We gathered teapot and breakfast before stepping outside to share a feast on the new deck. No railings yet, so we limited ourselves to eating and not twirling and dancing in celebration. Rachel ran upstairs and brought down her boom-box and filled the air with classical refreshment to accompany our meal. As the leaves danced in the gentle breeze our conversation bloomed. We chatted about the maple seed pods that pirouetted like whirling butterflies, the tufted grasses that swayed rhythmically, and the birdsong in all its varieties. Then, as Rachel is wont to do, her mind flew at warp speed and entered a new dimension taking the conversation (and me) along with it.
"You know, I used to think that there were little people playing instruments inside the speakers."
I pause mid bite, "Really ... hmmmm ..."
"Yeah, that was before I learned about electricity. Did you know lightening is a good source of electricity, but it's too powerful for us to harness? See that light up there?"
I look up gingerly.
"If lightening struck there it would blow all the power in this house instantly."
I gulp and gaze at the crystal-clear sky, silently uttering a prayer of thanksgiving.
"You know, I used to think electricity was just around in the air and it just powered up where we needed it. Then I realized that it has to be captured and fed through a series of wires that come into our house and power up our appliances and stuff. We can get it from many sources. I even made some electricity with a hand crank in my room."
" . . . more tea?" I offer, while making a mental note to visit her in her bedroom/laboratory real soon.
Later in the day I gird myself with strength and approach Rachel's wondrous room -- a huge expanse the size of our oversize garage, which it sits atop. Referred to as a "bonus" room by the realtor, it suits our "bonus" child perfectly, and serves as home to many delightful books, stuffed toys, beautiful artwork, and INVENTIONS!!!! Many an unsuspecting visitor has been assailed by a robotic greeter, a towering menace made of bricks/blocks/lego/junk, or the remnants of the latest work-in-progress which lay ALL OVER THE FLOOR. She's amazing . . . she's messy . . . she's just like her father (and I love them both dearly, but their junk is another story).
With caution I crossed the threshold . . .
"Rachel," I interrupt her in another sector of her lab, "Water turns to ice at 32F."
I shrug. I'd rather lose a skort and top than my beloved baby girl.
Then it hits me . . . she's not a baby girl anymore!
And so I continue down the hallway wondering when we left the "instruments-inside-the-speaker" world and ended up in the "laundry-could-be-galaxies-far-far-away" world?
* * * * *
. . . time travel or magic? Around here . . . one can never be sure. ; )
* * * * *
"Sorrow Song" composed and performed by Rachel
*Note: All artwork, musical composition, and scientific theories created by and shown courtesy of Rachel.