Quality Time

This past summer, my daughter really found her legs. It’s been amazing watching the differences between her and her brother. He spent the first four years of his life in Vienna, Virginia. I think the biggest hill around us was shorter than me. Oh, we had gradual hills, but nothing compared to western Pennsylvania, where we moved when he was almost four and his sister was still learning the freedom of crawling.

Just like Vienna was pretty much flat, western Pennsylvania is pretty much flat. The main difference is the flatness is mixed in with constant hills, valleys and mountains. That first summer we all enjoyed exploring our new domain. (We moved from a postage stamp lot to three acres, so it was huge in our eyes.) There was one small problem. While living on the side of a mountain guarantees you spectacular views, it means you are on the side of a mountain. When we bought the house, I knew we’d be carrying my daughter for that first summer. My wife even made the comment that she was looking forward to walking up and down the hills and getting in shape. (After fifteen years of marriage, I knew enough to keep quiet whenever she made that comment.)

I don’t think my daughter is stronger or more stoic than my son, it’s just that she’s never known anything but hills. My son and I had a nice tradition in Vienna. After dinner, when the weather permitted, we’d walk to a creek about a mile away from out house. Sometimes he rode his tricycle; sometimes he’d push his mower. When we got to the creek, we’d take turns tossing rocks into the water. We also played in the cul-de-sac with the other kids and the parents. So, he wasn’t a junior couch potato. He must have thought it very rude to find his flat turf replaced by unending hills.

One of the rudest things I found was when I got a call from my wife saying a tree had fallen across our driveway. When we first saw the house, the driveway amazed us. Over a hundred feet long and laid perfectly with pavered blocks. Not only that, but huge rhododendrons bordered both sides of the driveway and in the spring it was like driving down a tunnel of purple. Near the house, the driveway spread out to a large parking area with two ancient trees in the middle, the pavered blocks around the trees. All in all, quite impressive. Until a windstorm blew one of the trees over and took out our power, cable and telephone lines.

To add insult to Mother Nature’s vandalism, the tree fell barely a month before we were going to host my wife’s family reunion at our new house. I still had to finish the deck, convert half the garage into a guest room, as well as my normal work. In other words, I was going to have a very irritated wife when everyone arrived and nothing was completed. (I’m great at starting projects, it’s the whole finishing thing I have a teeny tiny problem with.) We had a bit of luck in that we could still drive my car around the fallen tree. However, my wife’s minivan was a tight fit.

Now, there are those that will say, “So it’s a tight fit. Why’s that an issue?” Those are the same people that have seen the sides, bumper and tires of her car. It’s not that she’s a bad driver. If you’ve heard of touch typists, that’s how my wife drives. When she hits a curb, it’s time to stop. (Even my son, at four, knew it was ok to tease her about her driving. He told me, in great detail, how he looked out his window one time and they were flying. Since my wife was standing nearby and he was giggling the whole time, I knew he was teasing her.)

So, I had an almost four-foot diameter tree lying across our driveway and my wife’s car hopelessly trapped. And I had a trip to Washington DC coming up the next week. So in a weekend, I cut, chopped and split enough wood to last us for the winter.

The silver lining was that in September, the evenings tend to get chilly in the mountains. A good chunk of the stump remained and it made a cheery gathering place during the family reunion (We quickly ran out of neutral corners) as I tried to burn it down. (It only took a year and a half to completely burn the stump out.)

This is when I learned about my daughter’s fascination with fire. At almost two, she’d sit with me and laugh and chortle as the sparks shot into the night. That love of fire translated into watching me start the BBQ grill, fires in the fireplace and rewiring light switches.

Before I got a bellow, I’d spend several minutes blowing on the fire to get it going again after it’d burned down. Of course, she’d join me. There’s nothing quite as funny as watching her on her hands and knees, a good, safe distance from the fireplace, huffing and blowing. “I start fire for you, daddy,” she’d say confidently and turn her blonde head back and keep blowing. With her help, we’d get the fire roaring again and then we’d settle in for an evening of rocking. Now that I have the bellow, getting the fire going is easier, but when my daughter helps, we still do it the old fashioned way.