Life and Death on the Way to the First Tee.

Some of the best little talks have been on the way to, or coming back from the golf course. They afford me insights to the five-year-old mind that are achingly beautiful in their innocence. On this particular day, the Boy is talking to me about Terry Fox, because his school has had a Terry Fox run. He tells me he did twenty and further discussion reveals that this means he did twenty times around the school or the gym ... I'm still not clear on this part.

And then I get blindsided.

Boy: Terry Fox is in the ground, isn't he.

Me (after pause to reflect and gather myself):  Yes, sweetheart. That's why people do this run. So folks can get money and make medicine for people who are sick like Terry Fox was and they can stay alive.

The conversation continues around this subject for a while, me wondering through the whole thing what's appropriate for a 5-year-old Boy, all this talk about death and mortality. But he's genuinely interested and his questioning is earnest and not frivolous, so I try to be straight-forward about it all, answering what he asks without volunteering more, for now staying away from the "We're all going to die" angle.

We talk about more stuff, then for a while we're quiet. The question from the back seat five or ten minutes later, a signal of the impending breakdown of innocence, a signal that he hasn't yet grasped the finality of death. I draw a blank for the moment it takes me to realize that he's still thinking about Terry Fox, then my heart breaks a little bit for Terry and also for my Boy.

Boy: So they're not working on him anymore?

Reluctantly I answer.

Me: No sweetheart. They're not working on him anymore.

Blue and Other Angels.

Another weekend over. A Boy said last night that he's very happy to be getting back to class tomorrow. I reflected how these dratted weekends seem to be getting in the way of the school week.

We went to the Air Show this weekend. It's the first time I've gone to see it even though it's a long standing event that happens every year. I thought since a Boy had just turned five that he'd enjoy watching all the airplanes and got us two tickets to give to him on his birthday. As it turned out, children 6 and under get in free, so we invited his friend Olivia to join us and gave the extra ticket away when we got to the site. Mamma elected to stay home since she works at the airport, why the heck does she want to come out and see more airplanes.

It was a full day. Breakfast, Roller Coaster Tycoon, Air Show. For me, the only one without a hat, it turned out to be a long day in the warm September sun and I ended up getting a crispy September sunburn. Mamma was nice and went out to the store that night to get a helping bottle of Noxema. The Boy found it on the table the next morning and said he really liked the way it smelled. Later, after I'd put some on to cool my red face, I asked him how I smelled. He had a deep sniff and declared, "Yum!"

The Air Show was great. The only down side was that the line-ups going in and out were long and tedious. It took us an hour to make the usual 20-minute trip to the airport. We had to park on the side of the road since the lots were full and a bus took us the rest of the way to the venue. We stood in line for about 10 - 15 minutes as a fleet of buses went around collecting patrons.

The show officially kicked off with the US Navy's Blue Angels. As they roared, looped and twisted overhead with afterburners on, the Boy screamed out over the noise:

Boy: THIS IS WHAT I CALL A SHOW!!!

Different aerobatic and aeronautic displays went on for the rest of the day and we filled the pauses with tours of all the different planes on the ground. The day's last event was the Snowbirds. Where the Blue Angels are a testo-fest, Tom-Cruise-in-Top-Gun display, the Snowbirds are a ballet in the sky.

After the Snowbirds made their last pass, the crowd of thousands started heading for the gates. Suddenly, there we all were, standing in a huge gaggle, waiting for a bus to take us back to our car. An hour later, most of us were still there. Naturally, for a five-year-old, this would be a restless time. Olivia, the little girl, seemed content to stand patiently. But the Boy was more active, regularly straying out of my comfort zone, moving just a bit too far away from me, venturing a few too many places deeper in to the throng and I'd have to call him back.

Me: Be more like Olivia. Olivia's being very good.

Boy: Am I being good?

Me: Yes, you're being good, but you're marginal.

Boy: What's that?

Me: It means you're being good, but you're almost being bad.

Later (yes even later, tempus fugit at the air show but buses don't) and we're still surrounded by hundreds of others waiting for a bus. The Boy looks up at me and says,

Boy: Am I still being marvelous?

And how else could I answer but tell him, Yes.

Higher Education

On Saturday of our long weekend, my wife announced unexpectedly that her shift on Tuesday starts at seven in the morning instead of her usual noon-ish. So it was that this morning it's the Boy and I heading out together for the schoolbus on this, only his third day of school.

And on this (count 'em: three!), the third day of school, the Boy declares:

Boy: I can't wait until Grade One!

Who Wrote "The Diary Of Anne Frank"?

From my door, mere moments by car and I'm in the parking lot for the walking trail leading to Jack's Lake. As of today, I've been on the trail twice. The first time was with Wife and Boy and was notable because I think it was the only time we actually used the child carrier that you wear like a backpack to take along your infant. So that first time we went must have been at least three years ago, maybe four. The trip yesterday was kind of neat to see all the trees pushed over by the hurricane. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's such a beautiful day, this holiday Monday and I decide it's too nice to sit inside and play Roller Coaster Tycoon all day, so I propose to a Boy that we go out for a hike. He's all for it. He asks his best friend Olivia, and she's all for it too. Olivia's dad will make it a foursome.

We go outside and start to get everyone piled into the car. The neighbours, Kim, Kevin and their new addition Nicholas are in their driveway as we get set to head off. The Boy wishes to proclaim the good news.

Boy: We're going on a hike!

Kimmy: Oh wow! Where are you going?

Boy: On a hike!

The Dairy Queen Cake Fiasco of Aught-Four

My dad (whom the Boy calls "Poppa") has a closely trimmed beard of snowy white. One year he shaved it off and it was like revealing a stranger, a usurper of the familiar, and he couldn't grow the beard back fast enough.

This has nothing to do with my son's birthday cake.

Every year for the Boy's birthday, I go to Dairy Queen to order a special-made ice cream cake. I give them a picture, something recent, a nice picture, and through the miracle of technology, this picture ends up on the top of the cake. On the day, everyone oohs and ahhs over the picture on the cake.

This year, DQ tells me I have to go somewhere else to get the picture done.

So not only do I get bounced from store to store and end up at the place that is quite possibly the farthest away from my house without actually leaving the city limits, the well-trained Dairy Queen staff of 17-year-olds totally botch the job and give me a very sorry looking cake done in blue when I asked for green, with balloons drawn on the cake where there should have been none, and the picture slapped bumpily over most of the balloons. And the picture is torn.

I seethed.

Took the cake.

Left with the Boy.

Called the manager when I get home. He offered to refund the money. What else could he do? Yet it still seemed hardly sufficient.

A couple of days later the Boy and I go back to DQ to get the our refund. Boy and I have a cone while we're there. He got a dipped cone. Like a Dilly Bar, he said. Most of the soft serve went into his mouth. The rest was like an extra set of lips, white ones surrounding his red ones.

Me: You've got quite the moustache.

Boy (pushing his face all the way into the cone): Now I've got Poppa's beard!