Thomas the Tank Engine and one of life's great pleasures

If you've never taken the time to let a 3-year-old tell you a story about trains, you really should.

Last weekend, W (the nephew, not the president) entertained me with a delightful bed-time tale about Thomas and Gordon on a special mission for Sir Toppenhat to deliver delicious beverages. Usually it's a member of the W fan club/family who does the story telling, but that night was a restless one and I think the boy would have told me a story about anything to stay "up" for a few minutes more.

And this boy is particularly bright (a first born of two first borns, surprise surprise). I listened intently as a sudden cargo spill left orange juice and hot chocolate all over the tracks. Can you imagine something more amusing in the mind of a young boy? I was impressed at W's train of thought (no pun intended) for a 3 year old -- chronological and completely practical.

He even thought to include a third engine in his story, an engine I had chosen out of all of them to play with just an hour before. It's not one of his favorite engines by a long shot, so I know this inclusion was meant purely for me, which I found quite thoughtful. Of course I can't remember the name of this train, but it's not the narrative details of the story I'll remember.

The parts worth remembering were his eyes growing larger upon description of the chocolate-covered tracks and his excited stuttering at a plot progressing in supremely silly ways. There is a "feel" to a night like this that's hard to put into words. It involves a child's small, outstretched fingers, moonlight, soft breathing, and virtual silence every place in the world except right where you are. It aches a little to leave a moment like that, but you walk away sighing with a 60-minute smile (at least) stuck on your face. If you don't believe me, try it some time.

"They will not be the same next time. The sayings
so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.
Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in
the more securely to the worldly buzz
of television, alphabet, and street talk,
culture polluting their gazes' dawn blue.
It makes you see at last the value of
those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells
of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces
like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)
who knew you from the start, when you were zero,
cooing their nothings before you could be bored
or knew a name, not even your own, or how
this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye."
-John Updike