(no subject)
I had an interesting time babysitting Slater today. A time that sounds like a folk song, actually...
First off, it's a gorgeous day today. I swear, it's got to be near 70 degrees out there and there hasn't been a cloud in the sky all day. So, naturally, I took Slater outside all day. Four hours of sunshine has done me good.
Right away we went for a walk to find a collection of pine cones that Slater had found earlier that he wanted to gather for an art project. This is where my first lesson came in. I've never cared when the kids in my neighborhood have run across our yard, or played in it or whatever, but my Dad gets really evil about it when they do. I don't know why, because it's not like there's anything to our yard besides a thick carpet of crab grass, but he still hates it when they run across it, or play football over it. So I've always had a healthy fear of going into other people's yards. But with Slater there was no such fear. Across the street we went, right into Paul and Marie's yard (I know that they don't care, it's just that I didn't know if Slater knew they didn't care), out the back of their yard and (this is where I got concerned) into the yard behind their's, where there was a tree swing. Slater climbed right onto the swing and started playing on it. I didn't know who lived there, if it was okay to use their swing, if they were going to run out of their house with a rifle, screaming "get out of my yard!" or what. But Slater was just as comfortable as can be. And it hit me that that's what the world should be like.
The next lesson came after we grabbed a bag lunch and a blanket to take up to Tower Hill for a picnic. We were alone at first, but just moments after we started eating a big black dog came up the hill. "Oh, no!" said Slater. "You know what he's going to do?" But just moments afterward a guy who was probably a few years older than me came up behind him and I smiled "No, see? There's someone with him."
"Great day for a picnic!" the guy with the dog called, and went to sit on a part of the hill with plenty of running room so he could throw a stick for his dog.
After a little while Slater got tired of just sitting and eating, so he decided we should play tag. After chasing him down the hill and laboriously climbing up it again, we came closer to the guy and his dog. Slater froze. "He's very friendly!" the guy called. "He's deaf and blind, but he's very friendly!"
"Do you want to go meet the dog?" I asked Slater. Personally, I would've loved to meet the dog, it was so sweet looking. Actually, the guy wasn't bad looking either, for that matter...
"No..." Slater responded, looking at the dog with a slightly frightened look on his face. I looked at the guy and shrugged, then chased after Slater, who had decided it was time to continue our game.
After a break to eat a little more, I asked Slater what he wanted to do next. "We could go explore around the tower," I suggested.
"No, we should play tag around the tower!" he exclaimed, just as an older guy carrying a paper bag (yes, that sort of paper bag), climbed the hill and took a seat on one of the benches by the tower.
"Maybe not..." I said, a little wary of running around up there with that guy there. "After all, we wouldn't want to bump into that guy on accident, would we?"
"No," Slater replied, getting up. "We won't bump into him." And he took off up to the tower, me scrambling to get up and catch up with him.
When I finally caught up with him, Slater was hanging out right by the guy with the paper bag, who had now revealed the contents of his paper bag-an enormus bottle of beer and a package of cigarettes. This was at about 11:30 in the morning.
This is a good place to interject that the best view of Minneapolis is from the exact spot we were standing on Tower Hill. Looking out to the west you can see Pratt School down at the bottom of the hill, then just above the tree line you can see the buildings of the U of M east bank, then just beyond that is THE absolute BEST view of downtown in the entire city. THE BEST. The buildings stick out of the tree line as though it was cut just for the view. And one of the greatest parts is that NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT IT. You can be up there all on your own with very little effort, since it's buried in one of the most complicatedly designed residential areas of the city. If anyone is ever coming to the Twin Cities, send me a note and I'll tell you how to get there. It is a must see.
The old drunk (actually he wasn't that old, probably not even as old as my dad), was sitting on the bench looking out at the city when Slater got to him. As I caught up Slater was asking "What's your name?"
"Paul."
"Bob?" Slater's a bit hard of hearing.
"No, Paul."
"Oh, Paul. Okay."
"What's your name?"
"Slater."
"Oh, that's a good name." At this point he pulls out a cigarette and an enormus lighter. As he lights his cigarette I cringe. I'm allergic to most kinds of smoke, but especially cigarette smoke. And it doesn't look like Slater's going to take kindly to leaving. I start doing all my breathing in the other direction.
Slater bends down and picks up a cigarette butt. "Here's a cigarette for you to smoke."
The man laughs. "No thanks. That one's kind of gross."
"I was just kidding. I don't like it when people smoke."
The man doesn't know what to say to that. But Slater keeps talking. "What's in your bottle?"
The man looks at me. "Coca-Cola," he tells Slater.
Slater looks at him, then puts his nose to the bottle. "It smells like beer."
The man looks guilty. "It is beer."
"You told me it was coke!"
The man turns to me. "Nothing gets past him, does it?"
"Nope," I reply, watching Slater carefully. He's picking up bottle caps off the ground. Most of them are from beer bottles.
"Is he on break from school?"
"He's not in school yet."
"Not in school?"
"He'll start Kindergarten next year."
"How old is he?"
"Five."
The man shakes his head and looks back over to the city. "He seems older. He's very mature."
I just nod. I've noticed this before, as well. Slater has his "5 year old" moments, but not very often.
At this point Slater's gathered 6 bottle caps. "That's how many I almost am."
"You sure are workin' on it," the man tells him. "You're big for 5."
Slater continues to hunt for bottlecaps further down the hill. I've refused to climb down with him, since he's wearing mud boots and I'm just in clogs. The man starts talking to me again. "You his mother?"
I shake my head. "Nanny. Sort of."
"You take care of him everyday?"
"Just once a week. So his mother can run errands."
"Oh...are you a student? At the U?"
Here we go... "Not quite. I'm going to college next year. I took the year off, to make money."
"Oh...is this good money? Nannying?"
"Pretty good."
"Where are you going for college."
"Probably State University of New York at Fredonia." On accident I say "New Yeark"
"Aha, 'New Yeark'." He grins. "Fredonia is beautiful." He continued, describing that part of New York as one of the most beautiful places he's ever lived. Which eventually leads to a debate with himself as to what highway Fredonia's on. "Is is 90...? I think it's 90. I'll go check my atlas." He leaves, his beer, cigarettes, lighter, and jacket sitting on the bench.
Slater comes back up the hill. "Where'd he go?"
"To get his atlas."
"Oh. What's an atlas?"
A few minutes later the man comes back up the hill, empty handed. "Where's your book of maps (my definition of an atlas)?" Slater askes.
"Oh, I left it at home. It wasn't in the car with my other maps. I've just got Minnesota, Wisconsin and Iowa in there."
"I wonder if you can see tower hill on those maps. I bet you can."
"Ah...yeah, on the map of Minneapolis you can."
At this point Slater has about 20 bottlecaps and is having trouble finding more. "You know what? I think there are some around there." The man points to the curve of the tower. Slater and I'd been around there, but we hadn't spent any time looking for bottlecaps.
"Yeah, lets go look!" he takes off around the corner. I follow, walking.
We look for a few moments, but don't find any around there. "I don't see any bottles, so there probably aren't many bottle caps here, kiddo," I tell him. We go back to the bench. All that's there are Slater's bottle caps and the basket of pine cones.
"Where'd he go?" Slater asks me.
"He probably had something to do," I tell him, and we pick up the bottlecaps and go back to our picnic. But the fact that he dissappeared is special. Almost as if he weren't real.
Looking back at this post, it's extremely long, and I apologise. But it needed to come out and go on paper, if at all possible. Many, many thanks to Lady G who helped me figure out LJ cuts!
Solveig
First off, it's a gorgeous day today. I swear, it's got to be near 70 degrees out there and there hasn't been a cloud in the sky all day. So, naturally, I took Slater outside all day. Four hours of sunshine has done me good.
Right away we went for a walk to find a collection of pine cones that Slater had found earlier that he wanted to gather for an art project. This is where my first lesson came in. I've never cared when the kids in my neighborhood have run across our yard, or played in it or whatever, but my Dad gets really evil about it when they do. I don't know why, because it's not like there's anything to our yard besides a thick carpet of crab grass, but he still hates it when they run across it, or play football over it. So I've always had a healthy fear of going into other people's yards. But with Slater there was no such fear. Across the street we went, right into Paul and Marie's yard (I know that they don't care, it's just that I didn't know if Slater knew they didn't care), out the back of their yard and (this is where I got concerned) into the yard behind their's, where there was a tree swing. Slater climbed right onto the swing and started playing on it. I didn't know who lived there, if it was okay to use their swing, if they were going to run out of their house with a rifle, screaming "get out of my yard!" or what. But Slater was just as comfortable as can be. And it hit me that that's what the world should be like.
The next lesson came after we grabbed a bag lunch and a blanket to take up to Tower Hill for a picnic. We were alone at first, but just moments after we started eating a big black dog came up the hill. "Oh, no!" said Slater. "You know what he's going to do?" But just moments afterward a guy who was probably a few years older than me came up behind him and I smiled "No, see? There's someone with him."
"Great day for a picnic!" the guy with the dog called, and went to sit on a part of the hill with plenty of running room so he could throw a stick for his dog.
After a little while Slater got tired of just sitting and eating, so he decided we should play tag. After chasing him down the hill and laboriously climbing up it again, we came closer to the guy and his dog. Slater froze. "He's very friendly!" the guy called. "He's deaf and blind, but he's very friendly!"
"Do you want to go meet the dog?" I asked Slater. Personally, I would've loved to meet the dog, it was so sweet looking. Actually, the guy wasn't bad looking either, for that matter...
"No..." Slater responded, looking at the dog with a slightly frightened look on his face. I looked at the guy and shrugged, then chased after Slater, who had decided it was time to continue our game.
After a break to eat a little more, I asked Slater what he wanted to do next. "We could go explore around the tower," I suggested.
"No, we should play tag around the tower!" he exclaimed, just as an older guy carrying a paper bag (yes, that sort of paper bag), climbed the hill and took a seat on one of the benches by the tower.
"Maybe not..." I said, a little wary of running around up there with that guy there. "After all, we wouldn't want to bump into that guy on accident, would we?"
"No," Slater replied, getting up. "We won't bump into him." And he took off up to the tower, me scrambling to get up and catch up with him.
When I finally caught up with him, Slater was hanging out right by the guy with the paper bag, who had now revealed the contents of his paper bag-an enormus bottle of beer and a package of cigarettes. This was at about 11:30 in the morning.
This is a good place to interject that the best view of Minneapolis is from the exact spot we were standing on Tower Hill. Looking out to the west you can see Pratt School down at the bottom of the hill, then just above the tree line you can see the buildings of the U of M east bank, then just beyond that is THE absolute BEST view of downtown in the entire city. THE BEST. The buildings stick out of the tree line as though it was cut just for the view. And one of the greatest parts is that NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT IT. You can be up there all on your own with very little effort, since it's buried in one of the most complicatedly designed residential areas of the city. If anyone is ever coming to the Twin Cities, send me a note and I'll tell you how to get there. It is a must see.
The old drunk (actually he wasn't that old, probably not even as old as my dad), was sitting on the bench looking out at the city when Slater got to him. As I caught up Slater was asking "What's your name?"
"Paul."
"Bob?" Slater's a bit hard of hearing.
"No, Paul."
"Oh, Paul. Okay."
"What's your name?"
"Slater."
"Oh, that's a good name." At this point he pulls out a cigarette and an enormus lighter. As he lights his cigarette I cringe. I'm allergic to most kinds of smoke, but especially cigarette smoke. And it doesn't look like Slater's going to take kindly to leaving. I start doing all my breathing in the other direction.
Slater bends down and picks up a cigarette butt. "Here's a cigarette for you to smoke."
The man laughs. "No thanks. That one's kind of gross."
"I was just kidding. I don't like it when people smoke."
The man doesn't know what to say to that. But Slater keeps talking. "What's in your bottle?"
The man looks at me. "Coca-Cola," he tells Slater.
Slater looks at him, then puts his nose to the bottle. "It smells like beer."
The man looks guilty. "It is beer."
"You told me it was coke!"
The man turns to me. "Nothing gets past him, does it?"
"Nope," I reply, watching Slater carefully. He's picking up bottle caps off the ground. Most of them are from beer bottles.
"Is he on break from school?"
"He's not in school yet."
"Not in school?"
"He'll start Kindergarten next year."
"How old is he?"
"Five."
The man shakes his head and looks back over to the city. "He seems older. He's very mature."
I just nod. I've noticed this before, as well. Slater has his "5 year old" moments, but not very often.
At this point Slater's gathered 6 bottle caps. "That's how many I almost am."
"You sure are workin' on it," the man tells him. "You're big for 5."
Slater continues to hunt for bottlecaps further down the hill. I've refused to climb down with him, since he's wearing mud boots and I'm just in clogs. The man starts talking to me again. "You his mother?"
I shake my head. "Nanny. Sort of."
"You take care of him everyday?"
"Just once a week. So his mother can run errands."
"Oh...are you a student? At the U?"
Here we go... "Not quite. I'm going to college next year. I took the year off, to make money."
"Oh...is this good money? Nannying?"
"Pretty good."
"Where are you going for college."
"Probably State University of New York at Fredonia." On accident I say "New Yeark"
"Aha, 'New Yeark'." He grins. "Fredonia is beautiful." He continued, describing that part of New York as one of the most beautiful places he's ever lived. Which eventually leads to a debate with himself as to what highway Fredonia's on. "Is is 90...? I think it's 90. I'll go check my atlas." He leaves, his beer, cigarettes, lighter, and jacket sitting on the bench.
Slater comes back up the hill. "Where'd he go?"
"To get his atlas."
"Oh. What's an atlas?"
A few minutes later the man comes back up the hill, empty handed. "Where's your book of maps (my definition of an atlas)?" Slater askes.
"Oh, I left it at home. It wasn't in the car with my other maps. I've just got Minnesota, Wisconsin and Iowa in there."
"I wonder if you can see tower hill on those maps. I bet you can."
"Ah...yeah, on the map of Minneapolis you can."
At this point Slater has about 20 bottlecaps and is having trouble finding more. "You know what? I think there are some around there." The man points to the curve of the tower. Slater and I'd been around there, but we hadn't spent any time looking for bottlecaps.
"Yeah, lets go look!" he takes off around the corner. I follow, walking.
We look for a few moments, but don't find any around there. "I don't see any bottles, so there probably aren't many bottle caps here, kiddo," I tell him. We go back to the bench. All that's there are Slater's bottle caps and the basket of pine cones.
"Where'd he go?" Slater asks me.
"He probably had something to do," I tell him, and we pick up the bottlecaps and go back to our picnic. But the fact that he dissappeared is special. Almost as if he weren't real.
Looking back at this post, it's extremely long, and I apologise. But it needed to come out and go on paper, if at all possible. Many, many thanks to Lady G who helped me figure out LJ cuts!
Solveig