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The Fence, the Popsicle, and a Can of Coors by Arthur Montague
I did my part on a warm Summer morning while K.C. was off mau-mauing the day care folks. I painted the backyard picket fence white. To me the exercise seemed sensible.
Is a fence to keep things in or out? Is it like part of a jungle gym, an object to climb? Is it just a walkway for squirrels to access the garden shed roof or perhaps a perch from which the cats can ambush birds on the patio? Or all of the above? More, much more than the above, as K.C. demonstrates.
I did my part on a warm Summer morning while K.C. was off mau-mauing the day care folks. I painted the backyard picket fence white. To me the exercise seemed sensible. Three years had passed since I'd last painted the fence. My timing was impeccable. Day care provides a window of opportunity to do many things best done without K.C.'s assistance.
She is still a little too haphazard to be around open pails of paint, open pails of anything for that matter. Dipping is a longstanding passion of hers, begun early under the Golden Arches with french fries in ketchup, continuing along with bread in applesauce to stuffed animals in bathtubs. Dumping is another passion: a logical extension of interest when mere dipping becomes a bore.
I'm told not to encourage such behavior, as if I'm not adult enough to know this on my own. Well, I am adult enough and I obey. I am also a grandfather. Accordingly, I don't feel obliged to discourage the behavior either. Human beings are free only for a little while. Then, just when life is looking like it might be fun, they're plunked on a potty and ordered to do some business. Add to that, they discover big people seem to attach special meaning to the word, "NO!"
K.C. dips and dumps; ergo, I paint the fence while she's elsewhere engaged. I'm no dummy!
Nor is K.C. She spots the wonderful pristine whiteness of the fence the instant she gets into the yard after her nap. K.C. misses nothing. Pick a drowned housefly out of the wading pool and immediately she goes looking for it. Move a ball off the step where it might break someone's neck, she'll find it and put it back. Then she'll move it herself, thank you very much. It's not for others to do tasks for which she has assumed responsibility, especially tasks involving objects she owns.
She walks the length of the fence, running her hands over it here and there, pausing to check out this or that bump in the wood, and nails hammered not quite flush. She points out each such nail to me because she knows they're amiss and she knows Pa fixes things. I get the hammer and do my job. K.C. helps, though she needs both hands and a lot of body English to wield the hammer. In no time the job is done to her satisfaction. The paint job will need some touch-ups, many touch-ups.
I'm sweating in the sun. Cannily, I've laid out Blue's Clues and Huckle Cat sticker books on the patio table. I like the idea of sitting comfortably in the shade of the umbrella helping her fill the books, a pleasant sedentary activity, precisely my style.
The sticker books fail to lure her away from the fence. She takes offence that I'd inadvertently painted over a slow spider. I assure her the spider is just sleeping and will be up and about before the next day. This seems to placate her, but I make a mental note to scrape if off later because she'll surely check the spot before day care in the morning. I succeed in getting her to the table with the promise of a popsicle. Kid care is a piece of cake; all one needs is patience, glibness, and a supply of treats. I zip into the house for her popsicle and a can of Coors for myself.
At ninety seconds I glance out the kitchen window. K.C. is engrossed, getting the stickers out of the books. Another two minutes, three tops, and I'm back in the yard.
K.C. is no longer at the table. She is at the fence; how can she move so fast on those eighteen inch legs? Across the patio, leading to the fence is a trail of blue dog paw stickers, signifying Blues Clues. K.C. has also posted a dozen or two Huckle Cat, Lowly Worm, and Sergeant Murphy stickers across the length of the fence. These stickers do not peel; this I know from trying to get others off of her bedroom wall. Suddenly, I feel like Mister Frumble, the most inept of characters in
Richard Scarry's
books.
K.C. turns when she hears me. She holds up the remaining stickers, grins happily, and says," "Pa, come help." K.C. has discovered that fences, beyond all other purposes, are for grafitti. I help her finish pasting up the remaining stickers. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon K.C. and I can bring out her colored felt pens and connect the stickers. This teaches form and order, I'm told.
Her grandmother will not be happy. I shall need patience, glibness, and a supply of treats for her, too. Maybe another popsicle and Coors is in order; K.C. and I have worked hard today.
--
As a grandfather responsible for part-time care of a toddler, and as a writer, it seemed to Art Montague a logical move to combine the two. Originally, the Themestream series Travels With K.C. was intended as a legacy for his grand-daughter. Then, as more and more readers related fondly to these episodes the articles took on new meaning. Art's Themestream series is now in hiatus although his Travels with K. C. (now almost four) continue apace.
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I did my part on a warm Summer morning while K.C. was off mau-mauing the day care folks. I painted the backyard picket fence white. To me the exercise seemed sensible.
