ever-fixed mark

I took Minor to the children’s museum in Dover this weekend, and at lunch I amused myself with this copy of the Rochester, NH Times:

Happy Ramadhan, Seacoast Muslims! Have some bacon.

The editor’s ham-fistedness (get it?) was more than offset, though, by the flair evidenced elsewhere in the paper. Prepare to admire the narrative stylings of the Police Blotter:

Monday, Aug. 10

11:02 a.m. Rite Aid on Wakefield Street reports getting a false Oxycodone presciption.

7:38 p.m. On Chamberlain Street, one neighbor is in another neighbor’s face. A cat is thrown from a second-floor window, and obscenities are also in the air.

7:49 p.m. At Rite Aid, a man tries to pick up his forged prescription. No cruisers are available.

8:25 p.m. On Chestnut, a boy would like to show his mother a cat in the road, but is slapped by a woman. This is followed by half a dozen calls describing people yelling and flipping.

8:36 p.m. Music blasts on Chestnut Street, possibly to drown out the yelling and flipping.

10:12 p.m. Choice words are used after a quartet of drinkers is nudged off Congress Street steps.

Tuesday, Aug. 11

3:56 On Crown Point Road a “rooster problem” is reported.

6:11 p.m. A Copper Lane citizen has had his e-mail account hacked. E-mails have been sent out asking everyone on his address book to send money to England.

7:22 p.m. A dirt biker, “whipping along Autumn Street” is counseled.

10:04 p.m. A Moores Court door is egged and the “N” word is also hurled around.

Wednesday, Dec. [sic] 12

3:54 p.m. Near the Salvation Army, a lady is on the ground appealing for help, while a gentleman punches her in the face.

8:05 p.m. A Washington Street woman has found a very pornographic photo of a juvenile on her lawn.

Thursday, Dec. [sic] 13

3:27 p.m. At the station, a man reports the theft of a jewelry box “within the last year” and knows who did it.

7:22 p.m. With the prospect of a yelling match, a large crowd gathers on Congress Street.

Friday, Dec. [sic] 14

11:50 a.m. The District Court bathroom has been toilet-papered, but officials are flushed with success — they have a handle on the culprits.

7:48 p.m. At McDuffee Brook Place six people are reportedly arguing, including a gentleman with his new girlfriend and an annoyed old girlfriend.

10:00 p.m. Several people are battling at the end of Congress. Police have to guess which end.

Aitch is very impressed with the fact that he is now Six, and he expects you to be impressed, too. He is continually buttonholing (took me a few minutes to light on that, after rejecting pigeon-holing? Punch-holing?Corn-holing?) people with the information: “Did you know, I’m Six now?” Happily for him, they tend to respond with the required shock and awe: “What? No way! You’re Six? That’s wonderful!” etc.

Sometimes, though, there is no one of Aitch’s acquaintance in the vicinity, and he resorts to impressing strangers. His modus operandi is to sidle up to a random person on the street; turn to me, all faux-casual, remarking loudly, “You know, now that I’m SIX…”; and then look for the stranger’s gobsmacked reaction, as if he had said, “My Super Bowl ring is pinching me today,” or “This is the exact shade of blue my helicopter is painted.”

This has only worked once, on a teenage girl who was disposed to look kindly on small children. The rest of the time, sadly, he has been ignored. They say that intermittent reinforcement is the most powerful, though. I expect he’ll continue to try until he’s Seven.

My office was relocated to a different building even closer to the Moroccan cafe where I was getting my morning and afternoon coffee, so now I’m visiting up to three times a day. Ramadhan started recently, and I feel terrible coming in and ordering food and drink when all the staff are starving. Yesterday afternoon when I got my coffee I struck up a conversation with two of the workers, asking if they were fasting. I mentioned that when I lived in Tunisia, restaurant workers weren’t put in the position of serving non-fasting patrons, because most of the cafes were closd during the day.

One of the guys asked how long I had lived in Tunisia, and I told him. The other guy said, “I’m from the country right next door to Tunisia.”

“Are you Algerian or Libyan?” I asked.

“Moroccan,” he answered.

“I don’t think Morocco and Tunisia share a border,” I said.

He insisted, and even drew me a map. I contradicted him, but then one of the other patrons (not a North African) said to me, “You know, he’s right. Morocco is next to Tunisia.”

“I don’t THINK so,” I said, but I was starting to doubt myself. On one hand, I was sure that Morocco wasn’t next to Tunisia, because if it had been, I would have gone there. It was the fact that Tunisia was landlocked between of war-torn Algeria on one side and death-to-America Libya on the other that prevented me from taking any train journeys out of the country for three years. On the other hand, I’d persisted in idées fixes in the past only to have my worldview crumble when proven wrong. There was the time my mother-in-law told me that the word “restaurateur” was properly spelled without an N, and the time that my friend P. proved that Neil Young had never been in the group America. Could I have been laboring under a geographical delusion all these years?

No.

I can’t believe I backed down.

Aitch has always been wary of the kayak, but since we got back from vacation at the Tyler Place (gah! we left the day that Julie and Julia arrived! Am still imagining the Vermont Mommy Blogging summit that might have been) he has been talking about trying to paddle the kayak on his own. His counselors took his group kayaking one day and let some of the kids paddle their own boats. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do the same with six-year-olds, but I saw this as a great opportunity to get Aitch more interested in kayaking.

So last weekend, I loaded up two kayaks on the car, but I determined I would leave one on top of the car until I was certain Aitch was enjoying himself. I put one boat in the water, put Aitch in his PFD, and handled him the paddle. I had envisioned myself wading alongside him whilst coaching him on the finer points of paddle management. I certainly did not envision him striking out confidently for the middle of the pond, leaving me open-jawed on the shore.

He was in a big, wide kayak, using a big, heavy paddle, and he quickly got tired and sloppy. I held my breath as I wondered if he’d be able to turn the boat around and come back. The other boat, you’ll remember (foreshadowing!) was still on top of the car, and the only way to rescue him would be to swim for it.

Now, before you go calling DSS, I need to make this clear: Aitch was in a perfectly stable boat, he was wearing his life jacket, and he is very confident in the water. At no time was he more than a fifteen-second swim away from me, and I was perfectly capable of swimming out and towing him back. I wasn’t afraid for his safety; I was afraid that he would end up with a tantrum and I would end up with leeches. It was not the cleanest pond.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t panicking, so I told him how to paddle on one side to turn the boat around. Amazingly, he did, and he made it back to shore. Then he went out and back again, out and back again, at which time I decided not to push my luck any further, and I beached him while I put the second boat in the water.

Then I had a brainwave, also stimulated by something I saw at the Tyler Place. I got one of the tie-down straps from the car and hooked the stern of my boat to the bow of Aitch’s. Then I towed him through the water. He practiced paddling when he felt like it, occasionally bumping my boat, and cruised the rest of the time. We followed Dog around the pond, looking for frogs and spying on a big blue heron. It was really fun and surprisingly easy to tow another boat. Aitch got to have his own space, and I didn’t have to worry about him getting too tired. As a bonus, I remained leech-free.

Me (reading e-mail): Hey, it’s Occupation Week at Minor’s pre-school this week.

Husband: Darn, I forgot to pack his little Nazi uniform.

Me: Funny, that’s exactly what I was picturing.

This summer, we’ve benefited from some non-toxic pest control methods taught to us by others. (What can I say? Minor loves fruit, and the universe is his trash receptacle.) Forthwith, the only Hints from Heloise you’re ever likely to get from me:

Ants: My housekeeper kills ants with kosher salt. Works like a charm and seems to deter further infestations.

Fruit flies: My friend K, who has a winery and three children who also love fruit but shun trash cans, showed me this. Put some apple cider vinegar, dish soap, and hot water in a cup, filling it to the brim. The little devils are attracted by the vinegar, but the soap bubbles trap their little feet. Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

If you use this in your wine tasting room, though, warn the patrons so they don’t dip their bread into it, thinking it’s olive oil.