Look who’s on the cover this month of Kids VT–it’s my daughter, Remy! Its the June magazine issue and you can find it inside of this week’s Seven Days, June 10-17, 2020. We were rollerblading down on the Burlington Bike Path near North Beach and we went through the tunnel. It was almost like an optical illusion and I’m including the original photo below, which I shot with a fisheye lens. I love how Kids VT designed this cover and I especially love the Editor’s Note Managing Editor Alison Novak wrote. Here is only the last portion of it. She fully encapsulated the feeling of this photo. Please read it in its entirety here.
“The cover image of this issue, taken by Cat Cutillo on the bike path in Burlington, resonated so deeply with me because it feels symbolic of our world right now. We are in a bleak place, and there is so much uncertainty about what the future holds. Yet still we roll on, wobbly and uncertain, arms outstretched, with hope for a better tomorrow. That future is only possible if we work to counter those who espouse bigotry and hate. Let’s keep on moving toward the light.” —Alison Novak, Managing Editor Kids VT
At first, I wondered whether the “Stay Home, Stay Safe” order would be like living inside our own personal snow globe, amid an extensive collection of neighboring globes. My 7-year-old, Remy, and 3-year-old, Bo, immediately embraced the change, donning an impressive rotation of masks, capes, crowns and costumes. They were more prepared for creating their own new realities than I was.
As two weeks ticked by, I found myself giving a moment of gratitude one afternoon to the fence enclosing our backyard. It gave me 30 minutes of freedom as I let the kids run wild outside. When I saw them next, they were covered in mud. Life was unraveling. It was a Tuesday, and all the normal rules had been shredded and thrown in the air like confetti. But instead of cleaning up the mess, all I felt like doing was admiring the chaos and letting things unravel further.
By week three, we were rediscovering our own house, digging deep into the closet corners. We unearthed things we hadn’t seen in years — my 1998 Rollerblades, a kite and an Irish cap that my husband, Ross, brought back into his daily wardrobe. Windy weather one afternoon meant Ross could give that kite flight again. He raced through the backyard, intermittently dive-bombing the children, until it finally soared.
By week four, Remy and Bo had started digging through the recycling, looking for treasure to beautify their tree fort. I watched them hand off piggy banks and miniature furniture to one another. They spent days decorating the fort with pipe cleaners, ribbons and tea sets. Then they announced they would be permanently “moving out.”
That same week I started taking advice directly from the swamp next door. I thought about how it takes in toxins, churning them over like a giant strainer and purifying the water. It squeezes the best parts out of bad things — a perfect example of what to do when life gives you lemons.
On week five, we took a shortcut home from our neighborhood walk through a tunnel of trees. We talked about how trees track time through growth rings that are permanently logged into their layers. The harder the tree’s winter, the tighter the growth ring. We decided to track our time together with a quarantine time capsule that we buried in the backyard to unearth in exactly one year.
As our world has slowed down, we’ve grown more aware of the other living things inside our invisible snow globe. Remy is sharpening her bird-watching skills. Every day, she tracks the new family that moved into the birdhouse from her tree fort, peering at them through binoculars.
She wants to bring more bird families to the backyard, so she and Ross constructed a new birdhouse out of wood scraps and recycling. The kids collected moss and leaves to put inside — a complimentary bird nest starter kit.
It looks like we’ll be in the garage this week, divvying up leftover scrap wood to make more birdhouses. Bo wants a few scraps to construct an outdoor ant house. Everything else we find is for the birds.
We’ve been circling the block a lot, going on neighborhood walks. This seems fitting because time itself has started to feel circular. Our mornings often begin where our nights left off, and sometimes I’m pretty sure I spent the day running in circles around the kids. This weekend we took a shortcut through a tunnel of trees. The lighting was just right and created a perfect shadow reflection of the trees’ long slender branches. We started talking about how trees grow from the inside and track time through growth rings that are permanently logged into their layers. The harder the tree’s winter, the tighter the growth ring.
“It’s a trunk full of history in there,” I told my kids.
When we got home I pointed to the coffee table my father-in-law had made when he was a teenager from the found cross-section of an enormous ponderosa pine tree trunk. We tried to count the rings on it but couldn’t make it past 58.
Having lapped past a full month at home, we started thinking about ways we could record our time. I brought up the idea of creating a quarantine time capsule to dig up in exactly one year that included each of our favorite memories over the past month. We presented the kids with a glass jar — like we were literally trying to preserve the memories like pickles — and told them to collect something for the time capsule.
My 7-year-old, Remy, brought out a toy rabbit in honor of Easter and swapped out the jar for a handmade, wooden treasure chest. My husband, Ross, put in a pencil and sharpener to remember working on art and school assignments with Remy. I put in my birthday candles, having recently added another year to my age. And my 3-year-old, Bo, put in a toy figure of Batman’s sidekick Robin and his socks.
I’m hopeful in a year he’ll be able to tell me why.
The swamp next door has become my spirit animal. It takes in toxins, churning them over like a giant strainer and purifying the water. It squeezes the best parts out of bad things — a perfect example of what to do when life gives you lemons.
On Saturday, I was staring out the window, looking at the swamp, when my friend called from Brooklyn to tell me her father had died that morning of COVID-19. I looked at the swamp, trying to churn out something to say.
Earlier in the week, my kids had announced they were “moving out.” They spent the week spring-cleaning their play fort in the backyard revamping it into a “permanent” residence. My daughter got the idea from an episode of Fancy Nancy.
The play fort was like a clown car, filled with old balls, bats and baskets overflowing down the slide. I couldn’t believe how much had been crammed in there. We finally had our answers for where all the lost items had been hiding.
I watched my kids hand off piggy banks and miniature furniture to each other, beautifying their 9-square-foot space with a small stool, a tea set and a handcrafted chandelier made from pipe cleaners, tape and ribbon. They asked my husband to wood burn a “Welcome” sign, then secure it over their front door with a drill.
With every passing week of isolation, my kids’ imaginations flourish and they connect more with their internal worlds. It’s as if the daily costumes are shields, enabling them to create their own realities.
The trash has become their treasure. They even intercepted a tattered rainbow tablecloth on its way to the garbage can. It’s become the portal to their new life.
