Showing posts with label Granny's Attic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Granny's Attic. Show all posts
Running Through Fields of Yellow Tulips
By Gloria MacKay
He hopped backwards in front of me, his black boot making prints on the clay path like a one-legged animal in reverse. At that moment I saw he was wearing his pleaful look, his "This is serious, you have to listen to me NOW," expression.
"Andy, do you have to go to the bathroom, again?" I sighed, I'm sorry to say in the most condescending manner.
"I want to run through those yellow tulips, Grandma. There they are right over there."
He spun around, slipped, left a hand print in the mud, wiped his fingers on his pants. I saw splatters of wet mud on the back of his head. He'll have to have a hair wash tonight, I thought.
"See, you can't be running around like that, Andy. I told you it was muddy."
"But I have to, Grandma. This is my only chance to run through the tulips."
I shook my head. Negative, Andy. I take him to the tulip fields and all he cares about is yellow. All he wants to do is run. Why yellow? Why run? Why can't he just look and enjoy?
"Please, Grandma?"
I had seen that look on his face somewhere else. As expectant as a cocoon; as still as the eye of a tornado; as set as a fence post; as flushed as a peach. Where had I seen that look before? I remembered how he had looked a year ago, last summer, running with the neighbor kids. He wore a different expression then -- his dreamy, lazy, breezy, 'I can do anything I want to do without even trying' look.
One of the children had a brand new stopwatch in his pocket that day, and the neighborhood children made a course around the old stump. One at a time. Poised. Crouched. Get Ready. Get Set. They took turns, each one trying to go faster and faster. Except for Andy. He missed his first turn, because he was petting a cat. But he crouched and poised in fine style his second time around. Get Ready. Get Set. Go.
I watched in amazement as Andy spun around and around the stump. He was in a dream, as though he were chasing windmills. NO, he was a windmill. White bony arms straight out, blue tank top moving with the breeze, eyes closed, but just barely.
"Run, Andy. You're supposed to run," yelled Katie. His big sister always wants him to do what the other kids did. She was six last summer, and cared a lot for what the neighbor kids thought.
"Grandma, can I? Can I?"
So here we are in the county in the spring, in a drizzle. Now he wants to run. Through tulips. In the mud. How can I say "no" to that upturned, ardent little face?
How does it feel to run? I try to remember. Was the wind cold this time of year? Would breezes swirl around his ears and move on or would they clutch at him and slide under his collar, and down his back? I couldn't remember what it feels like to run in the wind. I couldn't even imagine how it would be to run through tulips that were as yellow as butter, sparkling with rain dust, as endless as an ocean.
"I'll tell you what, Andy," I negotiated, "you can walk into the tulip fields all by yourself. That way you won't get dirty. I'll stay here and wave at you."
He didn't move. His face didn't change one bit, just as a flower looks the same whether it is in sunshine or shadow. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.
What would possess a child to like yellow so much? If I were ever to put on my rubbers and run it would be into that blanket of magenta and blood red and sunset orange floating over the sea of green just across the road. There is no red hanging in my closet. I like to put on outfits of sea foam and barely blue and plain old beige. But when it comes to tulips, it is the crimsons that stick in my throat.
"Please, Grandma, can I go now? I'm going to run. You can come too."
"I suppose so, you won't be happy until you do." He is a quick little thing. He was half way down the row already. A drab little sight in his sweats, navy blue jacket unzipped, almost blowing off his body. I couldn't see his face. I wished I could.
I watched, thinking he would turn around and wave, and I would wave back to let him know that I wasn't upset that he was running amok through yellow tulips. But he just kept on getting smaller, and smaller, until he was almost as short as the flowers which marked his path.
I stuck the toe of my sandal into the mud. I felt like I was at the beach testing the water. Behind me, far across the road, were those dots of red, pink, and magenta flowing together like painting by Seurat. If he doesn't get too wet, we'll drive over there next, I thought. But the yellow is cheery enough, and the yellow is handy now. I hear Andy calling, "Come on, Grandma. I'll wait for you. You can run through the yellow tulips with me."
At least it sounded like this is what he said.
Well, perhaps, I should walk out there a little way, I thought. My jacket dragged in the mud, and I felt the wind curling on my collar.
Andy raced toward me. He looked as though his face had burst open. He was a butterfly, a hurricane, a gate swinging in the wind. His cheeks were flushed like peaches, and his clothes had taken on the glow of the tulips.
Where had I seen that look before? It would come to me, I figured. Things usually did if I wait long enough,
"I'm coming, Andy, I'm coming," I hollered. And I did. All the way. Fast.
He hopped backwards in front of me, his black boot making prints on the clay path like a one-legged animal in reverse. At that moment I saw he was wearing his pleaful look, his "This is serious, you have to listen to me NOW," expression.
"Andy, do you have to go to the bathroom, again?" I sighed, I'm sorry to say in the most condescending manner.
"I want to run through those yellow tulips, Grandma. There they are right over there."
He spun around, slipped, left a hand print in the mud, wiped his fingers on his pants. I saw splatters of wet mud on the back of his head. He'll have to have a hair wash tonight, I thought.
"See, you can't be running around like that, Andy. I told you it was muddy."
"But I have to, Grandma. This is my only chance to run through the tulips."
I shook my head. Negative, Andy. I take him to the tulip fields and all he cares about is yellow. All he wants to do is run. Why yellow? Why run? Why can't he just look and enjoy?
"Please, Grandma?"
I had seen that look on his face somewhere else. As expectant as a cocoon; as still as the eye of a tornado; as set as a fence post; as flushed as a peach. Where had I seen that look before? I remembered how he had looked a year ago, last summer, running with the neighbor kids. He wore a different expression then -- his dreamy, lazy, breezy, 'I can do anything I want to do without even trying' look.
One of the children had a brand new stopwatch in his pocket that day, and the neighborhood children made a course around the old stump. One at a time. Poised. Crouched. Get Ready. Get Set. They took turns, each one trying to go faster and faster. Except for Andy. He missed his first turn, because he was petting a cat. But he crouched and poised in fine style his second time around. Get Ready. Get Set. Go.
I watched in amazement as Andy spun around and around the stump. He was in a dream, as though he were chasing windmills. NO, he was a windmill. White bony arms straight out, blue tank top moving with the breeze, eyes closed, but just barely.
"Run, Andy. You're supposed to run," yelled Katie. His big sister always wants him to do what the other kids did. She was six last summer, and cared a lot for what the neighbor kids thought.
"Grandma, can I? Can I?"
So here we are in the county in the spring, in a drizzle. Now he wants to run. Through tulips. In the mud. How can I say "no" to that upturned, ardent little face?
How does it feel to run? I try to remember. Was the wind cold this time of year? Would breezes swirl around his ears and move on or would they clutch at him and slide under his collar, and down his back? I couldn't remember what it feels like to run in the wind. I couldn't even imagine how it would be to run through tulips that were as yellow as butter, sparkling with rain dust, as endless as an ocean.
"I'll tell you what, Andy," I negotiated, "you can walk into the tulip fields all by yourself. That way you won't get dirty. I'll stay here and wave at you."
He didn't move. His face didn't change one bit, just as a flower looks the same whether it is in sunshine or shadow. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.
What would possess a child to like yellow so much? If I were ever to put on my rubbers and run it would be into that blanket of magenta and blood red and sunset orange floating over the sea of green just across the road. There is no red hanging in my closet. I like to put on outfits of sea foam and barely blue and plain old beige. But when it comes to tulips, it is the crimsons that stick in my throat.
"Please, Grandma, can I go now? I'm going to run. You can come too."
"I suppose so, you won't be happy until you do." He is a quick little thing. He was half way down the row already. A drab little sight in his sweats, navy blue jacket unzipped, almost blowing off his body. I couldn't see his face. I wished I could.
I watched, thinking he would turn around and wave, and I would wave back to let him know that I wasn't upset that he was running amok through yellow tulips. But he just kept on getting smaller, and smaller, until he was almost as short as the flowers which marked his path.
I stuck the toe of my sandal into the mud. I felt like I was at the beach testing the water. Behind me, far across the road, were those dots of red, pink, and magenta flowing together like painting by Seurat. If he doesn't get too wet, we'll drive over there next, I thought. But the yellow is cheery enough, and the yellow is handy now. I hear Andy calling, "Come on, Grandma. I'll wait for you. You can run through the yellow tulips with me."
At least it sounded like this is what he said.
Well, perhaps, I should walk out there a little way, I thought. My jacket dragged in the mud, and I felt the wind curling on my collar.
Andy raced toward me. He looked as though his face had burst open. He was a butterfly, a hurricane, a gate swinging in the wind. His cheeks were flushed like peaches, and his clothes had taken on the glow of the tulips.
Where had I seen that look before? It would come to me, I figured. Things usually did if I wait long enough,
"I'm coming, Andy, I'm coming," I hollered. And I did. All the way. Fast.
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