Parades and Grossness

It rained last night and the morning is fresh with light clouds and a soft breeze. Something about the air reminds me of school parades; I remember that it is nearly Independence Day and when I was in convent school, this meant a day unlike other days with its routine punishments.

Parade day, a day like today, meant bright uniforms in red, green, orange and yellow. It meant fields with chalk lines, and bands and drums. It meant pennants, birds circling high in the air, too high to be named. And sweets that were handed out in small packets. We searched for the most coveted one: a green and white wrapper with, I think, a strawberry on it.

That was then. Parades now mean Ursula le Guin's story, 'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas'.

(I'm sorry the story itself cannot be found online. I have it in an anthology, but the description on wiki will have to suffice. No, wait! There's a pdf link here).

*

I rarely brag about my son, but this piece of grossness has to be shared.

We were at the bus stop a little while ago waiting for his school bus. I noticed, with horror, that he had not only failed to koplichify after his breakfast, and thus had breadcrumbs at the corner of his mouth, but also seemed to have forgotten to wash his face. Sleep goo at the corner of his eyes.

I took it off while he squirmed and struggled, and showed it to him on my nail.

"Looks like dalia," he said.

"What will happen if we cook and eat it?"