All together now

No school yesterday on Easter Monday, but the morning dawned gentle and full of promise, and so I put on some flip-flops and packed some almonds and an apple, and Cleo and I drove north, into the county. While waiting for the car during its 80,000-mile tune-up, we read some bunny-related books, played a game of Mummy's Treasure (another relatively simple win for Cleo, who shared one of her secrets: the jugs, she says, are easier to roll than the tea cups), and shared a vanilla yogurt - and then it was off to Oregon Ridge and its ample playground.

Could there have been a better playground day? I don't think so. The sun was strong but never hot, and the playground was lively but never oppressively full. And yet, for the first half hour or so, Cleo simply sat near me, as I sat on a bench and read. She snacked a little; she gazed longingly toward the swings, which were constantly occupied; she invented small games in the grass. But when I offered to introduce her to one of the packs of children who careened about us (one in full superhero regalia), I received only desultory shakes of the head. So after a while I put my book down, and engaged in one of the most basic duties of a single parent: I became a play partner, a slow monster who tottered after my only child as she shrieked and evaded my clumsy claws.

Until, at least, a swing opened up. Cleo noticed immediately, and within a few seconds was curled up on the rubber seat, having claimed her place and waiting for a good starting push. Delighted to see her happy, I pushed and pushed, registering the weight of her small body and simply watching the tide of children ebb and flow. Cleo, meanwhile, began to work through her songbook, belting out the two songs from Frozen that she's known for a few months now. And then something neat happened: a 6-year-old on the swing adjacent to ours began to listen - and then to sing, as well, joining Cleo in a vigorous two-person Disney recital.

In Singing Out: An Oral History of America's Folk Music Revivals, Arlo Guthrie thinks about the curious power of group singing. "There's a feeling of American unity," he says, "and maybe even global unity in singing songs that mean different things to different people. Allowing the guy next to you to have his meaning and you're singing along to your own."

And then there's Dad, of course, who listens enchanted, as the two melodies occasionally merge - until the two girls climb down from their swings, and trot off together to a balance beam, where they begin to invent games à deux. "As far as I can tell," Guthrie observed, "the real practical benefit of seeing people sing together is if they can learn to sing together they can probably learn to do other things together." Indeed. Play, girls, play.