Written and Illustrated by Sam Ashe Arnold

The Bears' Spooky Night

Once there were four bear friends. They went in a spooky forest and they saw animals coming out of the smoke. They saw a lion. There were also bugs in the spooky plant. They were scared.

The bears went on a special truck that took them to a spooky house. It had a fireplace that was just like Sam's, but it also had a fire in it. They go through the fire and up the chimney, but they don't get burned.

The bears well back to the ground. Then a big spooky chair came walking up the street. The bears climbed on, and the chair brought them home.

The bears were back in their cave.

The end.


The Ghost Adventure

The children and the grown-ups were ready to get their warm clothes on for the ghost adventure. Once they were dressed, off they went to the front yard. The kids were so excited they jumped off the stairs.

They ran down the sidewalk. These guys live in Sandy Hill. They saw one! But it was just a baby. Then its parents came through the door.

The ghosts stared down at them.

The end.

A Thousand Words

And just like that, January is gone. I've missed a month of stories, but I have a nice little collection of photographs that I can caption to catch up.

Sam loves Lego. I think we went a good six months of hearing "I played Lego" as the sum total of the child care report. Nine, ten hour days of a fully structured program with a dozen other kids, and he only remembered the Lego. Not surprisingly, the lego pirate sets are the centre of his bedroom universe. And this Christmas, Grandma & Grandpa Arnold gave him a 380-piece Dinosaur set (but who's counting pieces?), and we've been building fearsome beasts. I took a picture of the beaming boy holding up our first creation, but this is the photo he liked best. It was his idea to pose dino as though he assembled himself and was now crawling out of the box to wreak havoc in Hudson house....

While rooting through a back seat pile of commuter-parent baggage (lunchkits, laptops, gym bag, backpacks, snowpants, groceries, art work) during a Sam drop-off a few weeks back, I spotted a colourful hexagon next to his booster. I spun around to ask Sam if he made it ... and broke his heart. He let out a wailing "ooohhh, nooo!" that made it clear I'd spoiled a surprise. Holding back tears, he explained: "I wanted to wrap that up for you!", the thrill of Christmas still fresh in his mind. I knelt down for a big hug, declaring my love of the little craft to help soothe his obvious disappointment. "Is this an ornament?" I asked ... and then had to stifle my laugh when he answered earnestly, "Yes. I wanted you to have something beautiful to look at while you washed the dishes."

Unlike the 'housework hexagon,' most of Sam's drawings are monochrome. He favoured a simple pencil for the longest time before moving on to the brown crayon. Then he went through a festive red stage through Christmas before settling on blues, where he's remained—aptly—for the chilly month of January. Before taking down the December bulletin board, I want to commit a few things to memory. First, Sam and made the wreath together during the Centre's "Annual Cup of Cheer" breakfast reception. Perched on the wee chairs together, we had a fun conversation about Christmas decorations. Another night, we coloured the Santa pic together, and Sam tried once again to decide if he preferred spelling his name with his left or his right hand. Finally, the figure at the bottom left that struck me as a lynched cowboy is Spiderman, lowering off a wall to battle the muscled stickmen in the centre of the drawing (click the photo to enlarge). I've developed quite a skill at eliciting details from him rather than guessing at the picture's content. I love these little Sam collages: I wish we could keep them all forever.

And speaking of wishes and forever, I will never tire of the sight of my slumbering son. Somehow in sleep, the infant's chubby cheeks, shallow breathing and tousled hair return and he's my baby bunny once again. He stays perfectly still through the night, with those small hands tucked up between face and pillow in a portrait of pure peace. I hope he always sleeps like that. I call this picture "Four Kisses," because that's how every day ends. Once the stories and songs are finished, I kiss his forehead and both cheeks before our goodnight kiss. And each kiss has its own statement: "Good night (kiss), sleep tight (kiss), sweet dreams (kiss), I love you (kiss)." Sleep well, Sammy.

Where I'm From

2008. The year Sam will turn 5. When I search my memory bank for my earliest solid memories—for more than the nickles and dimes of mere impression—I find that the deposits begin at five. My kindergarden classes, the playground near our apartment, our summer vacations with family, playing with my baby sister, visiting my grandparents. For Christmas, I wrote a poem for my mom & dad that calls on the sweetest memories of my youth to describe where I'm from.

It occured to me that if Sam were to do the same thing 35 years from now, he might reach back to these days—just barely—to describe where he's from. That the time we spend with him now is more than an intangible investment in his character; we're paying into Sam's memory bank. We're already sketching out the special events in the year to come, but I know very well that the enduring memories of childhood are tied up in the routines of the day, the landscapes of play, and all the jokes and lessons and traditions that add up somehow to the feeling of home. Though we get bogged down sometimes in the daily grind, we try our best to be aware of this fact. If we do it right, Sam will (as I do) look back with warm fondness on rich childhood memories, have a solid sense of who he is, and feel lucky to have grown up in this family.

Where I'm From

I am from Red Rose tea figurines, from Jell-O parfaits and from skipping double dutch till the street lights come on (two-four, shut the door, run out).

I am from the soft slope to the Old Woolen Mill, from the shadow of the Golden Ears, from the snowy expanse of the Red River Valley. I am from Fleetwood Mac on Saturday mornings, from home-baked fruit drop cookies in a blue plastic lunchkit, from arena hot chocolate after Sunday public skating.

I am from the hills and trails of Caledon, from the cedar-lined shores of Simcoe, and from high atop the Niagara escarpment where the porch swing carries me over sails and seagulls, white flecks on blue. I am from Quin-Mo-Lac and couldn’t be prouder: if you can’t hear me now, I’ll shout a little louder…

I am from Santa hats and carols and new pajamas on Christmas Eve, from family gin rummy after sundown in the campground, from Daszko and O’Driscoll, whose gentle hearts and smiles shine through in my son’s.

I am from the same voice as my Sisty Uglers, from the “dull roar” of exuberant conversation, from the punna-bunna and the salad balls and I always pay on a Tuesday, so put that away. I am from laughter.

From be the best blade of grass on the hill, and from you can’t be everything to everyone. I am from The Golden Rule. From share and be nice, from please and thank you. From the power of the butterfly’s wings and what goes around comes around.

I am from Whitevale and White Russia and the White Cliffs of Dover, from hand-pinched perogies at Easter and fluffy Yorkshire pudding served with Sunday roast beef. From two kinds of pie on Nan’s counter, always.

I am from the teenaged drummer who picked out the prettiest girl at the dance and fell in love because she was also smart and funny and kind. From the Key to Bala, from the Florida Keys.

I am from dozens of dining rooms, where we’ve gathered to share stories and laughter, to tease playfully, to raise a glass in celebration, to live and relive our family history.

I am from love.