Saturday, July 5, 2008
Last week I suddenly recalled the existence of a set of wooden blocks my dad made for me when I was a baby. Where were the blocks? I wondered desperately. I couldn't believe that neither my parents nor I had remembered them since Eamon was born. I called Gwen and she said it was a funny thing for me to ask at this very moment, because they had just finished cleaning out the digusting pool shed (which hadn't been touched in at least 15 years and was piled high with crap), and they'd found a bag that contained the blocks. I picked them up yesterday, and this morning I gave them a good scrubbing and dipped them in bleach water. They were filthy--caked with dirt and who knows what, some kind of animal droppings, I think. My dad doesn't seem to think they're anything special--I think he called them "simple"--but they mean the world to me, and I like simple. I couldn't get them in front of Eamon fast enough. There's something almost biologically fulfilling about seeing him play with blocks that my dad made for me.