Yesterday Karen and I went Annapolis for breakfast to meet up with a couple of friends we had not seen in a few weeks. Deb and Tom are attorneys and Deb worked for the same Law firm Karen used to work for, and they became fast friends. A young couple in thier late 30's, they have a very interesting little boy named Shay. Yesterday I saw how some things are an instinct that is in the genes.
Both Deb and Tom are what one could safly say liberal, but nice. Drive a BMW, have a home on the Severn river, affluent but down to earth. When Deb had Shay she took a new age approach that I am unfamiliar with, and before little Shay had the ability of speach, tought him sign laguage. Now this is being done these days and the result is the little person learns to comunicate at a much younger age, and when they do learn to talk, they are VERY articulate. Shay is an example of this.
Unffortunatly Shay at just shy of 3 years old has a broken leg from an incident on a slide. So here he is at our breakfast unable to get down and move much he's a little bored. Tom hands him some odd building blocks that are groups of three in odd configuations so he is occupied for a while. Kind of a spacial relationship kind of thing, fitting the odd shapes together. This keeps him occupied for a while, then like any little kid sitting there while the adults talk, he gets a little figgity. With the cast on his leg and doctors orders not to walk on it, the poor little guy is stuck. He picks up a butter knife from the table and starts trying to saw his way thru one of his blocks. Since it is a dull butter knife, daddy Tom observes but takes no action. I sense a need of something.
I tell Karen to change places with me, so I am sitting next to Shay. Shay and I know each other from other get togethers. He shows me his shiney butter knife, and goes back to experimenting to see if it will cut anything. He saws on napkins, wood blocks, has some sucsess with a blueberry muffin. At 2 and maybe 3/4ish he seems to have a facination with a knife.
"You know Shay, some knives are not that dull, and if you're not carefull you can get hurt." I tell him.
He looks up at me with a very serious look in his big brown eyes.
"They are? " he askes.
I tell him all knives should be handled very carefully, and I explain it so even his new age liberal dad sitting on the other side of him could understand. I know Tom does not carry a pocket knife, and Deb has a little pair of folding sissors in her purse. I take out my little Buck pocket knife. Shay's eyes lock on it like a hawk on a mouse.
"You see Shay, if you see a knife like this laying around, you should know its alot sharper than that butter knife. Look." I take his hand and put the open knife in his right hand held by my right hand, and we slice a suger packet open. Then we sharpen a crayon that had got dull coloring. Shay's eyes get big as he feels the knife slice through the crayon with ease. I keep his right hand in my hand, and his left hand in my left hand, and we slice muffin, crayon, and a paper napkin. Shay is impressed. I gently take the knife back and I tell him it could cut off part of his finger if he's not carefull with it. He pulls his little hands into fists back against his chest.
"Not my fingers, no way."
We next try a couple slices on a celery stick from a Bloody Mary, and Shay likes it. He looks up at Tom.
"Daddy, can I have a pocket knife?"
Little boys and pocket knives.
Tom thinks about this. "Maybe when you get a little older."
Breakfast over we decide to take a walk on the Annapolis waterfront. Its a cold but sunny day, and Shay goes into his stroller with a sling made from a leather belt to keep his cast leg out strait. Shay gets facinated by my walking stick. He asks many questions, what is it, and when Karen tells him it used to be a small tree he askes if it was cut down with the pocket knife. He's making the conection with the cutting tool he handled. I give Shay the stick and he examines it closely, pokes it at a nearby patch of snow and giigles as the ice scatters. Little boys and sticks.
I think back at how many little boys I've seen do the same thing. They seem to have some deep level of attraction to knives and sticks. Even little boys with liberal parents. I wonder if its ingrained on our genes from a very distant past that little male examples of the human race are drawn to sticks and knives, man's two oldest tools. I can picture it in my minds eye, some dim fire lit cave, a small boy in some kind of hides watching an older male chipping away a new edge on a flint spear tip. Learning by watching the hunter.
Having been around my share of children, I have seen how a little girl will love to play with a little tea set with her friends. They will have their dolls set up at the table, and imitate their mom's behavior in the kitchen. But the same age little boys, are by comparison, violent little heathens building thier forts in the woods, and planning to take over the nieghborhood by conquest. Rocks and missles are stockpiled, and sticks are brandished. Little boys love sticks and pocket knives. Later, anything that throws any projectile will be a valued item as well. Slingshots, BB guns, 105mm recoiless.
I watched little Shay yesterday and came to a conclusion. Lorne Green was right in those old Alpo dog food comercials. He always said; "Instinct. You can't breed it out of an animal."
Both Deb and Tom are what one could safly say liberal, but nice. Drive a BMW, have a home on the Severn river, affluent but down to earth. When Deb had Shay she took a new age approach that I am unfamiliar with, and before little Shay had the ability of speach, tought him sign laguage. Now this is being done these days and the result is the little person learns to comunicate at a much younger age, and when they do learn to talk, they are VERY articulate. Shay is an example of this.
Unffortunatly Shay at just shy of 3 years old has a broken leg from an incident on a slide. So here he is at our breakfast unable to get down and move much he's a little bored. Tom hands him some odd building blocks that are groups of three in odd configuations so he is occupied for a while. Kind of a spacial relationship kind of thing, fitting the odd shapes together. This keeps him occupied for a while, then like any little kid sitting there while the adults talk, he gets a little figgity. With the cast on his leg and doctors orders not to walk on it, the poor little guy is stuck. He picks up a butter knife from the table and starts trying to saw his way thru one of his blocks. Since it is a dull butter knife, daddy Tom observes but takes no action. I sense a need of something.
I tell Karen to change places with me, so I am sitting next to Shay. Shay and I know each other from other get togethers. He shows me his shiney butter knife, and goes back to experimenting to see if it will cut anything. He saws on napkins, wood blocks, has some sucsess with a blueberry muffin. At 2 and maybe 3/4ish he seems to have a facination with a knife.
"You know Shay, some knives are not that dull, and if you're not carefull you can get hurt." I tell him.
He looks up at me with a very serious look in his big brown eyes.
"They are? " he askes.
I tell him all knives should be handled very carefully, and I explain it so even his new age liberal dad sitting on the other side of him could understand. I know Tom does not carry a pocket knife, and Deb has a little pair of folding sissors in her purse. I take out my little Buck pocket knife. Shay's eyes lock on it like a hawk on a mouse.
"You see Shay, if you see a knife like this laying around, you should know its alot sharper than that butter knife. Look." I take his hand and put the open knife in his right hand held by my right hand, and we slice a suger packet open. Then we sharpen a crayon that had got dull coloring. Shay's eyes get big as he feels the knife slice through the crayon with ease. I keep his right hand in my hand, and his left hand in my left hand, and we slice muffin, crayon, and a paper napkin. Shay is impressed. I gently take the knife back and I tell him it could cut off part of his finger if he's not carefull with it. He pulls his little hands into fists back against his chest.
"Not my fingers, no way."
We next try a couple slices on a celery stick from a Bloody Mary, and Shay likes it. He looks up at Tom.
"Daddy, can I have a pocket knife?"
Little boys and pocket knives.
Tom thinks about this. "Maybe when you get a little older."
Breakfast over we decide to take a walk on the Annapolis waterfront. Its a cold but sunny day, and Shay goes into his stroller with a sling made from a leather belt to keep his cast leg out strait. Shay gets facinated by my walking stick. He asks many questions, what is it, and when Karen tells him it used to be a small tree he askes if it was cut down with the pocket knife. He's making the conection with the cutting tool he handled. I give Shay the stick and he examines it closely, pokes it at a nearby patch of snow and giigles as the ice scatters. Little boys and sticks.
I think back at how many little boys I've seen do the same thing. They seem to have some deep level of attraction to knives and sticks. Even little boys with liberal parents. I wonder if its ingrained on our genes from a very distant past that little male examples of the human race are drawn to sticks and knives, man's two oldest tools. I can picture it in my minds eye, some dim fire lit cave, a small boy in some kind of hides watching an older male chipping away a new edge on a flint spear tip. Learning by watching the hunter.
Having been around my share of children, I have seen how a little girl will love to play with a little tea set with her friends. They will have their dolls set up at the table, and imitate their mom's behavior in the kitchen. But the same age little boys, are by comparison, violent little heathens building thier forts in the woods, and planning to take over the nieghborhood by conquest. Rocks and missles are stockpiled, and sticks are brandished. Little boys love sticks and pocket knives. Later, anything that throws any projectile will be a valued item as well. Slingshots, BB guns, 105mm recoiless.
I watched little Shay yesterday and came to a conclusion. Lorne Green was right in those old Alpo dog food comercials. He always said; "Instinct. You can't breed it out of an animal."
