And now: a love song to the 8-year-old boy

From Thursday through Monday, I got to take what has long been a dream trip: I went to the Dutchess County Sheep and Wool Festival, popularly known as Rhinebeck. (For the uninitiated, this is basically a state fair, but focused on fiber animals like sheep, goats, llamas, and alpacas. There’s also an enormous fiber market scattered across the barns, which makes it a mecca for knitters, crocheters, spinners, weavers, and the like. I was there selling knitting books with the publisher that I work for, Cooperative Press.)

When my son was younger, I used to crave these longer work trips; I used to crave the chance to not have parenting on my mind every waking minute (not to mention some of the sleeping ones). This time was different. While it would have been completely inappropriate to bring my son to the fair (I was working / he has school / he would have been bored a lot of the time), I found myself wishing a lot during the trip that I could have brought him. I missed him, and I wanted him to see the cool things I was getting to see — like the border collie vs. children relay races and the llama leaping contest. And the fall leaves on the rolling hills of New York. (Pictured above is the house where I stayed with seven friends. The photo doesn’t begin to capture how intensely orange those trees were in the fading afternoon light.)

Quite a few kids tagged along with parents who came as customers to Rhinebeck, and I found myself gravitating to those kids — and particularly to the little boys who were about my son’s age. While their parents were looking at our books, I would chat these little guys up about what were the hot Halloween costumes this year, how fast we could run, how super-strong our respective upper arm muscles were, what Lego sets were best, and what it takes to dispatch a zombie.

It reminded me all over again just how much I adore boys at this age. When I was eight myself, I suddenly found that most of my friends were boys instead of girls. I just liked what most boys were doing then, and liked less what most girls were doing at that age. Let me be very clear here: I know all boys aren’t alike, and neither are all girls — I was Exhibit A for that, after all — and I know that these behaviors are learned. All of that conceded, I found that with many girls there were now secrets and intrigue and all kinds of intricate social dynamics that personally I found both baffling and boring. With most boys, the play could be complex, but the rules tended to be stated outright. The play also sometimes got too rough for my tastes, but for me it was a small price to pay for forthrightness.

As an adult, I have found both women and men who appreciate this kind of straight-up interaction. But somehow eight-year-old boys seem to have that filter-free personality in its purest form. They can be rude and artless, but when I remember that this is all borne of naive honesty, I find it utterly charming.

As one eight-year-old boy at Rhinebeck this weekend mimed for me how to cut down a zombie with a battle ax (I played the role of Zombie), his mother apologized, rolling her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, “he just doesn’t know when to stop sometimes.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” I said. “It’s some of the most fun I’ve had all weekend.”


  1. L.

    “But somehow eight-year-old boys seem to have that filter-free personality in its purest form. They can be rude and artless, but when I remember that this is all borne of naive honesty, I find it utterly charming.”

    This, so much. Two of my favorite comments from my little brother are:

    When I gave him some old Legos from when I was a kid: “These are so awesome! These are, like, VINTAGE!” (Thanks little bro. They were new when I got them.)
    From when I took him ice skating: “I think you would be a good figure skater because you’re not, like, chubby.” (Oy. What do you even say to that one?)

    • Elizabeth GM

      Those are such wonderful comments! At the yarn store today, a four-year-old boy that I was chatting up suddenly threw his arms around me and yelled, “I’m taking you home with ME!” Then he drew back, gazed up at me sweetly and said, “Are you 91?” I laughed. “No, I’m 41. You were SO close, though.” He squeezed me again and said, “You’re the same age as my mom!”

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