Nine-Pound Hammer

For several weeks TJ and I have been writing chain stories back and forth (one person writes an installment and the other picks up where she left off), but it’s been ages since I last wrote here on Bloggy. Yikes: it was July 29. How’d that happen? I can’t tell you what’s been going on since then since it’s just a blur.

Ember returned to me on August 10 and began school on the 15th. She loves her two teachers so far and we’re all working hard together to help her with various challenges. Take homework, the source of significant meltdowns, with writing assignments being the worst culprits. Even just thinking about that process is torture for her—and for anyone trying to help. 

On the other talon (a frequent expression in the Wings of Fire dragon series, of which we’re on Volume 12), she’s finally gaining competence in independent reading, and even enjoying it, after a slow and resistant start. We’re all excited that the world of literature is gradually opening up to her. Plus, her teachers say that she’s contributing much more to classroom discussions than last semester, she’s doing well in geography, math and spelling too, and of course they love her, so it’s super-encouraging news all ‘round.

Eleni herself has always been a big reader, as an adult surrounding herself with thousands of books, a number of which she’s actually read, unlike me with my library. Here she is at age 6 with the very first one she ever made it all the way through on her own, and in a mere 56 minutes! (Yes, I documented the time.)

Recently Eleni was amused to notice what can happen when you learn words from a page instead of from an erudite person’s mouth. When talking on the phone with my mother a couple weeks ago, she learned that “al-lied” is actually not generally pronounced “uh-lied,” nor should “misled” come out as “maisled.” These remind me of my first ex-husband’s most memorable utterance: “confisticated” (actually, not a mispronunciation but a portmanteau of “sophisticated” and “confiscated” that he insisted was a real word), and my second ex-husband’s “gamoo” for “gamut.” As for me, last night at dinner I told Ember that my eyes were bigger than my head. “Have you ever heard that expression before?” I asked didactically. She allowed as she hadn’t, but that she did know about eyes being bigger than stomachs.

Eleni’s father’s mother, an amazing woman, used to try to explain why she loved her grandchildren so much, quoting a traditional Greek expression: “My child’s child is twice my child.” I often repeat this to Ember, adding, “You’re not my child, but you’re twice my child.” I adore the little one. I won’t say it’s easy for me to guide her through life’s curves and bumps, but it is rewarding beyond words when she makes progress! 

Speaking of which, these socks that Adi gave me for our made-up quarterly holiday, Soxing Day, delight me.

Ember is consistently imaginative in the most unexpected ways. She hates the way I put cheese on tortillas for quesadillas, so she does it herself. Another dinnertime: 

She is clever and funny and so many other wonderful things. Also, adaptable. She didn’t much mind the Bay Area heat wave last week, being used to scalding Chico, but I thought it sucked. We’re not prepared for such temperatures around here, with little insulation and no a/c.

Squirrelwise, Molly sent me a giant, 14-ounce container of cayenne to sprinkle around plants that I hoped to protect. Ember did the honors. That’s why there’s 3/4 of the jar out there on the dirt.

Did it work? Of course not. First, I’m not sure the flowers liked it. I know just how this one feels.

Second, a few days later the remaining sunflowers had been broken, trampled, beheaded and shredded. No point taking pictures of the destruction yet again.

I’m often tired throughout the day. Now I know why. Molly gave me an Oura ring that tracks various vitals.

Turns out I get an average of 5.5 hours of sleep. This is a typical night.

The white-tipped spikes are awake-times. You can see I woke up around 4:00 a.m and got up just before 5:00. This was my bed that morning.

Several weeks ago the very same Molly scheduled an appointment just for the two of us as a special treat, figuring a break from my daily life would be good. But she refused to say a word about what it was, except that it would be in San Francisco. I couldn’t imagine what’s over there that we can’t find in the East Bay. Ember wittily guessed it was a visit to the dentist. I suggested maybe a massage, but warned Molly I didn’t want that because I hate sitting still. 

Last weekend the big day finally arrived. While Em hung with Molly’s lovely partner Joshua and played virtual reality games, we headed across the bridge for a destination unknown (to me). After parking in a downtown garage, we trekked through grime and traffic and hordes of struggling, down-and-out people on Market Street, finally stopping in front of the unmarked door of a tall, nondescript building. Shortly, a muscular young man emerged and invited us inside. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked me. “Uh, done what? I have no idea where we even are.” 

He led us along gloomy corridors—left, right, left, left—until he reached a room equipped with coveralls, goggles, face shields, leather gloves, rubber shoe-covers, and earplugs. “Okay,” the guy said, “after you get ready I’ll show you into the rage room.”

The what?

The idea is to smash as much shite as you can in half an hour. Hanging neatly on the wall were our tools: crowbars, baseball bats, big and little sledgehammers, and an assortment of iron pipes. Placed around the room, lit in eerily dim blue light, were the intended recipients of our aggression: rubber tires, battered metal computer hardware, and a couple dozen glass wine bottles. I began by hurling one of the latter against the wall, shattering it into a zillion pieces. “Boy, I’d want you on my side in a bar fight,” Molly observed.

She was equally effective with her bottle-tosses.

In fact, she was more effective than she’d realized. It wasn’t until she got home that she found a piece of flying glass had sliced its way right through the coveralls and her pants beneath, leaving a small but deep gouge in her shin.

I escaped injury myself, except when I hefted the crowbar and thwacked it into my kneecap before I could inflict damage on something else. Irritated, I dumped it and instead grabbed the heaviest and most menacing implement I could find, swinging it high over my head and feeling like John Henry with his own nine-pound hammer.

It is indeed satisfying to destroy stuff. And I now better understand what John Henry went through, hefting that thing over and over. I’ve loved that legend as long as I can remember and it’s been especially sacred to me since I produced the NEA-funded Steel Drivin’ Man radio documentary in the early 1990s.

Just about any version of the ballad deeply affects me. It’s weird what happens when I listen: first my wee heart lifts with joy and then it plummets into deep sadness in alternating and rather overwhelming waves. I don’t get it, but there it is. TJ linked me to this haunting and soul-wrenching rendition by Mississippi Fred McDowell. Happy-and-sad listening to you!