disasters

My imaginary daughter Amy, 6, has followed the coverage of the earthquake and tsunami with the unbridled curiosity of a gossip looking for a friendly yenta, only she’s a tad more worrisome.

“I don’t get it,” she blurted in the same Eeyore Goes to Massachusetts tone of her mother, Carolyn, “Why did they build those nuclear power plants if they knew they were so dangerous?”

This was a question I had asked in college protests and rallies, which I told her.

“Aren’t grown-ups supposed to know better?” she trumped with the pointed sabre of unfailing juvenile logic. She’s mature for six.

“Yes,” I told her, “we know a lot of things are dangerous, but people decide they must be done, so they’re willing to take the risk. It’s like driving.” She asked, “Is that why mom says ‘fucker’ all the time while she’s driving?”

Rather than say anything that would subject her mother to fully warranted criticism, I said, simply, “It’s a form of stress release,” adding with precaution, “Don’t try it in school.”

And with that, she was off to watch “The Simpsons.”

I joined her.

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