What Makes YOU Feel Safe?

All this talk in the media about feeling safe enough -  even my own talk here yesterday on the Huffington Post - has me wondering: what do most of us do to feel safe in a day-today way?

I don't mean what do we overtly do, like put on a hazmat suit or never cross a bridge. I mean what we do to feel safe inside, the way we felt when we were little kids in overalls sitting on the floor in front of Captain Kangaroo, or watching dust motes circle lazily in the empty dining room when the sun painted the whole room gold?

If I were still a high school English teacher and you were my students, I'd make you all sit on the floor in a circle and have you make a quick list right now, of three things that make you feel safe in this cozy old way.

What would you put on it? I'll mull this over today, and see what I myself can come up with by morning.

Class dismissed!

Hey Kids, Let's Put on a SHOW!

I spent all of last weekend in a house with 11 other people, four of them aspiring screenwriters. The fact that they were, in age, only 4, 5, 7 and 9 diminished not at all the seriousness with which they approached their task. And, I wasn’t  just in the house with them; I was as central to the process as Della Street was to Perry Mason because they were dictating the entire screenplay to me and I was entering every word on my laptop, using Dragon Naturally Speaking, the voice-to-print software by Nuance. They told me a line, I repeated it through my headset and this dandy piece of software set it down on the waiting page, in crisp black and white, with stage directions and all.So far they've written only four scenes, involving mostly battle-of-the-sexes-style bickering and a dispute about who flushed somebody’s slippers down the toilet. (Best  to insert a touch of the madcap early on we thought. We also then began actively looking for the opportunity to use the word ‘ underpants.’ ) We did get as far as introducing the mother, who in Scene Three reveals that she is going off on a business trip and will cede control to the mysterious Neighbor Lady. She, in scenes as yet unwritten will turn out to be the secret weapon in the story,  giving this opus its title, The Ninja Next Door.The whole process reminded me so much of these children’s last collaboration two summers ago, I decided to dig out pictures of  that 2009 performance, was a rendition of Harry Potter  that you see directly below  in rehearsal.Though it was wonderfully brief it seems it was not quite brief enough to keep the attention of the younger future screenwriters who  took such a dim view of the proceedings that they fell to making  their own fun. (What can you say about the groundlings? Even Shakespeare had to deal with them!)  

The Narrow Path

This child goes right to sleep if you read to him for  ten minutes.  Last night I hadn’t been reading for even that long before he folded his small shoulder into his body like a bird preparing for rest, turned on his side and was dead to the world.It was different with his littler brother, who, somewhere in the last six months, has gone from the man of limited vocabulary you see here to someone who has more to say than Robin Williams himself, and can say it just as fast.At home, the two sleep in twin beds pushed together to make better use of a room that is at all times spiky with Lego towers, and draped in clotheslines and various fort-making fabrics. But during their sleepover at our house last night the older child begged to sleep alone.So we tried the little guy in his old crib, with one of its side removed to make it seem like a youth bed. He wasn't having it. He kept saying that he wasn’t going to lie down; that he wasn’t tired at all and in fact thought he'd like to have another whole supper, then play with his toys... I tried for a solid hour to get him sleepy with songs and picture books.We finally left him there in his little room and for 15 whole minutes his grandpa and I lived in a fool's paradise, believing him to be asleep at last. That’s when the door to his room creaked open and he emerged all smiles, a toy hammer in one hand and wearing the kind of hearing protection ear muffs you see on the runways of your larger airports.It was then that David finally picked him up, “Let’s go tell stories in TT and Papa’s bed!” he said and into our room the child went, and there remained the night through while I took my pillow and slept elsewhere.  Poor little boy! He was fine today, as shiny as a new penny and ready to help dig that hole clear to China with his big brother above. (Here he is below, appreciating the heck out of those wind chimes I spoke of yesterday.) What a hard time we all do have when we can’t find that narrow path to dreamland![youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGhpX7OdwgQ]

Birdpeckers

I started reading my old diaries last weekend and got such a kick out of them that when my girl Carrie here stopped by before work I asked her if she’d like to borrow 1980. “Sure!” she said and yesterday she wrote a quick email reporting that she loved reading it and would soon pass it on to her younger sister.I feel good about this: I figure this way if they have any  questions, I’m here to answer them instead of being six feet under with my mouth sewed shut.Anyway it’s all harmless what I wrote, bald fibs in 5^th, 6^th and 7^th Grade, codes and obfuscations in 8^th and 9^th, screeching lunacy in high school and pomposity in  college .It took having kids to bring me back down to earth - that and teaching high school. Because suddenly here were these three blithe spirits – two in the year you see captured  below - who thought I was swell and followed me everywhere. And even when that third one came along ,we still spent hours nesting in the beds, talking, reading, pretending to write things on the ceiling with our toes.The 1980 diary tells the story of little Carrie coming home from  nursery school to say that she had drawn a picture of a goat with just one “poke" on its head.  She smiled a fond mothers smile when I told her this on Monday , for she and her Chris are parents now too.  She told me that their little ones get the words wrong too. In fact each time the younger  one sees that redand black bird who drills away at the trees he says “Look! A birdpecker!”Ah, the  little ones: what did we all do before they came along? No wonder Adam and Eve got bored and made mischief in the Garden!

in the years Before Michael

Under the Gun

Me and my big ideas. I invited the grandbabies for a sleepover tonight so their parents could catch a break.

Sometimes  it’s really easy, like when they literally beg to be put to bed and we’re back downstairs celebrating by half past eight. (We turn on HBO, 'Look it’s Casino! which for 20 years we’ve been to scared to ever watch. Or  'How ‘bout the classic Weekend at Bernie’s and we’ll make fun of the 80s the whole time?'  Or, 'Why not really break out and co-tackle the tricky crossword that you cut out of the paper every day!'(The little ones call David 'Papa'.) Me I'm ‘TT’ which is what David calls me anytime he’s not really mad at me, and the drink I carry everywhere is TT-juice, as one of them named it, a zesty combination of mint iced tea and Crystal Lite lemonade. Some people have asked me if it’s a gin drink or chock full of vodka but it isn’t. I don’t need to drink.

Tonight though if we’re really under the gun with these short people, I just might wish it were. What if it turns out to be like the babystitting scene in Tootsie? Great movie, Tootsie, let's watch a little of it now:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPRXgr9LEOc]

Jiggling Eyeballs

No sleep the night before last. Forced to try old trick of hanging head off edge of bed while watching old movies upside down. Ten minutes of Deborah Kerr with hairdo like a Chia Pet’s and am out cold. But whoops deadline day so up at 5 to write with manic panic. Break at 8 to bring ill-fitting clothes to tailor Bob who cut off his ponytail. Needs to attract the ladies again, says. Uses internet, says. Finds it all quite the task since main thing you need to find out fast is, Are they fat. Says you take 100 women over age 50, only six are attractive.

Am entertained if offended for the sisterhood. Then Look at watch. Cold sweat starts run down sides. Race home, coffee up, resume madly writing then oops it’s 11. Column done and filed but 87-year-old uncle sitting in his apartment for an hour waiting.

Go get him. Buy food for our quick day-trip/ field-trip north to the summer place. Score food for the journey. Stuff cats in their carriers, pop ‘em in the car. Get gas and drive 90 miles up I-93, making wider loop for sake of scenery. Take wrong turn off 104 seeking yet more cows and horses; 45 minutes extra for scenery more dubious. Bladder distress for cats, man 87, woman over 50 wondering could she could POSSIBLY be one of six if she wets her pants.

Get to the lake at last whew, ahead of every other family member. Within ten minutes husband arrives. Then chef daughter Annie. Then daughter Carrie with spouse Christine, stroller, bibs, young'uns. One person gets sand in pants. One tried eating rocks. Uncle has couple belts. Carrie and Chris cook up youth foods. Carrie hops in shower in sports bra 'n bikini briefs, one child at the knee and one in arms. I feed Uncle. Husband David inspects beach sand for squirrel BMs. Annie produces 15 golden-trumpeted squash blossoms from farmers market, begins stuffing with ricotta cheese to bread and deep-fry. Uncle and I can't stay. Drive 90 miles south. Drop him his apartment 9:35. Tear to the mall before 10, hoping to get busted phone looked at, hopefully fixed. “This little machine is DEAD" says gum-chewing tech at Verizon Store. Store closing now, grill coming down; no more Blackberries like this in stock anyway.

Wobble homeward, thinking of them all at summer place. Iron for reasons unknown. Turn out light midnight so as to be up at 5 and back on the road by 6 to do child care with Auntie Chef Annie and Dave while Carrie and Chris leave kids behind to go to a wedding. 6:30 now, late again here. Eyeballs jiggling. Headache and back pain. 6:45, get in car. Picture family all still sleeping, old guys fishin' in cove. All this Just 90 miles to the north. Be back up there in no time. Picture sun just warming deck and loons up and off for breakfast.

Balls

I have to say, this new baby in the family is one tough kid. He falls down just all the time. He steps across a threshold and falls; walks and falls; just plain stands there and falls. He walks all crazy too, come to think of it. Kind of like Nathan Lane in "The Birdcage" with that little arms-up waddle. Kind of like the way kids in the old Peanuts comic strip walked - like  Charlie Brown’s little sister Sally seen here on the right.

Soooo he gets banged up, gets scabs on his giant head, then rubs the scabs off in his sleep by rooting around the way babies do and so has to start healing all over again

And the thing is each time he falls I’ve noticed two things: (a) a ball is involved and (b) he doesn’t mind a bit. It’s worth it to him to fall because he just loves balls, any kind you got going. He’ll try throwing 'em, kicking 'em, coming at 'em with a stuffed animal or a slotted spoon and whatever and just sort of whang away at them so maybe he’s a natural athlete I don’t know. Maybe he takes after his grandpa, my cute old Mate For Life Dave, that MVP all through high school, that darn guy who never even tried tennis 'til he was 20, never tried golf 'til he was 30 AND IS REALLY GOOD AT BOTH the son of a gun.

Well it’s this really gorgeous 72-degree day here with the so clear and sharp it looks like an ad for Kodak so let’s make this a short one and say that my newest little grandbaby has two mottoes, the first:

You Should See the Other Guy