Hide-and-Shoot


We've all played hide-and-seek, sure. One person counts to 10 or 20 while everybody else hides. Upon discovery, it becomes a game of tag. For Rhiannon, hide-and-seek becomes a scene out of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

Two months ago, Rhiannon won a bunch of tickets from those age-appropriate games of chance at Chuck E. Cheese. But what to buy with them? It's like government. All of a sudden, we have an influx of cash. Do we feed the people? Or do we buy bombs? Rhiannon, a red-blooded American girl, goes for the ballistics. Hanging next to the Hello Kitty purse is a rocket launcher and three foam missiles.

"Dad! I want that!"

Um...okay.... "What about that nice Hello Kitty purse?"

"No! I want the rockets."

Done and done. We take them home where they are promptly forgotten. Until today.

Today, Rhiannon tears her room apart because it's a toy day as she is not feeling so well. Out come the rocket launcher and rockets. Our afternoon begins with her loading the foam rocket atop an eight-inch-long plastic cylinder which then nests inside another. As Rhiannon pushes down on one tube, air gets forced through the other, propelling the rocket on a wild flight (Tony Cat has stolen one of the rocket's three fins).

We play with Tony awhile, watching him chase the rocket, retrieving it, and then returning it to us. But you know what's more fun than shooting rockets over the cat's head? You got it.

Hide-and-shoot. It's all her idea. I swear.

"Dad!"

"Yes, Rhiannon?"

"You count to, um, twenty, and then come out and I'll shoot you."

"I don't know Rhiannon. I don't want to get shot by a rocket."

"It will be FUN!"

"Okay." I start counting. When I am done, the apartment is dead quiet. All of a sudden, it feels dark, and I'm a little scared. This reminds me a bit of the Assassination Game we played in college, where everyone in the hall drew names, one per week, of who to "kill" until there was only one of us left standing. No one slept.

Out I come, and as I draw closer to the kitchen, I start to hear giggling. There Rhiannon sits, behind the leather chair, rocket armed and ready, and then I am toast.

*POP*

It hits me square in the...

"DAD! I HIT YOU IN THE WIENER!" Rhiannon is rolling on the floor, laughing.

I have nothing to say to this. I am stunned.

"WIENER! WIENER! WIENER!"

"Okay, okay. Yeah. Go count."

Rhiannon goes to her room. "Dad! I am going to count to 9."

Nine? "Um, okay."

She counts. I hide. But I am tricky. I leave the pantry door ajar, but hide in the entryway, taking a low position.

"NINE!"

Rhiannon comes out. "Dad?" As if I'm going to answer to that now. This is war. Rhiannon pads down the hall, spots the pantry door, and runs right to it. As she peers in, I rise up behind her like an alien from Aliens. She turns around and jumps.

*POP*

"Dad! You shot me in the neck!"

Yes. Yes I did. Rhiannon falls over as if she's dead. I approach to collect my spent ammunition. Leave no trace.

"Be careful, dad. If you step on me, I'll be a carpet."

I laugh. "Don't worry. I won't step on you. It's your turn."

And so it goes. Spy v. spy. Until it's time for a cookie break. Even assassins have to eat.

Rhiannon. Secretly cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Thank God for Turkey


Today was Thanksgiving. Actually, it still kind of is for another two hours, but the house is at rest, and dear old dad has some time to write. And instead of writing about the turkey we cooked upside-down (traps the juices!), the sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranapple sauce, green beans with red and yellow peppers, croissants, cherry-apple stuffing, Prosecco, pumpkin-praline pie, pumpkin pie ice cream, and tea, and instead of writing about nine hours of football and three hours of Macy's parade, and instead of writing about a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and about phone calls to family and keeping the cats off the table, I will write about one thing: the pre-dinner prayer.

Now, we are quite the secular family, and Rhiannon is more in tune with her spiritual side than either of her parents. So as we all sat down to dinner, Rhiannon informed mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, and Mema (great-grandmother) that she would like to say grace.

"Everybody go like this!" Rhiannon said, folding her hands in her lap and bowing her head like a penitent.

We complied, but many of us had one eye open to watch Rhiannon give the blessing.

"Oh God, thank you for having all the family together. And please be good to us. And even though there are people who are bad and good, please be good to them, and Santa, too. Amen."

"Amen," we said, eyes moist.

Forks raised, we tucked in to the feast as Rhiannon explained what was coming next:

"We all have to say our prayers. Mom is next, then dad!"

Okay. That's a new one. It's almost like a Quaker gathering where we can stand and speak if the spirit moves us. Tonight, the spirit is Rhiannon, and she rides herd on the lot of us.

Mom says a prayer for the kitties.

Now, all through the day, and through dinner ("Wow! These potatoes are FABULOUS!"), Rhiannon has been channeling Hannah Montana, saying "say whut???" at verily everything. Just as she would answer "Obama" to every question she was asked last Sunday. So my prayer was:

"Dear God, please have Rhiannon stop saying 'Say Whut?' all the time."

"Say whut?" Rhiannon chimes in.

"Maybe prayers are like emails and it takes a few seconds to reach the recipient," I say.

We continue to eat. The food really is quite good. As grandpa finishes his prayer of Thanksgiving, Rhiannon let's fly with another "Say whut?"

"Rhiannon!" I exclaim. "Please stop saying that."

Rhiannon looks at me, and with a straight face says, "God must not have gotten the email you sent him."

Rhiannon. You couldn't pray for anyone cuter.

Andrew (Papa)

Spider!


Last week when I was walking Rhiannon (not pictured) to the car after picking her up from school, she told me a chilling tale:

"Dad!"

"Yes, Rhiannon?"

"Dad! Today at school Emma found a dead spider in her backpack!"

I told you it was chilling.

Rhiannon continued: "And then the spider crawled out and went on Hunter's face!"

Hmm. "I thought you said the spider was dead. How could it climb onto Hunter's face?"

"I think it was sleepwalking."

Rhiannon.

Always has the cute answers.

Andrew (Papa, writing from England)

Never On a Sunday

Scottsdale threw its annual Greek Festibal (note the Greek spelling here!) this weekend, so Rhiannon, Jayni and I decided to go and see how things a) compared to the Greece we knew from the Peloponnese, and b) how Arizona Greeks compare with those from Wisconsin.

The festibal itself had all of the trimmings one would expect in America, namely traditional Greek dancing (celebrating the casting off of the Ottoman Empire's yoke), folk music (with a lead AND a rhythm bazouki player), tents crammed full of plastic gypsy toys, jewelry, and reproduction "artifacts", plus the Taberna tent (serving authentic home-brew wine and brandy and Greek beer), the Kafeneieon tent (for men AND women -- I got a frappe for the first time in eight years), the Bakery tent (no bougaza...), the Loukomades tent, and an entire tent city dedicated to nothing but lamb.

Sadly, there were no vendors selling dashboard saints (or those that hang from the rearview mirror -- my Cosmas and Damien one has been broken for years), and no vendors selling any kind of Greek football clothes or scarves. Maybe next year I can fill this niche! I did see one little boy wearing a Charisteas #9 Greek national team jersey, so there is a market for the stuff.

So after spending ten minutes walking around and looking at things, Jayni bought Rhiannon a belly-dancing scarf that is worn at the waist. The scarf is pink silk and has about 12398750157 silver, jangly medallions stitched into it which made Rhiannon easy to find once we had left the festibal. Wrapping this silk around her transformed Rhiannon into a belly-dancer par excellance, and she spent the next 45 minutes on stage with the band doing her best moves.

Now, Rhiannon has had a bit of ballet, a bit of tap, some gymnastics, and a whole lot of time spent in front of Hannah Montana. Combine this preparation with the main dance of Seinfeld's Elaine Bennis (see picture above), vintage Stevie Nicks (below), and, erm, Laura Petrie.

Rhiannon captivated the crowd, vamping up and down the stage, at times on tip-toe, at times on her knees, at times raising the roof, at times shaking her drachma-maker. Other girls about her age got into the action, too, and most were better dancers, but none were more earnest. On occasion, Rhiannon summoned her inner diva and told the other girls not to copy her, or to stop following her. At other times, girls took Rhiannon's hands and spun her or did a kick-line.

In a break between songs, the drummer thanked the "Grecian Express Dancers", before the band broke into another rendition of Zorba's theme, or "Never on a Sunday", or "Some Greek Folk Songs Sound Like Other Greek Folk Songs". Grecian Express was actually a very good jam-band, and at some points during an extended hot-space, Rhiannon looked as if she had been transported to Woodstock and was being carried into the future by the Doors. At one point during the set, a woman from the Arizona Republic newspaper approached me and asked if it was OK to photograph Rhiannon -- of course this was OK. Besides, Rhiannon was cute up there in her belly-dancing scarf, "Greek in Training" t-shirt, pink Crocs, blond hair and blue eyes.

Towards the end of the set, Rhiannon started coming down off the stage for water breaks and to get her tired little legs massaged. At the bitter end, she said she wanted to go to the garden next to the festibal to rest, and then it was time for home. We'll pick up a copy of the Republic tomorrow to see if Rhiannon made the paper.

Rhiannon. Greek for "cute".

Andrew (Papa)

Telegraph Pass


Today after school I surprised Rhiannon with a nature hike. I have learned from past experience that saying things like, "hey, Rhiannon, let's go on a nature hike!" are met with protests not unlike the brave soul who stood in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square. So today I just trundled her into the car and drove to the trailhead for Telegraph Pass, a desert mountain trail that connects with other trails going up South Mountain. The lower half of the trail is fairly easy with rolling hills and is paved for the first half mile giving way to rocks and dirt farther on.

About five minutes into our drive, Rhiannon begins setting our agenda for when we get home:

"Dad! When we get home, you can unpack my backpack and check your mail and then we can play Starfall (Rhiannon's favorite online reading game site) until mom gets home."

"Sure, Rhiannon."

"Dad! This sure is taking a long time to get home."

By now we have turned into the parking area just off of Desert Foothills. The lot is mostly full; one can tell we are in a tonier part of Phoenix because there are two Audi TTs in the lot, a Hummer, and lots of cars with rooftop bike racks.

"Where are we?"

"I thought that since it is such a nice day outside that we could go to the mountain and take a walk. There is something I want to show you."

"Okay." She says it as if she is actually okay with the idea.

I unbuckle Rhiannon from her booster seat. Her face is smeared with Nutella that she has dutifully licked off of the graham crackers she was given prior to leaving Kids' Club. I apply some saliva to my finger and clean Rhiannon up a bit. She looks especially waify today, and her hair is sticking out as if she just woke up.

"Shoulders?"

I am expecting this. Rhiannon weighs about forty pounds now, so carrying her on my shoulders for about three miles on rolling terrain is a great way to burn calories and bond with the kind. She loves it and asks me to skip through the parking lot, which I do, calves burning.

About ten minutes into the walk past saguaro and barrel cacti, Rhiannon asks what it was that I wanted to show her.

"Is it a toy store?"

"No. Not out here on the mountain."

"Oh. What is it then?"

"You'll see."

"What are those towers up there?" Rhiannon points to the top of South Mountain.

"Those are the TV towers."

"How did they get there?"

"They put them on big trucks and drove them up the mountain."

I don't think Rhiannon realizes that there is a road that winds around the other side of South Mountain, and instead is imagining these big-rigs powering up the sheer, south face of South Mountain instead. "WOW!"

Soon we reach our destination. About halfway up Telegraph Pass there are examples of Hohokam rock art. These petroglyphs feature human figures, horned animals, lizards, snakes, and geometric patterns.

"Nobody knows what these pictures mean," I tell Rhiannon.

"Maybe they are just pictures."

"Maybe". I used to get shouted at in art history class by saying stuff like that. Good for her.

"Can I sit on a rock?"

"Sure."

We sit and I give her some pretzels. She can see the suburbs spread out below us. The setting sun has made the mountains near us golden.

"Dad, it's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so, Rhiannon. I think it's beautiful, too."

"My hands are cold. Can we go down to a sunny spot?"

"Sure."

She gets on my shoulders again and we walk down the mountain. On our right is a wadi, a dry riverbed.

"Rhiannon, there used to be a river there a long, long time ago. The water used to come down off the mountain and run into this riverbed."

"Was there some kind of faucet up there?"

I laugh. "No. There was just a lot more water here at one time."

"Oh."

We walk on and see a tumbleweed that was not on the trail when we came by earlier. Rhiannon has never seen one.

"Look, Rhiannon! Tumbleweed!"

She gets down off of my shoulders and cautiously approaches the dry ball of grass and seeds. "What is it?"

"It's actually alive. It gets blown across the desert by wind and leaves its seeds along the way."

Rhiannon sniffs the buds in the tumbleweed and watches as the wind knocks it around. I pick her up again and in a few moments we are at the car. I strap her in and give her apple juice. When I sit down, she tells me:

"Well since we spent so much time on the mountain, I don't think you have any time left for email."

"We'll see about that."

Rhiannon. Cute on schedule.

Andrew (Papa)

Corpse Bride


"What do you want to be for Halloween this year, Rhiannon?" I asked one day in September.

The answer was instant (a rarity as one often has to ask things 2-3 times to get even a cursory reply): "A corpse bride."

Our little goth watched Tim Burton's 2005 animated classic, Corpse Bride, last year. Rhiannon loved it. She occasionally makes me play the roll of the hapless groom voiced by Johnny Depp as we go through our ghastly courtship. One of the cats is cast as his dead dog, Speck.

So Rhiannon got to work designing her own costume on her art board, lavishing details on the gold lamé skirt, blue top, blond fright wig, pink high-heeled shoes. Which of course looks everything like the picture above. But to Rhiannon, a corpse bride is basically one dead Disney princess. Probably Aurora.

We drove home from school together where she would change into her real costume. On the way she sang:

"Oooh. It's a scary night!
Oooh. It's Halloween night!
Don't let the ghost get you!
Don't let the campire get you!
Just go and run and get out of here
before they eat you and suck your blood
yeah, run! Go faster! Get out of here! Here they come!
But they're really pretend!
Yeah, they're not so scary and they're just dressed up
'cuz it's Halloween!"

On Halloween night, as the sun set, she dressed in her actual corpse bride costume (well, most of it, pictures to follow once they are developed): Black velveteen dress, floor-length, with red, high collar; pull-on elbow-length, black silk arm coverings; black tights with pumpkins running down the seams, black mary janes, a red-and-black choker, red-and-black belt, devil trident, face painted white with black eyes and lips, and hair up in a demonic bun because Rhiannon refused to wear her black wig.

Rhiannon wanted her parents to dress up, too. I considering going as a soccer player (which jersey to choose...) but the thought of walking miles in cleats made me instead choose to wear my black-and-orange Oxford Triennial Conference t-shirt (with non-scary owl on it), and a dionysiac wreath on my head. Jayni wore here black-and-orange Isthmia excavations t-shirt from 2001. We armed Rhiannon with her pumpkin-shaped candy basket, grabbed a flashlight, and out the door we went.

In Phoenix, there is the tradition for Mexican families to case neighborhoods in white vans or pick-up trucks, dropping off several children on one block and then picking them up at another. The reaction from most of the parents we spoke with were overtly racist, and the look of relief upon the faces of the people at our first trick-or-treat target when three white people piled out of a mini SUV made me feel bad. But Rhiannon was thrilled to say "trick-or-treat", to take a handful of candy, brag about it within earshot of the candy-givers, but then she remembered to say "thank you", and then tacked on a cheery "have a good night!" What kid says this on Halloween?

Most people where we live spend Halloween sitting in plastic chairs (much like the gypsy chairs we had in Greece), drinking soda or beer, and talking with their neighbors who seemed to like each other and even knew one another's names. They were all cheery and chummy, and not one of them correctly guessed Rhiannon's costume.

"Awwww, a pretty princess!"

"I am a corpse bride."

"Oh."

And then to the next house: "awwwwwwww, look at that scary vampire!"

"I am a corpse bride."

"Aha."

And then to the next house: "awwwwwwww, aren't you a pretty ghost!"

"I. AM. A. CORPSE. BRIDE!"

"Er."

And so on. Regardless of her misidentification, Rhiannon did get loads of candy, and, lucky for her, is of the kind dad does not like (e.g. fruity candy, chewy candy, gum, taffy, toffee, etc.). In Phoenix, as it is often hot (it was about 90 when we went trick-or-treating, and it was dark), chocolate does not keep so well.

We did meet up with two of Rhiannon's friends from school along with one of their parents and her daughter. And we learned from them which houses in the neighborhood were giving out free, cold beer to parents-in-need. This was a first for me. And then a second... I have always thougt that people in Phoenix were quite friendly (and I've been to 45 states at this writing), and I think it's because we all live in fear of running out of gas/water/food/snake repellant and would need help from anyone to survive out here. So we are hospitable so that when our turn comes to ask for help, we get it with a smile. Anyway, this hospitality was amazing and put Wisconsin to shame.

Walking from house to house, Rhiannon had begun to flag, but as soon as she caught up with her friends, they ran to every single lighted house. By the end of the night, she was dead tired, but this was the first year I did not have to carry her (or her candy). She is getting bigger and it makes me smile.

At home, Rhiannon was ready for bed. She didn't even dump out any of her candy to count and sort it (that would come on Saturday morning). She begged to get out of her costume. She was happy though, and content. I wonder what she will be next year. Perhaps the blonde bassist from Smashing Pumpkins.

Rhiannon. Cute in the dark.

Andrew (Papa)