Birthday Stuff

Yesterday was my wife's birthday. There were a number of presents involved, but two of the nicest came from our kids. Maya produced the following original card:

Not to be outdone, Sage produced an original story. For your reading pleasure, the text:

Gudrun the Fair Isle Fairy
-a birthday story by Sage Anthony Durham

Gudrun raced through the woods, feet flying over the hard earth. Her bare soles crunched the leaves of fall beneath them, but she didn’t even hear them. All she could think about was getting to the otter. She didn’t know why but she knew she had to get to it. She had a bad feeling. And when she had bad feelings it meant something. Maybe the birth had gone wrong. The otter wasn’t due for another month, but…

Oh, she just ran. Good thing she had her trainers and spin gear on. Suddenly she was slipping and sliding down the stones toward the beach. Sure enough the otter had given birth. The pups were sooo cute. Small and lovely, eyes closed and looking like the best things ever. But… something was definitely wrong. She could see it in the mother otter’s eyes and hear it in her breath and feel it in her heart beat.

And then she knew. The otter pups were too small. Of course! It was a really early birth so the pups wouldn’t have nearly enough fat to stay warm in the North Atlantic. But that wasn’t all. They were cool to the touch, not warm like new pups should be. They needed to be heated up and soon. The sun was sinking into the hills and in the east a raucous gathering of clouds promised a storm. There was going to be weather, no doubt.

 Gudrun looked around. The landscape, bare and craggy and beautiful as it was, offered no help. Not a person to be seen. It was all on her. She inhaled. All on her. Nobody watching. That was bad, but it also meant one good thing...

With no witnesses, Gudrun pulled her knitting needles from the quiver on her back. Quick as an Elfen archer, she began to work her magic. She reached up and snatched at the last golden rays of the setting sun. The staccato click of her needles snapped away on the wind, but she didn’t falter. She wove the sunlight into glimmering yarn.

And she knitted. Oh, she knitted. This was her magic, something only she could do.

She worked fast, as was her style. When she was done the pups were snuggled up in warm gold hats, cardigans, scarves and pants; all of them pulsing with sunlight. Gudrun was content that the pups would live and grow up to be big and healthy, for they were covered in the magic of a Fair Isle fairy, a rare, secret breed, one of the last of the species.

 That day, feeling young and fit and in control of herself and her skills and her meaning in the world, Gudrun set off to look for other animals in need. She helped forty animals that day and saved forty lives. Next year, she’d aim to help forty-one.

Better with age, of course.

More magical.

(Not bad, huh?)

Eating Authors

Scary title, huh? Fortunately, it's not as sinister as it might sound.

Eating Authors is a series on author Lawrence Schoen's blog wherein he asks guests to speak about a memorable meal. He asked me me recently, and I came up with what I hope is a unique spin on it. A little bit of live seafood plucked from Shetland's craggy seaside...

I've included a photo of Sage since he features prominently in the tale.

If you're interested you can read about it HERE!

The Spider Dream Vanquished!

So, you may have read about earlier mentions of my son's battles with a very unpleasant spider dream. Alone in a house full of spiders. Trapped. They're attacking from all sides... That sort of thing.

Sage has been having really troubled nights. We all have. We tried suggesting that he get active in the dream. Swing up that Nerf Gun and start blasting. A flamethrower? Sure. Bring it on. Take care of business. Sage was a bit incensed about these suggestions. He just wasn't sure I was taking him seriously. I was, but...

For a couple of weeks, nothing worked. And then, a breakthrough.

Apparently, last night, for the first time, he realized he was in the dream while it was happening. He knew. He just had to figure out what to do. I'm both proud and troubled by what he came up with.

He used to be alone, right? Not this time. This time, he turns around and grabs... me. Dear ole dad. Unceremoniously, he shoves me toward the swarming spiders. Then he runs. He doesn't watch what happens. He just gets out of there. As he runs he breaks through the dreamwall and wakes up.

As glad as I am that he thinks he has the dream beat... I'm of mixed feelings on his method.

Any thoughts? Should I be troubled?

Something Remembered

In the process of ordering a birthday present for a certain young man (keep that quiet, though) I recalled something.

It's from a few years back. Sage had fallen in love with Naomi Novik's Temeraire books from listening to the first couple on audio. Later, he picked up a copy of the third book at the library, anxious to read it himself. He got home and dashed up to his room, book in hand, ready for some dragon action.

Time passes.

I go up to his room at some point, and find him in bed, red-faced and teary. Crying.

It took me a little while to get out of him what was wrong. It was that he couldn't yet read the book himself. The sentences were too long, vocabulary above his reading level, words too small on the massmarket pages.

Much hugs ensued. My boy, brought to tears because a book he so wanted to read was, at that point, hard for him.

I've been there too. Haven't we all?

I don't mind saying that he chews through big books now with nary a tear. Times change. Kids grow.

The Birks

Earlier today I had the pleasure of listening to my son recite (over and over again) the Robert Burns poem/song The Birks of Aberfeldy.

It was a school project. He had to memorize it and recite it aloud, preferrably with a solid Scottish accent. And in dialect!

The Birks are a stream side walk about ten minutes from where we live at the moment, in Perthshire, Scotland. Very pretty, waterfalls and lovely old trees and a statue of Burns sitting on a bench. (The statue kinda freaks our dog, Saba, out a bit.)

Here are the melodious choruses Sage regaled us with:

The Birks of Abergeldie.

Bony lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go;
Bony lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy.

Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the chrystal streamlets plays;
Come let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The little birdies blythely sing
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me;
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bony lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go;
Bony lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy.

Personally, I think the bony lassie is quite likely to go with him...

There's more on the Birks of Aberfeldy HERE.

Rise of the Apes, Maybe

Last night we watched Rise of the Planet of the Apes. I rather liked it for lots of reasons. Pretty cool to see a pre-apocalyptic movie. I kinda dug that.

Part of it prompted an exchange I found humorous.

After an episode where Caesar (a highly intelligent ape) pummels a human neighbor, he gets put into custody. He's not happy and feels abandoned. As the screen shows his distraught face as his humans leave him, my son, Sage has a question for me...


Sage looks at me, all seriousness, and asks, "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"


"What, leave you in a facility with a bunch of troublesome apes?"


He says, "Yeah."


My daughter, Maya, says, "Sage, you wouldn't chase a man down the street, beat him and bite his finger, would you?"


Sage hesitates a moment, thinks it over, and finally says, "Maybe."

Sage was definitely relating to the apes in this one.

The Boy's Best Day Ever (Imagined)

When I was in France doing French fantasy things I had this bit of paper with me that I kept looking at. It was mixed in with my travel details and conference information and various telephone numbers and stuff. It was a short essay written in my son's unsteady handwriting, called "My Perfect Day". Herewith, I offer it to you, typed, of course, but otherwise unaltered...

Morning

I would get up and take a morning stroll through the woods (1) with my beardy (2) and my dog (3), my cats.

When I get back I would build some Star Wars Legos.

Then I would go and ride a black stallion called Orca (4).

When I get back it is time for lunch.

Afternoon

I would have burritos for lunch and then we would play a game of Carcassonne.

When we were done with our game I would play Star Wars Legos (5).

When I was done on the computer we would go down to Lake Wyola (6) to swim.

Evening

When we get back we some sushi and fish pie and then I would go to sleep (7).

Footnotes

1). By 'woods' he doesn't mean Fresno, because... ah... I don't think we have anything called woods here. Sure, when you come through the airport they have big murals of giant sequoias, but don't be fooled. Those are wee drive away, at an altitude gain of 7,000 feet or so. Local? Yes, but a little context doesn't hurt. No, by "woods" Sage means one of the two places he's most familiar with walking in the woods, Western Massachusetts or rural Scotland.

2). "Beardy" refers to a bearded dragon. Sage decided a while back that he wanted to get one, and he's been saving his money ever since. So, perhaps once we're back in Massachusetts...

3). We don't have a dog, but...

4). I'm not familiar with this creature.

5). Hey, it's his perfect day. Star Wars Legos have a big part in it. In this case, though, he actually means a Lego computer game...

6). This would be the lake near us in Massachusetts, about a five minute walk away from the house.

7). Sage has thoughtfully included both my culinary specialty - sushi - and his mother's - fish pie. I assure you they're both marvelous, but we don't usually have them on the same day. This, however, is a perfect day, so all bets are off.

And thats it.

You know what I like about this perfect day? That I could make it happen. That it's not so different than a normal day. The black stallion named Orca might be a bit tricky, but the rest of it...

Well, he's kinda described our life. (Or, the life we'll have back again in about three weeks, when we arrive back in Massachusetts.)

Sage's Poem

This is slightly belated, since Sage's birthday was last month. But I've just found something I wanted to share with you lot. It's the poem my father in law wrote for my son. I'll put this up here, and then eventually move it over to the correct day for the archives.

Laughton did a poem for my daughter, Maya, as well, which you can read here. When he wrote Maya's poem he did so in the days just after her birth. It's a lovely poem, but it was written before he actually knew the person that baby would grow into. Sage's poem was written some years after his birth, when he had very much taken on his own personality and discovered his own interests. That's what's reflected in this poem, and I think it's rather special.

Sage

Sage the lion cub
Sharp as a claw
Strong as sinew
Fast as fury

Sage the Humongous
Angel of Africa
Child of the Caribbean
Son of Caledonia
Brother of Beowulf

Sage the Sagacious
Houdini of Haggle
Fount of Rigamarole
Prince of Penultimate

Sage the Silent
Sage the Ear-splitter
Sage the Deaf
Sage the Charming

Sage the Jedi
Warrior of Aslan
Captain of Gryffindor
King of Karate


Aw man!

J Laughton Johnston
Shutesbury Xmas 2005

My Seven Year Old Gets It

Last night I took on the task of explaining the economic crisis to my daughter and son. I choose a lecture format, with the kids standing in front of me as I discoursed on lending practices, the virtues and perils of credit, the need for responsible decision making. Lots of fun stuff. Metaphors in abundance.

I talked for about a half hour before my son suddenly leaped into the air, excited, chopping the air with his hand as he smile demoniacally. Was he attacking me? Had he lost it completely? Was he in revolt?

No. He'd GOTTEN it. He'd figured out what the frick I was talking about! He wasn't just cutting me off either. He seemed genuinely pleased to discover his father wasn't talking utter, mind-numbing jibberjabber.

I was well pleased. (And now they have no excuse for racking up massive credit debt - like their parents once did.)

Now, for tonight's lecture..