A few days ago we drove up to the house and noticed a box on the front porch.

"That's weird," I said, "I'm not expecting anything."

"I'll get it!" one of the kids announced, squeezing out the door before it was completely open, then bounding to the porch. We watched her squint at the label, then gently shake the box as she walked back to the van. "It's maracas!" she confidently announced.

Lost-maracas girl gasped, unclicked her seatbelt and attempted to hurl herself over the seats in a rush toward the box. Instead it was handed to her, and she opened it in the car. I watched her reaction, almost as delighted as she was. Indeed, she received maracas, beautiful wooden maracas with a hand-painted island scene in black, with a band green above and red below the artwork. They were laquered, glossy, classy, real instruments. Once inside, she spent the rest of the afternoon listening to the radio, shaking and experimenting, then running to where I was in order to illustrate the pattern she discerned.

"That song is more like this," she'd announce, then demonstrate shake-shake-pause, shake-shake-pause, or shaaaaaaaake, shake-shake. Each time she was nearly breathless with wonder, living in an extended state of delighted discovery.

They sit in a place of honor, out of reach of the stick-chewing dog and the careless little brother, ready for any moment inspiration may hit and some percussive shaking is in order.

Thank you, Grandma!