May 8, 2012

  • wild things

    You can call me Maurice ’cause I speak of the pompetous of love. Not really. 

    I found out this morning that Maurice Sendak is no longer where the wild things are.  This bothers me.  For a lot of reasons.  For one, he was only a little older than my dad and, if I’m remembering correctly (it was more than 12 hours ago, I may not be), he died from a stroke and my mommy had a little one of those a few months ago.  I can’t help but see the temporariness of the parental units in my life.  My mom is fine and my dad is too ornery.  But still, it makes me feel guilty for not being the kind of daughter I should be when my remaining time with them should be counted in years rather than decades.

    More than that is the connection I have with his writings.  When my girlies were small, we had a fun tape for the VCR with several of his stories.  Chicken Soup With Rice that Carole King sang.  Who doesn’t love that?  And Pierre who didn’t care.  My girlies didn’t see the connection between Pierre and their attitudes- but I sure did.  I will never forget one day I was substitute teaching in a jungle of a Kindergarten class and the teacher said we could watch a movie at the end of the day, but I’d have to pick it out at the library.  In a somewhat panicky hurry, I picked that movie to show to the kids.  I about keeled over when we got to the Night Kitchen and a little naked boy butt appeared on the screen.  I’d forgotten all about that.  I’m sure the kids told their parents.  What kind of a teacher doesn’t pick the movie for the sub anyhow.  A jungle kindergarten teacher, that’s who. 

    And then there’s Really Rosie, which is a totally fun musical based on his stories.  We went to see it when my friend’s incredibly delightful daughter was in it in 8th grade.  She has just finished her first year of college and she’s asked me to be a reference for her summer job.  It is crazy to imagine that this girl I met when she was 8 years old is now nearly 19, so grown up and happy and bright.  I’m torn between feeling proud to give a reference and disgusted that she thinks I’m grown up enough to do that.

    The biggest thing of all though is Where The Wild Things Are.  I love this book.  Because sometimes I wear a wolf suit and make mischief of one kind and another. And sometimes I start a wild rumpus.  And sometimes I roar my terrible roar and gnash my terrible teeth.  But when I make it back home, it’s good to know that supper is still hot.  It is a perfect book.  Especially on a rainy cranky day when I’d rather be in the jungle.

    The rain beat down my poppies.  The cold snap a few weeks ago froze my lilacs. The only thing that made me remotely happy today was working on my obsession in the hour that it wasn’t raining.  It’s just about done. I won’t make you look at it anymore.  Promise.

     

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