Like most of the country, I spent a good part of late last week watching the news, rapt. The Boston Marathon bombing shocked us all, such violence at an event that represents determination, perseverance, and achievement. On Thursday night, the kids were in bed, my husband was at work, and I sat down to finally put my feet up and pull out my computer only to see frantic news headlines about MIT and Watertown. It was 3:15 am in Boston, but it was only 9:15 here, and I sat on the edge of the couch watching the confusion, clips of the shoot out playing over and over again, the newscasters unsure of exactly what was happening, but eventually getting the gist that the Boston PD had just kicked some major ass. And good on them.
The irony did not escape me the next night as I laid down to read to both kids, that my son handed me “Make Way for Ducklings,” the quintessential Bostonian children’s book. It’s been probably a month since we’ve read it, but it’s always been a favorite around here. Around my own childhood home. Around the childhood home of the kids I nannied long ago. It’s that kind of book. And as I read aloud, Mr. and Mrs. Mallard flew around Boston, swimming in the pond in the Public Garden, flew over Beacon Hill and Louisburg Square, before finally nesting on an island in the Charles River, where they first came upon the hero of the story, Boston Policeman Michael. The original. Yeah.