Sock monkeys. Our sock monkey has a history. We call him simply “monkey.” He’s been with us a long time. He’s a trouble maker.
Shedding my shoes in the mudroom, I walked into our big farm-house kitchen – we hadn’t painted it sunny yellow yet – it was still the old school-room green then. I turned to look into the nook, to see what the boys were up to.
The nook was just big enough to fit our aging seats-six-when-the-leaf-is-in Ikea dining table. Pairs of tall sash windows filled most of the south and west walls of the nook. The north wall separated the nook from the mudroom, and usually showed boy artwork; we didn’t hesitate to tape things to the ugly old green paint. The boys, maybe about four and six years old, or maybe five and seven, were sitting in their usual places, facing each other across the table. The table was bare, and the boys were mysteriously quiet and still – a stillness that required explanation.
A small voice said “the clock fell.” Indeed, the plastic kitchen clock that for several years had been propped in the west window, resting high up on the painted-closed sash, the clock with hands that looked like colorful Crayola crayons, was on the floor. The hands had popped off and were loose behind the clear plastic front of the clock. This could not be fixed.
The boys were frozen. “What happened?” I asked, casually. William said “monkey did it.” Monkey was lying on the floor, not far from the clock. I tried to imagine the hilarity that must have preceded this calamity.
“Oh, I see.” Pause. “Well, it’s broken now. That’s too bad.” The boys relaxed. Mum wasn’t going to blow up.
Later, when John came home he asked “what happened to the clock?” I explained that monkey apparently had become a missile.
“Oh” he said, “I see.”
“Monkey did it.”