Trev

Trevor Versus Dad

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Every now and again, things work out exactly as planned. What’s funny is that the two oldest kids are at the age now where they recognize exactly what just happened. Gabe got such a kick out of this exchange that he suggested I post it on the blog.

As we were finishing lunch yesterday, Jodi announced that after the meal, all of the kids were going to help clean up the kitchen and the family room downstairs. Trevor swallowed hard and whined, “Mom?” — a long, plaintive note.

“Trevor,” I said, “no complaining about having to work after lunch. Everyone helps. I don’t want to hear it.”

His little mouth bent into a sad pout and his eyes glassed. “I wasn’t gonna,” he choked.

“Oh. OK then,” I said cheerfully. “What did you want to say?”

Trevor wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Um … uhhh …”

“Never mind?” I ventured.

“Never mind,” he said.

Greetings From the North Pole, Part VI

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Over Christmas 2003, we became annual pen-pals with an elf named Siberius Quill, and he has again delivered this year! Transcriptions of the 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 and 2007 letters from Quill can be seen here.

My dearest Children!

My, but the World is snowy where you live—White Christmas indeed! This is the weather Father Christmas likes: the sleigh runners slick with frost, and thick powder to soften and silence the landing. Kris Kringle should make good time tonight!

You are Good Children, one and all—obedient, respectful, joy-filled, and loving. Good Eggs, your Father might say; we say Good Apples, and you stand in sharp contrast to the Bad Apples, who “spoil the whole bunch,” as they say. Oh, you have your naughty moments, as all Young People do, but these moments of mischief and misbehavior are Lessons, one and all. Your Conscience speaks the Truth—it tells you Right from Wrong—and should you fail to hear It, your parents correct you, all as it Should Be. In that, you are Very Lucky.

Young Master Trevor, your laughter and shouts while opening your Christmas Eve gifts resound clear to the Auroras! Bless my soul, but you make a Joyous Noise! And as we are not bound by Time at the Pole (our nature being magical and the Earth’s rotation here being rather instantaneous), I am able to report that your happiness rang in the ears of Santa’s reindeer and was much-loved. It sparks them the fly high and pull hard! And your singing has caught the ear of our elfin Songmaster, Jovial Moralus, who ensures we elves have Proper Music to work by. Old Jove said your voice would raise the spirits of the most frostbit soul—some elves sing for centuries and never earn such high praise as that!

And Miss Emma—you grow lovelier each winter, and have become Quite The Help around the house. We could use such a hand as you in Santa’s Workshop—the tools get in such disarray during the busy days before Christmas Eve. The Tool-Mistress and Chief Shop-Keep, Methody Straitner, has been hard at work for years organizing the tools and benches and bins to ensure Peak Efficiency. She has seen your handiwork in the kitchen cupboard, and deems you a Natural!

Master Gabriel: I must compliment your question about the existence of frost dragons. Father Christmas and I are both honoured that you would entrust such a question—regarding the Very Existence of a Great Something you’ve never seen—to us, when we know your friends and neighbors have questioned our own Very Existence! I fear, however, that I cannot give you certainty. There is one among My People, a most adventuresome elf called Articus Chippenhammer, who left the Nail Corps when so many toys shifted from wood to plastic. His great-grandfather was a paleomythologist of some reknown, and Chippenhammer has since put his hammer to work exploring the Polar Wastes for signs of such Legends as Abominable Snowcreatures, Sasquatches, Frost Dragons, and the like. It is slow work, chipping away at millenia of rock and ice looking for Mere Fragments of white bone, hair or scales, and after decades of digging he’s found Nothing Conclusive yet.

And finally, B. You are strong, smart and responsible, and have done a remarkable job in your First Year helping your Family bring Christmas to fruition. Well done! A generous heart and a willingness to serve others will serve you well in life, Eldest Brother. Remember the Bishop of Myra, St. Nicholas, and Christ Himself, as your examples, and you will Have Love and Be Loved.

Happy Christmas to you and your family, and Safe Travels to your Busia and Dziadzi. God Bless You and your Family. I wish you All the Best in the New Year—and Always!

Yours truly,

Siberius Quill

Monsterku Honors!

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Some of you saw the earlier post about Adam Rex’s kaiju haiku contest. Well, he announced the winners today, and our own lil monster got an honorable mention! How cool is that?

It occurs to me that I never shared the haikus Trevor and Gabe submitted. Trevor, it turns out, speaks in 17 syllables — while I was explaining to Gabe and Bren the rules of the contest, he said:

Dad, I know what the
important thing about horned
monsters is: the horns

A few days later, Gabe wrote:

He is big and bad
He is Frankenstein, he is
He is green and stiff

I love the homespun line “He is Frankenstein, he is” — shore nuff! I’m not the least bit proud — can you tell? Thanks, Jacqui, for pointing us to Adam Rex’s site!

Taste-Testing Words

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

You’ve maybe heard people say that if you hear a new word and find an opportunity to use it correctly five times in a day, it becomes a permanent part of your vocabulary. Have you heard that? No? Well, I have. Never really took it to heart, though. Jodi and the kids say I use too many big words already, so no use confusing things further with words none of us know …

But it’s always fun to watch the kids taste-test new words or phrases. When Bren and Gabe started liking pirates, I pulled out blunderbuss. You could see Bren roll the word on his tongue like Tootsie Pop before popping it out to re-examine it in the light.

Something similar happened this morning on the way to church. Last night the wind started to roar fiercely through the trees, and as we scrambled from house to minivan this morning, we were pelted by stinging white flakes from the gray clouds above. I ducked into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and shook droplets from my hair like a dog. Master of the obvious, I said, “It’s startin’ to spit snow, kids!”

They had noticed, of course, and seemed to ignore me, discussing the probability of a snowball fight after church. (The snow was not sticking.) But when Jodi got in, Trevor piped up from the back: “Mom! It’s spitting snow!”

It came out a bit broken, like he’d spit it himself. No matter. Between our home and church, he worked it liked bubble gum, chewing, softening, turning it over, stretching it membrane thin over his tongue ’til they were one and the same, then blowing it out … pop! for everyone to hear: spitting snow, spitting snow …

Strangely enough, Father Gregory made no reference to snow or spitting in his homily, and as we visited with friends in the gathering space after Mass, I didn’t think much about the words or the weather. Finally, when we were among the last families left at the church, we leaned into the doors and pushed out through wind. The gray skies in their bluster roared again, and the pelting resumed.

“Wow!” said Trevvy. “Now it’s really spitting snow!”

Right phrase, right context, and natural as can be. The new phrase fit him like a glove.

“Sure is, Trevor,” I said. “It sure is.”