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zaterdag 15 juli 2006
maandag 10 juli 2006
Memories Monday
It's a summer Sunday and we're going for a walk, the whole family, over the hill and through the grassy field to my school, to play on the playground. I know it's a Sunday because my dad's there too, because I have on my white pique Sunday sundress, the one with the three lilypads and the frog, the one I love so much. I know it's a Sunday because the playground's empty. I'm five or six, I know this because I only attended this school for kindergarten and a few months of first grade.
My sundress swings deliciously, the long grass feels cool against my legs. My brothers chatter and shove each other this way and that and run way ahead, the way they're not supposed to. My mom is walking next to my dad, her head down, not saying anything. I ask her why she always looks down when she's walking. "I'm thinking," she says. "I think better when I'm looking at the ground." I consider this for a while, keeping quiet, looking at the ground as we walk. She's right. You do think better. I decide I'm going to do this too, from now on. It'll be like a secret thing, just us girls.
It's a summer Sunday and we're going for a walk, the whole family, over the hill and through the grassy field to my school, to play on the playground. I know it's a Sunday because my dad's there too, because I have on my white pique Sunday sundress, the one with the three lilypads and the frog, the one I love so much. I know it's a Sunday because the playground's empty. I'm five or six, I know this because I only attended this school for kindergarten and a few months of first grade.
My sundress swings deliciously, the long grass feels cool against my legs. My brothers chatter and shove each other this way and that and run way ahead, the way they're not supposed to. My mom is walking next to my dad, her head down, not saying anything. I ask her why she always looks down when she's walking. "I'm thinking," she says. "I think better when I'm looking at the ground." I consider this for a while, keeping quiet, looking at the ground as we walk. She's right. You do think better. I decide I'm going to do this too, from now on. It'll be like a secret thing, just us girls.
De meiden zijn verhuisd naar de oude babykamer, het is hier grote pret (foto gemaakt rond 21.00, anderhalf uur later dan dat ze normaal naar bed gaan.) Die ene voet van Anna die boven het campingbedje steekt? Komt niet omdat ze lekker op haar rug ligt, onderweg naar dromenland -- nee, mevrouw is nu circusartiest en vindt salto's maken errug leuk :-)
Rond 22.30 was Eric even naar buiten gegaan, om met een buurman te praten -- kijkt hij op naar het raam en ziet kleine Anna Beano naar buiten kijken. Ze zwaaide enthousiast terug.
vrijdag 7 juli 2006
dinsdag 4 juli 2006
Memories Tuesday
When we were young we spent vacations at the shore -- New Hampshire beaches, where the water was almost always too cold to go swimming, and where it always seemed to be raining, anyway; Rehoboth Beach, in Delaware, where we discovered salt water taffy, and salt and vinegar chips (french fries) and where I saw my first movie-in-a-movie-theatre (Star Wars) ; and our beloved New Jersey shore: Long Beach Island, the scene of so many of my coming-of-age moments. I was, in my own way, very much a Jersey Girl.
When we were really young, and not yet the strong swimmers we would become, but still longing to swim out into the deep, like all children want to the minute their feet hit the sandy beach -- my father would take us one by one, out past the breakers into the stiller waters of the deep, the fall off. We knew then that we couldn't stand if we wanted to, that we were completely dependent on Dad. Under us, around us, behind us -- all the dangers of the unseen, the unfathomable. Sharks. Jellyfish. Undertow. Shipwrecked dead guys that would suddenly come to life and grab your ankle. All of that lay beneath us, and we would float on the surface, both hands on Dad's shoulders, not having to do a single thing except follow him as he swam. Our bodies weightless, the sun on our shoulders, the smell and taste of the ocean everywhere. I have never felt safer and yet more scared, a delicious combination of trust and fear.
What I wouldn't give to let thirty years fall from my life, and become that eight-year-old again, just for one hot summer day.
I love you Dad! You were then -- and still are -- the best father I could ever have wished for.
When we were young we spent vacations at the shore -- New Hampshire beaches, where the water was almost always too cold to go swimming, and where it always seemed to be raining, anyway; Rehoboth Beach, in Delaware, where we discovered salt water taffy, and salt and vinegar chips (french fries) and where I saw my first movie-in-a-movie-theatre (Star Wars) ; and our beloved New Jersey shore: Long Beach Island, the scene of so many of my coming-of-age moments. I was, in my own way, very much a Jersey Girl.
When we were really young, and not yet the strong swimmers we would become, but still longing to swim out into the deep, like all children want to the minute their feet hit the sandy beach -- my father would take us one by one, out past the breakers into the stiller waters of the deep, the fall off. We knew then that we couldn't stand if we wanted to, that we were completely dependent on Dad. Under us, around us, behind us -- all the dangers of the unseen, the unfathomable. Sharks. Jellyfish. Undertow. Shipwrecked dead guys that would suddenly come to life and grab your ankle. All of that lay beneath us, and we would float on the surface, both hands on Dad's shoulders, not having to do a single thing except follow him as he swam. Our bodies weightless, the sun on our shoulders, the smell and taste of the ocean everywhere. I have never felt safer and yet more scared, a delicious combination of trust and fear.
What I wouldn't give to let thirty years fall from my life, and become that eight-year-old again, just for one hot summer day.
I love you Dad! You were then -- and still are -- the best father I could ever have wished for.
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