Yesterday, Sylvan fell asleep on the bathroom floor, bare butt to the sky. I took him upstairs to his bed, where he nestled into his blankets.
After his nap, I didn’t hear any calls of “Mommy!”, only furniture-moving and book-dropping. When I entered his room, I was greeted with this image, ears and all.
The nighthawks had settled in to roost on the gravelly shore of Fourmile Lake after completing their graceful evening mosquito slaughter. I was sure that the lake held enormous bullfrogs, burping loudly, but it was nighthawks, pulling out of daredevil dives, that boomed through our dinner. 
The birds earned the name “boom bat” in the South for these noises (I don’t know that they’re vocalizations) and for their crepuscular flying antics. After Wendy, Leslie, Chris, and Sylvan tucked into the tents, I sat leaning against piles of driftwood, Cassiopeia to my right and Mount McLoughlin over my left shoulder. Little dark waves faded into the dark gravel as they traveled toward me. The setting first-quarter moon brightened the edges of the cloud hovering over McLoughlin, at 9495 feet almost 4000 feet higher than Fourmile Lake. If I had to miss the Polhemus family reunion on Cape Cod, I’m glad I could spend the weekend here, especially with Leslie and Wendy, two of the most patient, generous toddler companions and friends we could find.
Leslie asked us to climb Mount McLoughlin and Mount St. Helens this summer. I immediately said, “yes,†with an especially enthusiastic response for McLoughlin, which is right off the Pacific Crest Trail in southern Oregon. In 2003, I had looked forward to climbing some of the Cascade peaks while on the Oregon PCT. That proved impossible within our timeframe, unfortunately, so I still hanker to slowly chip away at the list of volcanoes I want to stand on. McLoughlin is an easy climb —11 miles round-trip with 3900 feet of elevation gain — evidenced by the 15 cars in the parking lot by 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. If McLoughlin were situated in the central Oregon Cascades, we probably would have seen 100 people rather than 20, though. South Sister, on a sunny weekend, is a misery of too much company. But you will see someone you know, if that’s your thing.
Despite his mother’s ridiculous impatience, Sylvan walked for the first 2.5 miles and 1000 vertical feet of McLoughlin’s summit trail, with a short interlude of .25-.5 mile on Daddy’s back. While we were impressed with his endurance and rock-hopping ability, it wasn’t until we walked back down over that terrain that we really recognized Sylvan’s hiking prowess. And while he walked slowly, less than a mile an hour, folks who’d passed us on the way up still sat on the summit when the women in our party summited. I want to quietly encourage my little hiker, never pushing him to love what I love, so that perhaps he won’t rebel when he’s 14 and tell me that if he never hikes another step it will be too many.
When Sylvan’s naptime arrived, Chris shouldered the little big boy, carrying him up another few thousand feet — despite the fact that Chris had run 31 miles in a row eight days earlier. Then, 50 minutes before Leslie, Wendy, and I reached the summit, Chris and Sylvan headed down because the route included some boulder scrambling (Thanks for taking one for the team, Honey.). Above the boulders, the route along the ridge climbed through some slippery scree, never with frightening runout. We passed three dogs on their way down, all leading their separate parents down the slope. Ah, to have four legs for balance.
I signed the summit register, touched the tip-top rock, and scree-skied down, trying to make it down quickly because I understand the loud unhappiness of a nap-skipping toddler. I know that it’s easier to deal with that unhappiness in the company of another adult who will make faces, laugh uproariously, and generally mimic all of the toddler’s bad manners. Toddlers love that. Actually, ours does. Silliness almost always wins.
I told my sister that I’d climbed McLoughlin on her 28th birthday, and I said I was surprised at how strong I felt, like I really am bionic. I haven’t been running much, yet I hardly noticed that little climb. She said, “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. I keep asking you if you feel different since your surgery, and, finally, you do.â€
This one is really just for Patrick, but the rest of you might enjoy it a little. Just a little something from our visit to the Columbus Zoo a couple of weeks ago.
I’m going through notes that I made for myself over the last few months, and I found a note that says “the plane we saw.” There’s a link to an article in the Eugene Register-Guard, our local paper.
Sylvan and I were weeding the garden or mowing the lawn in mid-May when a plane flew over. Sylvan looked up, found it, and let me know that a plane was flying over. He does that. “ehya-pane.”
I looked up and saw that this was no ordinary plane. Slow and lumbering, large and silver, four large propellers. “That looks like a B-17 bomber or something,” I thought, but what do I know. For a few seconds, I wondered what might be going on, but the grass was long and Sylvan needed attention, so I quickly taxied the plane to the back of my brain.
Later that weekend, I found an article in the paper explaining that sure enough, a B-17 bomber, one of a dozen still able to fly, had been visiting the Eugene airport as part of a tour to promote preservation and awareness of these historic planes. The plane was available for tours and flights. You can see pictures of the plane we saw on the Experimental Aircraft Association’s B-17 web site. Here’s a taste:
(Photo taken from b17.org. I hope they don’t mind free publicity.)
The stars lined up for Sylvan last week. Saturday, we walked past the fire station, and Sylvan pasted himself against the building’s glass garage door, pining for the big red firetrucks. Firefighter Lance noticed Sylvan, and mimed a question, “Would you like to come inside?” Oh, yes! Sylvan drove the firetruck – twice, after saying, “Again,” when we were on our way out – observed the “binkin’ yights” on the truck, and banged the clapper on the real bell mounted on the truck’s bumper. Thank you, Lance.
On Tuesday, we came across some roadwork while out for a drizzly walk. The steamroller passed back and forth over the asphalt, its yellow light flashing, vibrating the ground as it backed up. Sylvan stood, smitten, for 12-15 minutes. After an asphalt layer is laid and smoothed, it apparently has to cool before another is laid, so one of the guys asked Sylvan if he’d like to drive. Oh, yes! And he beeped the gloriously loud horn, too.
The following day, Sylvan and Daddy went to the City of Eugene’s Touch a Truck, an event packed with heavy machinery enthusiasts of all ages. I don’t know the extent of the excitement, but I do know that Sylvan drove a mixer truck and was inside a police car. We’re writing a thank you note to municipal service employees this week.
While I was away on Saturday night, Sylvan decided to start climbing out of his bed again. Julie, always on her toes, got on Craigslist and found a toddler bed for sale. We drove out to Crow and bought it on Sunday from a nice ex-toddler named Madison. Sylvan started sleeping in his new big boy bed on Sunday afternoon.
And when I say “sleeping,” I mean “waking up much more frequently than is absolutely necessary.” He woke up about five times the first night, twice the second night, and just once last night. I like the trend.
My Gramma Jo would have celebrated her 94th birthday last Thursday, the same day Sylvan turned 22 months old. When Gramma passed away in June of 2005, then Sylvan was born three months later, constitutionally unable to stop moving or to allow the adult holding him to stop walking, bouncing, or dancing, my Mom said, “Hmm, sounds like Gramma Jo.” Since Sylvan started walking, then running and dancing and hopping and twirling and wrestling, he has delighted in the world and protested very little. Gramma danced into her last year of life, and she certainly wouldn’t let any of her sisters get away without a quick partnered shuffle-step at a family reunion or birthday party.
We joined Netflix last week, after the only good, independent movie rental store in town shut its doors unexpectedly. Our television has lived in the garage since we moved in, so it’s only been turned on for some Olympics footage, a PBS Yosemite in winter special, and each summer season of “So You Think You Can Dance.” Thus, we’ve missed the good TV along with the barrels full of dregs. So, the first DVDs in our Netflix queue? The full 86 episodes of The Sopranos.
We’ve watched four so far. I’m glad my Italian heritage bypassed the north Jersey printed short suits and (at least recent?) mob ties, and I’m thankful that Gramma spoke like the true Italian-American that she was. Listening to Tony and Carmela Soprano say “stroy-a-del,” “mootzarell,” and “pro-jhoot,” just like Gramma, makes me want to correct my Americanized culinary language and tell it like it is. When I worked in Manhattan, I regularly bought “stroy-a-dels,” or sfogliatelles, at Bruno King of Ravioli on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. One day, the man behind the counter said, “Who taught you how to say that? That’s not how you say it.” Chastened, I started calling the pastries “sfoy-a-tella,” at least similar to Wikipedia’s pronunciation of “sfo-lyah-TEL-e.” But, after hearing Carmela say exactly what my Gramma used to say, I’m sticking to my guns. “Mootzarell,” here I come!
Mommy: “Sylvan, what’s your zebra drinking?”
Sylvan: “Mocha!”
Dear Sylvan,
Yesterday, after you broke down at the pool, including the requisite 2-year-old thrashing and crying, 12 minutes after we’d gotten there, you said to me “Take a nap” as we climbed the steps to our back door. Oh, yes, my poor, sleepy boy. Next time, perhaps you could tell me that about half an hour earlier, maybe even BEFORE the changing into bathing suits and tantrum. I’ll try to read your signs better, too. It’s true that I was quite excited to go to the pool.
You and I have gone to the pool a handful of times, now that we’re finally in Eugene after all of our traveling. I actually brought a magazine on Tuesday and read the ENTIRE table of contents and “About our Authors,” since all you really want to do is shovel sand and dump it into the holes the big boys are digging. While you move earth, I sit and shade-bathe. I’m really excited when you move toward the water, as that’s where I’d like to spend my time when it’s 100 degrees. And when you say “yes” to the slide, yippee for Mommy! I enjoy that as much as you with your megawatt grin and deep dimples.
You’ve become quite the little honey, charming your Great Grampa John last week until he called you a “dear soul,” a characterization he surely gleaned by observing your idolization of your 7-year-old cousin, Elliot, your keen interest in fireflies and bunny rabbits, and your willingness to kiss everyone good night while kindly ignoring your tendency to disrupt dinner to run up and down the stairs.
Great Gramma Kay gave me a blanket last week, a soft, fleece-y one decorated with the American flag because she knows how much I enjoy going to America, also known as her home of Columbus, Ohio, for the 4th of July.
They do it up right in Columbus, complete with neighborhood parades with impressive floats from different residential streets, yard parties aplenty, and 451 different fireworks displays. Anyway, your great grandmother didn’t even know how you’ve become a little blanket snuggler, amusing yourself for fifteen minutes at a time just getting comfy under some soft blankets. You wrapped right up in the blanket for the parade, to the delight of the parade-goers nearby.
Your musical interest and talent has blossomed in the last month. You’ve always enjoyed “rocking out” in your carseat, bobbing your head back and forth, but now, when you’re dancing, you might throw in some different steps, or even a twirl or hand gesture or chasing your tail, silly boy. And your SINGING, well, let’s just say you’re beginning to rival Mommy with her phonetic singing (Who knew that Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” wasn’t really “Oreo?” And in Scandal’s “The Warrior,” isn’t it “a splash up takes another bite?” What do you mean that doesn’t make sense?). You especially love songs with nonsense words and phrases: knick-knack-paddy-whack, E-I-E-I-O, fee-fi-fiddly-i-o, choo-choo-cha-boogie.
I know our weblog readers are probably tiring of our awe with your spoken word, but these are a few of my favorite new expressions or one-time goodies:
“Mommy & Daddy” — Rather than crying from your crib in the morning, you’re likely to call out one of our names or your new favorite, “Mommy and Daddy,” which you imbue with a pretty singsong. You also use this phrase when you want it all, when you want both parents to join you on your next adventure.
“Maybe Baby” — You’re starting to appreciate rhyming, sometimes telling me a word you know that rhymes with something I just said. When I called you “baby” the other day, you responded with “maybe baby.”
“Sweeping fire” — You swept the dirt path inside our back gate, and that produced puffs of dust. You nodded and said you were “sweeping fire” when I asked what you were doing.
“Beeping up” — Of course it’s called “beeping up” when a truck backs up and beeps on the way.
I love you.
—Mommy
Uncle Eddie would be so proud. This cheesecake is super, but the cherry sauce is too sour, although I’m sure we won’t have any difficulty polishing it off. Note to self: sour cherries need LOTS of added sugar. When the peaches come in, I’ll attempt Uncle Eddie’s peach-blueberry pie. Now if only I could make chruschiki.