Suffer the Little Children

"I play the trumpet," declared a small voice from somewhere in front of me.

It was a beautiful day, perhaps a bit too warm for November, but it would take a true malcontent to complain of sun and 77 degrees. Though I was attentive to my duty, I admit my mind had wandered with the breeze that tickled the hair around my ears and shook the acorns hanging precariously from the branches along the sidewalk. But the clear indication that this short statement was meant for me pulled me back to the center of the road where I stood, holding aloft a stop sign while a half dozen, waist-high figures toddled before me.

I looked down and met the bright blue eyes of Everett. Everett is a brown-haired boy of about eight who traverses my crosswalk twice a day in the company of his sister, Sophie, and brother, Graham. Last week, Everett's mother asked my name and dutifully passed it along to her progeny when I had given it. Though none of the children has ever spoken to me before, they have often stared familiarly since they discovered I have a name, and I have heard them query their mother about me on numerous points of interest. Everett was clearly proud of his pronouncement, and I could tell he was anticipating a response. Joy exuded from each tiny line as he squinted into the sun to look up at me.

"I play the saxophone," I responded. A huge grin appeared on his face as Everett's elfin features nearly burst with excitement. He turned abruptly to his mother and shouted, "He plays the saxophone, Mama! Chris says he plays the saxophone." And just like that, our "conversation" was over.

Earlier in the day, I had escorted my small-scale friend Shane across the street and watched as he happily waved goodbye from the sidewalk before continuing on his way. Shane, who is perhaps nine or ten, and I became friends a few weeks ago over our mutual support of the Boston Red Sox. He now chats energetically with me each day before and after school.

And shortly after I confessed my somewhat lapsed muscial abilities, I would be stumped -for the third time this week I might add- by seven-year-old Josh, who lisped at me, "Why didn't the schkeleton cwoss the woad?" When I assured him of my woeful ignorance of skeletal psychology, he giggled so wildly that I could barely hear him utter, "Because he didn't hab the guts."

Within moments, a cheerful blonde girl would push her bicycle through the crosswalk, donn a plastic firemen's hat, and announce to me, "Well, I'm off to a fire" with an expression of absolute seriousness that I could not help but smile at. Apparently, some of the classes had been visited by a member of my fair city's fire department that day because I noticed for the first time that nearly half of the miniscule scholars sported or carried similiar headgear.

I have never considered myself a "kid person." They are small, messy, and noisy, and they have an extremely limited vocabulary. The most obvious things escape their attention while completely rediculous things entertain them for hours. To be honest, I've just never known what to do with them. It's been a long time since I was able to "play" as they seem to always expect me to do.

But last week I was offered a part-time administrative assistant position at the university. This position means work indoors, which is appealing now that winter is approaching, however slowly. It also carries quite a bit more money, which is frankly needed. So, I accepted the position and gave notice to the crossing guard supervisor. Consequently, this is my last week with my diminutive friends, and now I fear I shall miss them immensely.