Guest Editorial

Lyric (age 5.7) asked if she could snap photos. I hesitated, making sure she could manage the camera without dropping it, but gave her free reign. the result is an interesting glimpse from her perspective. all the pictures are uncropped. her comments follow.

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this is the flowers that I picked, made for my mom.

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this is me taking a picture of daddy and Maggie. I'm sorry but Maggie is not looking, so I'm sorry

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this is the bathroom sink with the water running.

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this is Maggie playing with daddy. I think daddy is tickling her toes. maybe I am right, maybe I am not.

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this is the hallway. sorry that it is blurry. I just tilted the camera a little.

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this is a tree in Front Street. it is very beautiful I see. before the flowers went away, I decided, since they were so pretty, I took pictures of them.

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this is a dandelion calling out to be picked. she likes the sun and thinks that it is very fine. this is a rhyme.

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this is a window with a tree shadow in it. no, not a tree shadow, a tree reflection.

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this is our number

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this is our doorknob

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Daddy, say hi! this is my dad. he's coming in to say, "stop taking pictures! stop taking pictures! please stop it!"

Indulging My Fatherly Instincts

I was so impressed with these pictures of incredibly cute kids that I had to post them. They've definitely won my heart.BIG SIS HOLDS MAGGIE WHO HOLDS POLLY

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MAGGIE IS POISED FOR ACTION - TRUST ME WHEN I SAY ACTION

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MAGGIE'S NEW TRICK - STANDING

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SELF PORTRAIT OF A FAMILY STILL DETERMINED TO BE ACTIVE

What I'll Miss If I'm Gone

THE DANCING TREES

This town is not a bad place. The other morning I tossed Maggie up in her backpack carrier and strode through the fog that had settled in this valley, hungry for black & white photographs of trees in fog. I found two trees dancing - a day later their leaves had burst out into little green flags.

At night I walk Dylan down Market Street where the shop windows are lit. At this time of year the town's smell reminds me faintly of New York: exhaust, food, smoke and concrete. On Friday night, the college girls on the sidewalk smell like flowers. Their faces are anxious like nervous fawns. The boys drive past in muddy open-top jeeps and toss city music out like seeds in this small rural town.



I like to look in the windows of the historic hotel where stodgy people wearing the clothes of their children's generation enjoy their animated conversation over dinner. I always look at the displayed paintings of the local artist - I like to see the large one of two green chairs against a white fence. When I turn down our street, I always watch the stars as they drape themselves over the oldish two-story houses. Many of these houses have real chimneys and real shutters - which I find deeply nourishing.



Tonight while Lyric and I picniced in our back yard, the man two houses down sat on his lawn and played a lively guitar he had "just strung up" after getting it out of storage. He sang his licks like he meant them and tapped his black leather penny loafer to keep time with his softened fingertips. He said he was rusty.

Maggie Tales

Chalk it up as one of the dumbest things I’ve done in a while.

You parents out there know that before your child is able to walk, they need things to keep them occupied. Things such as chew toys, rattle toys, shake toys and unnumbered rainbow-colored toys that you can buy at the store. You also know that these kinds of toys don’t really work – at least not very long. Babies are surprising in their abilities to develop familiarity with their possessions. Once a toy has been chewed on for several days, they begin to ignore it. This is why a toy handed over the bench from a neighboring small family at church to your 9 month old is about 10 times more valuable than the 15 toys you’ve painstakingly remembered to pack and bring along. This is also why forbidden objects are a source of fascination – objects such as keys, pens, coins, etc.

So as a parent of a 9 month old, you’re used to grabbing moments when you can, moments when your child is occupied with a thing for several seconds at a time – a moment long enough to take a few bites of your cold meal, or clear the table, or fold some clothes or whatever it is that you were trying to do. You’re used to finding new and interesting objects that will keep their attention – a tube of cream while you change a diaper, a plastic cup while you prepare their cereal, a washcloth while you give them a bath.

So one day I’m trying to grab a few minutes and I swipe a small plastic bottle of red paint from Lyric’s craft table and hand it off to Maggie in her high chair. I don’t think twice about it and whisk myself off to the kitchen. (Maggie grins with devilish glee) I return in a few seconds to find the obvious – Maggie and the high chair drenched in red paint. I nimbly try to “clean up” the mess before Mommy comes downstairs to discover the latest hair-brained situation Daddy got himself in. But cleaning up a puddle of red paint in the shape of a baby is no easy task. By the time it’s said and done, Maggie and I are wearing new clothes, our olds ones will never be the same, and the high chair still has a faint red tint. Somehow Maggie learned how to open bottles, and it was the perfect time to show off her new skill. Daddy also learned a lesson that day – don’t give bottles of paint to babies.

MAGGIE PLOTS HER NEXT STRIKE . . .

Colors of the Morning

I wake up in some dark, grey moment of the morning; it is too early. The air is foggy, cold and stiff like my body – blurry and sluggish like my eyes. Maggie has only gotten up once during the night and her rooster’s crow is loud and abrasive, shattering the predawn hour. I make a vow in imaginary blood to go to bed earlier at the end of this day.

At 7:15 I usher Lyric into consciousness and the day turns red with Lyric’s grumpy disdain along with the streaking yellow of her cheerful clarity. I am too tired to make heads or tails of it, too focused on the 8:00 bus pickup down the block. It becomes a swirl of breakfast cereal, hair, glasses, backpack, jackets, hats, library books and lunch. If Maggie cooperates and doesn’t have a mess right before we head out the door, things flow pretty well.

Lyric boards the bus and fresh green color eddies in her wake. She waves excitedly through the window. I blow her a kiss and she silently makes the hand signs “I . . . love . . . you!” The bus surges away from the curb and the tired effort of the morning is quickly forgotten – my smile unavoidable as Maggie bounces happily in my arms. The sun is up and the world is coming alive – the urge to crawl back in bed subsides. It is a new day.