|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
# 26: The Progeny of Carroll Gardens
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
By Maura Madden
It must be something in the water, but nearly every child that I have met from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, is a genius. Being something of an all-star on the neighborhood babysitting circuit, I have met many of the best little humans this land has to offer. I guess the toxic fumes from the Gowanus Canal may not be so bad, after all, 'cause these kids are sucking them up and they are completely brilliant.
I have gushed about the virtues of the C.G. babies since my first night babysitting here. My first dynamic duo consisted of two brothers, one 2.5 years of age, one 4.5 years of age (both 3 and 5 now, respectively). The 4.5 year old has a mullet. I was instantly enamored. His mom told me that earlier in the day he informed her that when he grows up he wants to be a doctor and a mechanic and a cleaner-upper and a junkyard dog. He then dragged me into his room so we could make shadow puppets on the wall with our hands. He wanted to make them look like various insects, and he explained that, "The scarab beetle has big pinchers and fights other beetles. The praying mantis can catch flies and eat them. I had fish sticks for dinner. They taste like chicken."
Another favorite babysitee is a friend of the shadow puppeteer. This little boy is a fan of skateboarding, Bob Dylan, dinosaurs, Thomas the Train, and his friend Ray. While hanging out with him last week, I was called upon to set up his "Speedway Pick-Up Racing" set, which consists of:
-2 Race Trucks!
-2 Pistol Grip Controllers!
-No Comprehensible Assembly Instructions!
-Over 94 Inches of Racing Action!
-Over an Hour of Fruitless Effort Exerted in an Attempt to Achieve Technical Success with a Battery Operated Sports Game, Only to Fail Miserably!
While I toiled in vain to get the put together and get the cars up and running, he and I listened to a mix CD that his Dad made for him. His dad has good taste, and my charge can often identify the singers, though he and I were at odds about whether Leonard Cohen was the crooner of one tune. He, "didn't think it was Leonard Cohen, and itŐs not Bob Dylan," but he couldn't remember who it was. That's fair. He's four years old. (But let it be known that I was right, it was Leonard Cohen. I checked the CD case after he went to sleep.) But when a Tom Waits song came on, and I got really excited.
"Do you know who this singer is?" I asked.
"No," he replied, somewhat defensively.
"It's Tom Waits," I said. No response. The name was unfamiliar to him. Nevertheless, I decided to take this opportunity to try to impress him with a little name-dropping.
"I know someone who played trumpet with Tom Waits," I continued.
He didn't seem to be impressed. He continued to pull parts for the racetrack out of the numerous plastic bags that came in the box. "Do you know Tom Waits?" he inquired, presumably out of politeness.
"No, but I wish I did," I confessed.
He wasn't sure where to go with this. He looked at the bottom of the racecar. "But your friend who played the trumpet knows him?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"So," he said, "You know Tom Waits, but Tom Waits doesn't know you?"
I felt foolish. I fumbled for another piece of track and tried to make it fit into the U shape. "Yup, pretty much,Ó I admitted. There was silence. Two songs later, Bob Dylan began singing "Knockin' on Heaven's Door". In an attempt to spark another conversation, I asked Mr. Perceptive if he knew who was singing now.
"It's Bob Dylan," he said without hesitation.
"Yeah, you're right," I said. I watched him placing white stickers on the black plastic tracks, the stickers representing the dotted lines on a roadway or racetrack.
"My dad knows Bob Dylan, but Bob Dylan doesn't know my dad," he finished.
In one short sentence, the strange wonder of the cult of celebrity was distilled but a four-year-old. And this is what I love about C.G. kids. They don't miss anything. I could regale you with story after story of the genius in action, but I won't. I'll just finish by noting that when the child of the dad who doesn't know Bob Dylan realized that I couldn't get the racetrack game to work, he didn't throw a fit. He just looked up at me and said, "Since the track isn't working, maybe we could just push the cars around the track with our hands instead!" And that is the beauty of the Carroll Gardens kiddies. They are good beyond compare, insightful and inquisitive, and willing to meet any new challenge head on. So someday, I hope to add to the prodigy pool with a few geniuses of my own. I'm just waiting to find the right co-producer. |
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
