Plum Good

"If you love me, come kiss me and tell me I make the best plum sauce ever."

He came, kissed and pronounced with great care, "You make the best plum sauce I've ever had...yet."

"Better than the bottled stuff from the store we had at that party?"

"Sure, uh-huh."

This all transpired after our kids had gone to bed, because that is when all our very deep conversations do transpire. But it all sprang from cold stares at the dinner table and from my return to my good ole' southern roots (for purely selfish reasons).

At dinner I debuted my plum sauce for meatballs. The recipe called for plum jam. I'm not sure that actually exists, but I had plums, plums that my toddler had thrown around the floor and the fruit bowl, and I figured if I cooked them, it might kill off all the germs they'd collected from such disrespectful treatment. So along with some cornstarch, crushed red pepper, sherry, vinegar and soy sauce, I threw skinned, chopped plum into the pot. Then I added some chunks of onion that were pitifully lying around wondering if they would ever find their true purpose in life. And voila! Plum sauce.

Of course I had to make a few adjustments as it simmered for taste - a little more crushed pepper for a bite, a splash more of soy sauce, and a shower of sherry that my son accidentally dumped in - but when I tasted it that last time before bringing it to the table, I was sure I had something blue ribbon.

But my husband, before even sitting down, grabbed a bottle of spicy barbecue sauce from the fridge and set it by his plate.

"Why do you need that?" I demanded. "Did you try the sauce?"

"No, just in case I don't like it."

"Why do you need the barbecue when you haven't even tried the plum sauce yet?"

"Because I don't want to have to get up again."

"But you haven't tried it! You should just eat the plum sauce - all of you - because that's what I worked hard on. You always eat what the cook prepares first."

"I'm going to," Matthew responded calmly. "But if I don't like it, I don't want to get up again."

I ate the plum sauce. I even went to fetch the onion and plum chunks that I'd strained out and threw those on top of my meat and rice, and while I ate I made various noises of gastrointestinal satisfaction to encourage my fellow diners. The sauce was sweet and savory and had a bit of bite at the end. However, my son said it was o-kaaay, but not without the meat to take it down. My daughter said it was too spicy, my youngest two wouldn't eat it, and Matthew claimed he couldn't find the bite in it at all.

"Just eat it," I growled, pointing my finger menacingly around the table. And you can trust that I kept an eye on that barbecue sauce.

I was raised in the rural South where you always eat what the cook prepares, and you thank her profusely for it. If you are offered second helpings, you accept whether you are still hungry or not. And you never, ever, opt for something store-bought over something homemade. Barbecue sauce - hmph!

My dad used to help out on one of our neighbor's farms in Tennessee. For the farmhands' lunch Mr. W's wife made tons of food: all manner of vegetable, a big vat of gravy, at least two kinds of bread and meat and dessert. You had to stuff yourself. Why? Because the lovely woman went to all that trouble to fix a full southern meal for you. You just thanked heaven that there were several other farmhands to help eat it and that you would be going back to the field later to work it off, sweating lard from your pours....or else collapsing in a grits and gravy stupor behind the tractor.

I still feel angst about an incident several years back that really riled my southern sensibilities. I was at my sister's house, and I became very offended on her behalf as I was helping her serve her blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream on the side. When I asked a couple of guests if they wanted dessert they said, "We'll have some ice cream but not the cobbler."

What?! Excuse me? A. It's blackberry cobbler, and God Himself probably enjoys that. B. My sister handmade the crust and filling - everything except the blackberries - and it's delicious. And C. You NEVER take the store-bought side without the homemade dish. If you do, some ancient southern-cook-voodoo-doctor will stick a bunch of pins in your doll's gut and give you a righteous stomachache. And she'll dance around and cackle while you suffer.

It still makes me bristle.

So, given my genteel upbringing, is it too much to ask of my own family to eat what I've labored over? Yeah, I don't always have all the ingredients. Sure, I throw things in on a whim to spice things up. And, okay, sometimes my curiosity leads me to make interesting choices (a pint of orange juice in ham and bean soup), but it's my labor of experimental love for my family. Sometimes it's great (and a once-in-a-lifetime meal, because you can bet I won't remember what I did), and sometimes it's not so good. But I expect them to eat it regardless, praise me grandly for my efforts, and extend their plates for seconds. That's the southern way, and until somebody else does most of the cooking in this house, it's my way, too.

Odd

Last night I was comparing Luke Skywalker to George Washington, and I caught the look in my Man's eye. That look, dammit! I'd know it anywhere, because I've seen it in the eyes of my fellow humans a few thousand times in my life. I'd seen it in his family's eyes and the eyes of my own kin - what on earth? Where'd that come from? Did she just say that? In public? Before us? Before strangers? Why is she still talking? The look said, to be brief, She's weird.

Did your siblings ever tattle on you for being weird when you were a kid? No? Mine did. "Mom! Dad! She's acting strange again!" To be fair, it was warranted. I was the one talking aloud to herself with accompanying hand gestures. The kid pretending a tiny vial of sample perfume was my secret agent communication device, and I'd run around the corner to have a classified conversation with my handler - when I was 12. I was the girl who sang to the boy she liked while he was standing in line for recess with all his friends in sixth grade. Good thing I was odd AND confident.

My best friend in grade school got me a birthday present, a key chain that proclaimed, "I'm not Weird! I'm Gifted." Well, I'd like to say that that is true, but so far there's been no evidence to support the gifted assertion. And I've gotten used to the periodic looks of weird from my family, friends and strangers. I can even shrug them off, explain to myself that they don't understand my special point of view, but the one person who can never give me the look or say the words is my Man. It hurts. He promised to love and adore me the way I am - forever and ever, I Do. Weird, warts, and all.

So last night when the kids had gone to bed, I gave him a talking to. He denied the look (probably remembering my tirade when he had actually said, "You're Weird," to my face a few years ago), wearily claimed he didn't remember thinking what must have inspired it. In my turn I told him that if he's irritated by what I have to say, he should come up with his own contributions to the conversation.

He responded rather disdainfully, "Star Wars is not my thing."

"Well, don't give me the look then."

He looked away.

I let him off with just the warning.

I remember a conversation he and I had a week or so ago inspired by some television show. I said, "If we had known each other as kids, you wouldn't have had anything to do with me. I was too strange. You wouldn't have liked me."

"No, you wouldn't have liked me."

"Sure, I would. I would have tried to be your friend, but I would have scared you off."

"You would have found me too boring," he asserted.

There was a pause as we looked at each other with something like mutual admiration and embarrassment, and then we burst out laughing. Because it was true, of course. We wouldn't have gotten on together then, oil and water personalities. But somehow as adults it works out, A strange girl and her quiet, steady guy.

As long as he never, ever says I'm weird.

Anakin No More

As I had promised him, I got around to watching the Star Wars films with my son, Berto. And I cried more than I should probably confess. 

Yes, I'm a dork, but in the Star Wars Saga as in any truly great tale, I see the truths about human experience and about incremental choices made in everyday life to work toward good or evil. This drives my husband crazy sometimes, how I must delve into films, books or songs instead of purely escaping through them, extracting and dissecting their emotional, intellectual and spiritual assets in my examination of their merit. Then, heaven forbid! I must talk about it.

But I did learn a couple superficial things, too. I learned I grew up, because though I may have found him fascinating as a kid, I now find Jabba the Hut to be one of the most universally revolting characters ever created. I could barely bear to look at his vulgar, slimy, slug-like hideousness on the screen. I discovered that men's fantasies about Princess Leia in her bikini are valid, because, boy, that is some bikini. It looks like a beast to wear (what is that top - metal?), but it's an iconic image of female beauty even though it happens in far off fantasy land and with impossibly coiffed hair, fortunately without the ear braids.

I understood while watching these films, however, that this was also a teaching moment. My son had been telling me for some time his perspective on the tale. He sympathized with the unfortunate Anakin who becomes the hyper-cool and vicious Darth Vader, but I'll be damned if I don't take the opportunity to point out everything Anakin forfeited in his restless, self-seeking path of anger, revenge, hate and death.

"Berto, shame on Anakin. Shame on him," I kept saying, shaking my head at each new development in Anakin's journey to the dark side.

"But, but..." Berto kept saying. There's always buts.

**************************

The Revenge of the Sith is quite stressful to watch when you have a two-and-a-half-year-old awake from his nap, but you're inexorably sucked into the epic battle between good and evil in one crazy, complex and fascinating character. Your mama judgement is affected.

"Berto, quick! Get up here and help me block out the screen," I said over and over again when disturbing scenes - just guess how many there were - played out on the TV. It didn't work too well; Berto and I had to shuffle around hip to hip as my Danny boy kept trying to see around us.

Plus, Danny just wanted Mama to play. I wasn't in too light a mood, you understand, because my emotions are easily manipulated by what I'm observing around me, and I was observing a whole lot of chaos, fear, and anguish diced up for my...amusement? Several times I just turned the screen off, especially when the Emperor appeared in all his...uh...glory or during moments of the horrific but impressively choreographed battle scene between Obi-Wan and Vader.

I did try. I bounced the ball back and forth with my little son to distract him while trying to twist one eye ever to the hypnotic screen. But when my little guy bounced the ball into the netherworld beneath the couch or entertainment center and couldn't find it, he threw an enormous tantrum; I think all the tension in the room was wiring his emotions, too.

"Bawl! Bawl," he whined.

"I don't know where your ball is!" I shouted back repeatedly. "Find it yourself!"

Yes, that's ugly. I think I'd taken a step or two toward the dark side at that point, but I was sick of all the getting up and sitting down, migration between real life and fantasy, bouncing balls and light saber combat. I was up to my neck in conflicting interests. I should have just turned off the movie, of course.

Finally, the end at last. Anakin and Padme's babies are orphaned, essentially, and separated.

"Oh, Berto..." I began, but then my voice broke. "Anakin lost...everything..."

Initially small, selfish steps easily led the volatile Anakin to take broad strides toward the corruption of his whole being, and he, through his vice, lost not only the one he bartered everything for, but he gave up knowing their children as well. I sobbed because I am a parent, and I understand what was lost. Obi-Wan's grief over the loss of his Jedi brother even as he combats him, his cry, "Anakin! You were supposed to bring balance to the Force, not plunge it into darkness!", overwhelmed me, too.

Yes, I know it's fiction.

"I'm going to make a list of all the movies you've cried at," said my son, but gently as I raised my wet face from my hands.

**************************

A blank screen where all that energy had been. With my emotions still unbalanced, I picked up the Sunday paper, discombobulated, and read a terrible story about some woman's boyfriend abusing and allegedly murdering her young child. This mother was selfishly willing to leave her child for her own convenience in the care of someone whom she knew had harmed her child before. She herself had even reported the abuse. How many times have I read just that same story in the paper? Human folly, in all its subtle variations, is without end, but the themes are always there - selfishness, pride, stupidity, lust, greed....power.

I stared into space, watching my thoughts dance around the bonfire of my rage, and perhaps my eyes took on a red tinge, because Berto said in concern, "Mama, what are you thinking about?"

So I told him without giving him the specific details. I told him about my anger against these wicked people in the world who disrupt the natural order. Especially against those who hurt children. How I knew it was wrong to want revenge against others, but how the things that people do to each other distress and infuriate me.

Then I pulled him onto my lap, this tall nine-year-old son of mine who loves Star Wars, and I hugged him tight and buried my face in his chest while I wept for fictional tragedy and real life evil.

Don't Try to Force Your Man Out of Doors, Nakey

On Sunday my Man refused to sit on the back patio with the magic combo of our children, me, the newspaper, and breakfast. Just awake, he peeked out the sliding glass door to alert us to his presence. As he examined all the green, blue and brown of the outdoor realm with supreme disinterest, I became desperate for his company just this once. It was surprisingly nice out at that early hour, but my pleas and tricks were to no avail; he even tried to switch my allegiance by telling me CBS Sunday Morning was on. Really! I knew I didn't marry a nature-seeker, but sometimes it drives me wild all the song and dance I have to do just to lure him outside.

When I defected to the inside for coffee, I threatened. "If you don't learn to come sit outside on the patio with me by the time we're an old married couple, I'm going to put a cardboard cutout of you out there...or, better yet, I'll stuff an old man doll and stick it in a rocker on the front porch for company."

"Sounds like a plan."

Rotten old man.

The war of natures escalated when he discovered while grilling our lunch that the children and I had scattered bird seed all over the yard while he slept.

"I don't want all those stupid birds in my yard!" he cried. "They're going to poop all over everything and perch on the roof waiting for the next big seed party."

Other than the risk that our backyard could turn into a bad Hitchcock movie, I didn't see his point.

"So? They're part of nature."

"So, I even found some seed on my white table that I cleaned off."

"Your table? Yeah, right! When do you ever sit at that table?"

"Fine then. I'll leave them to poop all over your table and won't bother to clean it up next time."

"No...well...thank you," I amended. "But I'm the one who cleans those tables most of the time anyway," I added, still nettled. "And you're just scared of nature! Ha!"

That did not go over well, especially when our eldest son cried, "Yeah!" Matthew does not tolerate insubordination from offspring. We backpedaled and tried to mumble how we just wanted his company outside sometimes to sit and play, but it was too late.

Matthew and I finally made up that afternoon the way all exhausted parents do: over a nap. When we woke up, the kids, robbed of more television, had nothing better to do than look out the windows. Soon afterward they started telling us excitedly about all the birds in the backyard (the little rats even counted them for accurate reporting). I giggled nervously as my husband turned his smug gaze on me.

"Ix-nay on the ird-bays," I growled at the kids. "Nobody needs to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cooking french toast and bacon for dinner that night, I passed by my husband and made smooching noises instead of actually kissing his lips. I didn't want to get too close to the frying pan.

"So that's how you two kiss when you're cooking," said Berto, our eldest. "It sounds like what you do when you're nakey."

Instantly, I went on the defensive.

"Listen, Berto," I said, waving my spatula and trying to keep it matter-of-fact. "If you walk in on Papa and Mama when we're like that, it's your fault. That'll teach you that you should always knock."

"I think he said, 'what you do with Nike'," corrected my Man, enunciating slowly and giving me a look as he referred to our pet hamster.

"Yeah," said Berto, confused. "That's what I said - Nike. The kissy noises you make at Nike."

"Oh." I went back to minding my french toast. "Well, then, just scratch that and...uh...ignore it."

A Friend in the Family

"I hope he likes us. Do you think he's sick? I don't think he's eating his food. I hope he's happy..."
I've said a combination of those four sentences for three weeks now, but I'm still not sure he likes us or his food. And as I peer into his tiny black eyes, I can discern no traces of contentment but no definite signs of illness either.

"He's a hamster," my Man says. I still don't know what he means by that. Can't hamsters feel peckish, have preferences for people of different strokes, go on a hunger strike? Can't they be happy?

Okay, sure, when I first met the little guy I saw more rodent than pet in him. It was kind of hard to catch a glimpse of him, too, because all these second graders were passing him around like a pack of bubble gum at Mother's Day Tea. My little second grader was enamored of him, the classroom pet, and had been for several weeks. She had handled him during every break, rushing through her work for a chance to drag his fluffy body from his cage into her waiting palm.

That adoration is how he came to be a member of this family. Well, that, and the fact that my little girl has such a sweet, near-saintly nature that teachers and fellow parents feel she deserves all her heart's desires as a reward for what is essentially a biological luck of the draw. (I try my best to follow her around, hoping the accolades will fall partially on me, the parent, but people tend to sense it's mostly not my doing). Her teacher wanted her reward for a year of excellent classroom behavior to be the classroom hamster, because that is what Miss Bee wanted with all her full, sensitive heart. I was open to the idea. Pets are good things for kids, teaching responsibility, compassion, and, eventually, how to cope with the loss of a beloved friend.

But to be fair: it's been four score and seven years since I had a pet....oh, okay - maybe not quite that long, but we haven't had one non-human creature in this house since the day my husband and I got married. Maybe this is because my husband is not a profound animal lover. The only pet he and his brothers really had was a monitor lizard, and those things will eat you alive while you take a nap. If you're not careful.

We looked our little girl in the eye and told her flat out that she could go horseback riding for her birthday or she could bring home this hamster named Nike.

"Nike," she said.

So began the negotiations and the research. Ah, the research! We had to make sure hamsters were okay to be around our two-year-old (not really but we're vigilant), that its diet did not need to include nuts (no, but you have to get creative with protein sources), what to give it for its teeth, how often it needed fresh food, fresh bedding, fresh water.....and so on and so forth. We wiffled and we waffled, and we just didn't know what to do. Then my husband's co-worker told him to just go for it.

"It'll be good for them," she said, meaning the children.

So here we are with a non-human in our home who runs on his wheel noisily in the wee hours of the morning. Nike's parents, and the parents of the little boy who had become bored with him, told us that if things didn't work out, Nike always had a home with them. Good people. The mother, a very kind woman who helped us with our research, also told me that our daughter was one of the sweetest, kindest girls she had known and reminded her of herself as a little girl. Funny that no one says my daughter reminds them of me.

When we brought Nike home, my anxiety over his comfort and well-being exploded. When after some post-adoption research, I found out I had not been changing his food often enough, my guilt was akin to mama's guilt. When my four-year-old rolled him in his exercise ball along an old, bumpy slide resting on the ground, I was horror-stricken and examined him for the smallest sign of permanent injury. Mysterious seeds and kernels often appeared in his ball, too, and for a few days we were baffled until I realized the little guy was spitting out his stores from his cheek pouch when he ran. And there was the time we thought he was bleeding a little under his little chin until we realized that his fur was just matted and his pink skin was showing through.

The more I held him with my daughter (the little rodents are so restless, it's best to have a few pairs of hands ready to catch them as they scuttle), the more I bonded. I developed a habit of sticking my face right against his cage and making kissy noises whenever I happened to pass. My eldest son hated that and begged me to cease and desist such annoying salutations. What worried my husband, though, was the fact that I began calling the hamster by our two-year-old son's name. Did it mean I felt Nike was like a mischievous, rambunctious toddler - a fifth child? Or that I felt my toddler looked somewhat and behaved alot like an energetic rodent? I just don't know. What I know is that the diminutive creature is so damn cute he deserves to be happy and know he's loved even if he doesn't quite feel the same about me (the hamster, I mean).

I worry about him like a mother. He looks old, and I know he must be, because he's lived with two families before ours. Yesterday I had another scare when we came home, and I found his chin resting against his cage by his water spout, his body at an awkward, fallen-old-man angle. We got him to shift and open his eyes and eat a piece of carrot, but I began speculating on whether he was sick, whether his coat was as glossy as it should be, and what we still might need to get him from the pet store for his health.

"You may not have long with Nike," I told my daughter while ruminating. "Be prepared."

"What do we do when he dies?" she asked matter-of-factly. "Feed him to a bird?"

Evidence, my friends, that no matter how sweet the nature, the macabre will eventually surface.

"No!" I exclaimed, taken aback. "We'll bury him decently. Maybe in a flower pot."

Later that evening at dinner, Miss Bee asked, "I wonder why they named him Nike?"

"Yes, " said her papa. "Why not Puma, Adidas or Reebok?"

Berto and I laughed heartily.

"Berto, did you really get Papa's joke?" I asked.

"No," he replied, grinning.

I explained that Nike was a brand of athletic gear mostly made famous by basketball players, and that Adidas, Puma and Reebok were also popular athletic brands made famous by other sports.

"I wonder what we would call him?" pondered Miss Bee.

"He'll finish out his days as Nike," said her papa, and I nodded agreement. One should not change a pet's name, if you ask me. It's bad form, mojo, karma or something.

"When Nike dies," my Man continued, "we'll bury him under a little headstone that says, 'Here Lies Nike', and then we'll put an Adidas symbol on it."

I almost choked on my bad, processed-food lasagna. I knew it was wrong, and I really hoped we had a good while with Nike, but I laughed it up as my satirical Man gazed back across the table at me, eyes sparkling.


For excellent information on taking care of these precious creatures called hamsters, visit http://www.hamsterific.com/

My Little Anakin

While I'm cooking dinner, sitting at the table, or sweeping the floors and picking up, my son Berto regales me with Star Wars stories. He's obsessed with them and has read plenty of books by many different authors even though he has never seen any of the movies.  He needs to unload the emotions stirred by this epic tale, and his dad thinks that Star Wars, Star Trek - any cultural phenomenon that begins with "Star" - is for nerds. So Berto bends my ear, and I thank heavens he doesn't know I fell asleep while watching Phantom Menace in the theater.

He sympathizes with Anakin. I'm always hearing about how hard Anakin Skywalker had it, what bad luck in his family life, Obi-Wan was just a Jedi bully with no understanding, etc. etc...and that's why Anakin was forced to the dark side of the force, forced to become Darth Vader.

One evening when I probably should have been hurrying my behind to get his siblings in bed, I listened fascinated as my son discussed the history between Anakin, Princess Amidala, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. My son is an oral storyteller like his Paca (my dad), and I felt no rush to veer away from a galaxy far, far away into my real life responsibilities despite the fact that my Man kept making "wrap it up" signals over his dinner plate.

My son's zeal spread into his school life. He had a biography book report to do, his last of the year. He considered Elvis and George Lucas.  Of course, he chose Lucas. The students had to dress up like the individual they were giving the report on, and I was put out, because where on earth was I going to find my son a fake beard and mustache several months out from Halloween? In the end I taught him how to paint a beard on his face with brown and black eyeliner, stuck him in a nice checkered shirt, and gave him a name tag that declared he was indeed "George Lucas".

When I walked into the classroom on the day of the presentation, having just ran my tail off across the courtyard to make it in time (as usual), I saw Abe Lincoln, Cleopatra and various other historical figures milling about. Panting from my exertion and trying to keep my toddler corralled on my lap and my preschooler in line, I watched as Berto got up. What a handsome bearded director he was! His smile was broad (yes, he was glad to have me there), only a few of his lines were forgotten, and he shared how Lucas got the idea for the Force after a devastating, near-fatal car wreck when he was a teenager. Then my boy called out with aplomb, "Alright, people! Lights...camera...action!" while holding his plastic telescope aloft as a video camera, a truly inspired Lucas.

When I was a kid and braided buns over each ear, Darth Vader, and squat, yet exceptionally wise Jedi Masters permeated the culture, I remember being as enthralled by Star Wars as the next kid. I don't think my son would have approved of my favorite character, however. I loved him because he was slug-like and very odd. I also liked his tail and his name: Jabba the Hutt.

(I always rooted for some of the least loved characters. When I saw King Kong for the first time as a little, little girl, I ran to my mother near the end of the movie, crying, "The bagrilla died! The bagrilla died" I was traumatized about that for years.)

I was a strange child, so Jabba the Hutt was just my kind of...whatever the heck he was. Apparently I liked westerns, too, because I remember sticking a twig in the back of my pants in imitation of Jabba's tail, grabbing a fake pistol, and stomping around in cowboy boots to approach various members of my family and say, "Do you wanna see Jesus?" in a rough southern accent. That was a distinctly odd mixture of sci-fi, wild west, and fire and brimstone influences, but my parents thought their strange girl was hilarious. My siblings thought it was less amusing, more like a warning of embarrassments to come.

My son of course would be horrified to know how shallow and muddled was my interpretation of Star Wars then. But like so many things of my youth, I have put aside my love for Jabba the Hutt and even my tears for gigantic mutant gorillas who tragically fall in love with women. In fact, this complicated Anakin character really piques my interest, and the Force, like so many things in a great number of famous tales, is a great device to illustrate the fascinating pull between good and evil humans experience daily.

My son's been begging me, and I'm ready to watch the movies again. After all, I don't have time to read all the books he tells me to read, but I do want to share this with him. We'll make a marathon occasion of it with popcorn, Darth Vader bobbleheads and maybe some nifty light sabers. We'll stay up late and have a ball. And this time I won't fall asleep. The Force will be with me.

Parks, Trees and Love Carvings

As I panted and limped, climbed, slid and jumped on the play forts, I felt like the lame gazelle attracting the murderous attention of the lioness. There were two other people to chase, but I was picked on every time; I was an easy, too tempting target - caught again and again. My children thought it was great fun to have Mama joining playground tag, and even the four-year-old took advantage when my knee gave out.


But never mind. I enjoyed the exercise. I enjoyed feeling like a child, racing to the bottom of a slide ahead of my toddler or scaling the faux rock wall after him. I enjoyed trying to avoid my children's outstretched arms, though I failed miserably, but I did not enjoy being chased. I have a horror of being chased. It feels like the harder I push, the slower I go, so the only option is to turn and face my pursuer with palms out and giggle in a high, unnatural pitch like a crazy idiot. The hope is then that they'll back away slowly, shaking their heads. That doesn't work with my kids. They know Mama's a little strange and it no longer scares them. So they tag me, the little rapscallions, and I am forced to try to catch them - the more luck to me!

Despite my disappointing performance in playground tag and regardless of the heat, I relished being at the park with my children recently. I'm still, I must protest, a country girl at heart, and there are a few special parks in this city where if you turn your back to the road, you feel as if you might actually be somewhere far removed from concrete and artificial light (except for the jungle gyms, basketball and volleyball courts, of course) because of all the wide expanses of green, the little hills and the shade trees.

After tag and swing time, we went to watch my eldest ride his skateboard down a dirt hill, and we all tried this form of dry sledding - bottoms and feet on the slightly curved board as we barreled down, digging the wheels into the dirt with our weight. My son's wheels got all mucked up; he refused to let us ride more, so I invited the kids to sit with me beneath a giant eucalyptus. I leaned my back into the trunk, world's away from the city but within walking distance, and began to rest, perchance to dream.

A while later when I was standing and examining my friend, the tree, and wondering whether it was in fact a eucalyptus (the bark was right, the leaves were not), my son approached and said, "This would be a good tree for carving your name."

"There are names here. See." I pointed.

At least, I assumed they were names. They could have been bad words, but I like to think not. It's bad enough that those abound on the play equipment.

Then I thought about how I have always wanted to carve "H loves M" into a tree. I'm pretty sure my Man would scoff at the idea rather than be flattered, but what he wouldn't know wouldn't hurt him. Briefly, I fingered the car keys in my purse. Would they do the job, I wondered? It might require more labor on my part with no pocket knife. As I pondered this I recalled how as a teenager, my dad pointed out an expanse of forest near the now defunct Cougar Mountain Lodge on the road to Cascade, Idaho. He told how he had carved his and mom's names into a tree there when they were dating. Dad, Mom and I spent some little time trying to find the wooden edifice to Dad's ardor. All those years ago Dad could have added an addendum, "twenty-seven years and still going strong". Alas, we didn't find the old fellow, and the testament to young love was surely faded by then, anyway.

I zipped the purse back up. Today was not the day to scratch at this maybe eucalyptus in this city park. Was it really likely I'd come back years from now, tell the tale of a harrowing game of playground tag, and show the carving to my children or grandchildren? Besides, I didn't want to cause any harm to the bark of my friend in the heat of summer, and I didn't want to get caught by a parks and rec employee. I took my kids back to the playground, and we played in our little country haven until it was time to head back home in the city.