PA School - Lessons from Week One

People on the train are happier.

One of the things I do not miss about living and commuting in DC is the traffic. Traffic makes the Metro necessary and the Metro is inhumane.

I don't mean to say that the Metro robs one of individuality, forcing one into cattle herd action. Though it does.

I don't mean to say that the conditions are insufferable, like when the a/c goes out at 4:30pm on a friday afternoon in August and you'd rather swim in the Anacostia than continue to be pushed up into the armpit of your fellow Washingtonian who insists on holding the upper handle bar after running past everyone on the escalators just so he could work up a fresh(er) sweat. Though it is.

No. The Metro lacks the kind of humanity where strangers become friends, even for just a few minutes. Where people move their bags on a full train to allow another rider to sit down. It misses eye contact and friendly smiles with people who sit down or pass by. But when these same riders ride the train -- they are human once again.

Train-riders offer you their paper in the morning. They share information with strangers about late, broken down trains. They laugh. They offer directions. They joke with the conductors by name. They (mostly) respect the Quiet Car.

The train is civilized. Transportation from a more refined era. It has a cafe car...so what if the white table cloths and Cary Grant are no longer waiting for me there. I can still see it that way.

Perhaps it is the stability of a train rather than the incessant swaying and jerking of a light rail that brings out their humanity. Or is it the fresh air? The beautiful scenery? Maybe because train riders regularly escape the city they are kept sane and thus, humane.

In any case, what I have learned from the first week of PA school is that I like being back in DC. - oh, and school, of course. I like having expensive new toys (and soon, an expensive new education) with purpose and I love that I am one of those happier people that ride the train.

A lesson

"Mommy, do chickens have spirits?"

chhh-chunk

"Yes, honey. Chickens have spirits."

chhh-chunk

"Mommy?"

chhh-chunk

"Yes, Jake?"

"Will the chickens be alive again when Jesus comes back?"

thud. chhh-chunk. 

"Yes, honey. That's right."

"Mommy?"

thud. chhh-chunk

"Yes?"

"Why do the chickens have to go in the ground? Because Pete broke their necks? I want to see."

"Yes, Jake. Pete killed the chickens."

"But why did he kill them, because he's bad?"

"No, Jake. It's just the way he's made. He's designed to kill little things like rats, moles, chickens...that's what he was bred for."

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Jake?"

"When I'm dead who will put me in the ground?"

"Sweet-pea, let's not worry about that right now."

"Bye Peaches, bye other chickens! We'll see you when we're dead!"

Thud. Thud.

"Mommy, is it milk and cookie time?"

"Yes, Jake. I definitely think so."

Onomatopoeia

Poop. Say it out loud: poop. It's a great word. It sounds like what it describes. It's also a palindrome - the same coming and going. In other words, there's no way around it. It's still poop. 

On a daily basis, I shovel, scrape, wipe, rinse and, oh yes, sniff out my share of it. Whose is it? Where is it? And the list of culprits continues to grow. 

Poop has even been elevated to a term of endearment in our household, as Jake identifies his Richmond-area grandparents based on the kind of tractor they have at home. When he goes to Paul & Shirley's he loves to help clean the horse stalls and scoop up the manure around the pastures. Therefore the tractor they ride around on to accomplish this task has been dubbed: "the poop tractor" and Grandpa Griffey is Poop Pop-Pop because he lets Jake drive. 

Lately, I've been trying to look at things differently; since the previous way wasn't taking me anywhere. And the idea of poop as an affectionate tag, rather than the oft muttered derogative form, has me intrigued. Instead of concentrating on the mire that literally dictates my days, I'm trying to see the other sides of it. Poop doesn't start out gross and used properly it fertilizes barren ground. (After all, that's why I wanted chickens.) And honestly, my bathroom and kitchen have probably never been cleaner since we've been potty training Jake and now Tag.

So maybe it is in the training that we are trained ourselves. And even in the poop we find ourselves surrounded by there is opportunity for abundant goodness. 

Just hold your nose until you get through it. 

Wild Weekend

Farming a Family