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LIBERTY, MAINE — Well, things are looking up. The gale-force wind that kept us indoors has mellowed into a pleasant zephyr, blowing the mosquitoes inland and making a trip in the kayak a charming excursion instead of an outtake from The Perfect Storm. Three of us can fit into the kayak at one go, so one of the older children always stays behind on the pebbly shore with a life-vest-clad younger child.
"How old should I be when I get married?" asks Molly one day, as we paddle. "It depends," I reply. "The main thing is to choose a husband with a good sense of humor, who's ambitious, honorable, and has a reasonable prospect of making a bit of money." "Of course," she says, "And he must be a Republican." Later some local children come to play, which means, a) the children are wearing some clothes for a change, and, b) my entertaining services are no longer required. In a perfect world, it would also mean, c) I can now yield to the lure of the lakeside chaise longe, open a novel, and perhaps have a snooze. But we live in a fallen world, and with six children on the premises the odds are greatly increased that at any moment one of them may tip off the end of the dock and come to a watery end. I ready myself for a long afternoon of untiring vigilance. The boys disappear down to the dock, whooping, while the older girls immediately clasp hands and go into the cottage. They emerge a short time later with a shoebox and a bagful of plastic princesses and farm animals. Somehow Phoebe and Violet are naked again, and have trotted down to the lake, where pirates are ransacking the shoreline for "gold!" and "crystal!" I join them, and stand about vigilantly. "Avast, me hearties!" roars Paris, heaving a huge rock into the water. "Aargh!" yells the visitor. "Swab the deck!" cries Paris, and drops in another whopper. "Right, you landlubbers," says the smaller boy, "Bring me gold!" "Aye, aye," says Paris, setting to with a will. The game apparently consists of him finding large, valuable rocks and giving them to his superior officer. The Captain's role is to stroll around giving orders and looking grim. Paris tips a stupendous boulder into the pirate hoard, and gasps with satisfaction. "You're sure lucky, Captain, to have a First Mate who works as hard as I do, getting you treasure." The Captain is silent. He is appraising a flat gray rock given to him by Violet. Finally, he nods. "It's good. Put it on the pile." She picks her way through the shallow water and deposits her offering. Up on the lawn, Molly and her friend are crouched over their makeshift dolls' house, murmuring ardently and moving toys around. Phoebe sits on the edge of the lake, putting pebbles in a plastic cup and taking them out again. "Psst, Paris," I whisper from the dock, "Why don't you make him be First Mate?" "I don't mind," he says. "Yes, but — " I lower my voice further. "You ought to be Captain sometime, you know. You're the kind of boy who should be giving orders, not taking them. Plus he's only five." "Mummy, I don't mind. I like being First Mate." "Paris!" rings out the peremptory voice of authority. "I'm going below." "Aye-aye, sir. Sit down, Captain, sit down right here by your treasure, Captain." The Captain sighs greedily: "My special treasure." Violet comes to sit with me wearing only a shiny purple necklace. "I'll have to put rocks on your lap, Captain," says the ever-obliging First Mate. "Uh, I don't know..." "It's okay. Not the big ones." This goes on all afternoon, and it is only after a barbeque — a balanced meal of grilled hotdogs, grilled sausages, grilled hamburgers, and toasted marshmallows — that the whole six-children thing gets overly noisy. As is typical in our family, and perhaps in yours, the loudest sounds generally come from a boy. "Yeeargh!" "Ah, darling, not so loud." "But you said we could be noisy in Maine." He's right. For months before we left Washington I held out the prospect of summertime freedom as a method of enforcing order, as in: "For heaven's sake, be quiet now, and when we get to Maine you can shout as much as you like." "You're absolutely right, Paris," I say, "Let it rip." "Yeeeaaarghhh!" |
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