From the top of the “mountain” in our backyard, a dump truck load of lovely white sand, the grand boys asked, “Can we get water in buckets and make cement, YaYa?”
I sighed, seeing into the future as surely as any prophetess of future doom.
Knowing the end from the beginning, I said, “Yes . . but . . . if you turn on the water to make cement, don’t be shocked when your clothes get all wet.”
Denials poured out of their grubby heads. “No. No. We won’t get wet. We won’t. We won’t. We can’t.”
I cut them off.
“Tut. Tut. Tut. And when your clothes get all wet and icky, and they will, you will be cold.”
I held up one finger, stopping any more silly protests.
“And when you get cold you will be tempted to take off your wet, nasty, gross clothes. Eventually, you will, in face, strip down. You will then be naked. When you strip down, please be advised that I do not have a sufficient amount of backup super hero underwear to cover your nakedness.”
They looked like they wanted to say something stupid. I continued.
“Furthermore when you turn up cold, wet, and naked—and you will—other people (i.e. everyone) will point and remark on your lack of clothing and common sense. This will hurt your feelings, depress your spirits, and possibly tumble you into a cycle of low self-esteem and despair, leaving you vulnerable to becoming a basement dwelling liberal arts major.”
“Can we make cement?” they chorused.
“Sure,” I said.
I went back to reading my book, sitting in the sun, and being right all the time.
Linda (Seer Stone) Zern
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