“Avast! Captain Emme orders you to make haste. Do things.”
Robert Louis Stevenson’s San Francisco home is just around the corner, and above the front door there is a stained glass image of the Hispaniola — the ship from Treasure Island. Whenever we pass by, I point out the picture to Emmeline, but she probably just thinks I have a thing for doors.
I’ve been thinking a lot about treasure recently, so when Emme ran to my lap yesterday with yet another Eric Carle book, I flipped through the pages and told her a story about animal pirates and stolen loot. The flamingo with the one leg. The boa constrictor with a penchant for mutiny. The poor, crazed, marooned elephant.
“One day you’ll read the real thing,” I whispered into her ear, “We’ll read it together.”
Until then, I promised I’d make her a pirate skirt and we’d find a ship and throw a mutiny party — or whatever the correct phrasing is. Because we’re hard core like that.
“My crew keeps grumbling about how I should ‘walk the plank.'”
“Stupid crew and their ‘For the love of god, Captain Emme, use the compass!’ Please.”
“The crew is bitching about scurvy, and I’m like, `Dudes, take a vitamin.'”
“The crew told me to relax, but it appears the ship is getting smaller.”