The Cast: Who we are and where we roam
This is us, the characters in these stories.
I thought a list might help, not that the cast is anything as extensive as that of a Russian novel.
We’re pretty easy to remember. But if you want to read more, then without further ado here we are and here are the places where we roam:
THE CAST
I'm the boss... well, not really.
DAD
I’m the father of the critters. I chronicle their antics and often take a laissez-faire approach to parenting until my wife whips me into shape. I like reading, writing and keep an organized house. The latter is a rarity. I’m from West L.A., from an upper-scale neighborhood called Brentwood Glen that my four siblings and I managed to bring down a notch. We rode skateboards, threw things where they shouldn’t have been thrown and played punk rock, noisily and incoherently. A neighbor once tried to get rid of all of us. We stayed. We matured. Now we’re all-around good people with a tinge of rebel.
She keeps us in line and laughing.
MUM
This is my wife. She keeps us in order and on top of things – and laughing. She’s got wit to kill. I laugh a lot. I’m also in trouble a lot. She’s English.
She wants to do many things, surf, draw and play with her dolls.
DAUGHTER
This is our eldest daughter. She’s learning to play guitar and plans to form a rock band. She’s learning to surf and ride skateboards. She loves riding her bike through the forest even as the bats and ghosts and witches fall upon her. Run! She’s got a great solution to litter: pick it up!
Give me a hundred puddles to splash in, please.
SON
This is the middle boy. Skip the cake. He’ll go for the fruit salad any day. Then ask for seconds. Fire engines – they’re cool. So are cars, policemen and dinosaurs. But not sea lions – they stink! He likes to count cows in a field and the steps as he walks up them. He’s mildly autistic.
In trouble, up to no good. That's the rascal, with a smile that melts.
THE YOUNGEST
This is the youngest, aka The Rascal. You know when she’s around. She’s got a foghorn inside her that screeches like fingernails on a chalkboard. She’s also got a smile that’ll make you melt and say, “Aw, isn’t she cute.” She’ll respond, “Come on!” and pull you off to play and say, “Sit down!” Forget the coffee you just made, you’re building a castle and a train track and putting on costumes with The Rascal.
This is Four Ton. She's a big dog.
FOUR-TON THE DOG
Four-ton is our dog. She’s big and lazy. She weighs a ton. No wonder. She’ll polish off the rest of your dinner after you’ve scraped it into the trashcan and then go for that cake cooling on the countertop. She thinks she’s one of the kids and almost is. Leave her behind and she’ll mope and eat the soap and forage for a few good toys to chew on.
"Hey, I'm all lion, got it!"
RAINY THE CAT
Rainy is our cat. She is a stealth cat. Quick as anything, she’s disappeared into a closet, under the covers or out into her favorite haunt: the streets of Buenos Aires or the forests of Pinamar. She once got lost on a rainy night and was missing for six weeks. She turned up across town and we brought her home, happily. I don’t mind anymore if she sits on my chair and leaves it warm and covered in silver hairs.
Everywhere my kids look funny things are happening.
THE OTHERS
Other characters make appearances in these stories, from aunts to uncles and grandparents and friends. And, oh, we see a lot of dinosaurs and monsters, witches and even a terrible giant called Bim Bam Boom. You do too, right?
THE SETS
This is our haunt in Buenos Aires.
BUENOS AIRES
Most of the time we are in Colegiales, a neighborhood of houses and friendly neighbors in the north of Buenos Aires. It sure beats snooty Recoleta where we lived until the building’s tenants kicked us out for having a dog. We left happily. No use mingling with stuffy tenants who swap hysterics about the latest headlines and bemuse themselves with high-class gossip and roast in their trepidations, tribulations and flatulence.
Our paradise (lost).
PINAMAR
Pinamar is the reason for these writings. We lived there for more than two years. It was paradise: a house in a pine forest within blocks from the beach and fine surfing. The open space sure beat a cramped city apartment for growing and energetic kids. And it kept us parents sane. Then the crappy global economy forced us back to the fast-paced city. Can we get back to our paradise? That may be difficult. My son has autism and his needs exceed the services of the beach community. At least for now.
We still spend our summers in Pinamar, a relaxed life of barbeques, walks and the beach, plus a healthy bunch of friends and only occasional run-ins with stray dogs out to get whatever is on our grill.
