The last day of August was fairly nice. It was a hot, sunny day, and I got to spend it in Spokane. Yep, Spokane. On the blacktop, in the heat, around people who buzz around like bees looking for a good deal, a quick bite, some kind of material reward to give themselves a break from their reality television, lack of nature or nurture, self-absorbed selves.
Of course, I am being cynical here, but the truth is that spending a day surrounding by people who seem to never look up, never see the clouds, never stop to smell the warm summertime air (not that I do either in Spokane), and are only focused on what they can get quickly and for a really good price is very disheartening to me and I believe unhealthy for my soul. I loathe shopping. The thought of going to meet my “girlfriends” in town in order to pal around in overly air-conditioned stores surrounded by people who are completely unhappy and attempting to fill that void in their life by purchasing those $60 shoes that they must have and can’t afford is just about the worst thing I can ever imagine doing in my life. The second is talking about the new seasons of reality shows that are about to start. I don’t have television (aside from movies) and the thought of watching someone else live their life instead of living my own makes me want to vomit on the sidewalk in front of everyone. Now, that is reality! Frankly, I prefer old ratty flip flops, green grass under my feet, a fold up lawn chair under my bum, and watching my son play like Christopher Robin in his tree house.
However, the boys start school in six days and they have been bugging me about needing clothes and pencils. I want to spout the old adage, “You’ll learn more with me than you even will in that school!” But this day and age I know that that is not true, so off we drive, away from our farm, away from harvest, away from green grass and good smelling air.
What I hate most about going to Spokane, especially in harvest, is the fact that my grandfather, the one who has cancer, used to farm most of the land that now supports churches, sub-division housing and shopping malls. As we drive to the store, I cannot help but see an overlapping image, much like a Charles Peterson painting, of my sixteen-year-old sister hauling irrigation pipe around the grass, her arms strong, and her legs wet from the morning dew on the grass. Now all that is there is a peach mortar church with entrapped playground equipment for the poor souls who must attend daycare there. Those children, and those church goers will never see the image of my sister, only me, and frankly, I’d like to always see it that way.
On the way in my son is blaring rap music. I point out the old field again, but they’ve heard it all before.
“Yeah Mom, we know,” they say. “So where are we going to eat?”
The predictable one in the back pipes up, “McDonalds?”
“Yeah, right,” I snort. “Maybe we should have just scooped up some pig poop from the barn on the way out and wrapped it in cellophane. It’s probably got more nutrients than the food you want to buy, and it’s free.”
“Mom,” Brett says. “Just stop. We’ll eat at a restaurant.”
They are all silent the rest of the way in. Thank goodness for boys. We came, we saw, we shopped, we left! We even just grabbed some food at the deli and before I knew it, they had me back home. I believe that I made their blacktop experience the least pleasant possible; therefore, I think I am raising them well.
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