first polls are closing and i'm nervously telling stories
Fifteen minutes until the first polls close.
The sky is woolly grey; three last red apples sing brightly against the fence. Like Paul Klee, I can hear the colors singing--high piping of last lemon-yellow leaves, warm bass line of the cedars, a sudden flash of headlights.
Yesterday I WAS Paul Klee, with hair tied back in a scarf, paintbrush behind one ear, thick black mustache, low German accent. I threw paper circles and squares around the art room, played my paintbrush like a violin, and sang to the colors of a first grader's headband. . .at one point I teetered on a chair and shouted, "COLOR! I love COLOR!" So what if my German accent slipped into French every once and a while? Once, while I stood at Elspeth's elbow, she looked up at me and whispered anxiously, "It's fake, right?"
Yes, the 'stache is fake. Your mother really does not grow that much facial hair. The odd pluckable hair, yes. (Thanks to Maxwells for the assortment of mustaches, by the way).
This morning, after yesterday's art lesson, Martin and I accompanied Elspeth's class to a production of "Cinderella." One of Elspeth's classmates turned around in her chair and whispered, "You're the pirate, right? I remember you."
It's so hard being an artiste these days.
Then this same girl asked Martin, "Do you know J-E-F?"
"Jeff?" Martin asked. "Nope. I don't."
"J-E-F," the girl said, her chin cradled by the back of the chair. "That spells Jeff."
Martin nodded. "Don't know a Jeff."
"Is Jeff in your class?" I asked.
The girl shook her head. "No."
"Then who is Jeff?"
She spluttered and waved her hands around. "I don't know!" The townspeople came on with their plaster beef on sticks so she turned around and watched for a while, but it wasn't too long before she turned around again to announce, "J-E-F!" She nodded across the room. "There's Jeff."
?
Six minutes until the first polls close. Arg.
So last election Elspeth heard about Barack Obama constantly (there was even a slogan on our ketchup bottle: Vote for Obama!). I can't remember ever being so excited about an election--and I may never be again. Merry, six at the time, followed things closely and on the night we heard Obama would be the next president, we let her stay up to listen to the news, knowing she'd remember such a night forever.
Elspeth was little enough to not really take it all in, but even at two, her comic timing was well honed. We were riding in our car chatting about Obama when we heard a little voice from the backseat: "Daddy! I like John-i-Cain!" When we arrived at the polls, she looked around anxiously. "Where are they?" she demanded. "Where's Obama? Where's John-i-Cain?" We were sorry to disappoint her--the historical nature of the election then was not enough to satisfy a two-year old and we had to break the news to her that the candidates would not appear in person at the election booths.
It's one after four. I've talked myself through the last bit of waiting before the real news starts coming in. Hopefully Martin's stomach ache can end soon.
Happy democratic process, all.
The sky is woolly grey; three last red apples sing brightly against the fence. Like Paul Klee, I can hear the colors singing--high piping of last lemon-yellow leaves, warm bass line of the cedars, a sudden flash of headlights.
Yesterday I WAS Paul Klee, with hair tied back in a scarf, paintbrush behind one ear, thick black mustache, low German accent. I threw paper circles and squares around the art room, played my paintbrush like a violin, and sang to the colors of a first grader's headband. . .at one point I teetered on a chair and shouted, "COLOR! I love COLOR!" So what if my German accent slipped into French every once and a while? Once, while I stood at Elspeth's elbow, she looked up at me and whispered anxiously, "It's fake, right?"
Yes, the 'stache is fake. Your mother really does not grow that much facial hair. The odd pluckable hair, yes. (Thanks to Maxwells for the assortment of mustaches, by the way).
This morning, after yesterday's art lesson, Martin and I accompanied Elspeth's class to a production of "Cinderella." One of Elspeth's classmates turned around in her chair and whispered, "You're the pirate, right? I remember you."
It's so hard being an artiste these days.
Then this same girl asked Martin, "Do you know J-E-F?"
"Jeff?" Martin asked. "Nope. I don't."
"J-E-F," the girl said, her chin cradled by the back of the chair. "That spells Jeff."
Martin nodded. "Don't know a Jeff."
"Is Jeff in your class?" I asked.
The girl shook her head. "No."
"Then who is Jeff?"
She spluttered and waved her hands around. "I don't know!" The townspeople came on with their plaster beef on sticks so she turned around and watched for a while, but it wasn't too long before she turned around again to announce, "J-E-F!" She nodded across the room. "There's Jeff."
?
Six minutes until the first polls close. Arg.
So last election Elspeth heard about Barack Obama constantly (there was even a slogan on our ketchup bottle: Vote for Obama!). I can't remember ever being so excited about an election--and I may never be again. Merry, six at the time, followed things closely and on the night we heard Obama would be the next president, we let her stay up to listen to the news, knowing she'd remember such a night forever.
Elspeth was little enough to not really take it all in, but even at two, her comic timing was well honed. We were riding in our car chatting about Obama when we heard a little voice from the backseat: "Daddy! I like John-i-Cain!" When we arrived at the polls, she looked around anxiously. "Where are they?" she demanded. "Where's Obama? Where's John-i-Cain?" We were sorry to disappoint her--the historical nature of the election then was not enough to satisfy a two-year old and we had to break the news to her that the candidates would not appear in person at the election booths.
It's one after four. I've talked myself through the last bit of waiting before the real news starts coming in. Hopefully Martin's stomach ache can end soon.
Happy democratic process, all.
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