Funny Things Pearsons Say

A little bit of back story, as all good authors of serial publications will give:

Charlie once asked me why I am not ticklish. I have a secret. My secret is that I am ticklish, but I won't tell him where No, I won't tell you either. I always just tell him that to be ticklish, one must possess some level of innocence, and I have grown too evil to be ticklish any more.

So, today I am starting to get a nasty headache.

I exclaimto the ceiling tiles, "I do not need a migraine today! Why does the Universe hate me!?"

Charlie, with impeccable comic timing, as usual, replies, "Because you're evil not ticklish, that's why."

Well played, boy. I'll get you next time.

In a conversation during morning snuggles one day:

Charlie was lying to the right of me, and Abe to the left. Charlie sneaked away while I was talking to Abe, but I noticed. 

Me: Where did Charlie go? Did Spider Monkeys come and carry him away to be their king?

Abe: Fider Monkeys don't have a cro-own!

Me: They make one out of thorny vines.

Abe: Then they paint it!

Me: They don't have any paint! But they put berries on it for color.

Abe: That's why they wanted Shawlie; so he could teach them how to paint!

Yellow has always been my favorite color, at least so far as concerns the lifetime of the individual in question. Yet Abe has, for some reason, become convinced that I used to like purple best and have thrown it over for another color like some kind of unfaithful painter. After breakfast, Abraham clearly had this weighty matter on his mind:

Abe: Mommy, do you like purple?
Me: Yes, but yellow is my favorite.

Abe: Why don't you like purple best anymore?

Me: I don't know. Yellow is just so happy all the time.

Abe: No it isn't! I'll show you!

He procures markers and draws picture of a frowny yellow sun. The frowny face is drawn on with purple marker. The child has a sense of dramatic presentation that has decidedly advanced beyond his years.

Clearly, my argument is invalid.

This is the Way the Winter Ends...

Not with a whimper, but a bang.

I don't know if winter is done. Everyone seems to be hoping it is, but I like the snow and ice. When winter consists of mud, chill, and damp, pervading grayness, that is when I can't wait for it to end. A snowy morning is somewhat like church: you cross its threshold and reverence and introspection just seem natural. An icy morning is like New Year: everything is lustrous and a little bit explosive. True winter is always just a bit at war with itself. It can't decide whether to be quiescent or boisterous, muted or brilliant, soft or hard. In Kentucky, it can't even decide whether to be winter or spring, which is why I say I don't really know if it’s over. Last year, we got six inches of snow in April that lasted all of one day before reverting to mud. In similar style, we had a lovely, blanketing snow Sunday last and now my yard has reached its mass moisture capacity and is contemplating swampdom. Everyone in Northern Indiana can just stop whining already. At least they can still walk on top of the ground without miraculous intervention.

I took a walk alone on Sunday afternoon. I wanted to see the snow on everything without any interruption. One of the best things about a walk alone in the snow is that birds come out to investigate you if you're quiet. A downy woodpecker played hide and seek with me around the trunks of some trees. He inspired my alone-ness. When I heard a car coming up the road, I played hide and seek with it around the snowed bulk of a small cedar. I would like to think that, just like the woodpecker, I was a telltale flash of red in the corner of the driver's eye. I don't know why I didn't want to be seen; just that I didn't. 

After the walk alone, I took a walk with children. One of the best things about a walk with children is that everything is twice as tactile with them. You can't just walk in snow, but must lay in it. You can't just lie in snow, but must eat it. You can't just admire an icicle, but must sword fight with it. And no matter how many times it has been proven that your snow boots are not water proof above the ankle, you must, at all costs, walk in the run-off stream. Feet aren't truly cold until they're frozen, after all. When I walk with kids, I don't see wildlife. I see Wild Life. I see kids. So if winter isn't done yet, that's okay with me. I don't have to drive in it anyway. Neaner, neaner, boo-boo...

Honey Locust don't care....

Wild Chipmunk sighting

Texture

Jailbait

  

Who lives here?

Getting Away From It All... Right Behind It All

I am not even going to bother trying to excuse or explain the absence of entries on this blog since summer. I've tried in the past. Made New Years resolutions or Faustian deals or promised myself treats I clearly did not want badly enough to keep me blogging steadily throughout the course of the year. The fact is that there are apparently not enough caffeine molecules in the universe to create wit in my brain 52 weeks of the year, and I otherwise lack the discipline. That said, after a long absence that you can all just forgive already because I used the word "Faustian" in this opening paragraph, here I am again!

And what I am contemplating is this:  

In general, we try to be good parents. Like we try to make sure the kids eat vegetable at least once a week and we don't condone WWE maneuvers wherein one child jumps onto the other child's lower back from the height of the couch. We try to say things like, "Will you please go watch a movie so I can get this done!?!?" only once a day or so. I even drag myself away from the riveting pastimes of "cleaning" and "taxes" to spend time whupping them at Monopoly. I use the term "I" there because the man of the house doesn't "do" board games. And I use the term, "Monopoly" because my nine year old has actually surpassed my skills at chess. You're only allowed to mock me about that if you know what the castle shaped players on a chess board are actually called. 

Anyway, part of being good parents is getting the kids out of the house on occasion. But when the man of the house gets home after a week working away from the house, he doesn't particularly want to leave the house. Who can blame him? I spend all week in the house and I still don't particularly want to leave the house. But the kids are another matter. They would likely set fire to the house if they were sure it meant getting out of it for a while. So we had to find a solution as well as an outlet for that budding pyromania where no one would get hurt. The long and short (but mostly long) is that we have had to find ways to get ourselves out of the house on weekends without actually having to leave home behind. Going out into the yard doesn't work. It's too easy to look around there and see things that ought to be done. Chores-- Bah! Humbug!



The Hill (otherwise known as  most of our yard) is good for a few minutes of entertainment, especially now, when we've had snow, followed by ice, followed by snow. That creates the perfect sledding environment for severe injury and possible dismemberment. The problem is that lugging the sleds back up the hill quickly tires us. It's like waiting in line for the Mean Streak at Cedar Point for an hour and half only to have the ride over in four minutes. Cost-benefit analysis fails to impress.

So, being creative folks, we've taken up the time honored hobby of traipsing off into the woods and starting fires. Why are you looking at me like that?

There are always things to see in the woods after an ice storm. There are icy trees, and icy grasses, and icy rocks, and icy moss, and icy... ice? There are also probably deer and rabbits, but two boys make too much noise to see any of them. That's okay. Really it is, because boys are meant to make noise and climb things and eat the icy ice. Sort of like monkeys, really, except I don't know how monkeys feel about ice.

Traipsing and ice munching turn out to be a cold business. That's where lighting things on fire comes in. Well, that and really how do you know you're having fun if fire isn't involved? So after we hiked to Where the Moderately Untame Things Are, we started a little camp fire in the snow. This involved dry cedar sticks, leaves, magnesium, a Swedish neck knife of some sort, sparks, and a great deal less swearing than you might expect given that there were two children present. Also, a butane lighter when the kids weren't looking, because a real Bushman knows that the first rule of survival is "Always cheat."

In all sincerity, it wasn't that long of a walk. Just back through the fields behind our house and into a twenty acre wood, barely more than would qualify as a copse. A hilly walk, with lots of variety. A walk with birds, and tiny streams, and sparkly sunlight on ice. And a tiny campfire by a cedar tree with thick grape vines and lots of character. It wasn't far away, but it was away from it all. The sort of place you can forget that bills and body aches and defunct car batteries and b.m.i.'s exist and just relax with a cold butt in the snow and warm heart by the fire. It's more relaxing than you'd think. At least, it works for us. Now if only the phrase "freezing our butts off" was more literal and less euphemistic...