These are the dog days of summer, which around here often means that there are two dogs serially marking one of Sam’s neglected toys in the backyard. I’m not sure I really understand this aspect of doggie behavior; the two dogs are friends, and they take turns marking the toy. They each sniff gingerly at the other’s nether areas before taking their turn, as if something could have possibly changed in the last thirty seconds. Four and a half year old Sam, of course, is laughing too much to tell me what they are doing until they have finished.
It is muggy, and hot, and it rains every afternoon, right around the time I have stuffed the car with needed beach supplies and have inserted the key into the ignition. I stare through the rain-splattered windshield, listening to the kids yell in unison “where are we going now, Daddy?” I don’t have the heart to tell them the truth, that I have exhausted all options outside of the house. It is simply too damned hot and muggy for me.
As a kid, I didn’t really experience these kinds of summers, petroleum-fueled and artificially inflamed. My summers started with cool and foggy mornings, and grew warmer gradually, civilly. Later, as a young man noticing the changes taking place in the climate and being more engaged in preserving the environment, I always suspected there would be a special place in hell waiting for those who sustain Global Warming, the ones who torture good science and profit by the misery of others. I’d like to think the head of the beast is in D.C., but I know the tail and rationale extends deep into our culture’s values.
Still, while Nero pumps oil, we must persevere, and that means getting the kids out and exercised. At the recent Homecoming Family Day held at Atkinson Common, we had another one of those “hey listen to what my kid said” moments, which I share with you modestly. Don’t be surprised; if Arnold Schwarznegger can be Governor of California, then I can be modest.
Hungry, Sam and seven and a half year old Lily waited on line at the food table for about forty minutes. The kids came back to the table staffed by my in-laws, the Forneys (peaceful play) with empty hamburger buns and a bag of potato chips in each happy little hand. Sam, our four and a half year old, opened the bag and started nibbling the bun.
For many years, as the only non-meat eater at family barbecues, I would take potato chips and place them between the slices of a bun, sort of a “chip sandwich”. I shared this with Sam, who with the wonderful abandon of childhood immediately created one. Within seconds, he was experiencing the singular wonder of crunching chips embedded in soft, doughy bread. I returned to talking with the grownups.
A few minutes later, there was a tug on my t-shirt. It was Sam, and he beckoned me closer, so I leaned in. “Dad,” he said, mouth brimming with chips and roll, “you’re a genius.”
Well. I beamed. I didn’t tell him that I could put him in touch with many people who would disagree, and didn’t tell him I wasn’t. I didn’t qualify it in any way. I told him that I loved him. And not because he believes my culinary improvisation makes me a Mensa candidate. I did it because he is my son, and I love him; it is what fathers are supposed to do.
He will figure out soon enough where I stand on I.Q. spectrum, or sit. Or even recline sleepily. He’ll learn that there are many different types of smarts, and just as many types of stupids. He will learn, in fact, that a smart can become a stupid pretty quickly, although going the other way happens much less often, and is much more difficult to accomplish.
He’ll learn that being too smart can be a problem; how big a problem being too stupid is always depends on where you are on the food chain. He may learn that those wallowing in the waters of stupidity are often over-represented in political life, and tend to be under-represented in community life. He will learn that as you get older and open your mouth less and your ears more, you can get smarter.
Maybe he will even learn these things: one of the smartest things you can do is love your family. He may learn it is smart to love your community, to ask questions of power, to listen deeply, to respect elders, to respect the land and the water and the air.
All that may come. For now, Sam already knows two important things, that his Dad is a genius, and that it is stupid to throw a basketball at a skunk. The rest is a piece of cake.
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