1992

My daughter, who is six, plays school all summer long. She pretends she is the teacher. She pretends she is the student. Then she's the janitor, "Mr. Hawk," then the aide, the counselor, the substitute teacher, the visiting parent, the school board, the superintendent.

I pretend with her.
She's good at it.
I suck at it.
She has fun. She imitates and dramatizes and throws her voice all over the room. She's everyone and everywhere at once. She loses herself in fits of situation: she's the teacher invoking a "time out," she's a classroom aide crouched over a struggling young reader. She's an administrator signing a document allowing the hire of more English teachers into the district. She's my hero.

I play along, as always, doing my part to keep the magic going. I'm pretty good at it, but nothing compared to her.

"Okay, Britta," she says in her teacher voice. "It's time to put things away now. It's almost Circle Time."

I'm Britta, so I put away the pile of toys and turn off the booming radio and sit down with my legs folded as well as I can. I look and feel like an enormous goon, part of the daily humility lesson.

"Okay, Britta," she begins. "Can you tell us a little bit about your summer, so far?"

"Honey, I really--"

"DAD!!"

And, instantly, I'm Britta again. Schizophrenia.

"Okay," I say. "So far this summer, I've watched it rain, listened to the furnace come on during the night, dug up frost-bitten bedding plants, had a broken neck, received several rejection letters, been bitten by a hornet and have failed to catch one fish."

"So, are you enjoying your summer?"

"I quit this game, Babe."

"DAD!!"

"I can't help it," I say. "My legs can't fold like this for so long. My toes are tingling."

"Then you be the teacher," she says.

"Forget it," I say. "I've been playing this too long."

"Then what can we do?" she asks.

"Let's get the boys and Mom and go fishing."

"With worms?"

"Nightcrawlers," I correct her. "Big, fat, squiggly, slimy, blind, mutated nightcrawlers."

"What's mutated?"

"Genetically altered. Screwed up. A mistake of nature."

"Are you crabby, Dad?" she asks, finally dropping the teacher voice.

"No," I say, as honestly as possible. "Just mutated."

...In the boat, we sway over blunt waves. Three bobbers cling to three helplessly tangled lines, held by six hopefully taught arms, connected to the three best excuses for hope in my life. The bobbers dance on the dark water, mesmerizing.

Some feet beneath the surface, three murdered earthworms , pierced and bloodless and drowned, drift lifelessly, awaiting their final humiliation.

"Okay, class," the teacher voice begins. "Let's see if we can have ourselves some luck."