Three

These late fall days have been so much fun, not for swinging in the park in the brisk sunny weather, not for the late season hikes in the first snows, not for the homey feel that comes from churning out batches of homemade soup and baked goods full of squashes and apples and spice, but for Snowden’s quickly expanding vocabulary. It seems that every time I turn around she is trying out a new word, or teaching me the meaning of one of her sounds that she uses on a regular basis.

Her favorite word right now might be “crow”. We live high above the street near a ravine that is home to many crows. In the early morning hours, truly at first light, Snowden stands at the window and calls the crows forth from their cozy nests to their day time perches on the light posts and wires around our neighborhood. When we walked through the ravine the other day, she, in the backpack, kept saying “crow, crow, crow”. I thought she must be just chattering and not really meaning crow because there were no black birds in evidence, but I looked at her and she was looking intently up into the tree tops, clearly scanning the sky for birds.

A new Snowden game is “go . . .go . . go”. She repeats the command each time she tosses or drops whatever toy she is currently playing with, most often Dog. She says “go . . .go . . .go . . .” when we leave the house too so I know she has some understanding of the meaning. Hearing “go . . .go . . . go . . .” from the crib means trouble, means I’ll soon be getting up or going in to pick Dog up off the floor. Her use of words makes me think hard about the true meanings. I find myself listening to my use of the word “go” and intently thinking about how her brain may be interpreting meaning from context. It’s very interesting and can take all day.

This afternoon Snowden had only been asleep for one hour of her usual two hour nap when she began to fuss. I let her fuss off and on thinking she’d drift back off to sleep. Her fussing escalated into crying so I intervened in hopes of calming her back to a nice deep sleep. When I went in, she sat up in the crib with long hair hanging in eyes, nose beginning to run, Dog’s wet ear gripped tightly in her hand and a sly smile through the tears just emerging. I picked her up to rock her and she looked into my eyes and with a slight sob started to chant “guh gool, guh gool, guh gool” using the same inflection I use to praise her, my “good girl”. I wanted to say, “No, not ‘good girl’. You are ’sleepy girl’. You are ‘need to be asleep girl’.” But I was too enchanted.

Snowden was exasperated! How was she, a mere baby, supposed the get Thanksgiving dinner cooked? Why she was so small that even with her fabulous pull-up skills she could only reach the lowest tier of kitchen drawers. There was no way that she could get access to the counters where a bounty of vegetables sat waiting for preparation. Why had she ever agreed to cook Thanksgiving dinner?

The day before, Snowden’s mom had checked the weather and saw that Thanksgiving was going to be a clear and cold day. Based on this promising forecast Snowden’s parents decided to go for a hike. It sounded like a wonderful plan. An early morning spent hiking a frozen mountain trail, the pink glow of sunrise shimmering on frost-feathers sprouting from alpine evergreens, and then returning to a warm house smelling of roasted turkey and freshly baked pies. What a great way to spend the day! There was only one problem. Who would cook dinner?

Snowden’s mom mused out loud regarding this dilemma. “Who, Snowden? Who would be able to cook such a feast?” Snowden looked up. “Could you prepare it Snowcat?”
Snowden nodded her head vigorously.
Laughing, Snowden’s mom responded, “Really? You could cook the dinner?”
Again Snowden nodded her head. This time a very serious look crossed her face.
“But how? The turkey weighs more than you do!”
Snowden continued her enthusiastic insistence that she was capable of preparing the meal. After some discussion Snowden and her mom arrived at a compromise.

Snowden’s parents would put the Turkey in the oven and then leave for their hike. Snowden would take care of all the other fixings. She would mash the potatoes, roast the yams, stew the cranberries and toss the salad. By the time that she finished, Mom and Dad would have returned from the mountains to take out the Turkey and set the table.

This had seemed like a wonderful idea to Snowden.
Finally she would have some time alone in the kitchen to prove her substantial talents were not imagined. She would also have some blessed relief from the constant input of her parents. They meant well, but a baby could only take so much learning. Did she really have to read books, play music, admire crafts and witness kitchen magic every waking hour? When was it her turn to have some peace and quiet?

Reality was not as wonderful as the plan. The first small seeping trickle of doubt entered her mind when she heard the door click shut behind her parents. She crawled into the kitchen and realized the gravity of the situation. She was only ten months old. She had no hope of reaching the counters where all the ingredients sat ready for preparation. Even if she could have scaled the cabinets and reached the counters, Snowden was not strong enough the mash a potato or put a pan of cranberries on the stove. What could she do? She desperately wanted to show here parents that she was capable of taking care of herself. She wanted to show that she could be trusted to be left on her own. What could she do?

Snowden crawled from the kitchen and grabbed Dog. She held Dog before her face looking quizzically at him.
“Snowden – Sinun taytyy soittaa baby beanstalk!”
Snowden shook Dog and squeaked in surprise. Dog had never spoken before. Again Dog said, “Sinun taytyy soitaa baby beanstalk!”

When did Dog learn to talk? And why did he speak pidgin Finnish? Snowden had no time to puzzle out these conundrums – there was a dinner to cook. Snowden put down Dog and picked up her cell phone and called Beanstalk. (Snowden also failed to consider how she could understand Dog’s advice. She did not speak English yet, let alone Finnish!)

“Hello? Who is this? Hello”
“Doh!!”
“Well, hello Snowden, long-time no-hear! What can I do for you?”
“Mah, muh, muh, DoH!”
“Really? You need help with dinner? You are all alone?”
“Craw!! Doh!!”
“There is crow? You are with Dog? Snowden,” Baby B. exclaimed in an exasperated voice, “you have to be more clear with me. I am but a small child and I CAN NOT READ YOUR MIND!”
Snowden had never heard Baby B. yell before and this shocked her a bit. She turned from the window and looked back into the kitchen,” “Muh, uh, Mahmahamahmah goglogogo!”
“ OK, now I understand. I will be over in about 30 seconds.”

Before Snowden could put her phone back in the big silver bowl where she stored it Beanstalk came sauntering in from the bedroom. Beanstalk was about the same age and size as Snowden, but, as you know from previous stories, a preternaturally capable infant. While Snowden could crawl and pull up on furniture, Baby B. could walk; hop skip, cartwheel and even climb. Beanstalk was careful never to do these things in the presence of adults because of the incredulity of their response and their insistence that she, “do it again!”

Snowden looked at Beanstalk and nodded her head and with small grunt turned and headed for the kitchen. What happened next would be utterly unbelievable to any reasonable person and I hesitate to report it, save for the fact that I have talked two very reliable eyewitnesses. (And no, one is not Dog, who if asked, I am sure, would recount these events in terse Finnish that would be incomprehensible to all!)
I am referring, of course, to Snowden’s parents. They did not leave to go to the mountains and hike. As tempting as that scenario sounded, they were good and responsible folk who were not about to leave a ten month old, overly ambitious baby in a kitchen full of knives and pots and pans.

After putting the Turkey in that morning they had made a big show of leaving. They packed their back-packs, laced their boots. They had even gone so far as to print out a map and itinerary of their hike that they taped to the refrigerator door. What they had not done was actually leave. Instead of walking out the door, they had quietly slipped into the back bedroom and waited quietly to see what Snowden would do.

They had seen Beanstalk walk into living room and accompany Snowden into the kitchen. Slowly and silently Snowden’s parents (having removed their heavy hiking boots to ensure their stealth) crept into living room and peeked into the kitchen. They could not believe their eyes.

Beanstalk had managed to get Snowden up onto the counter. Snowden had two peeled potatoes in her hands and was bashing them enthusiastically against a steel bowl, slowly mashing them. Beanstalk had the foresight and dexterity to use Snowden’s purple rope to tie her off and Snowden was effectively secured to towel rack above the counter. As Snowden continued her deconstruction of the potatoes Beanstalk was a flurry of activity. She left from counter to counter slicing and dicing, boiling and simmering with such vigor that even the most hardened of classical chefs could not help but be impressed with her culinary skills.

Snowden’s parents were not sure how long the sat, transfixed by the sight of Beanstalk’s gastronomical acrobatics. Finally, Snowden’s Dad checked his watch and whispered, “I think we should be getting home now.” Snowden’s parents crept back down the hallway and noisily opened the door. “Snowden, we’re home!” they called.

Beanstalk carefully lowered Snowden to ground (most likely using a muenter hitch) and then hustled back into the bedroom. Snowden sat in the middle of a kitchen filled with baking, bubbling food and the wonderful aroma of Thanksgiving. When Snowden’s parents saw Snowden proudly beaming in the kitchen, filled with tasty food they clapped for her saying, “Yeah Snowden!!!” Snowden nodded her head and clapped with them.

The table was quickly set and the family of three tucked in for a tasty meal. The Turkey was uncommonly moist and flavorful, the potatoes had a creamy texture that neither of Snowden’s parents could remember experiencing with any other mashed potatoes and the cranberries were exquisite. After the meal was finished and everyone was lolling about the couch in a post-prandial stupor, Snowden’s mom remarked, “Snowden, you did a great job. Did you have any help?”
Snowden looked at Dog, who sat on the floor in front of her. For a second, she thought she saw one of Dog’s eyes close in sly wink. Looking up at her Mom, Snowden shook her head in a firm and final, “No.”

The small mobile gourd was ringing away

and Snowden did eagerly answer it.

She picked up the gourd and heard beanstalk say,

Snowden you need to get the red gourd lit.”

“Take the reddish gourd you found on the farm

and carve it carefully to let light show.

Place a candle in (unlit so not to harm)

and on the eve of hallows let the flame glow”

Snowden honored the request of the Beanstalk

and placed the glowing gourd in the window

to shine out on all the revelers on the block.

Now Snowden had no clue how Halloween

was saved. Nor did she see if the night was

scary or spooky. Snowden, oh-so-keen,

wanted a call, to hear of the nights buzz.

But sadly no ringing gourd could be heard.

For days and days Snowden waited.

Then yesterday at three o’clock, absurd

as it may sound, a gourd rang out belated.

“Sorry to be so long in calling, my gourd

account was cancelled! (Costs I can’t afford!)

But you should know Snowden Willa Kyt B.

your halloweenish orange glowing gourd

made Samhain the spookiest night for me!”

“In the dark ravine the ghouls howled long

and ravens, well crows, cawed a in scary song.

This would not have happened if you had not

put the glowing gourd in the perfect spot.

The glow it cast called Halloweenie

things from corners near and far, but no meany

came with them on the night before all Saints
whilst I enjoy a night with the friendly haints.

A disclaimer: Any attempt to fit this into some known form of meter will result in dire frustration.