(Mis)recognitions

With Cleo's school closed down for a 5-day Memorial Day weekend, it was time for a dad-and-daughter trip - or, better still, a dad-and-dad-and-daughter-and-daughter trip, as my old friend Geremy agreed to brig his 3-year-old, Harper, up to Gettysburg for a reunion, some time in a hotel, and maybe a sliver of Civil War history. And all went well: indeed, in our roughly four hours in the pool, we never did see another guest, so the girls could splash and shriek all they wanted, and the local pub carried both Smithwick's and crayons, keeping each voting bloc content.

Along the way, though, Geremy and I were repeatedly struck by how people seemed to see us: not as two high school friends who now happen to be fathers, but rather, it seemed, as a nuclear family. In some cases, this reaction was only implied: visible in brief double takes, or long glances. But it was certainly explicit at the Visitor's Center, where the ranger handed us one brochure, and then responded to our request for another with the warmly worded but firm insistence that they only give one per family. Suddenly, we weren't merely dads out with the kids; we were also, apparently, emblems of an emergent landscape in American family life.

But Cleo, it turned out, didn't simply have two dads; she also had an aging dad. Later on Monday, after saying goodbye to Geremy and Harper, we stopped at the Berkeley Springs McDonald's, for a cup of coffee and an ice water (and, all right, a strawberry banana smoothie). Nothing very special, in other words - until I heard the cashier repeat my order: one smoothie, one water, and one senior coffee. Confused (and, frankly, still in need of coffee), I mumbled a yes, only to learn that she'd taken me for 55 or older, and thus charged me a mere 59 cents for the cuppa joe.

So, my friends, I'm hear to tell you that I have been, in rapid succession, a 42-year-old married to L., a gay dad interested in the Civil War, and an aging senior who buys smoothies for his granddaughter. And none of it was, frankly, that bad.

But as I was being consistently mis-recognized, Cleo was doing some spot-on recognizing. About a week ago, I taught her the first verse of one of the most summery pop songs you'll hear this year: Cruise, with Nelly working alongside Florida Georgia Line. It gets a bit earthier, eventually, but the opening line strikes me as worth hearing: "Baby, you a song, You make me wanna roll my windows down And cruise." It's a song of motion, of love, of enthusiasm: of everything that I was feeling on my little jaunt with Cleo. And so it touched me when the song happened to come on in the hotel lobby, as Geremy read a book to the assembled girls - and when Cleo sang her brief accompaniment.

Baby, you a song. And I, by your side, a senior, a daddy, a partner: regardless, my windows are down.

Playtime

With a long weekend - a really long weekend, given that Cleo's school year ended at 11:30 a.m. on Friday, and that summer camp doesn't begin until Thursday - we've had a chance to get our summer on, in full form. A pre-Memorial day swim in the pool? Check. A morning watching the dragon boats and pirate ship on the Inner Harbor? L. took care of that, yesterday morning. In fact, L. even took for her an inaugural scooter ride, on a sharp Hot Wheels razor scooter lent by a friend, on the flat paved planes of Cross Keys.

But of course a 3-year-old doesn't really need an entirely structured environment in order to generate some spontaneous summer fun. Above, you can see Cleo taking advantage of the space between bench and fence (of the gap, as Rauschenberg once said, between art and life) in order to do some impromptu climbing. And then, too, there's the lilting little song about swinging that she had improvised while rocking back in forth on the Meadowood bucket swings, just a few minutes before:

If you could pump
Then you can try it
But if you don't want to
Then that's fine, too.

Want to swim? You can try it. But if you don't want to, a bench is fine, too.

Jump!

So, yeah, we've been fighting a few minor border skirmishes of late - the challenging final steps of potty training; an increasingly bold willfulness that manifested itself the other evening in a sobbing "I get to do whatever I want!" - but in general, things are well in the Republic of Cleo. And sometimes: well, sometimes they're simply wonderful.

Take this afternoon. Cleo and I were enjoying the swings (including the new 800-pound test tree swing!) at largely placid Linkwood playground, when a chatty 8-year-old walked up, and offered to show us some photos on her IPod. Um, okay, I offered, wondering simultaneously where her parents might be, and just how they had decided to bestow a relatively glamorous piece of technology on such a tiny girl. (The answer to both questions was soon made clear, all at once: the dad sat on a bench, totally immersed in his IPhone and uninterested in our conversation). Anyway, a small sign of assent was all she needed, and she quickly began to share images: a white tiger; a red alien. Neat! I said offhandedly, hoping to make her feel proud even as I also felt self-conscious about being a middle-aged guy talking to a little girl, on a playground. 'I have songs, too,' she responded. And then she went in for the kill. 'Do you know Van Halen?'

Well, yes. Yes, I do. And so I waited happily while she cued up 'Jump,' and the three of us listened, for a few moments, to a tinny version of the band's epic 1984 hit. At which point Cleo, still swinging all this time, decided to join in, singing 'Pop! Goes the Weasel" again and again, over David Lee Roth's vocals.

I pushed; the girl held her device; Cleo's cape trailed behind her as we swung through space. Van Halen played, the weasel went pop, and 100 yards away the rush hour traffic created a river-like background noise, oblivious to our modest concert.

But maybe just a little?

On this warm, sunny Thursday afternoon, Cleo and I read some stories (among which were Sleeping Bobby, a current favorite), tried out a pirate puzzle, shared some mango juice, and headed up the hill to Gilman, to see what their sprawling grounds could offer in the way of fun. I went in summer-professor mode, which in my case means flip flops and a casual collared top; Cleo opted to go in high princess style, with gold shoes, a tiara, and a wonderful silken cape.

During the 5-minute drive, we listened to a segment of Beethoven Lives Upstairs, a clever CD narrative that interweaves the first-person accounts of a young boy frustrated by the eccentric behavior of the composer who rents an apartment above him and his worldly uncle, who recognizes that the behaviors that embarrass and astound the child may be signifiers of Romantic genius, rather than stark madness. In the scene that we heard, a member of the Viennese royal house pays a visit, and is unusually quiet in Beethoven's presence. The boy predictably interprets the silence as a sign of mortification, but the uncle wonders, in a letter to his nephew, if there might be other reasons - respect, perhaps? - for the prince's tempered silence.

And then, after a short trike ride, we were at the swings. Cleo's cape flowed as she hurtled back and forth; nearby, six Gilman boys shot hoops on a diminutive basketball rim. Cleo watched, and then asked to stop - and, when we reached her tricycle, indicated that she wanted to tell me something privately. What is it?, I asked. She sidled up to my lowered ear, and whispered: 'Do you think they were jealous of me?'

Perhaps, Cleo. Perhaps they were so envious, when they saw your cape, that all they think to do, in their addled state, was to take another pointless shot at the rim. Or maybe - just maybe - there was some other reason for their passionate play. Regardless, your cape was lovely, and their play subsuming.

From the mouths of back seat riders

It's amazing to me, sometimes, what emanates from the back seat of our car when Cleo's along for a ride. Yesterday, for example, after taking her to Dundalk to get our sewing machine repaired, she asked if she could use my phone to take a few pictures. Sure, I said, and handed her the phone - and received, a few minutes later, a suite of interesting compositions including the image above, which I enjoy for its slightly inclined perspective: the view, precisely, of an almost-four-year-old.

Sometimes, though, her contributions are less bucolic, less aesthetic. "Dad," she began a few weeks ago, when we were driving to our vehicle emissions exam, "is getting married boring?" Well, I replied, suddenly snapping out of my vague driving-induced reverie, um, no, at least not if you choose the right person. Which, and I mounted my parental soapbox, you should certainly try to do when you're getting married. And then a small wheel turned, in my head. Um, Cleo, I added, curiously: why do you ask? "Because," she promptly replied, as if entirely ready for my question, "Mom said it is." Hm, I thought - and this time it was me using the phone, to ask L. if there was something I should know. No, came the pleasant response, I'm entirely happy. And then Cleo fell asleep, and I spent part of the time at the emissions plant wondering about the mazes of influence that are our children's minds.

As I said, though, yesterday was rather less heavy. And as we drove through largely Latino Highlandtown, we passed a car with its windows down, pumping salsa music onto the street. Cleo watched, and then wisely announced that "Music is everywhere." I smiled, and remembered writing a blog entry to that effect, about three years ago, in which I simply commented on the wonderful ubiquity of the music that flowed about our stroller walks. Indeed, I though, music is everywhere. And then Cleo, again, from the back seat: "Except when the electricity goes out and no one can play music anywhere."

I suppose that's right. Not even, in fact, in the back seat.

Face to face

Was a time, folks, when your blogging companion was actually pretty deeply versed in Czech culture, and in the Czech language. That time was 1994-5, and I can still remember being given the native rate, rather than the foreign tourist rate, at a hotel after rolling through the check-in conversation with a rough fluency that was enough convince the clerk that I was more probably from Olomouc than Ohio. I remember pitching against a Cuban factory worker in the small industrial city of Koprivnice; I recall sharing glasses of burcak in a Znojmo garden; I remember learning swear words at the Brno hockey arena. And I remember, too, hearing through a friend in Prague of a release party for a band that I enjoyed - and then taking a few Americans to the party, and swaying to an small, informal acoustic jam in a tenement basement, after which the guitarist gave me his pick.

But, you know, I can't remember, for the life of me, the guitarist's name. Or, in fact, the name of the band. And I can't even offer any proof that I was really at such a party, as that was long before the era in which we all carry, as a matter of course, tiny digital cameras with us at all times. It's a vague memory, specific in some directions and entirely corroded in others, and nothing more.

Cleo, however, recently came face to face with her musical idol, and can prove it. That's Lisa Singer, above, at a Milkshake show in Solomons Island. And that proud smile on Cleo's face? Well, I remember that: that's the sign of a happy, fulfilling time spent dancing, swaying, and simply feeling surrounded by a culture that one is finally really beginning to get.