The Boy just ran the oral presentation that he has to do tomorrow by me. The structure is rather loose, not at all what we had discussed on Saturday. The Boy never gets brilliant grades on oral presentations and is often crushed that his choice of topics starts the yawns coming. But boy, does he learn a lot preparing for one, for he always chooses a topic that interests him. He did one on Washington D.C., but meandered quite a bit off topic as he could go on and on about Lincoln for three weeks.

Very few 10 year old dutch kids give a hoot about Lincoln and- after all- why should they ?

He really wanted to do something about WWII for this presentation. He delayed and fuddled about, unable to find an angle. Then I finally suggested that he do it on what it was like to be a kid during WWII. Opa was a kid during WWII, prepare ten questions to ask him tonight, ten tomorrow and then we will set up a meeting between you and Opa. Ask him simple things, I suggested, like how- exactly- did his day go ( Opa was born in 1929, year of the big crash)- what did he have for breakfast, did he go to school ….The Boy caught the drift.

I listened to his presentation tonight and knew once again that he had learned a tremendous amount, but he meandered once more, unable to resist mentioning Mussolini, the autobahns. His topic is officially about what it was like to be a kid during the war.

But I have to say, I loved the last bit, Opa’s answers to the twenty questions that The Boy asked him.

I liked it because I knew that behind all of the school stuff, there was an afternoon when The Boy heard the stories that he wanted to hear and Opa told the stories that he wanted to tell.

Once more.

Last night, I dreamed that I was on death row. I was on death row, even though I live in the Netherlands. I had killed a woman, you see, who was attacking The Baby.

But seeing that it was the Netherlands, the execution would be as gezellig as possible. I was to be executed during the day, in sunshine, not darkness. The weapon, that painless bolt between the eyes that is used to kill cows. One ping in the forehead, in my case.

Sometimes when you dream , you are aware that you are dreaming, in some obscure and safe corner of your mind.

And sometimes, the dream is simply reality.

Last night I sat in a meadow bathed in sunshine, garnering comfort from all whom had ever loved me and that I had loved in return. Even my first real boyfriend was there as well, 17 once more ( odd, for I do know what he looks like now, that past image was not erased), his head bent over next to me, whispering.

The ticker ticked, the inevitable minute drew closer. Within seconds, I would be taken aside and told that it was time.

It seemed so real to me as I slept, waiting for that second to come, my last one.

Unlike most dreams, when I awoke during the night, fervently hoping that that was the last that I would see of that sucker, the same story came back again, a dream of the night before I was to die.

It was almost as bad as waiting for the second when my brain would dissolve.

I haven’t had any dreams that frightening for a very long time, for usually I am quite aware of the fact that I am dreaming, even as I dream.

Walking right into that appointed second was a fearsome thing to do.

Short night and skew day, trying to walk out of death row, back there, in the meadow.

I talked to Dad on Friday. On the telephone. On the Bakelite telephone in the kitchen.

First, the kids all went on.

And then I went on. I was on that phone for about 45 minutes. I can cradle the ear piece of the phone between my cheek and shoulder, it reminds me of naughty phone calls from Billy Ray Potts ( I kid you not) when I was thirteen, sitting on the floor tucked into a dark corner of the kitchen, breath leaving a mist upon the phone.

Dad was ambling through a past that only I can follow, where now and again, can say, oh yes ! That old spook !

Time passes.

As it does, I sometimes feel that my father and I are like those space ships reentering the gravitational pull of the earth, superficial rubbish is being consumed in bright white flames of speed.

Leaving us closer to where we once began, a father who doted upon his baby girl and a baby who loved her father above all others.

The dross is falling to the side, into infinity and beyond.

Today The Baby saw a calf being born.

I went to the school to pick her up at the end of her day, expecting to bring both her and Naomi home with us. The two girls play together very nicely ( read : I don’t have to do a soft shoe for the ninety minute long play date), so basically, Naomi can come here every day if she wants to. Short and sweet, Naomi being here makes my life easier.

But it seemed that Naomi already had a date with another little girl , at her house, and as The Baby slowly hung her head, tears beginning to fill her eyes, Naomi’s mother asked The Baby if she wanted to come as well After a few minutes of careful consideration, The Baby smiled and said yes, she would like to come as well to Naomi’s.

Our little group hung around the playground for a few moments, me waiting for The Boy, Naomi’s mother waiting for her older daughter. As we stood there, yet another mother ambled up and began talking to Naomi’s mother. It seemed that at that very moment, a calf was being born at a farm near Naomi’s house. If the girls wanted to see it…

As I stood there, nodding my head in agreement, a film clip of a calf being born was running through my mind. I wondered how long it would take The Baby, after witnessing the birth, to ask about her own birth.

I also wondered if the next hour would bring about an end to The Baby’s desire to have children ( two, one of each).

It took her a little less than an hour ( like the minute that the dinner dishes were cleared up) to ask me about birthin’ babies.

A sweet sideline is that the farmer said that the girls could name the calf, and I am sure that a bunch of little girls smack dab in the middle of the requisite princess phase will come up with something more poetic than Berta .

You can name a cow as well, right here. ( They are gone now…)

Look, hidden beneath the jumping suits was this :

One beautiful bad boy.

The Boy is going through some sort of Elvis Phase. He has a CD containing all three of Elvis’s good songs, filled out with a hunk of the sentimental schlock that Elvis recorded, once he stopped wearing simple, ( tight) dark pants. I suppose that this phase is in about week two or three now, and he and I have had some spirited conversations. He insists that each and every song that Elvis made is a jewel beyond price, including such clunkers as this.

Think that I should show him this ?

He has even asked me how to spell jumping suit, so that he could do a Google Images search.

Oh, say, carnival is coming up. Yesterday, I asked the kids if they wanted me to make them costumes this year, we have plenty of time, if they would like that. The Baby submitted a drawing of a diamond princess wearing a luscious red gown and The Boy…

Go on. Throw all caution to the wind. Take a wild guess, a stab into the dark, as to what The Boy would like my nimble fingers to whip up.

He is there now !

And number two is a cousin of mine, but she doesn’t know anymore than I do. Well, she didn’t the last time I heard from her.

I spent quite a bit of time trying to elude Google, for here. The reasons are rather obvious, pictures of young kids, 12 year old girls. Although, I must say, jeepers creepers, how I loved those two weeks, when people were also coming here to see that coin we found.

Eh, when you have to balance things out, I know that the kitchen has to be hidden, in a dark corner that one can only find via via.

And while I try to hide from Google, here with my family site, I absolutely cannot get Google to list my Robert Kerlin site.
Oh, Google trawls through it, rather faithfully, but there are no links to it, and so it does not appear in any search for Robert Kerlin.

Yesterday, Opa was here and The Father insisted that I bring out one of the land deeds, explain it to Opa, who loves history as well. I cringed, I knew that I did not have the vocabulary to explain what I was looking for. The Father did not help. Well, not much. I could tell Opa what I was doing, and could say, look, in 1816, this man had oodles of land ; seven years later, he will be dead, leaving enormous debts behind.

He was never a farmer, he was a businessman of some sort. What happened to him ? What went so terribly wrong ?

I put the files on line, but without anyone linking to them, no one else will ever see them. I cannot kick boot Google.

I want to find this man. I need Google to list him , I need and would appreciate links to Robert Kerlin.

I do love a browse through a Thesaurus. In my last post, being rather handicapped by my inability to spell, I was looking for a word that put my DustBuster right up there with the Dodo bird.

No comments from me :

Main Entry: incompetent
Part of Speech: adjective
Definition: unskillful
Synonyms: amateur, amateurish, awkward, bungling, bush, bush league, clumsy, disqualified, floundering, helpless, inadequate, incapable, incapacitated, ineffectual, inefficient, ineligible, inept, inexperienced, inexpert, insufficient, maladroit, raw, skill-less, unable, unadapted, uncool, unequipped, unfit, unfitted, unhandy, uninitiated, unproficient, unqualified, unskilled, untrained, useless

Ok, a little bold, perhaps… .