A Talent Defect

I wondered to myself: natural talent versus environment factors.  My past came floating back with every question she asked.

 I sat on the patio, trimming the grass, while my 9 year old wrote questions for another interview.  She had decided to write a newsletter about the local farmers market.   We started this discussion a few weeks ago as we walked back from our weekly Saturday morning trip. We discussed  ideas like newspaper reporters, brainstorming ideas for the Sunday morning edition: who she would interview, what she would ask and what the final layout should look like. I almost recited the “who, what, where, when and how”. I stopped myself: trying not to influence her too much.

 I started remembering my college classes.  I was enrolled a variety of  writing classes; forced to seek out subjects and people to interview.  I lacked enthusiasm and ideas. Here present day, I was a bit jealous of my daughter. I was struck by her eagerness to write.

What was the source of her enthusiasm?  Every Saturday morning she finds me sitting at the computer writing. I get up when the house is quiet and work on projects. Or is it my recent rants “I can’t do it now, I have write before I forget!”   Or maybe was it her first grade teacher’s enthusiasm for writing.  I had seen this enthusiasm during Authors Celebrations twice during that school year.  I had been very impressed.  

As I silently sat lost in the past , my 3^rd grader rattled off a list of interview questions that would make any newspaper editor proud.  She then proceeded to ask about others she could interview to complete her newsletter.  I asked if this was a class project.  “Not really, I just want to do it”. She replied with a little gleam in her eyes.

I wonder about talents. I’m not sure I have a writing talent mind you; I question it daily. If I did I would have finished certain projects long ago. However, musical talent runs through my family. I have played the piano and organ since I was a child. All of my older children play an instrument; some play multiple instruments. The youngest has yet shown signs of the music defect as I refer to it.  

Do our children possess some magical hidden gene; a gene that makes their talent so much better than our own, such that their strengths begin showing at an earlier age? She began keeping a journal in 1^st grade. This past summer she was writing stories and now she has come up with this idea.  Is this a magical gene surfacing or just an environmental influence?

Certainly children learn from everything in their environment. Often we referred to them as sponges, soaking it all in.  As parents we can only hope they filter the good particles.  As the parent of 5 children I certainly learned you can’t be there to filter out everything.  In this process of filtering are we focusing our children on that talent which they truly possess?  Are we doing the right thing?

My junior journalist completed her second interview yesterday.  I watched her interview from a safe distance, not wanting to intrude or influence. The woman’s face lit up with a smile at every question. She was intrigued by my young charmer.

Later we sat in the Market Square eating apples, listening to the musician and discussing her next interview.  Who would it be: a shopper, a volunteer?  We were interrupted by friends stopping by to say hello.  The children began a game of tag , running through the grass. Our lesson was over; it was time to be a child again.  Stopping the conversation with the grownups, I paused for a moment, watching my child.    It relieved me to see her leave her project behind and be a child again. 

I certainly want her to finish this project, yet I want her to be a child too. I want her to be that child running carefree  after her friends on a bright Saturday morning. Of course I am biased, but I am proud of this child. She’s being creative and brave.  I hope this defect rubs off on me.

Peace.

NEPB

Discount at your own risk

Large packages of discounted  meat should come with a warning label:  Do not attempt to cut unless professionally trained.

 I purchased a large piece of pork at a huge discount.  I have to admit I spent several minute handling it, feeling the bones and wondering how on Earth I was going to cut it once it was in my kitchen.  For a few seconds, I almost didn’t buy it, but it was such a good bargain, it couldn’t be overlooked.  I tossed  it my cart.

I hurried home, wanting to get it in the roaster to have ready by dinner time.  Cleaning the counter, I gathered the necessary tools: big knife, chopping board, paper towels,a priest and band-aids. I hesitated a moment thinking I could wake my sleeping teenage son for help, but knowing he had been up all night with friends for a Horror – movie- marathon, I took pity and let him sleep. Stealthy, I turned around and grabbed the package of pork by the tail and slung it on the counter. 

The package was bigger than the chopping board.  This wasn’t going to be easy, especially for someone who makes huge mistakes in the kitchen.  After cutting open the package, it began to leak, running down the cabinets. Mess number one was underway.  Luckily, the dog was there to help with this cleanup.

Where to cut first?  I told myself to be brave and just dive in. No testing to the water to see if it was safe, just get it over with already.  I felt my way through the first half somehow, tossing each piece into the roaster as I went.  The dog watched my every move; she figured if I was so sloppy at the start it was surely a good sign for her.  

Thinking I was successful, I reached a crossroads where there seemed to be bones going in every direction.  “Oh now I see why it was discounted!”  Instead of slicing my way through the meat as I done previously I now hacked at it.  I thought the knife was going break or I was going to lose a finger.  The chopping board banged on the counter with every pound of the knife. 

I looked down at the dog.  She looked up at me, collie ears at full attention waiting for pieces of pork to fly in her direction.  The pounding had also awakened both cats who were now sitting in the kitchen doorway.   They yawned sleepily “Did someone say Pork?”    I just shook my head at them , told the dog to “get the kitties” and went back to the chore.

I finished chopping, hacking  and slicing my way through the remaining discount and secured  it in the roaster.  It should be properly burned, err, cooked in 3 hours.  As for my fingers, I still have all nine of them:  just counted them.  Did you also know I wasn’t very good at math ?

Peace.

NEPB