After Musician Daughter recovered physically, she and Musician-In-Law took a weekend to spend alone together. It’s hard dealing with complicated emotions in the midst of an active two year old. That’s where ‘Nani’ could be the most help. I got an entire weekend with Destined-To-Be-A-Musician.
Write Anywhere #68: Cornfield
BAM, I’ll call him for short, lives up to this nickname. When he enters a room, BAM, he’s there, and everyone knows it. Cutest little dickens you ever saw, but every grandma says that about their grandchild. I live up to the stereotype. I spent each waking minute making sure we stuck to BAM’s schedule as much as possible. He is a creature of habit, and if his habits are askew, the world is askew. BAM is a happy child about 92% of the time. But his 8% unhappy will rock your world. Fortunately our weekend together fell into the happy zone.
We had a great time playing at the park, building with blocks, coloring with giant crayons, and watching SpongeBob SquarePants until I thought my head would explode. We ate ‘noonoos’ (noodles) and ‘nanas’ (bananas) and a ‘brrgr’ from McDonalds. We drove to a nearby town and raced through WalMart in our ‘vroom vroom’ cart. Late in the afternoons we’d chase each other in the grass behind the apartment complex. The complex backs to a cornfield. Seems all of southern Illinois is cornfields. The ripening corn stood about seven feet tall. BAM ran, laughing and squealing, until he’d make a dead stop at the cornfield wall, with a look of confusion on his face. I tried to get him to venture with me into a row, but he’s smart. No corn jungle for him.
After a wonderful day full of fun, games, and grandma’s slobbery kisses, BAM dutifully took a bath and settled down in his bed each night. That’s when I caught my breath.
I sat in the dark on the apartment balcony, facing the cornfield. The night sounds were at once relaxing but with an edge of mystery: the hum of cicadas, the corn stalks snapping in the breeze, an owl’s hoot somewhere in the night, and the occasional rumble of an eighteen-wheeler along the interstate.
I’d scribble a few lines in my journal, mostly about gratitude and simple joys. After a while that pesky imagination whirred into motion as I stared the twenty feet lit by security lights to the cornfield, then past the cornfield wall and into the dark. I remembered this and scared myself.
Then I got the beginnings of a spooky story about cornfields and Indian ghosts (Remember the Indian burial ground?) with BAM and I.
Too many cornfields can make you silly I suppose.
Where did you write this week?