The Essays of Samantha S. Kimmel About Samantha S. Kimmel
Samantha Kimmel is a North Hollywood writer and playwright, published in the Los Angeles Times and the sadly defunct L.A. Herald Examiner; aspiring sit-comist; two LA based play productions: "Clarke, Baby Girl" and "Sleepaway Camp".
Samantha worked in the Saturday morning children's cartoon industry, which, she proclaims to be about as much fun as un-anesthetized toe surgery; she is a tennis player; racing car enthusiast; parrot specialist; bread and pastry baker; interested in just about anything.
Samantha S. Kimmel is married to Kimit A. Muston (also featured in The Inditer), who, Samantha says, "is not only a fantastic writer but also does all the laundry (but then I can bake)."
She lived in the Mid-East for two years and yes, she was shot at. Samantha has a 21 year old daughter who has NEVER voted (if anyone has any ideas how to correct this situation, let me know...).
Kids At Play Today, while my husband and I were pausing between sets of our tennis match (by which, of course, I mean that I was bent double, hands on my knees, gasping for air) at a park in Burbank, I heard the sounds of small children in the playground behind the court.
Normally the children, ranging in age from toddlerhood to about six, would be playing on the jungle gym, or the teeter totters or the spaceship, under the supervision of counselors. Their play is generally accentuated with shrieks and squeals (some so high-pitched and inhumanly loud that these kids could make a healthy living as car alarms). The chatter invariably includes things like: "Billy took my pail!" "Well, she hit me back first!" "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!" and "Mo-om! I hate grapes! YesIDoTooHateGrapes!!!" Nothing too challenging.
But today's "play" dialogue had a distinctly different resonance. What I heard was a little girl calling out, "Order! Order! You will come to order!" I turned to look, while rubbing the kink in my neck.
I saw a flock of children sitting amongst some upturned, multi-colored plastic barrels and tubes (which always remind me of giant habitrails for small humans).
Standing in front of them was the little girl, whose white-blonde hair was done up in tight plaits. She barked once again, "Come to order!"
A little boy raised his hand and said, politely, "We are already ordered."
That's when another girl, a tiny red-head of about seven, appeared from behind the jungle gym.
The blonde girl now banged her wee fist into her palm, and shouted, "All rise! Rise!"and then, when no one moved, a little plaintively, "Come on, everybody! Stand up!" The children popped up as ordered, and the red-head marched past them, and hoisted herself up onto the purple barrel. The blonde girl said to the assembly, "You may all be seated!" Down they went.
I was amazed. These kids weren't playing army or hopscotch or cowboys and Ethnically Disadvantaged Indigenous Peoples (no PC cops are gonna git me).
They were playing Judge Judy, for cryin' out loud. And the judge was on the bench. Er, barrel.
The case sounded pretty juicy, too. It apparently involved the disappearance of a certain shovel, and it appeared that Molly was accusing Damian (not their real names) of the crime, because the "Judge" looked over at a little boy sitting a few feet away and demanded with squeaky brusqueness, "Damian! Did you take Molly's shovel?" It certainly broached court protocol, but she got her point across.
Molly was a prim little miss, with tight black curls and a stern look in her eyes, a look that said she meant business: she wanted that shovel back.
Damian, on the other hand, seemed supremely indifferent to the entire proceeding. He was just sitting there, playing in the sandbox... with a pink shovel! I suddenly wanted to call Burbank Courthouse and get this kid a public defender.
Molly took her position in the "dock"- a green and yellow striped tire. The bailiff, I mean, the blonde girl, said to Molly, "Do you really, really promise to tell the truth?" I thought that a perfect dilution of the oath. Molly jerked her chin down. She promised. I couldn't help but wonder which of the other kids was the stenographer.
Alas, I'll never know the outcome of the Case of the Stolen Shovel. At that moment a counselor appeared and hollered, "Lunch!"
Court has never been adjourned so fast.
I'm not quite sure what to make of this, if anything. I suppose it plays into the hands of those who say that the entertainment media influences the tender minds of our youth (and the older minds of the less youthful), but these people only point, with a trembling finger of rage, to that influence when there's a *bad* act committed, and blamed on media mind mangling. They never point out the noble, the selfless or the just downright cute stuff.
So I'll just call this incident what it was: plain old adorable.
But I just hope that Damian takes advantage of this golden opportunity, and realizes that he got off on a major technicality: hot dogs.