Grams, post-fall, partakes of Easter Dinner with the aid of her royal scepter
Kinderstrasse comes to Bookseaboomband
How long has it been since your last confession? As Grace Paley put it in “Wants,“ explaining to her former husband why she never invited the Bertrams to dinner, “But really, if you remember: first my Father was sick that Friday. Then the children were born, then I had those Tuesday-night meetings, then the war began. Then we didn’t seem to know them anymore. But you’re right. I should have had them to dinner.”And we should have blogged at some point in the last two months, but first this and that, and then the other.
It all started well, certainly. The Kinderstrasse crew came to visit just before Easter, and cousins gleefully reunited. Glee took on an unsettling cast in the case of Booker and Clara, who moved with ferocious speed through the phases of courtship, engagement, disillusionment and recrimination. Within an hour of Clara’s arrival, they were giggling and google-eyeing. By day two, they were holding hands and whispering secrets. By that night, they were avowing their commitment to all who cared to listen: “We will have a perfect life!” They shouted, in unison. And then one or the other would say, “And the rest is secret,” and they would walk away cackling.
The rest of us tried to go about our business as usual, but so much affection was obtrusive. Seamus, bereft of his usual target for sneak attacks and easy provocation, was inconsolable, until he realized that Ava was the keeper of the key to all wisdom and joy, and became her groupie. To our relief, Ava tolerated and humored this adoration.
As in a Shakespearean comedy, multiple storylines of impulsively blooming youth unfolded against a verdant backdrop on our outing to the National Arboretum. We elders blundered along blearily like Dogberry and Verges, content to be minor characters, if not necessarily buffoons.Grams’s arrival the next day promised to restore some order to the kingdom, and we feted her with viands and garlands. But things took a turn for the worse on the next grand day out: there in the shadow of the Washington Monument, fresh from a picnic of sopresatta and strawberries, crossing 15th street with a grandchild on either arm, Grams caught a heel on the curb and took a tumble. She ended up in GW Hospital with two shattered elbows, a condition that she insisted on treating as a minor inconvenience on an otherwise delightful trip, not to be spoiled by a mere four-day spell in hospital.
The rest of us were not always such good soldiers. Tempers frayed on the home front, and Booker snapped at Clara for interrupting him, baring his teeth and shouting with such sudden ire that tears sprang instantly from her eyes as if from a garden sprinkler. It is always sad to watch the end of an affair, even when it comes as no surprise and something of a relief.
The Kinderstrasse crew, their wisdom imparted—at least as much as we had the capacity to absorb—packed their bags and headed west, to be sorely missed. Aunt Layne arrived soon afterwards to help see Grams through the most fragile days. I know that they say double elbow-surgery is really no big deal these days, but you’d be surprised how it can crimp your style. Grams rose to the occasion, keeping a firm grasp on civilization with the assistance of the extra long-handled utensils fashioned by Big John before his departure.
And then before you knew it, Grams and Aunt Layne were gone, also, to be equally sorely missed, and we stumbled back into the everyday routine of brotherly bonding, a process known to require liberal doses of mutual antagonism.
It would be easier if Seamus were not such a pigsqueak, according to Booker, and if Booker were not such a dummyhead, according to Seamus. But then, we are all dummyheads now, especially at three in the morning, when Mommy is an old dummyhead, and Daddy is an old dummyhead, and bed itself, especially, is very dummy.
Batten the hatches when Hurricane Seamus is coming. We’ve considered it a wise investment to make sure Booker continues the capoeira, so he can defend himself. His batizado was the social event of the season, with a packed house on hand to watch Booker, aka Labrador, display his skills in the ring. For his efforts, Labrador moved up from the ivory belt to the ivory belt with bright orange tassels, which he gazed upon wide-eyed for the remainder of the day.
Luckily, they did not, as Booker feared, have signed seats, so we were able to alternate attendance at the capoeira marathon with shifts in the playground outside, where Seamus vented his frustration at being excluded from the ceremonies by swinging maniacally on the monkey bars.
Seamus had his own moment in the spotlight a few weeks later, at his graduation from pre-pre-pre K. The main event was a teddy-bear parade, in which each three-year old lovingly placed a favorite plush toy in a box and then towed it around the Great Hall by a string. According to Mary, the other tots strode upon the boards with the well-trained self-assurance of Miss Venezuela contestants. Seamus, after leaving a puzzling gap in the parade, wandered aimlessly about for a few moments, one hand towing his stuffed dolphin, the other holding his crotch. Appearing to take notice of his audience for the first time, he then turned to the crowd, removed his hand from his fly and—before Mary could breathe a sigh of relief—promptly stuck his finger up his nose.
But that was all so long ago. Summer is now here, and we seized the last day before the annual plague of mosquitoes descended upon Silver Spring to host an unforgettable churrasco, so we can pretend we are not yet entirely consigned to the wings.
There is no doubt who is now center-stage, is there? I had a dream last night that I was watching over Seamus in a twelfth-story apartment with a sliding-glass door leading to a railing-less balcony. Seamus stepped on something sharp, started to cry and ran towards the balcony. As I ran after him screaming stop, stop, he hurtled through the door, across the balcony and over the edge. I ran after him, vowing not to stop, and took the plunge. I landed on the soft cushions of the balcony one story below, where Seamus lolled about laughing. He then insisted on doing the same thing over and over, and I thought, does anyone else’s kid do this?
The young prince tyrant plots his next move. And the rest is a secret.