Fiction, Full of Danger

I spent much of yesterday moving area rugs and cleaning the floors underneath. Tiny treasures, such as stale cheerios, old goldfish crackers, pieces of Lego and wooden beads abounded. Moving the furniture by myself (wedging my back under and table and lifting, turtle-like) to smooth out area rugs was a delight--not a necessity, since Martin would have lent a hand, but my preference, because then I don't have to worry about any grumpiness but mine. I couldn't possibly lift the piano, though I tried, so I had to wait for a little extra help. I hate it when I can't do things all by myself. Hmm. Maybe that's where the girls get their sometimes-alarming, mostly-encouraging independence.

Merry just cornered me in the dining room and told me about a book that her friend Cat had read and hated. Turns out the blurb on the back amounted to what they thought was false advertising: it told about the friendship between a boy and a girl, all the wonderful things they did, and the cover showed the smiling little girl about to cross a rope bridge over a rushing river. Unfortunately, Merry says, at the very end of the book, the little girl gets swept into the same river and dies. "Can you believe it?" she says. "It's AWFUL. Why would they have to do that in a story? The mom or dad could have died, and that would have been better. But not the KID." Merry was so upset her eyes were almost watering. It seemed like a good opportunity to talk about fiction, but Merry was not persuaded by any of my arguments. "They were supposed to have good times," Merry said, "The book is actually called the name of the river. That's the main part of the story--" Merry stares at me with incredulous eyes--"She dies."

I felt the same way about "Mill on the Floss," but I had to read through two million pages to get to the final drowning scene. Fiction. It's full of pitfalls. Better to avoid it altogether and focus on daily activities, like moving enormous pieces of furniture.

:) Happy Friday, everyone.