A language all their own!
The leaves on the maple trees, that line the parkway on my Mother's street, are turning hues of red, orange and yellow. They circle in the breeze sometimes landing on the ground permanently and others fly away to unknown destinations. It's both pleasing and messy, but not unusual for an autumn day in Canyon Country—a large city in the northern most part of Los Angeles County. The outside beauty is just a prelude to what is just behind the door at Moms.
She and I are sitting in the living room looking out the sliding door to the patio. The patio is small—maybe eight by ten feet with a wood slat cover letting in rays of sunlight and warmth all day. There is a walkway leading around the house to the left and a very small dirt area to the right of the patio—planted with my Mother's favorite white peach tree—a Babcock.
The patio door is slid open letting the early afternoon breeze cool the house. Mom and I chat occasionally, but mostly we quietly watch and listen to my sister's two young boys.
“Aunt Debby, we're hungry.”
“Josh, how do you know your brother is hungry?”
“I asked him.”
“Mom, what can I give the boys to eat?”
“You could heat up some Spaghetti -O's or there's cheese and crackers in the pantry.”
“Josh, what do you want?
“I'll have Spaghetti-O's and Kyle wants cheese and crackers. Can we eat outside?”
“Grandma, can we—”
“—Yes, you man eat outside.”
“I'll bring lunch outside when it's ready Josh.” Fifteen minutes later I set their lunch on the picnic table. “Boys, lunch is ready.” Josh is on his third bit as I lift Kyle up to the table.
Back inside I watch my nephews eat and share their food. You wouldn't know they were brothers, except for the little freckles across their noses and the color of their eyes—bluish green with a green rims. Kyle is two and a half and Josh is almost seven. The little one is pudgy, his hair is straight as a stick and he can't talk yet. The big brother is slim with very curly hair. And, although he can talk, he is quiet by nature. Kyle is demanding and opinionated; he grunts to make himself known.
This works quiet well for him so far. Josh is kind and easy going; he gives Kyle his way on most things so there is little fighting between them.
As they play with Hot Wheel cars in the dirt under my Mother's peach tree, I ease drop on their verbalizations. A “short grunt” means yes or okay and a “longer deeper grunt” means no or don't.
The boys don't seem to need a two-way verbal conversation; it is good enough the way it has always been.
“Kyle, I want to be tall like Uncle Roland.” “I don't want to be short like my Dad.” “Kyle don't you think it's better to be tall?”
“Short grunt.”
“Let's build a bridge.” “Where would you like it?” “Right here?”
“Longer and deeper grunt.”
“Over here?”
“Short grunt.”
“I'll build the bridge and you watch.”
“Short grunt.”
And, so goes another wonderful quiet afternoon watching and listening to precious moments. What I wouldn't give to stay here a little longer! “Kyle, would you like Auntie to stay longer?”
“Short grunt.”
