‘The Child says (and writes) the darnedest things’
Ouch. It’s Tuesday. Which means I’ve got to get a wiggle on and come up with a story to tell. I was going to regale you with tales from my teen years honing my writing (and phone-answering, address-stamping, and odd-job-doing) skills at the Carlyle Union Banner.
I’ve already regaled you with tales of The Dude’s and The Child’s fabulous summer jobs (see ‘They didn’t do this for fun, you know’), and thought I’d give myself a turn, so to speak.
But I just now waved bye-bye to the last of my Fourth of July Weekend houseful, one of whom (The Child, pictured above during a previous Fourth of July Weekend) inspired a completely different bloggy direction.
She and her bevy of beautiful girlfriends and The Dude and I were sitting around post-beach, sipping a few cocktail hour cocktails. (Oh, in case you are horrified at the thought of the pipsqueak pictured at the top of this post having access to a cocktail, rest assured that she and her friends are indeed old enough to vote both ‘yes’ to a drink and ‘no’ to a Trump.)
Anyway. The Child tells her friends that I make the best gin and tonics. I modestly reply that, shucks, I’ve just had plenty of practice. Then I go on to say, “Speaking of which, once when you were little, like two*, you were rattling a couple of toy blocks around in a plastic cup. When I asked what you were doing, you said ‘I’m playing Gin and Tonic.'” Gosh. Maybe I’ve had a little too much practice.
*About the age of the sunblock-wielding Child in the afore-mentioned picture
And I guess it’s true — kids really do pay attention to what the heck you’re doing — and saying.
Like there was another time I walked by her room and heard her muttering ‘Shit shit shit shit shit’ — just like that, in ‘repeats’ of five. She was trying to fit a piece into her map-of-the-United-States puzzle, and feeling a tad just-like-daddy exasperated, I guess.
But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the time I heard her shrieking ‘Wayne!’ at the top of her lungs. Come to find out she was on her tiptoes straining to reach a book on a way-too-high shelf, beet-red and near tears. She did not know that ‘Wayne’ was Daddy’s name. She just thought it was what you yelled when you were really really frustrated. Oops.
Another thing The Child accomplished on her whirlwind-Fourth-of-July visit was to ransack the attic for some childhood journals she’d remembered writing. Between sessions of beach-going and cocktail-drinking she’d regale us with passages. Like this one:
‘My cat, my electronics kit, and my rock collection’. Jeez. It’s a wonder she didn’t grow up to be a serial killer. Speaking of the above-written-about cat, I can’t resist sharing the next passage:
‘Fallen into a toilet, jumped into a bathtub full of water, sniffed a candle’. To be fair, perhaps the fact that she had also ‘fallen down two flights of stairs’ had something to do with it.
Sigh. Time to wrap this up. And get busy for the next Weekend Batch. Stay tuned for that Carlyle Union Banner story. And, in the meantime, if you’re craving more tipsy tales, check out ‘Three and you’re under the host’. If your taste runs to kitties instead of martinis, there’s more feline fun to be found at ‘Tuna finds the Baby Jesus Sweet Spot’.
Have a lovely summery week. And be sure to come back next Tuesday.
Amagansett, New York. July 2016