The hills are still alive

Not many people realize how closely our suburban New Jersey neighborhood resembles the Alps. But if you are perceptive enough, you'll observe that those rises you might take for the edge of a drainage ditch or the slope of a fairway on the golf course are in fact, exalted peaks. Once you recognize them as such, you won't be surprised to come across a small blond nun spinning around with her arms outstretched, belting, "The hills are alive with the sound of music!" A few more lines and she'll cock her head, exclaim that she hears bells, and dash away helter skelter for the abbey. Seventeen times in a row.

Yes, Miss 'Ria still features prominently in our household. Edith has most of the soundtrack down by now and has an unerring knack for pulling out lines that, coming from her two year old mouth, are inevitably cheeky.

"You're always late for everything, except for every meal," she told me today as we hurried into the house from the playground to get dinner started.

Later at the dinner table she refused the sweet potatoes on her plate, then sang under her breath, "And all those children, heaven bless them, they will look up to me and mind me."

I need to get some tips from Julie Andrews.