May 14, 1987

"Would you please let me read this book to you?" she asked, her teeth freshly brushed, her pillow fluffed, good-night kisses properly distributed.
"It's Tuesday night," we said. (Tuesday night equates to a black hole for weekly newspaper people-typing final articles, laying out pages and writing headlines won't permit the escape of attention to familial duties.)
"But I'll read it fast," she said. Being the shortest of the short people who lives with us, she can be particularly persuasive. "And this is a good book."
She lifted the ragged book from beneath the sheet. Its binding had long ago been doctored with masking tape. The cover was fading, ink was worn from the picture. This book had been read hundreds of times-hundreds of times to each of the three short people who preceded the one who held it aloft now.
"Whistle for Willie" by Ezra Jack Keats, the escapades of a youngster who, after failing several times, learns how to whistle for his dog, was Allison' favorite when she was barely old enough to sit and listen. The opening line, "Oh how Peter wished he could whistle!" was the first piece of literature she committed to memory.
That, unbelievably, was twelve years ago. Those distant days are now just pictures in the photo album. The sounds, the smells, the feel of squeezes from tiny hands are no more. So quickly they have gone.
She, who as an infant empathized with Peter in his diligent attempt to whistle for his dog, is now intent on learning how to ease the clutch out while softly pressing the accelerator. She's learning how to downshift and signal for a turn. She's learning that you can't be as cautious as your parents want you to be and still drive a car.
The ancient Greeks would appreciate what we are going through. When their teenage offspring wanted to take the family chariot out for a spin, they'd gather around the fire and tell the tale of Phaethon, son of Helios, who pleaded to experience the thrill of driving the sun's chariot across the heavens. Given the chance, he drove recklessly and almost set the world on fire before being struck down by a bolt of Zeus's lightning.
Icarus, you may remember from Greek mythology class, suffered an equally unkind fate. The son of Daedalus, he flew from his homeland on wings formed by his father. But when he soared too high, the sun's heat melted the wax holding the wings together and he fell into the sea.
Parents are willing to use myth to keep children children, to keep them home, safe, sheltered from the evil out there. But we know it doesn't work. Like Phaethon, they naturally have the urge to break free, to streak across the sky. Today they are toddlers, tomorrow they get their first bicycle, and by Friday they are off to college.
An elderly woman, haunted by the memories of the glory days when her young children would all gather around the dinner table to eat and tell the events of the day, removes the many pictures of her children and grandchildren from the mantel. A young parent yanks a child's arm and berates him in public for doing what children do. If only the elderly woman could talk to the parent.
Seldom do we fully appreciate the moment. There seem to be so many more waiting. We can waste a few here, a few more there. We can go without saying the things we know we should say. We can go another day without doing what we know we should be doing. We can get caught in the race for advance, scrambling priorities, because we have time to make it right.
But then, too quickly, the days are gone.
"I'll read fast," she said. "'Oh how Peter wished he could whistle!'".... ~T.Stucky