Feeding time. The plate is carefully prepared, and aesthetically attractive. The small chunks of chicken are carefully diced, the peas and corn succotash providing a slight color contrast in another mound, and the sliced fresh banana lined thoughtfully in opposition to them.
The small boy, nineteen months old, and quite verbal for his age, is oblivious to the loving care lavished by his grandmother on his plate. He only knows that he is hungry, and he is not hesitant to express that feeling to the world. When the plate is at last ready, his grandfather scoops him up, plants his squirming little bottom in the high chair, and slides the tray into place, more or less capturing him for the moment. Then the plate and a small fork are placed on the tray.
Watching a boy child of this age eat is something that should only be experienced by his blood relatives. It is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. The first thing you realize is that the fork is not going to be used the way you and I would. He wants a fork because he has seen his older sister and his parents use one; but he hasn't internalized the finer points of utensil use yet. He pounds enthusiastically on the tray with it, and smiles at his grandfather, through a mouth full of pulpy, partially chewed chicken. "Hammer", he announces proudly.
The grandfather, unable to put aside decades of teaching experience, tries to correct him gently. "No, Jack. That's not a hammer, that's a fork."
The boy looks intently at his grandfather, obviously considering what he has just been told. "Fork", he says, thoughtfully. The grandfather nods and smiles, providing positive reinforcement, congratulating himself on another successful lesson well-taught. Without warning, the boy pounds his plate with the fork, spraying peas and corn across a wide area, including, among other surfaces, the grandfather's face and previously clean shirt. "Hammer", he declares in a firmer tone.
Thomas R. Borden Montgomery, Alabama July 19, 2001