The goats of Shirley Jackson and Emily Dickinson.
The magic number
In summary,
I said,
The Lottery is a story that you remember forever. You can’t unforget. Sadly, Shirley Jackson died at age 49.
Sad,
commented the ten-year old authoritatively.
Forty-nine is a popular age to die.
Umm, thank you?
my 44-year old voice responded.
What do you mean? Who else died at 49?
I remember you telling me recently,
he said between bites of noodles,
that the author of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe died at 49.
Okay okay,
I said.
True. Let’s make the next five years count.
Note: I didn’t say the last part. I thought it might be a little existentially terrifying. But then again…how many things could be more terrifying than Shirley Jackson’s masterpiece of terror lurking in normalcy : The Lottery?
Again
So yeah, the goats escaped again. That’s not a metaphor. Had to wrangle, most literally, goats back into the pasture.
Note: the previous sentence is slightly exaggerated, and technically, the previous experience involved a single goat.
Also, there was no literal wrangling.
How to master the non sequitur
Thanks for helping with supper,
I said quietly as we waited outside for their mom to arrive home.
I didn’t actually help very much,
he said,
his freshly-four year old hand slipping against mine in the early evening rain.
Yeah you did,
I said. I really appreciated your help.
Well, he explained.
I mostly just chopped lettuce. But I also ate a carrot, so I helped a little.
Yes
It’s a little cold,
he said.
Is Mama gonna be here soon?
Yeah. I said. Soon.
Hey!
he said, squirming under the blanket he was cocooned in,
would you like to snuggle and read a book with me on the couch later?
Umm,
I deliberated carefully about the correct response.
That’s a yeah.
G.O.A.T.
She thinks she’s so funny, calling me “Goat Dad.”
You wrangle a couple goats a few times and suddenly that’s your new moniker. “Goat Dad.” I wasn’t excited about it until I remembered something.
What you’re actually calling me,
I informed her,
is “Greatest of All Time Dad.”
Well,
she said, skipping not a beat,
when I call you Goat Dad, I’m not using any punctuation or capital letters. I am literally calling you ‘Goat Dad’ because that’s what you are.
Sometimes you just gotta stop fighting and accept reality.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson
Note : this is the poem we are memorizing as a family this month.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
“Help” is the thing with claws (ode to my children) by Joseph Long
Note : if it is not apparent (see above), this is my response (or homage?) to Emily Dickinson’s “Hope,” a poem in which the power of hope is compared to a bird. In my version, the power of help is compared to a (kindly?) creature. With claws. I love my children.
“Help” is the thing with claws -
That tugs upon my shirt -
And shrieks the song with many words -
And never pulls up short
And loudest in Hurricane is heard -
And pain must be the pinch -
That could destroy the tiny Beast
That grew my heart an inch -
I’ve heard it in the silent night -
And in the deepest Sleep -
But, never, in all my lonesome,
It chose to leave Me be.
——
