I arrived in time to be trapped by a seemingly endless line of BMW's and Town
and Country minivans. They inched their way laboriously past the immense old
multi-storey school, dropping off children.
I was Bronxville, New York, an affluent Westchester County neighborhood where
what were once hollows and glades in woods now boasted immense and impressive
homes, buried in good landscaping.
And, from what Maria told me, an exploding population of elementary age children,
too. This morning, much to my amusement, I was here not to entertain incarcerees,
or Bloods and Crips with leadership potential as I'd done in California, or
even silver-haired retirees from the WW II generation in Florida. No, I was
here to tell stories to kindergartners. Relatively new humans. Little ones,
as I've come to refer to them over the years.
They file in with their little pink jackets half-off and their eyes like saucers,
all giving me the once-over. And for good reason. I'm a humungous adult male
in black with slicked-back hair sitting quite near to them. They don't know
me. I fall into that category instinctually dreaded by four-year-olds still
very much attached to their mothers: a stranger.
However, I'm doing something they have never seen before. I'm playing a Celtic
harp. Mellifluous, sparkling music in a very upbeat B-major key, fingers moving
extremely fast as I smile at them before being pulled back into the emotions
of the music. Eyes locked, ears open, they tend to stare quite unabashedly
at my hands. Which is okay. They are in the early stages of fascination. They
are leaving behind the real world, headed for the realms of fancy, though they
don't know it yet.
After an especially gorgeous passage, I'll look up and smile.
I am rewarded by lots of smiles in return. More file in and take their seats.
No chitchat going on. I reprise a couple of themes, slow the tempo, and get
ready to be introduced, at least by name. But they already know who I am,
these brand-new human beings. The harping has told them. I am very safe.
It's all right to relax. This is going to be fun.
Never does it fail to astound me that people trust me sufficiently to offer
me the privilege to perform stories for their profoundly impressionable almost-babies.
Children at this age are so exquisitely sensitive and innocent, they must be
handled with the greatest of care.
I adopt a tonality I only use with little ones. I speak more slowly, more
softly. The direct opposite of the authoritarian, brook-no-foolishness tone
I use with middle and high schoolers where the ideas come thick and fast and
there's no room for them not to listen. No, with little ones,
only gentleness works.
Maria, the nice teacher who arranged for my visit, has, of course, staked
her reputation and her school district's dollars on me. I'm being well paid
for these two performances, each for about sixty little ones. The school is
building a new auditorium, she has told me. So they've all trooped over to
the library, to its lecture hall, where I've set up. Hence all the half-removed
pink jackets. It's already been an adventure for them. They've walked all the
way across the street like little ducklings and come down some big stairs.
But as they have, they've heard harp music floating from up ahead.
As often as not when I'm introduced, despite the best of intentions, I'm called
Odds Bodkins. Or Odd Bodkins. The eternal "S" appended to my name.
Perhaps I should just change it and eliminate all future errors during introductions,
I don't know. So this morning I am indeed Odds Bodkins, which lends a kind
of plural nature to my identity, I guess. I let it go and start the show.
Three stories this morning. All for very young sensibilities.
First, The Tale of the Name of the Tree (K's fall into paroxysms of laughter
during this story), then The Evergreens (a little more serious) and lastly,
The Tale of the Kittens, a singalong song story I have yet to record.
"Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow!" the kittens in the little house deep beneath
the earth sing to Dolce, the good daughter. She's rewarded with a gown, a silk
scarf, gem-encrusted slippers and golden rings. She has, after all, been kind
to the mother cat's babies. During this scene, the little girls begin to swirl
their hands about themselves, donning the lovely couture along with Dolce.
When the lazy sister shows up, is unhelpful, rude and greedy, and is rewarded
with an oily work dress, pinching boots and a mudpie that falls from heaven
and smacks her on the face, the children erupt in laughter and glee. Nobody
likes this sister. I use a Valley Girl voice, spoiled and empty-headed.
Smiling and singing "Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow!"
they filed out, their happy teachers helping them into their pink jackets.
It was at this point that the reason I wrote this blog occurred. One of the
teachers walked up to me, intent upon sharing something.
"See that little boy there?" she asked. She pointed to a four-year-old
whose face I could not see as he filed out. His jacket was blue.
"This is the first time I've seen that child smile. Ever."
"Seriously?" I asked.
"All year. Tough family situation, I guess. He has never smiled. So thank
you."
I told her she was welcome, took note of the moment, and after signing Maria's
copy of The Christmas Cobwebs, drove to Connecticut.
