Little My, by Tove Jansson
23 June, 2011
21 June, 2011
Caitlin, part 2
Saturday, May 19, 2001: A tragic day at the Duncan household. While Sharon spends two hours in a line signing Spence up for swimming, we circulate, clean, practice the piano. Then I go out and see that the door to the rabbit hutch is open, with no Pete in sight. I call Drew, I ask Sarah, Spence joins them in an increasingly urgent search. Beyond the mysterious remnants of a beach ball, we find not a trace, which also means that there’s no sign of any animal strife. The only explanation is that someone snuck back and stole him.
Drew is distraught, and the feeling deepens as the day goes on. We call the police, but don’t expect much help from that quarter. Spence finds and reports a number of clues—a hole in the neighbours’ hedge, one of Clark’s poops. Sarah makes a poignant poster. “Please help. lost rabbit. He is gray and is about a foot long and is very soft. Please help. if you find him we’re 200 E 800 S.” Little Matty does his part, peeing on the flowers in the front flowerbed. Caitlin improvises a bit of Dvorak on the piano. “Hey! That song’s for saying goodbye—it’s for dead people. Just right for Pete!” Clever girl/rascal. Drew starts wailing anew.
Meanwhile. The top two teams in Caitlin's Double A soccer league are tied up and in need of a deciding game. Leaving poor Drew behind with Matt, we all drive to American Fork for the day’s second vivid, heartbreaking, better than just watching TV or going to the mall experience. Our team loses, and under very suspicious circumstances. It sounds whiny, but there’s really no way around the fact that the ref stole the game. He asks the other team where that foul took place. Why, in the penalty area, says the other team. They score on the ensuing free kick. Many other questionables, and even forgiveables are eclipsed by a stunning last affront.
Caitlin, who hadn’t started as well as she might have (sort of standing around, allegedly thinking about the after-game meal we’d promised her), has now hit her stride. She's back at stopper, and is in the thick of it as the second overtime period comes to a close. The other team has a rush going, a player open, an utter breakaway impending. But Caitlin, very calmly and cucumberedly, steps forward just as the pass is made and puts her opponent offside. We see it, they see it, the linesman calls it. The ref lets play continue. After a complicated scramble, our goalie is down. Caitlin, still very calmly, steps up and kicks the ball away. Unfortunately, at that exact moment co-fullback Sheena jumps in the way, and the ball bounces off of her and in.
Saturday, October 6, 2001: I go up with Caitlin to her Heber game. We enjoy the autumnal sights and have a nice talk. It’s an impressive setting for this last game with their most formidable opponent. There are lots of collisions in the first half, and some flinching and hesitation on our side.
After the half, though, we come together. We score—Caitlin’s mighty throw-in goes over and past the defenders to Hailey F., who dribbles up and pushes it to Whitney W., who slips it past the goalie and in. And then a battle begins in real earnest, and I’m as impressed with Caitlin as I have ever been. She takes a real beating! Some incidents just come with the territory. Others don’t, or shouldn’t.
The Heberites were really dirty! As a defender, and with the other team a goal down, Caitlin was in the middle of it all, and she got a ton of abuse. She got shouldered down, poked and pushed, elbowed and tripped, bruised and discouraged, but she never gave up, never backed down, never descended to their level, and finally, with plentiful back up from the centre fullback and the left halfback, won most every battle. Just spectacular, I thought, and I felt very proud. Caitlin was a bit ragged emotionally by the end, but what individual accomplishment, what team cohering! Sarah and Caitlin and I have a great ride back. We’ve done something. Or, perhaps more accurately, my kids have done something, and I got to be there.
Friday, December 7, 2001: Christmas party. Caitlin goes up to see Santa. She sits down. “So. What’s my name?”
Sunday, December 9, 2001: Drew has got a problem, and wonders if I can help her. “Dad, can you tie stones to Caitlin’s limbs and throw her in a lake?” “No, Drew, I’d be damned eternally.” “So?”
Wednesday, April 24, 2002: Coach Ryan is out of town, which leaves me and my underwhelming record to try to help those girls win their soccer game. It goes perfectly! They play beautifully! We win 3-1! I found ridiculous pleasure in watching all of this strong positional play, teammate support, defending and passing and scoring and having fun. I notice with great amusement and approval that Caitlin runs rather like a fullback. As she barrels down, carrying the ball with great casual confidence, people tend to get a bit out of the way. If they don’t, they find sometimes that they should have.
Friday, May 24, 2002 (London): Sarah, Spence and I have a lot of fun picking up some groceries. Back at home, things are more negative. Caitlin is roaring around, Drew is reacting around. I cuff once, and talk a ton about recent transgressions. Caitlin goes off and takes it out on another little person. I perpetuate the cycle of savagery. A few minutes later, Caitlin is in her room, furtively scribbling. When I come in a guilty grin flashes across her face. “What are you up to?” She says that I’ll either laugh, or kill her. It’s a picture of her holding a bloody knife, and me with gouts of blood spurting from my chest. Above there’s an emphatic caption. “Die, bastard, die!” I laugh.
Wednesday, September 11, 2002: Caitlin’s team wins an enormously sloppy and entertaining home game. The way that she, how shall we say, leans on her opponents, is becoming more and more emphatic. In fact she’s pretty well passed on to plain running them over. But her heart stopping, tie-breaking goal with thirty seconds remaining was all skill. She pulled the ball off someone, slipped around someone else, then calmly stepped up and punched it through from just past the half line, for heaven's sake. She placed it precisely, exactly, and it sailed and sailed and sailed, passing just over the fingertips of their excellent out-reaching goalie and into the billowing back of the net. Everyone roared and jumped up and down, and the whistle blew and they roared and jumped up and down, and hugged, some more. What a wonderful thing to have done, once in your life.
Drew is distraught, and the feeling deepens as the day goes on. We call the police, but don’t expect much help from that quarter. Spence finds and reports a number of clues—a hole in the neighbours’ hedge, one of Clark’s poops. Sarah makes a poignant poster. “Please help. lost rabbit. He is gray and is about a foot long and is very soft. Please help. if you find him we’re 200 E 800 S.” Little Matty does his part, peeing on the flowers in the front flowerbed. Caitlin improvises a bit of Dvorak on the piano. “Hey! That song’s for saying goodbye—it’s for dead people. Just right for Pete!” Clever girl/rascal. Drew starts wailing anew.
Caitlin, who hadn’t started as well as she might have (sort of standing around, allegedly thinking about the after-game meal we’d promised her), has now hit her stride. She's back at stopper, and is in the thick of it as the second overtime period comes to a close. The other team has a rush going, a player open, an utter breakaway impending. But Caitlin, very calmly and cucumberedly, steps forward just as the pass is made and puts her opponent offside. We see it, they see it, the linesman calls it. The ref lets play continue. After a complicated scramble, our goalie is down. Caitlin, still very calmly, steps up and kicks the ball away. Unfortunately, at that exact moment co-fullback Sheena jumps in the way, and the ball bounces off of her and in.
There’s a strange pause—what of the offside? The ref deliberates, then decides that because he didn’t call it at the time, that the goal should stand. A drum starts to roll and soon there’s an explosive crash. The other team goes nuts, because the game’s over. (Any integrity over there?) Our girls dissolve, and Caitlin in particular. Why not? Our nice coach Ryan won’t shake the suddenly o’er friendly referee’s hand. The girls, or a couple of them anyway, start to blame Caitlin. “Why did you have to kick it in?” Sheena stands there and says nothing. She’s a kid. We sympathize, all over the place. There are more tears, then some calming at a nearby burger place. Life!
Drew and I go looking round Artistic Circle for Pete. Nothing, except that we round a corner and see Drew’s classmate. Chantal. She sees us and runs over. “Drew, have you found your rabbit?” Her little face is expressive, full of care and concern. We find no traces of what we’re seeking, but encounter love instead. Drew may not have noticed. Connie Warren and the Cotters start searching and asking. Perfidy and kindliness surround us.
Drew and I go looking round Artistic Circle for Pete. Nothing, except that we round a corner and see Drew’s classmate. Chantal. She sees us and runs over. “Drew, have you found your rabbit?” Her little face is expressive, full of care and concern. We find no traces of what we’re seeking, but encounter love instead. Drew may not have noticed. Connie Warren and the Cotters start searching and asking. Perfidy and kindliness surround us.
Saturday, October 6, 2001: I go up with Caitlin to her Heber game. We enjoy the autumnal sights and have a nice talk. It’s an impressive setting for this last game with their most formidable opponent. There are lots of collisions in the first half, and some flinching and hesitation on our side.
After the half, though, we come together. We score—Caitlin’s mighty throw-in goes over and past the defenders to Hailey F., who dribbles up and pushes it to Whitney W., who slips it past the goalie and in. And then a battle begins in real earnest, and I’m as impressed with Caitlin as I have ever been. She takes a real beating! Some incidents just come with the territory. Others don’t, or shouldn’t.
The Heberites were really dirty! As a defender, and with the other team a goal down, Caitlin was in the middle of it all, and she got a ton of abuse. She got shouldered down, poked and pushed, elbowed and tripped, bruised and discouraged, but she never gave up, never backed down, never descended to their level, and finally, with plentiful back up from the centre fullback and the left halfback, won most every battle. Just spectacular, I thought, and I felt very proud. Caitlin was a bit ragged emotionally by the end, but what individual accomplishment, what team cohering! Sarah and Caitlin and I have a great ride back. We’ve done something. Or, perhaps more accurately, my kids have done something, and I got to be there.
Wednesday, October 24, 2001: I come home to a tale of sports heroism. Caitlin showed up for her volleyball game, along with her coach, and nobody else. Her opponents, mostly members of her soccer team, prepare to win by forfeit. “Forfeit?" says Caitlin. "I’m here. Let’s play.” For fun, and perhaps for ostentatious charity’s sake, they do. And Caitlin defeats them, 15-12. Bob Beamon, Mexico 1968. Wayne Gretzky, beating Rocket Richard's previous 50-in-50 by scoring 50 goals in 39 games. Caitlin Duncan, all by her confident self, Springville middle school, 2001.
Saturday, October 27, 2001: Claire (three-and-a-half months) turns on her side and sleeps for three hours, all with the most beatific look on her face. Caitlin goes to the church and tells Sharon, who’s there for some Super Saturday activity, that the baby’s crying, and to come home right now. Later we ask her about the, well, untruthfulness of that representation. “Well,” she says. “I wanted her to come back.”
Saturday, October 27, 2001: Claire (three-and-a-half months) turns on her side and sleeps for three hours, all with the most beatific look on her face. Caitlin goes to the church and tells Sharon, who’s there for some Super Saturday activity, that the baby’s crying, and to come home right now. Later we ask her about the, well, untruthfulness of that representation. “Well,” she says. “I wanted her to come back.”
Friday, December 7, 2001: Christmas party. Caitlin goes up to see Santa. She sits down. “So. What’s my name?”
Sunday, December 9, 2001: Drew has got a problem, and wonders if I can help her. “Dad, can you tie stones to Caitlin’s limbs and throw her in a lake?” “No, Drew, I’d be damned eternally.” “So?”
Wednesday, April 24, 2002: Coach Ryan is out of town, which leaves me and my underwhelming record to try to help those girls win their soccer game. It goes perfectly! They play beautifully! We win 3-1! I found ridiculous pleasure in watching all of this strong positional play, teammate support, defending and passing and scoring and having fun. I notice with great amusement and approval that Caitlin runs rather like a fullback. As she barrels down, carrying the ball with great casual confidence, people tend to get a bit out of the way. If they don’t, they find sometimes that they should have.
Friday, May 24, 2002 (London): Sarah, Spence and I have a lot of fun picking up some groceries. Back at home, things are more negative. Caitlin is roaring around, Drew is reacting around. I cuff once, and talk a ton about recent transgressions. Caitlin goes off and takes it out on another little person. I perpetuate the cycle of savagery. A few minutes later, Caitlin is in her room, furtively scribbling. When I come in a guilty grin flashes across her face. “What are you up to?” She says that I’ll either laugh, or kill her. It’s a picture of her holding a bloody knife, and me with gouts of blood spurting from my chest. Above there’s an emphatic caption. “Die, bastard, die!” I laugh.
Saturday, September 7, 2002: Caitlin refs, and is abused by a nitwit coach. The issue is whether you can sub on a penalty kick. Caitlin says no, sticks to it, even takes a time out to find the ruling in the book. When the man doesn’t relent she replies with a spiritedness that is actually—and how often is this true?—justified. “Sir, I’m doing the best I can. If you think you can do better then come ahead and do it.”
From the archives: Scoundrel! (...revisiting a brief stage in the life of Caitlin R., born on this day, June 21, 1989...)
Monday, October 18, 1999: We do a nice theatrical version of the Princess and the Pea. Caitlin plays the pea.
Saturday, Jan. 8, 2000: We catch Caitlin sneaking some fudge. “Well, can I have some?” “Not now you can't,” I say. A (very) few minutes later, we catch Caitlin stealing some fudge.
Sunday, April 2, 2000: As the AM LDS General Conference session broadcast begins Caitlin makes a tender observation. “They always show flowers at the beginning. I hate that.”
Saturday, June 17, 2000: We come home from a meeting to find the remains of one of the worst babysitting jobs in history.
“Caitlin, how did Matty get that big bruise on his forehead?”
“Well, he might have fallen on the driveway.”
“He might have fallen on the driveway?”
“Yeah, but I'm not sure. I didn’t see it happen…”
Sarah, who is no tattletale, but who has an expression on her face suggesting that something isn't quite right with the world, pulls me aside to offer another version of the story. I try again.
“Caitlin, were you doubling Matty over by the middle school?” (She’d done it earlier in the day, and had been firmly told not to.)
Silence.
“Did he fall off the bike?” Grudgingly, an affirmative nod.
“How?”
“Well, my hands kind of slipped off the handlebars...”
“You mean you were riding with no hands while doubling a two-year-old?!” I guess she’s sheepish!
I should note that Caitlin herself got somewhat scraped, and had the decency not to whine about it. Apparently the little bruiser only cried for thirty seconds, too. So everyone’s alive, which is a blessing, and this will be a good story. But wait—Sharon comes out of the bedroom holding the shattered pieces of that that cool black Venetian bowl. There were slivers on the bed, which made us wonder how what happened. Was Matty standing there banging on the thing until it was smashed to smithereens? Once again, babysitting, anyone?
Saturday, January 20, 2001: Spence is crying. Matt (two-and-a-half) approaches Caitlin threateningly. “What did you do to my brother?”
Tuesday, January 23, 2001: Back from meetings to find that the girls have been playing harmoniously. But there are always mishaps. “Caitlin made me cough because she sat on me and farted and I threw up.”
Saturday, May 12, 2001: On the way to piano lessons, we stop behind some guy primping in front of his rear view mirror. Caitlin gives him a double thumbs-up sign. We have a nice two-vehicle laugh...
I should note that Caitlin herself got somewhat scraped, and had the decency not to whine about it. Apparently the little bruiser only cried for thirty seconds, too. So everyone’s alive, which is a blessing, and this will be a good story. But wait—Sharon comes out of the bedroom holding the shattered pieces of that that cool black Venetian bowl. There were slivers on the bed, which made us wonder how what happened. Was Matty standing there banging on the thing until it was smashed to smithereens? Once again, babysitting, anyone?
Saturday, January 20, 2001: Spence is crying. Matt (two-and-a-half) approaches Caitlin threateningly. “What did you do to my brother?”
Tuesday, January 23, 2001: Back from meetings to find that the girls have been playing harmoniously. But there are always mishaps. “Caitlin made me cough because she sat on me and farted and I threw up.”
Saturday, May 12, 2001: On the way to piano lessons, we stop behind some guy primping in front of his rear view mirror. Caitlin gives him a double thumbs-up sign. We have a nice two-vehicle laugh...
20 June, 2011
It's Sarah's 18th birthday! (emblematic anecdotes, and some photos...)
Thursday, September 4, 2008: Sarah’s team beats Mountain View 5-1. They look really, really impressive. Sarah looks even more really, really impressive. Awesome, actually. Inexpressible. The usual things are in place. Pinpoint passing, on the ground, in the air, redirected volleys and line drives. Superior positional play. Amazing composure. Fast as blazes. There was also something new. Now she’s channeling Caitlin. Not only is she positioning herself optimally, she’s also just plain bowling them over. I’ve worried about her size, and the possibility of injury still, always looms. But somehow, in a matter of games, she’s become a simultaneously law abiding, plain punishing defenseman. Wham! Carnage! And Sarah, still standing, then loping off with the ball. Bracing, stirring stuff, to an historical degree. (P.S. Pay no attention to that proprietary little man at the bottom right of the photograph...)
Friday, March 24, 2006
: We do lots of spring cleaning in the
yard. Sarah goes in and makes some
sandwiches, cuts some fruit, makes some lemonade, lays out some jerky and
cheese and crackers and cookies.
She arranges it all attractively and brings it out on a tray. I feel a little revelatory
stirring. Has this child made
it? There’s plenty of growing up
to follow, and stages to pass through, and the way is perilous. But I apprehend that the elements and
inclinations are in place to take her right to gainful and glorious adulthood. As she goes on to make a treasure map
(after the one that Matt got at Sena’s party) and guide the little ones through
it, I’m gratified to the point of emotion. She’s Sharon.
At twelve, she pretty consistently thinks of and does for others.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
(at the end of a continent crossing road-trip): I pull Sarah
outside and tell her how pleased and grateful I am. On this trip I
found her to be unstintingly sensible, practical,
industrious, tractable. She never
gave a moment’s trouble, or threw anything back in my face. She was
sweet with the kids. She’s fun, and funny. We’re not even talking
about those
physical and intellectual abilities, the self-sufficient quietness, the
gleam,
the wit, the skilful hands, that great overall personal attractiveness.
Real teenery may be impending, and its
thousand possible pitfalls. But if
these shadows remain unaltered by the future, this kid has made it, all
the
way. I am glad to tell her all
this, with gratitude and a full heart.
May 15, 2011: Sarah gives her youth council talk in 4th
ward. Really impressive! She organized carefully, picked the
words—the exact words—that she wanted, improvised a bit on the moment’s spur. Look at her, so modest and reined in,
yet so facially and vocally expressive.
There’s humour, but with dignity, and a self-effacing subtlety. There’s decent self-criticism, but such
reservoirs of substance and decency beneath it all. So smart, so lovely, so good. We feel very stirred.
19 June, 2011
15 June, 2011
From the archives: Mathieson Duncan (born June 15, 1998), infant...
Monday, Sept. 21, 1998: Mathieson (three months) rolls over for the first time. The doctor’s predictions about fat delays don’t pan out. The whole family’s there, feeling the best everyday joy about the best kind of everyday high point. Spence can’t stop laughing. Matt is a beautiful, sweet-natured boy.
Friday, December 3, 1999: The boys and I go out to shovel. Spence is thrilled, happy to see the pavement under the snow. Matty (one-and-a-half now) is a tough man. He falls fairly repeatedly, and once while helping him up I drop the shovel on his head. That might not have been the best idea. But there’s never a squawk. He just walks around with a kind of benevolent, extremely interested look on his face.
Wednesday, Jan. 26, 2000: I put Matty on a very brief, ten second time out. A minute later he comes back and throws a bottle of nail polish at my head.
Wednesday, February 9, 2000: Matt is coming to bed on a nightly basis. He knees and elbows and plants his feet in your back and tosses covers all over. The worst thing is his grand bum-whomp—he digs in his heels, arches his back and then releases. It’s rhythmic, it’s repeated—it’s aggravating! He sure is a nice guy, though.
Thursday, March 9, 2000: “Matty, come and blow your nose.” Before I can even get the Kleenex down he puts his hands up and blows everything out into them. Pretty pleased with this accomplishment he starts to walk around, blowing every which way.
Friday, March 31, 2000: We have some family soccer at the middle school. Matty (cf. Sarah, Glasgow, 1995) dribbles very well. He got to the net and found me in the way. “Hey!” he said. Seeing that I wasn’t moving, he thought for a moment. His face brightened as an idea occurred to him. “Scuze me!”
Tuesday, April 11, 2000: Spencer and Matt have become an impressive praying tandem. Spence volunteers at every opportunity, and does a very nice job too. He concentrates on safety while Matty, like the geese in the Grimms’ tale, just honks along in harmonious solidarity.
Saturday, May 6, 2000: Matt falls asleep during the Leafs' game. Spence comes around the corner and sees him. I watch as he’s literally washed o’er by a feeling of love for his brother. He kneels beside him, beams all around, caresses his hair and his back and his soft hands and feet. He doesn’t mind his runny nose. He talks to him and about him. He lays his head down on him, kisses him, gives a last beatific smile, and then sweetly falls asleep.
09 June, 2011
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