Moonwalk

In case you didn't notice, we had a full moon last week. In Taurus. I'm not sure what that means, except I'm a Taurus. Maybe that's why I felt compelled to venture out.

I glanced through the third-floor window and there it was, the moon. Beckoning like a steroidal frisbee. Next thing I knew, the dog and I were sneaking out the back door on our way to the cemetery, where we wandered in the moonshine amongst the graves like a couple of ghosts. The perfect antidote to a grueling day with the three-year-olds.

(The Gentle Reader may recall the blogger's latest foray into the land of gainful employment is as a teacher of preschoolers.)

Today in school we made button people for our afternoon art project, and one of my little charges -- let's call her Janie -- was determined to put a special button on her button person's "bagina." That's a soft "g." Janie intoned the word in a happy chant and swung her legs and studied her paper doll until, with a squeal of recognition, she glued a bright blue button on the anatomically-correct spot and, that accomplished, announced she was finished with Art and would be returning to her preferred subject, Playdough.

Correct me if I'm wrong. Kids are different nowadays.

First of all, playdough didn't even appear on the scene until long after I'd graduated to necking in cars. I was weaned on that moist gray school clay that smelled like feet and Rodney Heikala was fond of eating. Rodney had white hair and black glasses and always chose my head in Duck-Duck-Goose. He ran like a spaz and drooled when he talked and gave me a handmade valentine signed "U R THE 1 4 ME!," which resulted in my being forced to fake-barf whenever he tried to partner up at line-time until finally he got the hint. It took awhile.*

Then there's the "bagina" thing.

I can just picture little Janie's little mother oh-so-politically-correctly pointing out to her inquisitive toddler the difference between boys and girls. A "Father Knows Best" meets "Reality TV" moment. I mean, I didn't even know what a bagina was until I discovered I had one (see above, re "things to do in cars," but let's not go there).

I do distinctly remember asking my own mother where babies came from. I was in the bathtub at the time, playing with the Toothbrush People. As opposed to at the table, playing with the Silverware People (the knife was the father; the big spoon, the mother; the fork, the son; the little spoon, the daughter). The question concerning babies just sort of popped out, like an afterthought, or a baby. Instantly, the air in the bathroom changed. You could cut it with a toothbrush. My mother paused, and in a voice quite unlike the one she'd been using, informed me that babies were a gift God gave you when you'd been very very good (as opposed to very very bad, as in the case of Linda Flann, but let's not go there).

Then there was the time I oh-so-casually asked this same mother some vague pleasure-driven question having to do with "down there." This time she was putting me to bed, moving about the room picking up clothes and pulling curtains shut, when she stopped dead in her tracks as if she'd suddenly been electrocuted. You could practically smell the flesh burning. Only it was my flesh. Or it would be. Eventually.

But. Speaking of stopping dead.

Today is El Dia de los Muertos. And if the Mexicans are right, I'd better get with the program. Maybe tonight, when the Daughter Spoon is drifting off to dreamland and the Father Knife is sequestered in his tower, I'll take the Pickle Fork Dog for a walk. To the cemetery, like last week. I'll make sure to bring some leftover Halloween candy to satisfy the food requirement, and carry a flashlight in lieu of a candle.

Only I might not need a flashlight. Even though there won't be a full moon, in Taurus or anywhere else. Because maybe tonight, on this Day of the Dead, as we wander in the wane amongst the graves, some real ghosts will be there to lead the way.





(*I should mention Rodney didn't make it out of his teens, some congenital thing. All things considered, I'm probably going to Hell when I die. Only I don't believe in Hell, so I'll probably be spending my last days chained to a wheelchair, gesturing like a spaz and drooling when I talk, in some Old Folks Home in Iowa packed to the rafters with Fundamentalist Christian bowhunters playing Duck-Duck-Goose. And they'll never choose me.)