NUMBER 600

 



Post # 600. Writing it down makes it more real, somehow, for the thinking of it goes into that gray blur in my brain reserved for math and celebrities and gross national products.

And despite being WAY behind in posting the things I have pictures for, the things which have occurred in the past little while, and the things which will put the Thanksgiving post somewhere around Christmas Eve if I don’t get back to it, I think I’ll venture into a little story which just came to be.

The story itself dates far, far ago, in the days of that fine storyteller Aesop, and is listed amongst the most popular of his fables. It’s been repeated word-of-mouth more than it’s been published, I think, for it’s a fine tale for bedtime, to soothe the little ones to sleep, the words small and innocent and uplifting.

I would imagine it was told around campfires and cookfires and bonfires of the past, to urge the hunters’ quests, to spur all sorts of loin-girding and heart-quickenings for battle, to ignite an athlete to higher and better goals. There would probably be just enough time during that halftime-in-the-locker-room, when the home team is down 21-12, and the coach is urging them to further, stronger effort with a loud, spirited telling of the tale, in tones and words unsuitable for other places and other ears.

I’ve always loved the little story, loved the hero, for I have a special fondness for his kind, and even loved the loser, who is so like so many of us---great starters, with all the hope in the world and all the gumption, and then, in the heat of the race or the work of the task, we sorta fizzle out and even if we don’t give up, we give it only half-hearted effort.

And so, the tale:

On the last night of the visit of Dear Son From California, we all gathered here, ordered our favorite takeout Chinese dinner, and had a fine time reaching and sharing and enjoying our meal. Containers almost emptied, Fortune Cookies read and analyzed, it was time for the entertainment---a small morality play, with Sweetpea as choreographer, arranger, director, prop-mistress and Star.

She’d suddenly decided that she and I would act it out that morning, just out of the blue, and the prop-arranging and the idea was so sweet, I knew we had to have a performance for everyone. So, they turned their chairs, poured more tea, and sat expectantly as she and I disappeared into the bathroom.

Announcement from afar, of proceedings to come, with a chirpy "TAA-DAAAA!" from Herself. I came out first, both hands holding her own pretty little purse-from-Aunt-Kim atop my head, the little cloth handles flopping like long ears. I quickly walked halfway into the room, stopped, held the purse on my head with one hand whilst I covered a big yawn with the other, and pantomimed a nap, standing by the breakfast table.

Sweetpea, her little blue drum held at waist-level on her back with both hands, slowly walked behind me, passed me by, and quietly strolled into the kitchen, to cheers from the crowd.

One little bow to acknowledge the applause, and a quick, “Let’s do it AGAIN!” and we did, with similar cheers and clapping. And once again, after shouts of “ENCORE, Encore!” from the table.

She’s such a sucker for a “YAAAAAY!!” I swear that Child would have wagged that drum back and forth all night, completing a whole season’s run-of-play in one evening.

And there we have the tale. Brava.