Dear Diary,
Today I had a proper showdown with my daughterinlaw, Natalie, when she turned up at our farm in Yorkshire for a quick visit to my wife Margaret and me. She barely stayed a couple of hours, but the air was thick with tension. She stared sharply at Margaret as she started, Dad, we need to have a serious word. She went on to accuse me of pulling our son, little Peter, out of his comfortable city life and turning him into a proper country boy, then demanding that I now turn my grandsonmy own Peterinto a fullblown yokel. I wont let that happen, she declared.
What’s the matter, Natalie? Margaret asked, eyes wide with worry. Why are you saying this?
Natalies voice rose. Because our Peter, after spending the whole summer here with you, isnt the same boy he was before! Do you understand? she snapped.
We dont follow, I replied, baffled. What do you mean before? Hes only eight.
Thats exactly my point, she continued, her tone sharp. Hes eight, and after a season in the country hes turned into a little lad of the land! Hes picked up some dreadful habits.
Dreadful habits? I asked, startled. Has he taken up smoking?
Smoking? Of course not! she snapped back. So what else? What are these habits you speak of?
Im talking about his countryboy ways! she said, laughing cruelly. He now calls cars ponies. Can you imagine? Hell point at a sleek motor and shout, Mum, Dad, look at that pony zooming past! Its absurd!
I could only grin tightly at her outburst, while Margaret gave Natalie a disapproving glance.
Your choice of words, David Margaret murmured, then turned to Natalie. Dont worry, love. Pony isnt a swearword; its actually quite endearing. Its not a horse, its a pony.
Natalie snapped, Mother, are you serious? Should a city lad be calling a car a pony? I wouldnt be surprised if hes started swearing too. His vocabulary after this summer is full of odd phrases. It makes my skin crawl! He now says things like, Ill grab you by the crankshaft! or Youll get a fair share of the differential. Or even, Ill spin you on the crank! I cant make heads or tails of it. And just the other day he wrote an essay about wanting to become a tractor driver. Thats your doing, isnt it, Dad?
Me? I tried to hide a smile behind a feigned look of guilt. No, love, thats not me. Hes just been watching the farm machinery and got a bit dreamy. Hes still a city lad at heart. He even told Granddad he hopes to be a financier, maybe even the Chancellor of the Exchequer one day.
Weve always hoped Peter would become a financier, Natalie sighed. But guess what he did recently?
What? Margaret asked, tensing.
We gave him some pocket money, saying he could buy himself a birthday present. We told him to get whatever he liked. Do you know what he bought?
I braced myself. What?
He bought a set of chainsaws, Natalie blurted. He said the chains on our old mower were so dull they couldnt be sharpened. And he claimed you and Peter would go into the woods next year to cut firewood for the bath house. Is that true?
Oh, dear, Margaret muttered, shaking her head. Thats what a child thinks up
Yes, I added, trying to keep the peace. Instead of buying a gift, he thought hed help us out. Natalie, dont worry. Well reimburse the cost of those chainsaws right down to the penny. Just tell us how much he spent.
What does money have to do with it? Natalie shouted. Its not about the cash! My boy should be thinking about his studies, not about firewood, ponies, or tractors. He should aim to be a top scholar and head straight to university.
Youre right, love, Margaret replied, smiling. Next summer well bring the smartest books from the village library at the community centre. Well sit with Peter under the old apple tree and read maths, English, and everything else. Well turn him into a straightA student.
Exactly, David said, nodding. Just bring him over, and well make him the cleverest child in the world. Hell outwit any country bloke in a heartbeat. He already cracks his multiplication tables like theyre peanuts.
His speech is flawless, Margaret added, laughing. He doesnt just talk; he sings. All the village grandmothers are smitten with him. They tell us, Peters mother, Natalie, youre a proper good mother.
Really? Natalie asked, skeptical. In what way am I a good mother?
In the way you bring him to the countryside for the summer, Margaret replied. A child his age should eat fresh, natural food, breathe clean air, bathe in the clear rivernot some artificial swimming pool full of chlorine. He even told us hes learning to swim like a fish.
Did he? Natalie asked, finally cracking a smile.
Yes, I said. He rides his bike here without fearing a tiptop lorry turning the corner. Hes no longer scared of bees or dogs, and his allergies have all but disappeared.
Thats great, Natalie agreed. We barely need to take him to the clinic any more.
In a year, youll both forget the word almost when you talk about Peters health, I chuckled. Dont worry, Natalie, we wont ruin him. On the contrary, hell gain so much vitality here that hell be set for life. After all, a childs healthboth physical and moralis what matters most.
Alright then, Natalie sighed, finally conceding. Youve eased my mind a bit.
When Natalie left, Margaret turned to me with a weary look. Do you think theyll bring Peter back next summer?
I suppose theyll have to, I answered uncertainly. Good thing Natalie didnt peek into the shed. She wouldve seen the tractor Im assembling for Peter and lost her mind. But anyway everything will be fine. Hes still got the word pony stuck in his head, just like I did as a lad. I remember how everything my grandfather said stuck with me straight away.
Lesson learned: a child can thrive in both city and country, but its our love and guidance that steer him clear of misplaced slang and unnecessary worries.
