‘Hey! Hey…he’s got ADHD…that kid’s got ADHD!’ I turned around in the spring wind and looked at the little girl. She was pointing at a little boy who was running in wild circles while the rest of the children bent over together, picking dandelions and spring weeds. No one was watching him except the other little girl who pointed at him and waved in my direction. I said, ‘Well, I have ABCD’ and she laughed and laughed. Then she asked, ‘Hey, wait. What does that mean?’ I said, ‘I don’t know. You tell me’. She thought for a minute. ‘Maybe it’s smart’. ‘Yup…maybe’ I responded with a shrug. She laughed and laughed and handed me a dandelion.

‘Thank you’ I said. ‘Look, look…’ She pointed to her front tooth. I bent over to look closely. There was some sort of a bump on the edge of her gums. ‘Fascinating!’ I smiled at her. I walked away in the sunny wind and she returned to the field of dandelions and other girls. The little boy kept spinning…

We stand at the edge of my Father’s grave this morning. The hill wound up and around and I am slightly confused by the grass laden trajectory. The place appears brilliantly different from burial day when we stood by the open pit, clothing pierced by snow, frozen with shards of fine ice and whipping wind.

I remembered the absurdity of ballet slippers in the January snow as if I could defy all nature. It was determined. Defiant. ‘I will wear delicate slippers at the edge of a grave and I will not be cold’. And I breathed and time was gone and then we ran into Easter, the holiest day of the year. It is 75 degrees at the edge of the grave and I kick lightly at dirt…with my ballet slippers. ‘In the twinkling of an eye we shall all be changed’.

The tumbled rocks need to be raked over and fresh grass planted and the tombstone placed. We saw and we went on, back down the hill and the dusty road, because Easter dinner is waiting and there are rum cakes and mustard honey ham and spiced potatoes and fellowship.

Because I know this grave at the top of the hill is so very temporary, I kick at the dirt with confidence and I shall no longer wear these ballet slippers this Easter eve…

I wanted to sit. To read. To observe. Eli! Suddenly wanting to dig up the front of the lawn. Purchasing ten more hedges. Purchasing two dwarf arborvitae. Purchasing ten bags of soil and even more mulch. All at once. Suddenly!

I wanted to sit.

So…that’s all been done…and a neighborhood boy hired to water the trees at a later date when we’re on vacation. The lesson is this: When Eli yells…’Hey! Come down here a minute. I want to show you something’…I will always end up driving a car filled with a forest and dealing with a cashier named Dominic who rings my receipt incorrectly.

I’m staying upstairs.

White tree blossoms against a blue sky…cotton balls in a blue sea…vanilla ice cream and blueberries…blue glass plates and cups of cold, white milk…white glue and blue crayons…and at the end of the afternoon we welcome in a rush of grey graupel.

Graupel. It’s the unfamiliar wintry precipitation; that lovely and strange cross-over between seasons cold stuff sifting down from the sky; winnowing earthward as if we were all dwelling on top of a very large doughnut. It could be precipitation. It might be powdered sugar. Soft hail, hominy snow; forming when super cooled water droplets collect and freeze on top of falling snowflakes; creating the lovely sort of strange late April meteorological happenstance which surprises us all and often leads to lengthy and refreshing napping.

I was irritated. I noticed the clunky rocks which still needed to be cleared out, lying around in my freshly graded yard. There were un-swept crumbs on my kitchen floor and they bothered me. Not all the dishes sparkled. I sighed at the sight of unwieldy white snowflakes drifting down over clean curbs and black lampposts. It was too, too much. And I noticed rust on the door of my Jeep, that faithful servant of a quarter million miles and I had to go to my job and I had things to do and days in which to do them.

And then the radio was turned on and there was a sixteen year old boy and his mother for whom he had struggled to buy passage from Africa to Europe…fleeing a murderous people and they were thrown off a boat and they drowned.

I my mind I see them survive. I wish them survival. With all my heart I envision them walking away from the turbulent and frightening waters. But I know that we have all lost dreadfully now…and I will walk out to my yard soon and stoop over and pick up dirty stones and thrown them in a box. And I will be silent…

It was that old adage which caught her up on that rainy afternoon. ‘A fool and his money is soon parted’. One could just as easily make the claim that ‘A fool and her money is soon parted’…or on the way to being parted. And so it was, she mused. She picked up her pen and looked over the ledger one more time. It was a poignant, no, rather a lovely example of the human condition.

She stretched a bit and yawned. Speaking to the numbers lined up under the ‘Amazon Prime’ column she remarked to no one in particular, ‘We are all in various stages of foolishness, it would seem’…

The swift reversal of expectations; grey winds with rain smatterings clash around the edge of the house while the porch chimes rage in metal fury. It’s April! It’s April! They are upset. They try flying separate of each other but the gales force them together into a tangled mess. Their pipes, smashed into and up against each other, hang limply in a confused and matted clump. I consider them; helpless children. They will require a ladder, stretching and reaching on my part, and a lengthy time on the couch unwinding each black string, silver pipe and wooden weight. Not today.

I think about strawberries and a croissant; a medium coffee…lighter breakfast fare as it is April, after all. It’s April! I hear the roar of the wind, watch the massacre of rain all over the windows. The birds fly slightly sideways in the air. They are surprised.

Breakfast re-group…hot buttered garlic toast, dark chocolate coffee, the kind which places a wild ‘ping’ in one’s head and a lurch in one’s chest. Add thick cream. Fruit and sunshine can wait. I’m back in the throes of autumn on this April day; amber and butter and lux and gold; cheese and bisque and the heavier spoons…

At the corner of Grape Street and crumbling houses; a community held together by the vigorous street play of children and the two red towels hanging from a chipped back window, I see two of the largest horses I have ever seen. They clip clop with regalia and precision, ridden by two police officers; ram rod straight…seated on the backs of these monster beasts…meandering quietly down the sidewalk. I ponder their size as I drive by.

When I was a very young child, we had a neighbor, an energetic chatty woman who always wore a work dress with an apron. She fixed her hair, combed tightly and held together in a bun with black bobby pins. In warm weather she washed her long locks and sat out in the backyard on the grass combing them dry. Her hair touched the ground as she sat stiffly straight on her blanket, combing, combing as the sun dried. We watched from the window, enthralled.

One day she let us in her home for milk and cookies and showed us a picture of her father. Strong, handsome and wiry…the photo was in sepia tones…melting into rivers of pink and faded orange…as if life were sweet and easy on that farm a long time ago. ‘He died when I was about your age’ she said suddenly. We looked at her. It was not polite to ask. We knew that. ‘How did he die?’ It came out before we stopped ourselves. She spoke clearly. ‘He was kicked in the stomach by a horse. That took him’. We looked at her. That couldn’t be right. ‘What?’ we asked. ‘He was kicked in the stomach by a horse’. She sighed and placed the frame back on the shelf.

Along the length of Jay Street, I’ve passed the police officers and horses. I see a crumbled woman wearing a jacket, a mask and holding a cigarette…seated on top of a large indented and crushed traffic cone which lies on the edge of the sidewalk. She’s tipped slightly sideways…looking backwards…watching the horses approaching. Their tails flare and ripple slightly in the breeze…

I read the email which just popped up on my screen. ‘I was still sick on April 19th. Here’s my request for an absence form. I’ve already entered my time in the data base. Thank you’. I sit back and think for a moment. Obviously, this email went to the wrong person. I’m sorry this person was ill. I don’t know who this person is. I have no authority to grant anyone their sick or personal days. I have no control over the data base. I consider whether or not I should respond to this. I take the cowardly way out and delete the email. Problem solved. The person will find the right authority. The data base will be satisfied. This not the hill on which I am willing to die.

Someone requests that I come downstairs to what I call ‘the holding bin’; the room where students who arrive late are confined until they are picked up for testing make-ups. I enter the room cautiously and call out three names. The room erupts into a cacophony of viciously nasty and threatening language. The one girl in my group stands up quietly and makes her way over to the door where she stands behind me. The two boys summoned rear up, jump and twist themselves, making threatening gestures, each trying to outdo the other with some of the most awful language, specifically directed against several of the girls. To the girl’s credit, they don’t back down and make equally threatening gestures, adding filthy language for good measure and tell the boys ‘we’ll see you in the parking lot’. The two boys burst out of the room and careen down the hallway. So we’re off to a good start.

This is a hill on which I am willing to die. I will not take these two cretins into my office space along with the gentle girl who waits patiently by the door. I shrug my shoulders as I explain to the rough and tumble guy monitoring this room. ‘I have no tolerance for this sort of language and behavior. I’m taking the girl. Someone else will have to test them’. He nods, looking severely disappointed that he is not able to shed these two like so much wounded flotsam. Unfortunately, this is the job he has chosen. I wonder how long he might stay.

She and I exit the room, enter the elevator and one of the boys, who has come running back, tries to jump on with me. I push him back and say, ‘No!’. The doors close. I turn to her and say, ‘Don’t you ever let anyone speak to you that way. Don’t ever let a boy or a man treat you that way’. She looks at me and nods. I want more than anything to transfer strength to her at this moment; to give her the ability in the most effective manner to handle people like this; personalities such as these two boys; types of persons I am sure she will meet again in high school and beyond in the larger world. She chuckles when I tell her what I think would happen if those boys spoke to my husband that way. She nods and smiles. She maintains her calm demeanor and her poise, but I worry.

‘Help me’…pause. The small child looks at me. ‘I don’t know letters’. I look at his test. I consider the insanity of all this testing. ‘It’s okay’ I respond casually. ‘Just draw pictures, okay? You’re a good artist’. He looks down. He picks up his number two pencil and with pudgy fingers, draws a circle around letter B of the multiple choice question. Then he draws ears and a face in the circle. ‘That’s a cat’ he states and looks up at me for approval. ‘Yup. I see that. Nice cat. I told you that you were a good artist’. I sit back and watch him do the rest of the test in this manner. There is a dinosaur and another cat and a few shapes I am not clear on. But every shape has eyes and ears and a genuinely charming face. ‘Best test ever’ I think. I’d like to know how many of these 4,000 plus tests end up in Albany with characters drawn all around the multiple choice letters. I hope most of them do…and on that hill, I will willingly place my flag.

Two older gentlemen met this past Thursday morning; the acclaimed author Alexander McCall Smith and my father. One stood ramrod straight, fresh from the cold winds of Firth; sporting a Scottish demeanor and speaking with a kindly, erudite tone. The other gentleman stood quietly by, bent over like a shepherd’s crook, waiting to greet the man. They shook hands, acknowledging each other and both thanked the other for coming. And then they chortled graciously.

Dad said to Alexander McCall Smith, ‘I enjoy it when as you are speaking you laugh at your own jokes!’ Immediately the other polished man laughed heartily and replied, ‘I really should not do that!’ They both chuckled, shook hands again and parted ways; the one wearing the jacket and tie, the other with the thick woolen sweater vest and the crooked back.

And that was all. For an elegant moment, two men from a lifetime ago, born under separate skies, both lovers of literature and art; upon meeting, conversed and shared time, laughter and the appreciation for what life can be…