Trev

Summer Vacation, Day 27: Where the Heck is Gabe’s Watch, and What the Heck is a Slushie?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

We left Cowboy Bob’s mid-morning and made our way to Wall. Drove past Hubba’s House in downtown Elm Springs, snaked down through the Cheyenne River brakes north of Wasta – ever since my first trip to the Dennis Ranch, that’s among my favorite stretches of South Dakota – and rolled into Wall, where we collected roughly 20 new states’ license plates (and a couple of provinces) in the Wall Drug parking lot.

We bummed around the world-famous drug store long enough for Gabe to realize he left his nice wristwatch in the restroom an hour or more earlier. I was guessing he left it at the sink, and reminded him that it’s water-resistant, so he can leave it on when he washes.

Nope, he took it off and set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser while he was in the stall. “Why?” I asked.

He thought a moment or three. “I don’t know,” he said.

The watch wasn’t at the lost-and-found, and Gabe was fighting off tears admirably. We were about to leave when I thought, If I were an honest tourist and found that watch, I wouldn’t know where the lost-and-found was. I’d turn it in at the closest counter.

We went to the Western art shop and told the cashier what we were looking for. She said she thought they had it across the hall in the Country Store. Sure enough, there it sat behind the fudge counter. Gabe was so excited he snatched it from the hand of the young Polish gal at the cash register and nearly forgot his thank you – she was teasing him a bit, as though she had a watch but perhaps not his watch. Anyway, to remind him of his manners, I pointed out that her nametag said she was from Poland, and asked him how she he thank her. He was beaming at his watch and couldn’t remember.

“Dziekuje,” I told her.*

“Oh! Prosze!” she said.**

It was 98 degrees when we crossed the Badlands. We ate supper at a drive-in burger joint in Rapid City, and tried to explain to Trevor what a slushie is. We compared it to ice and juice, snowcones, whatever we could think of, but nothing was clicking. Finally Trevvy hit upon something that showed he hadn’t heard a word we had said. “Ooooooh!” he said. “Just like when you flush a toilet!”

Yes, my son. We are having Flushies for dessert. On second thought, let’s have floats.***

Now we’re at Grandma and Grandpa Venjohns’ place. It’s late. Sweet dreams!

* * * * *

* Pronouced “jeen-KOO-ya” – Polish for Thank you.
** Pronounced “PRO-sha” – Polish for both Please and You’re welcome.
*** Come to think of it, in this context, floats sound disgusting, too.

Summer Vacation, Day 18 (Belated): Trevvy

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Trevor turned four yesterday at the campground. Usually he wakes up hard, but yesterday, he was rarin’ to go! As we made our way from the cabin to the restroom, I pointed to the sign that said MEN and asked, “Trevvy, that says men … are you a man now?”

“Yup,” he said. “I’m a man, big and strong!”

Later I was telling a friend about this, and Trevor heard me. “And tough, even!” he added.

“So you’re big and strong and even tough?” I asked.

“Yup!” he said.

“How tough are you?” I asked.

“Bet I could beat you up!” he said, grinning ear to ear.

So it begins. Happy Birthday, little man!

Trevvy Logic

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

I could hide out under there
I just made you say underwear …
– Barenaked Ladies, “Pinch”

Our youngest, three-year-old Trevor, applies a certain, consistent logic to the new words he’s learning in order to figure out what they mean. For example, out of the blue he will proudly announce, “Mom, I know why we say toothbrush – because we clean our teeth with it, and because it’s a brush … toothbrush!”

He applies this equally to simple and compound words, so that the results are often unintentionally nonsensical and funny, e.g. “I know why they’re called suckers … because you suck on them, and because they’re ers!”

So last night we’re enjoying a small dish of ice cream, and he begins: “I know why we say ice cream … because it’s really cold, and because it’s cream – ice cream!”

“That’s right, Trevvy!” says Jodi, and I ask, “Trevor, why do they call it chewing gum?”

“Because you chew it, and because it’s gum!” he says proudly.

“And why,” I ask, “do we call it underwear?”

He stumbles a moment, working it through in his head.

“Because it goes under your pants,” he says, “and then it’s like it’s gone!”

* * * * *

Blogger’s Note: If you aren’t laughing, don’t worry – it took us a moment, too. Homophones are great fun, aren’t they?

Additional Note: On a mostly unrelated note, this morning, Trevor approached Emma, placed his palm on top of his head, and said, “Emma, this is how tall I am. I’m this tall!”

Meditation on the Unity of All Things

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

So we’re eating dinner as a family, a rice, broccoli and cheddar concoction with beef. Quite tasty – even the kids seemed to enjoy it! Jodi and I were taking turns asking the kids what they liked best. Gabe is a broccoli hound, so of course, he said the green stuff.

“Gabe,” I said, “do you like rice, too?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Cheese?”

“Yeah.”

“What about dirt and sunshine?”

Gabe twisted his face into a question mark. “Huh?”

“Isn’t that what broccoli is? Broccoli takes nutrients from dirt and energy from the sun to grow – so aren’t you eating dirt and sunshine?”

Gabe grinned. “Yeah!”

I turned to Brendan. “And it’s that way with all plants. So if cows eat plants, isn’t beef dirt and sunshine, too?”

“Yup!” said Brendan.

“And if we eat broccoli and beef, aren’t we also dirt and sunshine?”

And then I stopped. I was acting silly, of course. But then I looked at Bren and Gabe laughing together. And at Trevor, smiling back at me.

Dirt and sunshine.

And the next morning, I watched Emma walking to the bus in her girlie clothes and grubby shoes …

And me. And you, even.

What are any of us except dirt and sunshine?

Fool for April

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: I wrote this April 1, 2004, while headed to work. Jodi was working for Cargill at that time, and pregnant with Trevor. That April, unlike this one, was sunny and warm. I’m listless in this grey haze today, and I sincerely want to spend the next several days with my family, doing nothing. No such luck, I’m afraid.

I’m on the bus this Thursday morning. We’re not yet underway — fellow commuters straggle in in twos and threes. Cars, I mean — everyone drives his or her own car to the Park and Ride; every one a good American. At least we’ve embraced the bus to get us from here downtown, right? Folks are smiling this morning, sleepy but not tired. I know the feeling.

I’m a fool for April. Growing up in Michigan, or Minnesota for that matter, you know March is bound to be a mess of slush and mud. Like November, it’s going to be blustery and cold, with a fair chance of snow or sleet.

But April! It’s like a whole new world this morning — not a cloud for miles, the sun’s high in the sky already, and I drove the old pickup in this morning in a sweater and sunglasses. April Fool’s or not, I can’t help but but have hope that spring may have sprung at last.

Mornings like this, it feels like the world’s great eye opens wide and bright and stares back at us in wonder — what strange creatures are these, queued up and bound downtown to sit in cubes and punch keys on a morning made for loving, sleeping long and late, stretching, smiling, and blinking in the sunshine? Is the weekend rain any wonder? The heavens weep at our investments, our invented urgencies, and our ignorance.

The ache has returned — that tight pit in my stomach that strains to contain my urges (selfish and otherwise) to escape this race and return home, buy flowers along the way, call Jodi home feigning sickness, lay out clean sheets and open all the windows, nap through lunch, eat late, pick up the kids early, and sit cross-legged on the floor with our sons and daughter, laughing as mommy soaks in the tub, the bubbles spoofing her round belly and popping in the attempt. Another day, another dollar, another baby on the way. The world should pay parents to stay together at home with their children. Leave the hard work to the young and ambitious, and the planning to elders, who have can see the big picture by virtue of being closer to heaven.

It’s both selfish and selfless, this urge to wrap my arms around these dear friends and hold them close. We are all brothers and sisters, though positioned at times as adversaries. A sister of mine recalls a verse: Owe no man anything except respect. We are all worth less than we let on and more than we’ll ever know — less because those things we often emphasize in ourselves matter least to those around us, and more because we’ve no perspective. The mirror distorts, the camera frames — only through contact and interaction are we manifest truly. Only in love, or lack thereof.