Martin
When Henry was just a little boy, our social circle consisted almost entirely of Jack London, old women at the church, and Martin at the Co-op.
While few in numbers, it was a fantastic circle. The only downside to having a dog and a baby as my primary companions is that my ability to speak in complete sentences virtually disappeared. Fortunately, my group of 80 year old friends were less concerned with my unintelligible stammering than they were with their own ailments (and then later they were able to offer me particular insights that only people who have experienced such ailments can share). Martin, of course, cared little for conversation.
Henry's first words were Jacky Boy, but his most frequent word was Martin. Martin ran the Co-Op in Clinton where I bought chicken feed. Every week or so, we would go to town to pick up feed, solicit advice about the flock of sheep I might someday raise, and collect whatever Clinton gossip I could drag from Martin's reluctant stock of town news. Consequently, the name Martin was instilled in Henry's vernacular early on, showing up whenever he was asked the name of his stuffed pets or when he gave names to his cars. As you might expect, it was quite confusing for bystanders, though Henry had it all straight in his head
"That's Martin and this is Martin and they always drive to school together."
"Hello Martin, how are you today?"
"Oh hello Martin, I am very good, how are today?
And so on...
Henry was also very concerned with Martin's personal habits.
"Does Martin eat this?"
"Does Martin like that?"
I remember very clearly a two year old Henry, just bare out of the bath, hands on the floor, one leg behind him up in the air, looking at me upside down from between his anchoring foot and arm, "Can Martin do this?" he asked, shaking his toes dry.
"Can he? Probably. Does he? Not if he can find a towel."
This spring, when our flock of chicks was unloaded from their little mailbox, all of our chickens were, of course, christened Martin.
While few in numbers, it was a fantastic circle. The only downside to having a dog and a baby as my primary companions is that my ability to speak in complete sentences virtually disappeared. Fortunately, my group of 80 year old friends were less concerned with my unintelligible stammering than they were with their own ailments (and then later they were able to offer me particular insights that only people who have experienced such ailments can share). Martin, of course, cared little for conversation.
Henry's first words were Jacky Boy, but his most frequent word was Martin. Martin ran the Co-Op in Clinton where I bought chicken feed. Every week or so, we would go to town to pick up feed, solicit advice about the flock of sheep I might someday raise, and collect whatever Clinton gossip I could drag from Martin's reluctant stock of town news. Consequently, the name Martin was instilled in Henry's vernacular early on, showing up whenever he was asked the name of his stuffed pets or when he gave names to his cars. As you might expect, it was quite confusing for bystanders, though Henry had it all straight in his head
"That's Martin and this is Martin and they always drive to school together."
"Hello Martin, how are you today?"
"Oh hello Martin, I am very good, how are today?
And so on...
Henry was also very concerned with Martin's personal habits.
"Does Martin eat this?"
"Does Martin like that?"
I remember very clearly a two year old Henry, just bare out of the bath, hands on the floor, one leg behind him up in the air, looking at me upside down from between his anchoring foot and arm, "Can Martin do this?" he asked, shaking his toes dry.
"Can he? Probably. Does he? Not if he can find a towel."
This spring, when our flock of chicks was unloaded from their little mailbox, all of our chickens were, of course, christened Martin.
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