloved spouse was possibly less than enthused and set a minimum threshold for Rotten Tomatoes approval levels, which it just barely cleared. So off we went!
It was a tough story to watch from a parent’s point of view – to see a kid struggling and hurting and unwilling to ask from help from his mother. You hope you’ll never be as powerless to stop your child’s pain, but chances are excellent that you will — even if it isn’t Kung-fu master bullies. Anyway. It was not nearly as good as “Drunken Master”, is all I have to say.
It was less than 12 hours from Karate Kid to Aikido Kid. Grey has been doing Aikido, a defensive martial art since fall — before he turned 4. I’ve really enjoyed what it teaches him. You learn mostly by observation — there isn’t a lot of “talk” in the class. But the Sensei, Michael Baron brings an excellent mix of fun, humor and intimidation to the mat. The kids are expected to sit still and pay attention. They’re expected to run, jump and roll. They adore the “flaming sword of death”. They’re expected to follow rules and instructions. They’re getting VERY good at “Sensei Says”. And sometimes? Sensei cheats. That’s actually one of my favorite lessons…. that life isn’t always fair. What do you do when someone else has advantages you don’t? What do you do if everything has been carefully orchestrated to be perfectly fair your whole life, and then you get in a situation where it’s not?
Anyway, Grey had logged enough hours to test for his first belt, the yellow stripe. (Note: in grownup aikido you don’t get colored belts. There are two colors: white and black. You earn black when you’ve worked long enough that your previously white belt has finally turned black with age and sweat and dirt. But for the kids they bow to societal pressure.) But suddenly, after several months of enjoying it, he started not wanting to go. We explained he needed to practice hard for his test? He balked. I asked more questions, trying to figure out why he didn’t want to go. Finally he said, “I wish there less love about Aikido”. After waffling for a little while, we suddenly remembered he’s FOUR YEARS OLD and doesn’t need any pressure. So we told him he didn’t have to test and he could just go watch his friends take their tests.
There they were: four tiny figures on the mat. They warmed up and did some of their practices. Then Sensei asked who was ready to test, and Grey raised his hand. And test he did. He did shiko and rolls. He counted to five in Japanese. He knew tsuki, shomenuchi, kaiten, tenshin, tenkan, and several other techniques. (Note: I don’t pretend to know how to spell these terms.) He bowed appropriately. And he did very well!
When he got off the mat, he was a yellow stripe. I asked him how he felt. “I feel proud of myself.” Being proud of yourself is the greatest accomplishment you can earn, son. I’m proud of you too. The aikido class
My Truant Pen 