Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [81]
“Mondovi is a city,” I say. “It’s in the state of…”
“Wisconsin?” says Amy. Tentative, but correct.
“Yes. And Wisconsin is in what country?”
Silence.
“The United…”
“…States of America!”
“Where does your daddy work?”
“Denver.”
“Is Denver a country or a state?”
“A state?”
“No…”
“A country!”
The exasperation hits me immediately. I am ashamed at how hard it is for me to maintain my patience.
“No! Denver is a city. And Denver is in Colorado. That means Colorado is a…”
Silence. Then, quietly, “…a country?”
Tasting the dust of my molars, I make a mental note to shake Anneliese’s hand when we return and perhaps print her up some sort of framable certificate honoring her persistence. She would actually prefer that I handle the spelling lessons for a day. The thing is, fifteen minutes later we meet Mills for breakfast, and as Amy jaws with him on a wide range of topics (central theme: horses), I feel the exasperation dissipate in the face of pride in how she comports herself—politely, and with poise beyond her years. It is good for me as a parent to see her with a little rope to run, a chance to operate in the big world with the skills she has. Cities and states can wait. Worse comes to worst, she can carry an index card for the rest of her life.
Amy calls Mills “Mr. Miller” because that is what I call him in her presence. I am old-school in this regard. I believe it benefits the child to know who the grown-ups are. “Heavy on the ‘Mister,’” my dad used to say.
When we arrive at Mr. Miller’s house, it looks like the place has been preset for a shoot with This Old House. Several work-tables are arranged on the blacktop drive in front of the red barn, and each is stocked with a wide range of saws, hammers, screwdrivers, drills, nails, screws, earmuff hearing protectors, safety glasses, and a generous selection of fitted work gloves. The chop saw is on its stand and plugged in, the air compressor that powers the nail gun is all set with hose neatly coiled, and in a truly elegant touch, bottled water is chilling in a cooler.
First thing I do is strap on my tool belt. Gosh, I like tool belts. Just the very look of them confers competence. I like the way the belt hangs gunslinger low and loose, the hammer dangling in its loop, the handle gently tapping at my thigh as I walk. I like the heft of the nail pouch at my hip, and the way the big fat tape measure slips neatly into its special pocket. I tend to overdo it on tape measures. At last count, I owned seven of them. But the thing is, you’re forever needing a tape measure for this little project or that, and my level of disorganization is such that the only useful countermeasure is to throw one in the cart on every other trip to the hardware store and just sow them willy-nilly all over the place. At this very moment I have two in my office, one in my car, a pair in the house, and at least three in the shop.
I fit Amy with padded kneelers, safety goggles, and work gloves, and then hand her a hammer. She grins when she hefts it and looks around for something to hit—evidence that while variations persist, the love of gear crosses genders. In truth, part of the lesson we hope to convey today is that girls can build chicken coops, too. In Amy’s case, the lesson will be redundant: when the light fixture in my bathroom needed replacing, my mother-in-law—she who supported her children by climbing telephone poles for twenty years—did the job because bare wires leave me frightened and confused. She also put the phone line into my office. Amy’s grandmother in Colorado raised five kids and ramrodded the farm for twenty-seven years after her husband was killed in an accident. By way of contrast Amy has watched me struggle for twenty minutes to get two corners of a four-sided cold frame to match up. The explication of gender roles is all well and good, but it is likely my hand in this will be