Debra Darvickenhance your now in word and image
I was visiting with some young friends and their son. He is three and adores remotes. At one point during my visit he told me, “I am a button man.” I figured that was somewhat akin to being a car guy. I told him that I love buttons and had a collection of them. His beautiful blue eyes grew rounder in excitement.
“You have buttons?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I even wrote a story about buttons a long time ago. Maybe my next visit I’ll read it to you.” I don’t know how we got were we got next, but I commented that I had a button on my jeans. Max asked, “What does it do?”
And then it hit me. Max’s interactions with buttons have nothing to do with clothes and everthing to do with remotes. Dressed in pull-over sweatshirts and pull on pants, and zippered parkas, where do kids today encounter buttons except on keyboards and remotes?
I still might read him my story one day but I’ll probably bring my button jar. Otherwise he may well get quite confused.
If you’d like to read the story, head over to Grandparents.
Martin and I realize that this playground was named in honor of someone special to the Royal Oak, MI community. We still couldn’t help but laugh at the incongruity.
I guess it’s best to stay off the mood swings.
My daughter and her husband moved from Brooklyn last week. She shared with me a “moving” story that reminded me of an old New Yorker cartoon. The first frame showed a man, newly arrived to the Big Apple, arms lifted to the heavens, an exultant smile on his face, shouting, “New York! Here I am!!” The second frame shows him reaching for his suitcases that were, of course, no longer there.
Emma, wanting to leave behind some good will in her neighborhood, put a vase of eucalyptus on her stoop, intending for passersby to take a stem or two back to their apartments. A half hour later Emma saw that someone had taken her dimestore vase and tossed her beloved eucalyptus into the trash.
Covid shmovid. Nuthin’ touches a New Yorker’s noive.