3 June 2013
We were in Tahoe over the weekend. One picture I’d like to save in my mind is Enzo on our blow-up boat floating down Trout Creek, fending off snags with a big stick, absorbed and alert. He was wearing a life vest and bright blue insect repellent hat, but somehow he still looked old-fashioned. Boy on Raft must be some ancient collective memory. Huck Finn in a shorty wetsuit.
Or Enzo crouching on a big tree root over the creek with a long stick and a hot dog, his gaze intent on a crawdad getting closer and closer and then shooting back into the weeds. “He’s a cautious one.” (We get him eventually and put him in the boat with some water and sticks. And then we catch another one.)
Or the water at the lake so many shades of blue and green and the blue, blue sky overhead.
Or getting out of the cramped car (and this time Duncan shat and barfed during the drive, oh dear) and the air is a different element.
I must add to this idyll that we went to K-Mart to buy knee and elbow pads and ended up with a Fart Blaster. The sound is wonderfully realistic when used with discretion, which is not how Enzo uses it. He keeps his finger on the trigger for a non-stop barrage. But when I was reading outside on the upstairs porch in the early evening, Teresa sneaked up to the window and let out one distinct blast. I looked up and there was the blaster in the open window And then her face appeared.