Hot and Sweaty

[mallorys_camera]

About a billion degrees out and (fortunately) windless: for the past three days a fire has been burning out of control at the old Fort Ord which is five miles away from where I live but a mere mile and a half as the pelican flies across water from my little shop. The fire was supposed to be a "controlled burn." The idea was to get rid of some of the dense chaparral and stunted trees growing up out of the old entrenchment sites, the better to clear the way for "affordable" housing developments. The military left a lot of environmental hazards behind when they cleared out twelve years ago although I’ve always been a bit unclear about the exact nature of those hazards – Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction perhaps? Anyway, when the vegetation is gone, the hazards will be easier to deactivate. The houses will sell for upwards of half a million dollars apiece. That’s the definition of affordable in these parts. The fire jumped its boundaries about an hour after it was started and more than a thousand people had to be relocated to motels out of the smoke range. The military was very clear: they were not being evacuated. That’s the definition of control.

Since it was a million degrees in the sunny side of the plaza, Ernesto wandered apologetically into the store. "I’m dying of heat. Do you mind if we set up in the shade right outside your store?"

"Hi Ernesto," I said. "Do what you gotta do."

Ernesto brightened. "Hey, you know my name."

"Sure," I said. "You’re a very talented musician. And I know you hate playing El Condor Pasa almost as much as I hate listening to it."

Ernesto sighed. "I know, I know, but that’s what people want to hear. Sometimes, I’m just rude. People ask, I say, ‘Lady, get with the times. The condor went bye-bye. He off on long vacation with the dinosaur. Sayonara Big Bird.’ But you know, he always come back."

In other news, this week was science camp. When your child attends a small, parent-run charter school, you get very involved in school activities. This is how I ended up as a counselor for two and a half days, chaperoning a group of ISM girlies in the wilderness. Now I’m a mother of sons, I don’t have very much experience with little girls so the whole experience played out kind of like an anthropological field trip for me. I was simply blown away by the difference in the levels of maturity between the single eleven year old sixth grader and Robin’s two little fourth grade classmates. The littler girls were very interested in where the animals lived and how they went to the bathroom whereas Kirsten, the sixth grader, was mostly interested in how she could escape into the bathroom so she could apply her mascara without any of the resident adults finding out.

In another group there was a sixth grader named Francesca, a perky little thing with budding breasts and well-developed hair-tossing skills. The last night of camp was skit night and when Robin’s group got up to perform, Francesca screamed, "Robin, Robin," like she was one of the girls in A Hard Day’s Night screaming for the Beatles. It was hard for me to comprehend.

Then on Friday night after we got home, she called him twice. On the phone.

And again the next night.

"Why is Francesca calling you?" I asked.

Robin shrugged. "She wanted to tell me that she thinks Ed likes her."

Ben and I exchanged looks. "Uh oh, the old make-him-jealous-with-another-guy routine," said Ben.

It’s very clear that Francesca has a crush on Robin. Now Robin is almost unbelievably handsome – his eyelashes seem to grow another half inch every day, his face has the perfect, preternatural beauty of a Renaissance page boy lit by moon light – but c’mon, he’s nine years old. And somewhat emotionally immature for his age. In fact the stray peepee accident in the middle of the night is not altogether an unfamiliar event at Casa Trumble-Air-Ucchio. But the girl is determined to fixate on him. As I obsess about my own coup de foudre, it’s very clear there’s some Big Cosmic Insight lurking here somewhere, though one that I’m too overheated and sweaty to tease out.

Comments

[idylld.livejournal.com]

How I dread that eclipse of reason that so many 6th grade girls seem to lapse into, perhaps not to emerge until they are 20, in a bad marriage with kids. (My nightmare in a nutshell.) Being Interested (in Anything besides mascara) is the antidote and I fan that flame as hard as I can in Emielia. She is still physically immature, but there's a decided split in her 5th grade class and I know we're getting to the crucial time. She's going to be a beauty and she's frighteningly peer driven at times.

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

... that eclipse of reason ...

You do have a lovely way with words. I remember that phase quite clearly in my own life, and indeed one of the great pleasures of middle age is that I feel more nearly kin to my 12-year-old self -- a self I liked -- than any time since then. Visibility is the headiest of drugs.

It's easier with boys. They don't seem to be lured quite as easily from their innocent, geeky preoccupations even while they're waving that Sex, Drugs and Rock 'N' Roll banner. Still, Robin the resident nine year old asked me yesterday, "So. Can I date when I'm in the sixth grade?"