Unwittingly Divine

On Sunday night, after an early supper of beef bourguignon (mmmm-fall-food), we went out to the back garden to gather the last of the late harvest. Sam, Tracey and I flocked around the apple tree, for starters, with Anabel looking on in starfish contentment (she was rendered doubly immobile, tucked straight-armed into her pink suede winter coat and strapped into a bouncy chair). We harvesters formed a tag team: me up on the ladder passing apples down to Trace, who handed them off to Sammy for inspection and then storage or tossing. To our surprise, we filled a bushel basket with the crisp, deep-red fruit. We've got the makings of oodles more jam and muffins. Yum!

Then we checked out the overgrown zucchini patch, with its broad leafs as big as pup tents hiding surprising numbers of puppy-sized specimens. We must have pulled a dozen huge zucchinis out from their hiding places. I planted that crop so late that I didn’t expect a harvest at all. Now I have some grating ahead of me. After all, the only thing a gardener can do with a boatload of zucchini flesh is make zucchini bread. Tracey, for one, is pretty excited. And so was Sam that night. In high spirits, he ferried the veggies one at a time up to the deck (note: I didn’t pay the ferryman; I didn’t even fix a price). He even got right in there to help pick a few, wowing at the force it took to separate the (sas)squash from their mega-vines.

We did it, though. The garden was laid bare as the last blush of sunset left the sky on a nippy October evening. Just then, a flock of Canada Geese passed overhead, due south. We all looked up at the sound of their plaintive departure and Trace laughed, “Now this is a fall moment.” Standing there rosy-cheeked, with the smell of wood-smoke in the air and two big baskets of freshly-picked fruits and vegetables at our feet, we felt like reaper figures from some Charles G.D. Roberts poem.

Sam may not have fully appreciated the quiet thrill of that moment for me—for as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined myself working this garden—but he certainly seems to love the cycle of it all: the planting and the harvesting, the baking and the eating. He’s looking forward to taking his place up on the counter and helping to turn the Hudson harvest into loads of treats to share.

Myself, I’m already thinking about what to plant next year. High time, I think, for a pumpkin patch. Fall harvest is good times.

Sam Was Struck by Lightening (and other tall tales)

I remember Savannah going through an amusing stage when she was about Sam's age, which saw her making up the funniest stories and passing them off as fact to family members and strangers alike. Our favourite was "One time, my mom left me in a river of lava. It burned off my legs." Another time, while I was babysitting the girls—and Jazzie might have been 18 months old—Janey called to check in, and Savannah told her that her baby sister had fallen backwards off some patio furniture into the swimming pool. Never happened.

Turns out that Sam's bent the same way. He likes to play a starring role in exciting stories. On the drive to school the other day he set in with some difficult questions about lightening. "Does it ever hit people?" he asked? Okay, first of all, why does he do this to me? He's 4. Can't we talk about how choo-choo trains get their power? I briefly considered going the "Of course not. Bad things never happen" route, but I had to hedge against the possibility that he'd heard something on the radio and this was a test of my honesty. So I conceded that it happens very rarely and mostly to golfers. Then I fumbled through the tougher follow-up questions: "Does it hurt? Can you get dead?" Bloody hell. What was this?

This was research. Once he had the facts straight, he put on his story voice and told me that when he was a very little baby and I wasn't looking at him, he was hit by lightening. That it made him "glow up in the dark" as he calls it, but it didn't hurt at all, because babies don't feel eel-leck-TRISS-ity. When I said that I don't remember that happening, he reminded me of the foundational detail: I wasn't looking. Ohhh, that explains it. Well, then. That must have been quite a shock. We've revisited that scene several times since. It's the next generation "Burning Lava" story.

The trouble with the tall tales is that they're taking the place of most reality-based conversation. "How was school, Sam?" is bound to be answered with a wildly improbable list of calamities, abuse, failed projects and superhuman playground feats. One evening, he added "And I learned French: 'mimsy' means 'I hope you're having a nice day.'" So jaded was I about these reports, I chalked up the "French lesson" tidbit to just another Sam Story ... until the first JK newsletter came home. Twenty minutes daily. Ah, c'est vrai.

This week, Sam revealed his narrative power to bemuse and then, later, to embarrass. Picking him up on Tuesday evening, I noticed the class had done one of those thematic Q&A sheets that has a common question in the middle of the page, and little squiggly lines leading out to various answers attributed to the students. The question of the week was "What are you grateful for?" I read clockwise around the answers, scanning for Sam's name, so I got a good taste of the group response—kids grateful for their parents' hugs, their baby brothers, their food, their pets. Finally, I spotted Sam's answer: "Sam is grateful for his mom buying him a new skateboard." I didn't buy Sam a skateboard. I'm not buying Sam a skateboard. Did Sam misunderstand the question? I called him on it at the cubbies, and he smiled and said he was just imagining that he'd like that. Over his shoulder, one of the teachers started chuckling and admitted, "We were wondering..."

Thankfully, Arlene (Tracey's new nanny) didn't have to wonder long when Sam regaled her with stories over supper about how sometimes, when his parents are not in the room, he pops in a Grown-Up Movie that shows people's bums (and their penises?", Carter asked. "Oh yes, their bums and their penises"). "Ohhhh..." said Arlene. Okay, we don't own that movie. Really, we don't. And he's not home alone much either! Luckily, Tracey overheard the story and called out a chiding "Sammmm?" and he cut the tale short.

When I saw him later that night, I asked him about this so-called "bum movie" and he backpeddled into a corner: "I borrowed it," he offered, "Then I gave it back to that person." I pressed my advantage: "Who was it?" Gulp. "It was in my imagination!" he confessed. I'm only a little concerned that his imaginary movie sounds like porn: in fact, I'm pretty sure he simply couldn't think of anything funnier to say than "bum". But I'm half-tempted to write a pre-emptive note to the teacher, "Please don't call Child Services if..."

So how long before Sam's "imagination" becomes Sam's "big fat lie"? I laughed when he begged off finishing his breakfast this morning, explaining that somehow, when I wasn't looking, caffeine got on it ... and we all know that kids shouldn't have caffeine. He thinks he's hit on quite the little trick, that blanket phrase — "When you weren't looking..." What he doesn't realize is that I see more than he knows. That's the way of the Mother. It helps that he's incredibly transparent, always overtly covering his tracks by blatantly asking me not to fact check his tales. "That new girl over there is called Mambooboola. Umm, but don't say 'hi Mambooboola' to her...."

Lightening. Skateboards. Bums. Caffeine. Mambooboola. He's got 1000 of them, I'll bet. I'm sure we haven't heard the funniest, the craziest, the most embarrassing tall tale. But, as difficult as it is to get the plain and simple truth out of him sometimes, I'm a little proud of Sam's ability to spin a story out of absolutely nothing. I imagine him as a film director, a novelist maybe. Of course, in the last Q&A, Sam declared that he'd be a doctor when he grew up. I wonder what the story is there.

Man About the House (for a fee)

Back in April, I wrote a post about Sam's interest in helping to complete whatever chore, project or batch of muffins he discovered me in the midst of. "Can I help you do that?" was a constant refrain of his, and it was a source of genuine pleasure but also (sometimes) ever-so-mild annoyance for his parents, who found themselves in the position of either rebuffing the proffered assistance or slowing down progress to a snail's pace to teach our four-year-old how to re-pot plants or string road hockey nets (this afternoon's projects). Part of the job, I know, but the weekends are only so long...

Lately, there's been a follow-up refrain once the offer of help has been accepted: "How much would a job like that pay?" Okay, so Sam doesn't actually quote one of my favourite Kids in the Hall sketches, but he comes darned close. He started out with subtle expressions of his mercenary motives, sort of mumbling under his breath while engaged in the task—as though unconscious of being overheard—"maybe I will get some dollars for this..." Later, he became bolder. He's offered to pick up yard waste, clean his room, help make cookies, and put away his clothes... all for the tidy sum of two dollars. He still loves being a help (you should have seen him playing apprentice during the dishwasher installation), but he's also learning the (monetary) value of an honest day's work. Pay up!

And we have, from time to time. Not too long ago, he "babysat" Anabel for $5. That is, he kept her entertained in her playpen a few feet from the dining room table for the length of time it took for the screecher's mommy to enjoy her meal. He loves his five dollar bill. He's got big plans for it. It's going towards the purchase of a new section of the Pirate World that's taking over his bedroom. And that's where this all started, really. Sam's lust for the pirate's life has had him looting his parents' treasure chest a little too freely this summer.

He received a Megablox "Pyrate" fort for Christmas from Grandma and Grandpa Arnold last year, little knowing that he was the proud owner of but a token of the full suite of fortresses, islands, ships and crews (human crews, skeleton crews, "goobie" crews...). When we picked up a small island set to go with the original kit, Sam pulled a giant "here's what you're still missing, kids" page out of the box and his head exploded. Bounty like he'd never imagined in his wildest dreams. He was so enamoured of these little (mostly cheap) toys, that it was fun to surprise him from time to time over the next few weeks with additional sets: Maroon Galley, Dubloon Mystery, and so on. Sam was thrilled. .. and then expectant. He'd lay out the "menu" to point out what he still needed.

So we had to reign it in. I found myself explaining again and again that he was lucky to have as many toys as he'd already collected, that there were plenty of kids with nothing. I bordered on exclaiming "do you realize how many starving orphans there are in Africa?" But if Sam was spoiled, commanding him to be grateful for his privileged life and a little bit scared that it could be unravelled by drought and epidemics wasn't going to change anything. Perhaps earning money towards toy purchases would teach him some restraint, some patience, and some awareness of the effort that goes into producing coins from the Magic Wallet of Plenty.

So while he's angling for extra pay and having to learn the line between what he's expected to do as a member of this household and what counts as a chore for his allowance, this little experiment might be working. While shopping for household supplies at Wal-Mart this morning, Sam asked if he could buy a $1 pirate (of course) Halloween bag. We explained that we had a perfectly good ghost bag at home. ("Perfectly good." I am such a mom). But, we added, if he thought it was worth it, he could buy it with his own money. He jumped at the chance to throw the bag in the cart. But when he saw some ghost and pirate craft stickers a few minutes later, he considered the same offer for several minutes. Did he need them? How many, really? And which ones? He spent the second $1.80 very carefully. Maybe it's sinking in a little.

Jeremy has taken the musical approach to this dilemma throughout: he's taught Sam the chorus to the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want." That seems to be working, too. Or, at least, Sam sagely shares the lyrics with Carter whenever he pouts at being stonewalled by Tracey. We can't fault little boys for so much want in this commercial culture, and we can't limit them to basic needs simply to teach a lesson. So we're groping towards some middle ground: the land of allowances and wish lists and reasonable gifts. Hopefully, that's where Sam will learn greater respect for his belongings and gratitude for just how many of them there are. And to stop asking to be paid for brushing his teeth.

Cannamore Amour

Every year since Sam and Carter could walk, Trace and I have taken them out to the apple orchard on a sunny Saturday in late September. In 2004, '05 and '06, we made the one hour trip to Balderson for some pick-your-own fun. There is an old caboose on the property, outfitted with tables and chairs and a fun little loft. The boys usually tore around in there for a while before we all climbed aboard the farmer's hay wagon for the three-minute rumble to the dwarf trees.

After filling up our bags and buying up some fresh cider and orchard honey, we loaded the bounty into the car and headed for the nearby cheese shop and chocolate factory for a few more traditional treats. We passed almost as much time watching the boys decide which shape they wanted their chocolate-on-a-stick to take as we did in the orchard itself. But we didn't mind. Those shops smelled wonderful and were brightly decorated for fall: it was almost like spending time at the home of Quintessential Grandma. In fact, in those early years, the boys took a seat right there on the floor to eat their chocolate.

Last year, there was a little glitch in the tradition: Balderson had a scant crop, so we arrived to signs indicating that we could buy apples from the shop and tour the orchard on the hay wagon, but we couldn't pick our own. It was somewhat disappointing, but still a really lovely day. This year, however, Balderson didn't get a saleable crop at all. Seems a number of neighbouring orchards suffered the same fate. The ones that did produce a good crop were overwhelmed by demand in early September and had run clean out of pick-your-own. Our tradition was about to take a twist.

After a quick survey of our choices, we settled on Cannamore Orchards about half an hour from here. It offered not only the necessary elements of this favourite tradition—the beautiful drive, the wagon ride, and the nice-smelling gift shop—but also a great play field with a 'climb aboard' train, and fish pond, some mazes, and a choice of picnic areas. We met up with Danielle, Tristan and Simon and Anne-Marie, Dave and Other Sam for lunch and some afternoon fun in the Indian Summer sun. We spent three hours there, and it was so pleasant we could easily have whiled away several more (the adults whiled; the kids whirled).

Trace and I missed the pleasures of pick-your-own, but the boys didn't seem to notice—it has been half their lives now since we got out there in the trees. Next year, we'll have to plan for early September orchard trips. To Balderson and to Cannamore. We want to support our (chronological) first choice when it's back in business, but we have a new (preferential) first choice we'll be frequenting, too. I wonder how long it'll be before the orchard charms are upstaged by requests to visit the terrifying Haunted House or go on the after-dark Spooky Wagon Ride with its flying monsters and body snatchers? For now, they're happy tearing around the grounds, sampling apple butter and pumpkin fudge, and playing at being "spooky guys" themselves....