On the Power of Accord

A low, rosy slant of afternoon sun lights the bare legs of several children as they construct and reconstruct a large muddy basin in the backyard.

Since it is located immediately at the bottom of a queasy set of stairs that I personally built out of leftover two-by-fours and plumbers' tape years ago when the front porch of our house was upright logs and a sheet of plywood, you can easily step off the last riser and right into the water. So convenient.

One of these intent young laborers takes fluffy dry dirt and drops it carefully from her shovel, making lovely farmlands on the isthmus they have packed solidly down the middle of the lake. She chats and tells her friends what will grow there, her favorites only, sugar peas and lettuces, pink flowers, blueberries.

The handle of her shovel waves in the face of a tall companion looming behind her on the shore, and when it quietly settles into his armpit, even when it quietly invades the sleeve of his tee shirt, there is no change in the atmosphere. They are happy. They have been working here for weeks, bringing into being worlds of their own design and reflection.

Giants wading in goo, they invest this place with good and evil, because they know the real world; they fill the waters with leviathans, with dragons, with little nice snakes that don't bite, with sharks that most certainly do.

They plant promising forests of pine cones, they build bridges and roads all around it.

They people it with boats and cars and cities, deep, cone-shape rashes on either end named Los Angeles and Nairobi, relishing the huge dimensions of their work.

A splinter group, upbeat orphans with remarkable skills and fortitude, runs the World Cafe from the family boat, which is in dry dock nearby.

Two small sets of fancy kitchen shelves have been appropriated for the poop deck of the shaggy blue single-oar, ocean-going dinghy that launches, directly and with equal ease, into the San Francisco Bay, the Indian Ocean, and the Seas of Narnia, depending on the winds, naturally.

Extravagantly outfitted with teapots and kettles, old glass bottles, a timer, various scoops and skillets and flippers, a toy blender, a real crockpot, scores of silver flatware, a percolator, a cat kennel, and a white telephone, it is ready to go anywhere, and, under the authority of genuine purists, young seed liberals, anyone in good humor can go along and everyone may eat and all of it is free.

The people who converge here, including those who wordlessly observe from astride a rather good looking abstract log horse -- another testament to my woodworking artistry --are not a frivolous bunch. Enthralled with their mission, the whiners, the wimps, the petty despots trade in their problems for a single purpose, for the microcosm that depends on them.

They are practicing something important and perhaps they know it.

This sort of individual might, after bathing, enjoy doing a bit of cooking. Anyone who can read can easily make Ozark Pudding. It is an old recipe, light and tasty, using all fresh ingredients. Wholesome and quick, it can be served warm from the oven or cooled in a kitchen made fragrant with apples.

Preheat the oven to 325 and combine:

³/4 C. finely diced, peeled tart apples

1 T. lemon juice (sprinkle over apples)

¹/2C. flour

1 tsp. baking powder

pinch of salt

dash fresh nutmeg

¹/8 tsp. cinnamon

1 egg

²/3 C. honey

¹/4tsp. almond extract

Mix together until smooth. Pour into a buttered pie pan or individual custard cups. Bake for 30 minutes, or until firm.

Top with real whipped cream lightly sweetened and garnished with nutmeg or cinnamon, or vanilla ice cream.

Another sort of serious pleasure.