flowers!”
“It’s a hole for Ruth, Mummy. I’m doing it for her.”
“A hole for Ruth?”
“I promised I’d make one for her,” Will replied.
“A hole? Why?”
Will paused. “I love her.”
This first evidence of her son’s passion filled Julia with a sweet sense of pleasure.
“That’s lovely, darling,” she replied. “Try not to make a mess!”
Only when Howard saw the red stain around the bathtub that evening did he realize that his son had been busy in the garden.
“What’s up, Will?” he inquired.
“Digging a hole. To China.”
“Ah. Long way away, China is,” replied Howard.
“How far exactly, Daddy?”
Pleased that his son was showing an interest in geography again, Howard took out an atlas and explained the relative positions of the continents, the depth of the earth’s core, and the distance between Albo and Peking.
“So,” Howard explained, “when we’re having dinner, they’re about to wake up for breakfast.”
Will was delighted by this fact. Howard decided that Will was a born geographer.
Whether for geography or love, Will tore out of bed the following morning, determined to reach China before nightfall.
WILL’S ACTIVITY IN THE ROSE BED had soon been noted by every child in the neighborhood. As his visitors appeared at the rim of the hole, Will enlisted their cooperation. By nine-thirty, there were four shovels at work, along with a steady stream of yard-high recruits lugging buckets to remove the loose soil.
By lunchtime, several parents had heard of the project and were delighted that the children were busy in
somebody else’s bloody garden
.
“Amazing—the Laments willing to sacrifice their flower bed,” remarked Sandy Quinn, when little Matthew reported the length and breadth of the project. “Here, darling, take them some sandwiches!”
Another delighted parent eagerly offered up the contents of his garden shed—pickaxes, shovels, and forks.
Fortified, the children expanded their project.
Abraham took the day off. His headache had descended into a toothache.
The object of Will’s affection had been enjoying a morning in the hammock between two avocado trees all this time. By early afternoon she had noticed the steady passage of visitors, and her daydreaming ceased. Feeling that she was missing something, she marched over to the edge of the hole, put her hands on her hips, and peered inside skeptically.
A dusty red face at the bottom of the pit gazed up at her.
“This is for you, Ruth,” Will said, raising his arms.
A smile played on her lips. She was flattered. This was better than having slaves on the Nile.
“Give me a shovel,” she said, sliding down the ladder.
HOWARD WAS STILL YOUNG ENOUGH to love the trappings of his job—the parking spot at the office, the name tag on his desk, and his engraved business cards. Now, as he rolled his cherry-red Hillman with the smiling chrome grille onto the drive of his beautiful white stucco house, he marveled at how far he’d come.
And this was only the beginning.
His father, in Howard’s estimation, had gone nowhere. Ted Lament kept his job as a government requisition clerk for thirty years, and retired with a good pension. Other elderly folk would have taken this opportunity to see the world. But Howard’s father spent his retire-ment commuting from his bed to his armchair. Like a stone in a ditch, mossy and embedded, he lived like this for ten more years. He died of a stroke—taking his wife with him three months later. Howard found fifty-seven cans of tuna in the kitchen cupboard, seventy cans of soup (creamed mushroom), twenty-five cans of baby peas, and sixteen cans of condensed milk. It appeared that his father had become a hermit, hoarding his food so that he could pass weeks without leaving the threshold of his four-cornered world.
Howard wouldn’t make the same mistake. He’d already traveled more than his father had his whole life. And he wasn’t finished by any means. The copper
“It’s a hole for Ruth, Mummy. I’m doing it for her.”
“A hole for Ruth?”
“I promised I’d make one for her,” Will replied.
“A hole? Why?”
Will paused. “I love her.”
This first evidence of her son’s passion filled Julia with a sweet sense of pleasure.
“That’s lovely, darling,” she replied. “Try not to make a mess!”
Only when Howard saw the red stain around the bathtub that evening did he realize that his son had been busy in the garden.
“What’s up, Will?” he inquired.
“Digging a hole. To China.”
“Ah. Long way away, China is,” replied Howard.
“How far exactly, Daddy?”
Pleased that his son was showing an interest in geography again, Howard took out an atlas and explained the relative positions of the continents, the depth of the earth’s core, and the distance between Albo and Peking.
“So,” Howard explained, “when we’re having dinner, they’re about to wake up for breakfast.”
Will was delighted by this fact. Howard decided that Will was a born geographer.
Whether for geography or love, Will tore out of bed the following morning, determined to reach China before nightfall.
WILL’S ACTIVITY IN THE ROSE BED had soon been noted by every child in the neighborhood. As his visitors appeared at the rim of the hole, Will enlisted their cooperation. By nine-thirty, there were four shovels at work, along with a steady stream of yard-high recruits lugging buckets to remove the loose soil.
By lunchtime, several parents had heard of the project and were delighted that the children were busy in
somebody else’s bloody garden
.
“Amazing—the Laments willing to sacrifice their flower bed,” remarked Sandy Quinn, when little Matthew reported the length and breadth of the project. “Here, darling, take them some sandwiches!”
Another delighted parent eagerly offered up the contents of his garden shed—pickaxes, shovels, and forks.
Fortified, the children expanded their project.
Abraham took the day off. His headache had descended into a toothache.
The object of Will’s affection had been enjoying a morning in the hammock between two avocado trees all this time. By early afternoon she had noticed the steady passage of visitors, and her daydreaming ceased. Feeling that she was missing something, she marched over to the edge of the hole, put her hands on her hips, and peered inside skeptically.
A dusty red face at the bottom of the pit gazed up at her.
“This is for you, Ruth,” Will said, raising his arms.
A smile played on her lips. She was flattered. This was better than having slaves on the Nile.
“Give me a shovel,” she said, sliding down the ladder.
HOWARD WAS STILL YOUNG ENOUGH to love the trappings of his job—the parking spot at the office, the name tag on his desk, and his engraved business cards. Now, as he rolled his cherry-red Hillman with the smiling chrome grille onto the drive of his beautiful white stucco house, he marveled at how far he’d come.
And this was only the beginning.
His father, in Howard’s estimation, had gone nowhere. Ted Lament kept his job as a government requisition clerk for thirty years, and retired with a good pension. Other elderly folk would have taken this opportunity to see the world. But Howard’s father spent his retire-ment commuting from his bed to his armchair. Like a stone in a ditch, mossy and embedded, he lived like this for ten more years. He died of a stroke—taking his wife with him three months later. Howard found fifty-seven cans of tuna in the kitchen cupboard, seventy cans of soup (creamed mushroom), twenty-five cans of baby peas, and sixteen cans of condensed milk. It appeared that his father had become a hermit, hoarding his food so that he could pass weeks without leaving the threshold of his four-cornered world.
Howard wouldn’t make the same mistake. He’d already traveled more than his father had his whole life. And he wasn’t finished by any means. The copper
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