Slouching Toward Spring

Little by little our New Haven skies fill, not with the signs of spring, but with faint glimmers meekly suggesting the existence of spring. The winds whine and the woods rustle, not with the songs of spring, but with faint echoes of springs long past and fainter heralds of a spring that my some day return. It's getting slowly warmer, the snow is slowly melting, our native good cheer slowly returning, our blogger spirits slowly reviving.

It is simply one of the remarkable things about Julia that she never loves Eli more than immediately after getting the worst of her in a wrestling match. Eli, though the photographic evidence is partly covered by her wild hair, is a gracious victor as well.
Eli and Katharine are good buds while Julia's off at school. Eli is a sweet, if sometimes mischievous, mentor. Katharine is a quick study in mischief; in sweetness, a natural.

This above photograph is remarkable both as a portrait of Katharine's post-ablutionary cleanness and as a rare instance, they never last more than a few seconds, of a waking Katharine wearing something other than her leotard. Below we see Katharine in uniform.

With the weather outside reluctant to improve, we improve the shining domestic moments by mastering the art of Terpsichore. I confess in all modesty that in my thirtieth year I am beginning to discover within myself enormous reserves of talent as a dancer. These hidden gifts are of such astonishing scope that their erstwhile neglect constitutes a misspent youth and a missed vocation. But the world's loss is my daughters' gain. Here I am, in my pajamas, leading an angel, a ballerina, and a prairie girl round and round the circle of sacred fire.

When the girls tire of my dancing--which almost never happens--I spoil them with variety and delight them with terror by pretending to be a velociraptor. Below the girls dance alone, innocent and unawares, while the ferocious raptor lies in wait . . . .

A portrait of the artist as a diminutive dancer . . .

Depressed by a long winter and a hundred years of graduate school, Lia bought herself some flowers the other day. Each of the girls naturally believed herself the recipient of this special bounty--the object of attentions from some distant and admiring prince. Here's Eli posing before the special delivery of her personal Gallant.

Here's Katharine, operating on her unshakable assumption that the world was created as a personal playground custom-made for the inhabitation and enjoyment of Katharine Collings.

We love Eli a lot, but we worry that at this late date she has displayed so little personality.

A week or two ago the girls went to the Peabody Museum with their long-lost friends, the Thompsons. They returned sporting paleolithic headgear and fired by a newfound enthusiasm for black holes (though sometimes enthusiasm faded into melancholy; "Black holes are so sad," Eli once moaned, "Because they are dead stars!").

Here's a sweet note from Eli to Lia, typed up on Eli's personal computer. We think the "D" is a typo, not a piercing invocation of the past tense.

The rest is silence.