Mini-Mayhem

It’s been a long time since I’ve travelled in a minivan packed with kids. In fact, the last time I did so, I myself was one of those kids, riding with my parents, my little sisters, and some half-adopted friend or another. From that first-generation maroon Dodge Caravan on through till well after I left home, the current model year minivan was Dad’s company car. Given the pervasiveness of the “breeder wagon” now, it’s funny to think of how odd it looked to everyone back in 1983. Three doors, three rows of seats, three feet higher off the ground than a regular car … or so it seemed. Yes, it was quite the conversation piece rolling through the village of Erin, fresh off the line.

The biggest difference, I think, between that Caravan and the Sienna I climbed into this weekend—25 years later—is that no one would use the word “conversation” in a sentence related to the latter vehicle. Even as an adjectival phrase. Granted, any enclosed space containing all four Arnold girls is going to scale the decibel chart (a fave parental plea was to “keep it down to a dull roar!”), but loud, laughey, pause-free conversation is still conversation. That acoustic nightmare simply can’t compare to having all four of said sisters’ young boys strapped into their boosters for a long trip. So go ahead and smile, Mom, about how “what goes around comes around,” but you have no idea what it’s like to be in this front seat.

Last weekend, Trace and I took Sam and Carter up to Barrie for an overnight. We swapped her Corolla for the Fowler van and scooped James and Charlie for a weekend of cousin craziness. From that point, we clocked perhaps 12 hours in the car together, first riding back to Ottawa and then heading out on a weekend road trip to the Granby Zoo in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. While some might chalk it up to the boys being just 4 or 5 years old, I imagine that all future group road trips will run pretty much like this one did.

Here is a random sampling of sound bites.

Them: “You’re a dumb, dumb stupid head!” “Well, your head’s a baseball made of ear wax!” “You’re a poopy, slurpy, yucky pile of poop!” “No, you’re a poopy, slurpy, yucky pile of poop!”
Us: “Hey, no copy-cats. If you’re going to name-call, be creative. That’s a van rule.”

Them: “I farted!” “No, that was me!” “I did it, too — it was three farts!” “Okay, how did the car really make that noise? Do it again!”
Us: “It’s van magic. No questions!” (It’s the highway rumble strip actually. It grabs attention when they’re shouting.)

Them: “I don’t like my seatbelt strap! I hate it! I’m not wearing it! It’s UN-comfortable.”

Us: “So is busting windshield glass with your cheek bones; put it back on!”

Them: “Carter! You slept through it! Sam barfed right into the goldfish cracker bag! Twice!” “Aww, really? Where is it?”
Us: “It’s going in the garbage. You can go back to sleep.”

Them: “James! … Hey, James! … James, look! … James? … James! …”

Us: “James, Sam’s talking to you.”

Them: “I see a rollercoaster!” “That’s not a rollercoaster; it’s a hydro tower.” “Noooooooo: he’s right! It’s a rollercoaster.” “It’s not!” “It is!” Mom!!”
Us: “We don’t see anything. Who wants Smarties?”

Them: Look! A sideways traffic light!” “Another one!” “Another one!” “Another one!”

Us: “Yes, they’re all like that here. Neat, eh? Now let’s stop pointing them out with shrieks.”

Them: “French, French, French. Why is everything French in French-land?”

Us: “They’re weird that way…”

Them: “blbnmmmm” “bkljvvvaaammm!” “bllamalalamm!” “bblbmlbmblbm!”

Us: “Please, please, please use words while you’re driving us crazy … ”

And, of course –

Them: “Are we there yet?”

Us: “Yes, we are. See that crow in the field over there? That’s the zoo. Enjoy!”

Where was Jeremy in all this? In the driver’s seat for one, but also midway between “Us” and “Them.” He is, after all, a boy. And one who half-secretly believes that loud Arnold Sister conversation is tougher to bear than a minivan full of kindergarden boys.

It might be a gender thing.

Impressions of Sam at Camp Hideaway

The hitch in Sam’s small shoulders as he gingerly picks his barefooted way down the gravel driveway before rounding on to the dewy lawn and breaking into an eager run towards the tree fort. Summer freedom. He nearly always comes back with a wild daisy for me, hidden behind his back.

The big, silly gestures, the too-loud voice, the sideways glances and smiley jokes: these are Sam’s overtures of friendship when playing in the vicinity of another small boy, an over-the-top performance offered with such confidence in his likeability that it hurts my heart a little.

Sam standing halfway up the rock with Jeremy, arms raised like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, as if he alone is summoning the dazzling display of Canada Day firecrackers. Cracking people up with his joyful exuberance, his theatrical commentary between rounds of explosions: “Who disturbs my village!?” — “Rise up, my minions!” — I am the most powerful wizard!” — “Did you like that one? Cuz I’m getting tired!”

The smell of light rain misting the tree canopy as Sam and I swing lazily on the lakeside hammock together, snuggled under a sleeping bag and playing 20 Questions. We’re hungry for lunch but don’t want to crawl out, not yet. And then we spot Jeremy coming up the hill with a platter of BBQ hot dogs to share. “You read our minds!” Sam shouts gleefully.

The slight strain in Sam’s voice as he stands alongside the fishing boat with Jeremy and Paul, declaring with false bravado: “Babies would probably think this boat is going to sink.” As they putter up the inlet, Sam clutching a fishing rod, a proud grin splits his face. Later, he’ll report, “We didn’t catch a fish, but anyways it’s still called fishing!”

Sam’s soft, contented hmmmmm as he drifts to sleep in the mid-afternoon, lake-cold limbs flung over me, a smile fleeting over his features as he considers the last thing he said before giving submitting to exhaustion: “I’m going to be the last kid to leave the campfire tonight.”

Midnight at the campfire, and Sam’s cuddled on my lap. The familiar camp-smell of his hair—a mixture of shampoo and wood smoke, marshmallow and bug repellant. The almost-forgotten feeling of his limbs gradually growing heavy and floppy with fatigue. “Time for bed,” he says. We finish the 12th installment of The Magic Tree House books by flashlight.

Sam playing on the floor at the foot of the couch where Jeremy snoozes away a rainy afternoon. I’m lost in my book and Sam’s lost in his imagination. But he looks up at his Daddy suddenly and whispers softly, thinking no one hears him, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Heads bent together as Sam and I examine yet another small rock he has pulled from the shoreline and rinsed in the gentle waves, the better to see its composition—its streaks and sparkles—and so identify which “family” it belongs to. Families of rocks build up across the sunny beach towel on my lap: little bits of the broken Canadian shield, briefly rescued from inevitable fragmentation by a small boy who will, like these beautiful pebbles, one day split from his family, be born away by the tides of his own life. May he always be compelled to reunite the matching pieces, to find beauty and comfort in the notion of rock families. May his own childhood memories make it so.

On Finishing Call of the Wild

And so we leave Buck howling at the moon, surrounded by an adoptive wolf pack and free to roam the boreal forests for the rest of his life. A lovely ending to a tale of grueling hardship and perseverance, don't you think? Sam, for one, thinks not. Sam has been raised on circular narratives, poetic justice and happily ever after. Sam saw the Hollywood ending coming from the get go and, frankly, he's not impressed by Jack London's failure to deliver some teary reunions for the good guys and harsh retribution for the bad guys.

Sam: Is that it?

Mom: Ya, that was the last scene. These other pages are Questions for Discussion....

Sam: There are no more chapters?

Mom: No. It's over. He finds a wolf family. That's how it ends.

Sam: But what about California?

Mom: What do you mean?

Sam: He was stolen. When does he get back to his house?

Mom: He doesn't.

Sam: WHAT?!

Mom: Well, it's way too far away—he's deep into the wild woods... He couldn't get there if he tried; and besides, he seems happy now.

Sam: But his family doesn't know where he is: they will think he's gone forever!

Mom: I know. They were probably sad for a long time, but that happens to some dogs. That's what happened to Huddie once—but now we have him, and that's a happy ending.

Sam: Yeah. Hhm. (double checking) So Buck's wild now.

Mom: M-hmm. That's the "call" part: he felt himself wanting to run free of men and sleds.

Sam: And that's the ending. That he's wild.

Mom: That's it. No more masters. There's nothing else.

Sam : All right. (long pause) So let's read the Discussion Questions, I guess.