Moon watch and the mystery of young boys

So there we were, all four of us, bundled up and huddled under blankets, sitting on the patio watching the moon. With high enthusiasm, Jacob had organized this moon watch, even coaxing out his mom who had spent the weekend in bed being sick and feeling utterly miserable. We probably went too early, right at the start—it was a slow process. Christian described it as watching paint dry, and I laughed because long ago I had a friend who literally could be content watching paint dry. Jacob was the first to spot just the beginning of an orange-red color. I was the first to retreat inside where it was warm, but I returned when Christian came to tell me it was near totality.

It was another of those rare moments when I felt so blessed with my world—they seem to happen a lot on the patio. I think it was because this was Jacob’s party, and he was having such fun. Twelve-year-old boys are funny. On the edge of puberty, they don’t know who they are, and we never know from minute to minute. They can go from sweet and funny to bored and blasé at the flip of a switch, and I guess what sustains the rest of us is that we know that the sweet, funny, affectionate kid we love is still in there. When he favors us, it’s sheer delight.

I am fortunate because Jacob comes out to talk to me, to sit and love on my dog and talk about school and church—he will be in the pastor’s class this year, whatever it’s called now—and friends and, occasionally, girls, though he’s pretty much sworn off them for the time being. Jacob is impervious to my bits of hard-gained wisdom, such as happiness is a choice you make and so is boredom. But he keeps my thinking young, and I like to think some of my sage advice registers, even if it doesn’t kick in for a few years.

This morning, Jordan came out to the cottage, hammer in hand. Startled, I asked what she intended to do, and she said she was going to finish hanging crosses on my wall. I had a small collection, but thanks to Marjorie who donated some she had collected. They hang on an unavoidably awkward small piece of wall in my bedroom between two doors. I could put a skinny chest of drawers or something there, except that it’s in a direct route between my bed and the bathroom and the path is not wide. I have a vision of crashing my walker into any furniture there at three a.m. so it has remained a blank, empty wall until today. I like the crosses, a couple of which have sentimental stories and one of which I know I’ve had forty years.

Tonight, supper with a longtime, faithful friend who has been so good to me through the rough times of the past few years and whose company I thoroughly enjoy. Tonight, we talked about photo logs—a subject much on my mind these days but one on which she is an expert—and a new book project and all kinds of good things. We ate at Lucille’s, where they serve the lobster bites that Jacob loves so I brought him some. Just because he’s a good kid, and I love him.