In passing

In Bernie Krause's latest book, The Great Animal Orchestra, he tells the story of a trip that he took to Lake Wallowa in Oregon in 1971, where a Nez Perce elder offered him a music lesson. The two walked to a stream on on a fall morning, and Krause was told to crouch by the water, and to remain silent. As he stood still, he writes, he gradually noticed a wondrous "combination of tones, sighs, and midrange groans... a cross between a church organ and a colossal pan flute" - a hybrid of noises generated, it turned out, by the sound of wind blowing across a stand of reeds. And then the elder spoke. "Now you know where we got our music. And that's where you got yours, too."

And today Cleo, standing above the Mount Royal station tracks, got her music from a 50-hopper train carrying coal to points north.

Opera buffa

So let's say - just as a f'rinstance, you understand - let's say you've got a 2-year-old living with you, and let's say she enjoys a good warm cup of milk in the morning as she reclines in her black thinking chair and watches her morning video. And let's say, moreover, that's she has exhausted, over the course of a year of attentive daily spectatorship, a full parcel of Curious George shorts, vintage Sesame Street episodes, Angelina Ballerina melodramas, Max and Ruby cartoons, and 22-minute Blues Clues mysteries. And let's say, furthermore, that you wouldn't mind if the tyke was exposed to some clever music in the process.

Well, friend, allow me to introduce you to the Wonder Pets. A recent product of the fine folks at Nick, Jr., the three Wonder Pets wandered into my life via a recent issue of The New Yorker, in which a staff writer extolled their colorful series of daring adventures. And, two discs later, I'm on board: as if the sight of a deeply intrigued Cleo angled forward, as stiff as a ramrod, toward the t.v. wasn't enough, the series' intelligently irreverent use of melody has earned my respect.

The premise is, as with most successful shows, both simple and accommodating: it's easy to get, and yet it can lead to any number of minor variations. Three schoolroom pets - a turtle, a guinea pig and a duckling - regularly receive calls of distress from endangered animals around the world, and before you know it they're on their way, in a magical flying boat assembled from classroom objects, to aid those in need of help. A baby crocodile who needs his teeth cleaned by a plover? No problem; the Wonder Pets can help. A French poodle stranded near the top of the Eiffel Tower? Fear not. And, as the trio works to offer aid, they inevitably construct something useful out of toys. It's MacGyver, in a sense, for the toddler set.

The animation is initially jarring - it employs what is called photopuppetry, which can result in a hyper-real effect - but at times it's truly stunning, as in an episode set in Japan, where much of the action takes place against a landscape painted in sumi ink. Throughout, though, the visuals are supplemented with a range of musical effects that both complement the action and refer, in manners both obvious and subtle, to more adult traditions.

My favorite musical detail, I think, occurs near the outset of the each episode. As the classroom phone rings, each animal notices it, until Linny the guinea pig sings, in his childish voice, "The phone - the phone is ringing." When I hear it, I inevitably find myself thinking of opera libretti that involve a similar repetition and amplification: as in, say, Don Giovanni, when an assembled chorus damns the antihero:

Traditore, traditore!

Tutto, tutto gia si sa.

Trema, trema o scellerato!

The phone, the phone is ringing!

But maybe I'm stretching things (remember, I usually watch my Wonder Pets at 6:51 a.m., before a cup of coffee). There's little doubt, though, that the anthemic music that accompanies the Pets' rides in their boat is meant to evoke Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries. It's not identical, but it's equally dramatic, uplifting, and aerial: Wagner, filtered through Coppola, and given to an entirely new generation.

Finally, there's the theme song. "Wonder Pets, Wonder Pets," the animals sing, "we're on our way, To help our friends and save the day." No, it's not Byron, but set against another winking melody - usually something that resembles the swells of a John Williams soundtrack - it's fun, and winning. And memorable: at least, to Cleo. Speak the first four words of it, and she'll gladly finish the couplet for you.

Morning's a gentle, easy time, in the world of parenting: days typically break softly, and we have our routine. Still, it's good to know that, should trouble arise, the Wonder Pets have our back - and in a creative, engaging way.

Back atcha

What is it that they say about the mouths of babes? Now that Cleo's speaking confidently (and constantly), we're often surprised at the raw truth contained in some of her utterances. Take, for instance, this evening, when - after teaching a three-hour class and watching Cleo for 6 hours - I managed to scrape up enough energy to go for a quick jog. Up Falls Road, across the interstate, and up to the Mount Washington playground for a few pullups and pushups, before trotting back home - where an apparently admiring Cleo looked at me and said, enthusiastically, 'Daddy went for a tiny run!'

Well, okay, Cleo: you're right. I'm no Prefontaine. But, still, a prideful part of me wants to point out that I did run farther, this evening, than you've run in the entire course of your little life. But that's hardly the point, of course - after all, it's you who's constantly teaching me that tiny can be beautiful, in its own way. In your own tiny compositions - little fragments of sentences, and hints of melodies - I consistently find both grace and inspiration, as was the case with this on-the-spot song about the meadow that we played in this afternoon:

So, yeah, Daddy went for a tiny run. And Cleo sang a tiny song. And tiny worked for both of us.

From scratch

Cleo's current favorite performing artist may be (as I mentioned on Friday) Milkshake, but it's also true that she's giving more and more time to inventing her own melodies. Sure, these may be almost completely random passages knocked out on the piano, or a few nonsense syllables chanted sequentially in a virtual monotone. But her original compositions can also be surprisingly disarming - as recently, when I was carrying her upstairs to bed, and she began to sing, in a soft lilt, something like, It's time for bed / And when we wake up in the morning /There will be no more snow. Where does such poetic tenderness come from, exactly? But maybe her best work, these days, takes place around nap time. And for a description, I'll turn the microphone over to her nursery school instructors, who sent us this summary of her week:

Cleo had a great week! She really enjoyed all of the time we were able to spend outside! She enjoyed the time outside to go on trips to the beach, and to work with her friends to bake pies in the dirt. Her favorite pie was apple carob... She has also been very interested in creating new songs to sing during nap time (mostly about underwear).

Songs about snow; songs about underwear. It's an eclectic soundtrack, but we're thrilled to be able to watch it take shape.

Milkshake

Well, now.

You spend a few days preparing a conference talk, and you become involved in candidate search processes, and then your wife goes on an 8-day business trip to South Africa - and suddenly it's been more than a month, and daffodils have sprouted and then grown tall since you've blogged about your own beautiful daughter, you rascal.

And you start to feel bad about it, you really do - and then you realize that not a single one of your hypothetical readers ever even implied that they missed the production of new content. I mean, isn't it still winter in, say, Tomsk? And isn't reading about Cleo a nice way to pass a cold winter's day? Geez.

But listen: out word count may be down, but we haven't yet lost our gumption. And so, like Cleo on a Wednesday evening, let's dive right back in, with a partial account of what she's been into of late. Which is, in fact, rather simple: it's Milkshake, with a capital M.

A local band, Milkshake's dedicated to providing quality music to the toddlers of the world. And, from Cleo's point of view, they've got several things going for them. For one, their lead singer is named Lisa - just like a certain mommy. For another, Lisa wears a tutu when she performs. And, for three, Lisa's own child is an alum of Cleo's nursery. Which is almost like - from Cleo's point of view - going to the same school as Julian Lennon.

Anyway, L. took Cleo to see a local performance by Milkshake a few weeks back. Big hit: I gather that at one point there was a cow - real? a puppet? my toddler's account isn't specific - onstage, and I gather that the music really pleased. At least, it has since; if you spend any time in the car with Cleo, in fact, you're sure to get a request for the Milkshake CD.

So put it in, and turn it up. You'll hear some straight-ahead rock, but you'll also hear a touching ballad with a cleverly simple refrain ("I love you. I don't know much, but this much is true"), and some faint echoes of bluegrass, and country. You'll hear Rodney Henry, of Dangerously Delicious Pies, offering a bluesy overview of how to make an apple pie, and you'll hear Great Day, which was recently nominated for an Emmy.

Soon enough (because Milkshake was actually founded by parents who know that kids aren't big fans enjoy 7-minute sound odysseys), you'll reach the end of the final track. And you just might find that occasionally, even if unprompted by the tiny voice in the back, you'll let the CD begin to play again. Smile, friend. There's nothing wrong with starting over.