Month: August 2012

The Letter

It’s been a little tough for the Girl to begin school. Going from the small environment and relative freedom of Montessori to the highly organized reality of public school kindergarten would have been enough, but the color-coded “positive behavior incentive program” has added an entirely new stress. All students begin on green, it was explained to us during orientation, and students update their color as their behavior changes. Blue and purple indicate great and superior behavior; yellow and red indicate problematic and bad behavior. “Finishing on green or higher is considered a successful day,” said the principal.

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L’s goal from the beginning: straight purple. Her first day, she came home with purple; her second day, blue. A few days later, the unthinkable: green.

“I hate those colors,” K admitted shortly afterward. “Why do they even need that system?”

I understand the reasoning, though. Public school lumps together children from a variety of backgrounds, with parents who have more or less effective parenting skills. In short, there arrive at kindergarten children who aren’t very well behaved. They must learn the social skills necessary to make it through school successfully, and such a system is an attempt to foster a certain (edu-speak alert!) behavioral metacognition.

But for children who already have those skills? And for children like the Girl, who already have those skills plus a healthy dose of OCD perfectionism? It’s stress.

And then the email arrives from L’s teacher, Ms. B:

Good Afternoon! I just wanted to take a moment and let you know what a joy L is to have in class. She has such a sweet personality and is so much fun to teach. I can’t wait to get to know her better and let her show me how smart she is. Thank you for sharing her with me.

Thank you, Ms. B.

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The Girl was heading up to bed. Teeth were brushed, hair combed. But one thing remained.

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“I’m going to bed,” she said.

“Oh, no, no, no! Not until you…” came the stereo response.

The Blind and the Blind

They sit in their desks, which chance has placed side by side, and quibble. Snipe. Insult. Complain. One barges in on another’s conversation with an inane response meant only to provoke, then grows angry about the provocation. An act? The other talks about her nemesis as if she’s not there when in fact she’s within ten feet. Deliberate cruelty?

I intervene, and soon one or the other is saying words that could have easily come out of either’s mouth

“She’s so irritating!”

“I can’t stand her!”

“She does that stuff just to annoy me!”

“She won’t quit!”

And I find myself saying, “If.” If you’re so annoyed by her, why provoke her by cutting into her conversation? If you think she’s purposely irritating you, why encourage her by acknowledged her success? If she won’t quit, why don’t you?

The obvious answer isn’t always so obvious to adults; to expect a flash of mature intuition from thirteen-year-olds might be just looking for the miraculous. Still, I hope that eventually, once the blinders begin to fall off, they’ll recognize futility.

Choices and Impressions

First impressions are important, we teachers tell our students constantly. They’re important, that’s certain, but in a classroom setting, where first impressions melt into 180 days of reality, they often don’t last. Naturally, they always change by year’s end, but it’s not a simple arc of development. They frequently shift, sometimes gracefully, occasionally violently; they often morph, like shadows or clouds; they sometimes circle on themselves.

I try to start them off positively, projecting a hastily-made but sincerely meant message on the overhead, wondering how they’ll interpret it.

First day message to students

How does one make a positive first impression in an eighth-grade classroom? They do their best: they don’t talk much at all; they sit in their seats, still; they hush up when I poke my head into the room from hall duty.

I do my best to make my first impression count: I am a hard-as-nails, traditional teacher. My voice is stern; my posture, perfect; my hands, clasped behind my back. I give them a drill sergeant routine. And then I soften, explaining, “I can be that kind of teacher as necessary.” It’s the same every year, but I don’t know that this year I am as successful in creating that tough, gruff exterior.

We make our first impressions, and we move on. Their opinion of me changes; mine of them alters. The talkers appear; those with bullying tendencies make those known; the unmotivated begin altering their body language.

And then comes a new student. He enters the room, a classroom already with its own atmosphere and dynamic just a handful of days into the school year. He has a decision to make, an impression to make. We all do.

The fork in the road

“The fork in the road” by i_yudai

He stands at a cliche crossroads. He can never turn back. He can never recreate that first impression.

Sometimes, his choices are shockingly disappointing.

Practice

I learned to appreciate soccer sitting with friends at this or that bar in Lipnica Wielka or sitting with my in-laws, watching club play as well as Euro Cup and World Cup tournaments. It’s a deceptive game for the uninitiated, and since I’d never played or even really watched the game, I had no idea about much of it.

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And so when it comes time to start helping the Girl with her new soccer skills, I have to rely on the basics, things I’ve inferred from watching but never actually been taught — like kicking with the inside-top of the foot for better control.

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It soon becomes clear, though, that the Girl either kicks the ball with the side of her foot or the front of her foot — perhaps too much too quickly.

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Other skills are simpler, like stopping the ball.

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In the end, though, we deduce that the best option is simply to encourage the enjoyment of the game, The finer points will come later.

On the Field

It’s perhaps a cliche of parenting, the desire to give more to your children than you had as a child. Unfortunately, it seems our culture equates that “more” materialistically more often than not, but the question of experience seems more important. And to that end, we have to step out of our usual circle and involve others — for instance, ten others, to make a soccer team.

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Providing the Girl with the opportunity to kick a ball back and forth is easy enough: we’ve done it in the backyard a time or two. Attention spans, though, tend to be short in such activities. There’s always a cat to chase, a trampoline to pull out of the basement, or something else — squirrel! Somehow, though, things change when kicking the ball in a controlled environment with virtual strangers. Perhaps it’s a desire to create a positive impression; maybe it’s the drive to conform and kick along with the others. Whatever the case, the Girl’s first experience with soccer provided her first and foremost with a concentrated dose of semi-organized sport.

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Still, kicking and even throwing a soccer ball, even in concentrated doses, only provides so much, and it’s all physical.

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There’s more to sport than the physical. In fact, the physical, at a certain level of competition, is only incidental. World-class athletes have practiced so much that the maneuvering and contorting involved in a given sport is almost a matter of muscle memory. Watch a gymnast doing a routine on the pommel horse and it’s hard to imagine he’s thinking through every single move, every single flex of the muscle. By that time, the game is mental. He knows he can do his routine perfectly: he’s done it flawlessly in practice countless times. It’s now a question of doing it when there’s something — everything — at stake. It’s now a question of confidence and mental strength.

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A gymnast can’t really take his pommel horse skills into the business world and do much with them. He can, however, take his self-confidence and his ability to perform well under stress into non-sporting life and achieve just about anything he wants. So it’s not so much the physical I’m worried about as I watch the Girl run about the soccer field.

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I’m grateful, of course, for the improvement in coordination and strength such an activity brings, but more important is the mental development.

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I’m more pleased when she calmly chases down a ball that’s gotten out of her control, maintaining her cool the whole time, than I am when it becomes clear that she’s one of the fastest kids on the field.

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I’m more pleased when I see her calmly go get a ball that a teammate has kicked away from her out of childish spite

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than I am when I see a good, strong kick.

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But I’d be lying to deny that the kick makes me feel good, too.

First Day 2012

Who knows how many times I’ve done it. If I had to count, I probably could count how many “first days” at school I’ve experienced. With time on both sides of the desk, I suppose I’d have to be now nearing thirty first days.

But I still remember my first first day. Some degree of nervousness, some level of excitement, some small amount of disappointment mixed with a great deal of joy.

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I would like to think the Girl will remember her first first day. That she will remember how the night before her worries and fears melted in the morning to a smile and a paradoxically calm excitement.

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That she will remember her idea to have a desert picnic after dinner. That she will recall her planning and packing for the picnic.

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That she will linger over the memory of cuddling up to her mother, snuggling with her baby brother.

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And that she’ll think of that first day every time she sees an ice cream truck.

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Face Off

The Girl loves our cat, Bida. Loves. Too much. It borders on obsessive, and she traditionally has shown it in ways that are far from gentle. This probably explains why the Bida loves the basement hideaway we set up for her.

It also might explain her trepidation with our newest family member.

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Fortunately for her, there’s really only one thing he wants to do.

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Support

The first real step toward mobility is probably the ability to roll over. The only thing we as parents can do to help that develop, though, is simply to put the Boy on his belly as often as possible, most frequently just before feeding.

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Sitting, the second step, is something we can help him with. All we need is something to support him — from every direction.

To Mouth

Yet he remains more interested in his bib.

Orientation

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Exactly eight years ago today, to the minute, K and I were in the midst of our wedding party. One might suggest that I’ve made a mistake. “It’s six hours later in Poland,” one might protest. “That would make it almost five in the morning there.” Obviously, such a protester has never been to a Polish wedding.

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At five in the morning, we were still going — perhaps not going strong, and certainly not all of the guests still with us, but going all the same.

Eight years later, we’re still going, but there’s four now, which makes the going a bit more ponderous at times. Yet we still share the same future- and present-orientation that brought us together in the first place: family.

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And we’re still going ever-new places. Like kindergarten orientation.

Kindergarten? Already?

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Yes, and someone’s already set to be in the teacher’s seat at that.

Hands

Hide

The Boy has been discovering his hands, discovering that he has them, discovering that he can control them.

Final Day

The final day at Lake Tillery also included a boat ride, with the girls sitting in the back singing Polish Christmas carols as the Boy slept.

Carols on the Water

The destination: “Big Bridge,” a name that sounds just like something a three- or four-year-old would name a bridge that is rather large. Sort of like Big Wolf. (He still sleeps with the Girl every night. “He keeps me calm,” she once explained.)

"Big Bridge"

Of course, there was one last swim…

Swimming by the Lake

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First

Nana and Papa certainly have the picture somewhere: I stand by my uncle’s pond, rod and reel in hand, with a small fish on the line. I must have been four, maybe five. The rod and reel seemed impossibly heavy, and I thought the photographer — my uncle? mother? — would never snap the picture.

So I think I can understand the Girl’s frustration with me as I maneuvered for picture after picture of her first fish.

Boat Ride Bookends, Part Two

After the boat ride and swimming, we were shocked suddenly to discover it was lunch time. And once lunch was over, we were shocked at how tired the kids were — except the two youngest.

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But soon after, everyone was rested and the water called us back again. The little puppy running around the lakefront — dubbed Cutie by the kids — was quite an attraction, too. In fact, more so in many ways. Even when the puppy wasn’t there, they played as if she were there. “We must find Cutie!” L cried out, fishing for her with a bit of line and a magnet. “She must have fallen in!”

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But she hadn’t — we were the only ones to fall in. Make that jump in — the Girl’s newest water obsession.

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Meanwhile, the youngest looked on and ate an early dinner.

With a twelve-week-old, our schedule is his schedule. “He ate at three,” K begins, figuring the next feeding time and its impact on our less-than-tight schedule. Sometimes that’s a challenge; at the lake, it was inconsequential. After all, how many vacations run on a tight schedule? Well, scratch that: I know some who run their vacations like boot camp.

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Evening came and we decided on another boat ride. The Boy took it all in stride: his expression consistently said, “Oh well, here we go again. This should be fun…”

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And it was for some of us. L got to drive a boat for the first time. It was a carefree frolic for her. No stress; no worries, no fear.

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We returned to find brilliance.

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Brilliance that shifted.

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Boat Ride Bookends, Part One

Day two at Lake Tillery began and ended with a boat ride. “I’ve never been on a boat,” L announced in excitement, obviously having forgotten earlier rides in Slovakia.

Yet it was certainly the Boy’s first boat ride, the first time we bundled him up in a life jacket.

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“L would not have put up with this for a moment,” K laughed as we pulled out of the channel into the lake. The Boy, though, simply snuggled into the jacket and fell asleep.

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Had he known who was driving, he might not have been quite so calm. L’s best friend from Montessori, E, was at the wheel, his father at his side, doing a fine job despite the jokes.

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Pulling into the dock of E’s aunt, K immediately loosened the Boy’s life jacket and found a place for him to continue his apparently eternal nap.

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The Girl took a quick break, and upon waking, the Boy joined his mother in the lake with his newest friends.

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Afternoon at the Lake

L has fallen in love with water this summer. Among her favorite sports to watch in London are swimming and diving; she asks daily to go to the pool; she flops about in the tub in her best imitation of Rebecca Soni. Despite her consistent love of water, though, she wasn’t that wild about the beach when we first went. Or when we went the second time. So when we headed to North Carolina with friends for a weekend at the lake, I was a but curious how she would take swimming in the open water.

As might be expected, she was a bit cautions at first. Thought she’d given up her arm floats earlier in the summer, she learned that one of the rules of the pier was that children must always wear flotation devices — and since there were no more swim belts, the Girl was stuck wearing her arm floats again.

There was also initial concern regarding what else might be swimming with her — or under her. Talk of an enormous catfish that broke a line earlier in the day had her worried and sitting on the edge for a while.

But only for a while.

Thus began a weekend of firsts. Fishing, for example — something that requires more patience than I thought the Girl had ever shown in her whole life. Something that involves touching things the Girl might not like to touch, like hooks and worms and fish. Something that can pass hours with only one reward: the peace of the wait.

Yet the girl is growing, and she’s always surprising us with what she can do, what she’s willing to try, what we can force her to eat. (Some humor intended there.) Fishing became the big hit for the Girl.

Yet there were the old stand-bys — what kid in history has been able to turn down an invitation to watch a film while sitting in an old water heater box?

Cramped, stuffy, view-blocking — it didn’t matter. What mattered was to be in the box. The movie was only secondary entertainment.

With a full moon that night, though, adults had other forms of less-cramped, more serene entertainment.

Playground

The earliest memories center on the large rectangular jungle gym in the center, or so it would eventually seem to me, of an enormous playground. It was a fort, battleship, a prison, starship, a dungeon, a jungle, a towering inferno, and anything and everything else we needed in first grade. With its seemingly towering western side, it also gave me my first inclination of hierarchy and where I might stand in a given hierarchy. The brave boys, the boys who were already above — literally and figuratively — the average play of a first or second grader would climb to the top, straddle a top beam, and sit there for most of recess, calling out to us mortals below. Or perhaps it was simply they couldn’t fit in. Who knows — it’s been thirty-plus years, and divining motivations of those in my everyday life is difficult enough. Still, I felt them above me, sensed them above, and always thought they were somehow different.

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Just down the hill were the swings, which never held much interest to me. I wanted to use my imagination: swings weren’t conducive to that. Back and forth, back and forth, the more athletic boys in later grades would use the swings to show off their bravery, leaping from in-motion swings from heights that made me dizzy.

The swings were not my thing, but just south of the swings, a crag of rocks stretched out endlessly, with perfect curves and shapes to make the most majestic star cruiser ever built. There was a cockpit carved perfectly out of the rock, and toward the tail of the ship, a perfect gun torret for fending off attacks from marauding aliens. When we jocks (and even then, they could be called jocks) chased us nerds away from the serve-all jungle gym, this is where we came. And when we were lucky, we got to use both — mothership and explorer.

As we moved through elementary school, the playground grew with us. A new jungle gym made a better prison/dungeon than the old rectangular beast, so we made a move. A new spider-like contraption took away some of the spill-over from the rectangular beast, so I and my small group of space-loving friends took permanent possession of the dungeon and rock formation.

Unless it was a day that the teacher emerged from the school carrying a rubber, inflatable ball under her arm — a sure sign of impending disaster. We all knew where to go without being told: the large field to the east of the playground.

It was to be a kickball day. These were the days when all my inadequacies and worries seemed to come to fruition: always among the last picked, I hated kickball with a passion. The boys that hung out — literally — at the top of the jungle gym loved it. It wasn’t that I was not athletic. Indeed, I was a fast runner and always looked forward to the 50 yard dash (or was it only 40 yards?) during the fall and spring physical fitness tests. I knew I would have one of the top three times, and by fourth grade, the teacher always had Ernie and me go last. He always beat me, but I never worried: I could shine in second place just as well. Kickball, though, just didn’t do it for me: a rubber ball, bouncing along the roughly turfed field as it approached, with a team of fifteen of my peers all waiting to catch the ball I would inevitably send skyward as the ball took a small bounce just as I kicked.

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It was the beginning of my sense of never truly fitting in, my feeling of always been just on the outside. Never popular nor particularly unpopular, something that continued though junior high and high school.

With the Girl entering kindergarten in a few short weeks, I’ve begun thinking about my own school experiences and how I might like L’s to be different and what elements I might prefer to keep as similar to my own — as if I really have any say in the matter at all. Yet, I do: as a parent, I see behaviors and habits form that I quickly correct, explaining things like, “Being unwilling to share will make it difficult to make friends” and “Playing doesn’t mean telling your playmates what to pretend; that will make friendships hard.” We explain; we correct; we role play. Soon, we’ll see how successful our efforts have been.

Mixing

The Girl has fallen in love with the Olympics. “Can I watch gymnastics tonight instead of reading before bed?” she asked last night. This morning, it’s the same. She has her favorites, but she’ll watch just about anything. Gymnastics, though, sends her into a hypnotic trance — at least as much as a hyper five-year-old slide into motionlessness.

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After breakfast, she, K, and the Boy curl up to watch beach volleyball — not the Girl’s favorite, but she still chants “U-S-A!” endlessly.

It’s been an inspiring week for her. A week of growth. Rarely does she list “princess” as the first thing she wants to do with her life. Now the list includes gymnast, swimmer, dancer, and artist. Occasionally she adds “princess” to the mix,” but so many other things seem so much more interesting.

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But I’m not really worried about that kind of mixing. She’ll have enough goal mixing as she grows up. I anticipate at least three different majors during her freshman year, now only thirteen years away. No, it’s the little things that thrill me more.

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Things like stabbing a green bean and a piece of chicken onto the lunchtime fork in an effort to kill the bean taste. Or mixing rice and leftover chicken.

Downtown Rock Hill, Part 2

Is downtown Rock Hill is the story of America? One would certainly hope not, but in some ways, it seems to have all the elements in parallel. Within a couple of blocks we have signs of incredible affluence

and poverty-driven decay.

What’s the difference between these two homes? What’s the difference between the owners of these homes? Over the last few years, my explanations have shifted from the left to the center-right of the political spectrum. The answer seems hinted in other parts of town.

Still only a few blocks away, Nana points out yet another building with personal significance: the remains of Rock Hill Printing & Finishing. “This was where I was working when I met Papa,” she explains to us. She shows us where she used to enter, pointing out roughly where her desk was.

One wonders if there are any plans to renovate this particular building as others in the area. Just up the road, an old factory has been turned into an apartment complex. One could likely turn this shell into high-ceiling lofts or something similar. But is the demand there? I think back to the abandoned post office just a few blocks away, figuring it’s unlikely that this gigantic building will ever become of anything more than the subject of a blog post.

Just behind it lies the heart of the factory, once impressive, but now merely tragic. According to one source,

The building of the Rock Hill Printing and Finishing Plant in 1929 moved M. Lowenstein halfway along the way to becoming a totally integrated producer of textiles. The Rock Hill plant bleached, dyed, printed and finished cloth purchased from a variety of sources, primarily in the South. The rapid expansion of Lowenstein through the acquisition of textile mills produced the raw material for the plant and resulted in its own expansion. By the early 1960s, it grew from a plant with 200,000 square feet to one with more than 2 million square feet, which bleached, dyed, and finished both cotton and synthetic fabrics. New processes such as Sanforizing and the use of Scotchgard TM finishing permitted it to create permanent press cloth during the 1970s. Acquired by Springs Industries in 1986, the plant included 23 roller print machines and 7 screen print machines. (textilehistory.org)

Looking at an aerial view of the factory in its heyday, it’s clear the impact its closure had on the economics of Rock Hill. Now, only inspiration remains.

This is the story of South Carolina, a story that hopefully America as a whole will not echo. But I wonder. South Carolina used to be a textile center. My family’s fate was tied into that of the mills. My mother worked in a mill; my grandmother worked in a mill; countless aunts worked in mills. My father did electrical work in mills; my grandfather likely did masonry work for a mill or two. Every South Carolinian has mill work somewhere in her family history.

The cemetery just a block or so away is surely filled with those who worked the roller print machines and the bleaching machines, with those who did the screen printing and counted the cost of everything.

Rock Hill is only one of many textile cities in South Carolina that has suffered this fate. It’s only one of thousands of cities in America that must be harboring doubts that its best days lie in the future.

Sweet and Sour

Summer is sweet and sour. It is vines of filled with tomatoes turning a gentle orange before shifting to deep, sweet red. We pick them and smell the perfume that lingers on our hands. Romas provide consistency; Better Boys provide juice.

August Harvest

Then there’s the sour: weeds. They grow in the now-composted mulch that’s supposed to be keeping them out.

Waiting and Weeding

But there’s the sweetest of all: a boy who will wait patiently while mom tugs at the weeds.

August Morning