Helping mama make soup, singing away!

Helping mama make soup, singing away!


Molly: (holding her fruit aloft) Clementina.

Me: That is right. That is a clementina, a clementine, a lovely little orange just your size and perfectly sweet.

Molly: Mama, queres? (Do you want, mama?)

Me: No, thank you, I am allergic.

Hank: You are allergic to clementinas, too? They aren’t oranges.

Me: Oranges, tangerines and clementinas, but no other fruits, just those. Although kiwi makes my throat itch.

Molly: Ruca e Clementina. Friends. (nodding shoving another clementine segment in her mouth)

Me: That is right. Ruca has a friend named Clementina. Clementina is both a fruit and a name. Just like joaninha is both a ladybug and a name.

Molly: (mouth full juice dripping down her chin) Joaninha (wiggling).

Me: There is also a song about a girl named Clementine in America.

Hank: There is?

Me: Oh my darlin’
Oh my darling’
Oh my darling Clementine.
You were lost and gone forever
Dreadful sorry Clementine.

Molly: Yah! (clapping)

Hank: I have a bad feeling about that song.

Me: I don’t remember the rest of the words.

Hank: Google it.

Me: (pivoting away from Molly, to my computer) Oh good lord.

Hank: I knew it was one of those creepy-sad American songs.

Me: Argh, it is so bad.

Hank: She’s dead, isn’t she.

Me: A gold rush Ophelia!

Hank: Sing it. I need to know. It’s gonna be bad. BUT skip parts if she is murdered. I hate murder.

Me: Roger, that. (clears throat)
In a cavern, In a canyon,
Excavating for a mine,
Dwelt a miner forty-niner,
And his daughter Clementine.

Hank: This isn’t going to end well.

Me: Light she was and like a fairy,
And her shoes were number nine;
Herring boxes, without topses,
Sandals were for Clementine.

Drove she ducklings to the water,
Every morning just at nine;
Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine.

Hank: Oh Gawd, (head in his hands afraid to look) don’t let anything happen to the ducklings!

Me: Ruby lips above the water,
Blowing bubbles, soft and fine;
But Alas! I was no swimmer,
So I lost my Clementine.

Hank: She drowned? American songs are so sad!

Me: When the miner forty-niner,
Soon began to peak and pine,
Thought he oughter “jine” his daughter,
Now he’s with his clementine.

Hank: He died, too!

Me: In a corner of the churchyard,
Where the myrtle boughs entwine,
Grow the roses in their poses,
Fertilized by Clementine.

Hank: Wait WHAT!?

Me: Well, (cringing) that is what happens when your journey is over and you are buried in the ground. You do fertil…

Hank: No. Nope. And people sing this song to kids?

Me: This is a camp fire song. And yes… But it get’s worse.

Hank: It can’t get worse.

Molly: Mama, canta (sing)!

Me: In my dreams she still doth haunt me,
Robed in garments soaked in brine.
Though in life I used to hug her,
Now she’s dead, I’ll draw the line.

Hank: Creepy!

Me: How I missed her, how I missed her
How I missed my Clementine.
So I kissed her little sister,
And forgot my Clementine.

Hank: I am gonna have nightmares of this song.

Me: HA!

Hank: How did you survive your childhood?

Me: I guess I never listened to the words. You listen. When you were three you asked me to stop singing you your lullaby. The lullaby I sang to you every night since you were born.

Hank: Is that that sunshine song?

Me: Yup.

Hank: That is the saddest song ever.

Me: Which I never noticed until you said something.

Molly: Mama? Canta (sing)!

Hank: Anything but Clementine!

Me: (riots of laughter)