Fish

My friends' daughter, S. is three years old. She is precocious, pretty, and loving. S. is curious about everything and her questions are very mature for such a little girl. Her mind works incredibly logically for someone so young.

S. has her hands in everything. She likes to touch. She likes to do. She is not at all shy. She takes the initiative to explore her environment, but is also polite and asks her mommy or daddy for permission.

One day, S.'s daddy took her to the pier. The pier was fully of early morning fisherman casting their lines into the water below. The buckets were filled with small, silver, pencil length fish.

One fisherman caught a fish and pulled his line back so quickly, the fish fell off the hook. It was flapping around on the wood planks of the pier. S. asked, "Daddy, can I get the fish?" Daddy told her to ask the fisherman. In her sweet little girl voice (with a slight lisp), she asked the fisherman, "Can I get the fish." The fisherman said she could.

S. started chasing the fish. She would reach for the fish, almost get it, and the fish would flap away. After a few attempts, S. caught the fish and held it tight in her little hand. "Now put the fish in the man's bucket," Daddy told S. S. proudly dropped the fish in the bucket, her hand splaying open as she released the fish. Then, with a big, proud smile on her face, S. licked the entire surface of her palm where she had just grasped the fish.

When asked how her palm tasted, S. nonchalantly replied, "It was ok."

No Bondaries

My friend's niece is a troubled teenager. She has been acting out for a while. My friend attributes it to her parents who are the type of parents who want to be friends with their kids. Lots of leeway, few consequences. The girl is brilliant, topping the scores on intelligence tests, attending a high school for gifted students. Nevertheless, she is trouble. Apparently she's been getting high. She was suspended from school for cursing out the principal. While she has always been difficult and belligerent, her behavior has steadily worsened with time.

Today my friend's niece hit her mother, more than once. Her father tried to intervene and she hit him too. The parents, on the advice of their "tough love" coach, called the police. The police arrested the girl, locked her up and have her slated for a psych eval.

My friend was at a loss because he was not really equipped to help the family but wanted so badly to be able to do something for them.

Ham

I know D. from work. I do not know her too well, but I know her well enough to recognize that she is the type of person who is meticulous about entertaining. She prides herself on being a gracious hostess. A detail oriented person, D. is the type of hostess that thinks about what serving dishes she will use days in advance of a dinner party.

D. takes her dinner parties seriously. The morning of St. Patrick's day, she fell over her cat and suffered a major fracture in her lower leg/ankle. Nevertheless, she prepared her family's traditional St. Patrick's day dinner, even though she could barely stand.

D. told me one year she was preparing Thanksgiving dinner for her family and friends. One of her guests insisted on bringing something to dinner, although D. was reluctant to let her do so. The menu was carefully planned. D. is not comfortable relinquishing control of the party. She However, D. did not want to alienate her friend, so she told her friend she did not really need anything in particiular and asked her friend what she would like to bring.

"Honey-baked ham," her friend replied.

D. does not traditionally serve ham on Thanksgiving, preferring turkey with a variety of side dishes (her favorite), but acquiesed thinking at least her friend will be happy with ham. If nothing else, there would be left overs for ham sandwiches over the weekend.

D.'s friend asked how many people would be coming to dinner. D. told her eight.

Thanksgiving evening, D.'s friend arrived with a small packet of aluminum foil. D. was a bit perplexed because she was expecting a Honey-baked ham.

"What's that?" D. asked.

"Honey-baked ham," her friend said. "I brought eight slices."