They Had No Idea

We were waiting at the red light when they appeared out of nowhere. I looked up and came face to face with the faces of those beautiful, gentle creatures destined to become dinner.

One cow was black with an 'invisible' body, hidden inside the long metal container of the truck; another, an exquisite beige coat outlined in black was a striking looking animal. I knew where they were going. Sadly, I was complicit in this story. As I looked further inside the interior of this massive truck, I could see many more victims, looking at me with their peaceful faces. I cried as I thought of them all day long. 

Many times, I have seen these large container trucks, adorned with open air 'windows' allowing the animals inside to breathe during transport. (They mustn't die before their appointed time.) I had never been this close to the stars of the summer barbecue. The meat from these animals are irreverently smoked, seared, braised or stewed till tender. Charbroiled is the name of this high heat game. I'm sure these precious animals were tender to the touch long before their eventual demise. 

Food shows seem to show little respect for these animals who have given their lives in the name of charbroiled steaks, barbecue ribs or chicken. Sauces are created to decorate these meats for that super sweet taste. We protest animal cruelty as we eat our steaks and burgers. Plant based 'meat' never looked so good.

The internet did not exist when I was a little girl. The topic of meat never came up. We bought some, cooked it then ate it. The process repeated itself, week to week, when my parents could afford meat. I was never much of a meat eater, anyway. Thankfully. 

My love affair with homemade noodles, sauerkraut, garlic, onions, salads, tomato sauces and my all time favourite - buckwheat kasha - carried me into the future. The latter was a middle of the week dinner as was borscht. I did not connect the dots then. Meat was different from live animals, I thought as a little girl. At one point, I wondered how people on television shows could fit into such small spaces in our black and white t.v.. Weren't these people tired after the 11:00 p.m news? I have since grown up. I'm not a little girl though at times, I'm happy to be one. It's simpler that way.

Those beautiful cows standing in those death trucks were not aware of their impending fate. Everything seemed fine. I looked at them and thought how wonderful it is when I hear the words, vegan or vegetarian. These are the enlightened folks who realize the health benefits of eating foods that do not bleed! The times are a changing and I'm working on it!

Conversations With Explanations!

Really? What did you say? I was surprised by the question. Here was mom asking her one-year-old genius if he wanted to play with the eyeballs. ... Naturally, I was very curious. But there was a reason she was asking. I knew this woman. Nothing was ever left to chance. So I sat there waiting to learn. 

The next day, I was asked to return. Our son and his wife are moving. They have been packing, taking stuff to storage or placing boxes into the cube in their driveway, painting and repairing. Staging will come next. They are being advised, every step of the way, in this modern world of real estate. The better the product shows, the greater the exposure might be. The real estate market place tells the truth. Our opinion is usually over inflated.

So here I am watching the four-year-old and one-year-old. I'm not sure if I am in their pay grade, however. "Does water with sand, in the combo sand/water box, need to be mixed till there is a flood?" Just ask the four year old, Oscar. He says yes. Something about a house, two or three garages and a massive pond. I just don't get it. But I write it down. I must write it down. I am a front row witness to on-the-spot learning. 

Mom needs to see this. I ask several questions of this 4-year-old master creator. He continues to tell me more as the intensity of his focus continues. It's about the water and tracks in the mud, all needing a big or massive pond. He moves the heavy duty truck creating a road for the tracks that appear. I do not understand fully. But my job is to ask not to explain.

I write and write. My new tablet, a gift, is not here. I'm sorry but I'm from the generation that uses pen and paper. (That'll suffice for the time being, thank you.)  I'm in a hurry. The child does not wait. Leave him alone. The scientist inside of him is working fervently.

The mind of a child works very quickly. I can't keep up. (Do your best, I remind myself). I'm not a stenographer, however, just a grandmother or baba to him and his younger brother. He is putting more tracks in the sand box, having added lots of water everywhere. Where is Oscar going with this? Do I have enough paper? Do I have enough time? Can I write fast enough? Mom needs to know. 

Their level of expertise is compelling. Stay out of their way.  I am slowing them down if I don't. The intellect is taking flight. My only job is to ask the questions, not give the answers. My answers are irrelevant, pointless, of no value, anyway, in this moment of creative story telling in the valley of water, sand and mud. ... I hurry along. These two surpass my pay grade. Dad, where are you? I need your guidance here! 

In this moment of reflection, I see my provocative young grandsons immersed in creating, living in the moment. Who said that child's play is not important? It is the pinnacle of learning, a place to see, hear and experience what the child is doing, up close and personal. 

Experiences of childhood are built, one step at a time, moments scaffolded one upon another, reflecting higher order thinking at its best. It is to see the human mind at work. I'm one lucky girl in the front row  seat of the future.