Random goodness in the rain

Jesse came into the kitchen, bouncing, asking us to guess what he just did.

"I blogged!" he announced, before we had a chance to guess. I read his post, a list of random things, and was inspired to do my own. We've had some heavy rain the past few days and lots of driving to do to get to violin and archery classes. These gray, tired days can hide the good stuff, if I'm not careful.

We watched the documentary about the wire walker who danced and played on a tiny cable strung between the twin towers in the 70's. Called simply Man on Wire, it just won the academy award for best documentary. It combines the wire walker's present day thoughts about his wire walking journey with home movies and media footage of he and his team back in the day. Philippe Petit's dream of making that World Trade Center walk began when he was a boy in a dentist's office, reading in a newspaper about the plans for the building of the towers. What power there is in a long-held dream, when accompanied by some crazy good friends and passionate preparation.

We finished reading The Island of the Blue Dolphins yesterday and watched Escape to Witch Mountain the other night. I remembered liking both a lot as a child. The book traveled better through time than the movie. Gillen has declared that it's his favorite book ever.

Having had a few weeks of lessons now, Jesse had been feeling frustrated that his instrument, the violin, sounded so drastically different from that he'd heard in the Manheim Steamroller concert. But yesterday both he and Gillen were feeling very musical and were awe-struck by their new ability to actually play something close to a song, not just notes.

All is well; I'm ready for spring.

The unexpected

When I was in my twenties, in New York City, imagining being a wife and mother (because I probably dreamed more of making a family than of "making it" as an actor) I just never could have imagined this life, that is oh so perfect, but entirely unexpected.

This morning, Gillen was frying up some eggs and singing a made up song really loudly - some manly, guttoral, warrior belting. I was in another room looking for Nicolas' missing phone and was relieved, I admit, when the singing suddenly stopped. I went into the kitchen to help with the eggs and make some toast but the frying eggs were all alone. The outside door to the back deck shut. Gillen came back into the kitchen, his big dimples highlighted by shiny cold red cheeks. He washed his hands and went back to his spot at the stove.

"I just shot a squirrel," he said, pride stretching his grin.

"Just now? What? You shot a squirrel? How? ....Why?" His citified mama was very confused.

"I saw it getting into the bird feeder so I went and got my BB gun, and I shot it. First shot!"

"You were making eggs for papa and you left them to go shoot a squirrel?"

"Yes. I can't believe I got him. Do you want to see?"

I didn't. But I followed him outside and looked anyway. One shot in the heart. I was relieved to see he never suffered. Gillen's first kill. Wow. I can't say I ever imagined having to deal with guns in my home and a passion for hunting. Nicolas and I asked if he had thanked the squirrel, as previously instructed in many discussions about hunting. He had. He bagged it up and put it in the fridge and before I knew what was happening, the husband of my local homeschooling friend was here on our porch eager to teach Gillen how to mount it.

Jesse and I hid inside playing Quiddler. Jesse was shocked by the killing but had decided to wear his camouflage shirt out of respect for Gillen's moment - also unexpected, and very cool.

So right now, on top of my new art cabinet, a squirrel skin is laid out flat, curing in a plate of salt. There are four tiny squirrel legs soaking in salted water in the fridge, waiting to be marinated in something good while we go to gymnastics, and then eaten tonight (we have asked that Gillen eat anything he kills). The squirrel couldn't be mounted since its tail had been injured and it wasn't going to sit correctly. No mounted animals in my home. Yet.

I was also surprised this week by another example of how little I know about my children. I love how impossible they make it to pigeonhole them.

As a result of "that horrible Lassie movie" (I ignorantly brought home the one when Lassie is poisoned by an evil man and spends much of the movie dying), "The Yearling" (o.k., my bad) and "Around the World" (which had some frightening footage from race riots in the sixties) I have had a reputation with my eldest son for picking the worst movies ever. I keep trying to pick movies from netflix that everyone will like but most of the time Gillen won't even give them a try - until this week, when the netflix queue did not reflect conscious family choices that I hoped would appeal to everyone, at all. We watched "Mansfield Park" the other night, an historical drama that is based on Jane Austen's most autobiographical book. Not only did Gillen sit through the whole thing, he really liked it. Then, last night, we watched another historical drama about a farmer in MN meeting his mail-order bride. It was a slow, tender, visually beautiful film but definitely not one I'd have chosen for my sons. Gillen liked it.

You just never know.

Long Way Round

We have started watching this documentary about Ewen McGregor and his friend going around the world on their motorcycles. Apparently it was shown in episodes on TV at some point. We rented it from Netflix. We are only two episodes into it and I am hooked, and I think that the crush I am developing on Ewen McGregor is only part of the reason.

It has me thinking about risky decisions, about passions, about the balance between purely personal pursuits and serving, being with family - how these intersect.

Giving myself hours to write, next month, is my motorcycle trip. What's yours?