Having randomly selected a nine-year-old from within my household, I place two books in front of him: How to Train Your Dragon and How to Be a Pirate, both by Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, translated from the Old Norse by Cressida Cowell.

Have we ever met before?
Well, yes.

Are you familiar with these two tomes?
Oh, yes.

What are they about?
The first one is about Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, he is the son of one of the most feared Viking kings ever, and he is learning how to train his dragon, Toothless. Now that he has trained his dragon, the second one is about how he has to learn how to be a pirate- how to fight and to steer a ship. Hiccup has a very good friend named Fishlegs. His cousin is very mean and snotty, which is why his name is Snotlout. They have lots of running around and many insults. They have a few drawings for every few chapters, like there are pictures of each of the boys at the beginning. And the pages are pretty cut up. They don’t look so much like normal books because they have stains and stuff on them.

I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where did those stains come from?
On How to Train Your Dragon, there’s kind of claw slashes. On How to Be a Pirate, those are bloodstains.

I see. Who do you think would enjoy them?
Older kids who like to read and have a good sense of humor. If you’ve read any Geronimo Stilton books, then you would like these “tomes.”

August, 2005

Leaning as far back as possible, I strained to see the lip of Cenote de la Vida, seventy feet overhead. My seven-year-old’s head appeared, a marble in a helmet. I could hear none of the conversations at the cliff edge, so far above me. Thick ropes dangled a few feet away. Suddenly, my boy started dropping in slow, spurting arcs. Instinctively, with arms outstretched, I moved below the ropes, feeling like a very inadequate catcher in the rye.

That day, we were the only Americans in Tres Reyes, a tiny village in the middle of the Yucatan jungle. One grandmotherly local came out to chat with the three of us in stilted Spanish and unclear hand signals, building a bridge past my generation to my child’s. The community surrounds a huge cenote, a sinkhole formed millennia ago by the collapse of the limestone upon which the Yucatán floats. Some of the holes are filled with water; this one no longer was.

Later, we would hike through the jungle to Chimuch, a cavernous cenote accessible only through a thin hole. Descending down rickety candle-lit stairs, we found a beautiful fresh-water pond where we swam in cold clear water. Afterward, we climbed up the slick passageway into the sun, momentarily blinded as we emerged.

I had rappelled into the Tres Reyes cenote first, needing the reassurance that the gear was safe. This left Aaron beyond my reach in a visibly life-threatening situation. The ropes hung down beside me like tendrils stretching out from the future, the first view of my son beyond my protection, my control, my vision, and my life.

We planted this peony in front of the house a few years back. No one knew for certain what color it would be or its future size, so we stuck it in the ground and watched it grow. And grow. And it’s never blossomed. For the past couple years, we’ve talked about pulling it out of the ground since it mostly resembles a glorious weed.

What is it about mirrors? You put one in front of an animal and it reacts — even an animal that ought to know better. Dogs and cats generally become aggressive toward the unknown encroacher. Great apes become curious and experimental — much like children.

That’s what happened when my son’s Tae Kwon Do school moved into a new space. Along with new mats and other gear, the new space has floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall. Before and after each class, the students have a short bit of free time during which they greet each other with the traditional nod or screech, run about happily, and interact with their reflections. If only my grandmother were here to say, “You know, if you keep doing that, your face will freeze that way.”

And then class begins. A small group of these children will test for their black belts soon — my son included. They have been studying for five or more years, practicing every day. These young men and women face the mirror with a commitment beyond expectation. Like so many others who have struggled toward a goal, their reflections echo those years of effort.

That peony in front of our house surprised us this year with beautiful tiny white blossoms.

June, 2006