Kratt Trek: The Klingon Lesson

Come, if you will, to a bedroom in a New Jersey suburb in the mid-eighties. Two boys lie on the floor of their shared bedroom, bunk beds to the right wall, a bookcase along the left. On the bookcase is a shoebox, containing a collection of feathers and animal prints in clay, as well as a bird's nest and shed snakeskin. 

Chris and Martin Kratt have their heads very close but not quite touching, hunched over some kind of small book. Looking upon them, the viewer thinks it might be a field guide to birds or reptiles of North America.

But just lean in a bit, look over their shoulders, which are touching. Pressed together, in fact.

It's Chris who speaks first.

"So ' is it's own letter?"

"Yeah," said Martin, "it's called gaghwI."

Martin continues with his tutelage of the Star Trek alien language. "Letters D, H, I, and S are always capitalized. Except q and Q, which are different letters. Now, let's start with something small. <<TlhImya Hol gIgatlh.>>"

"What did you say?"

<<nuqjathlh? Nuq Dasalth?>>

"Huh?" said Chris.

"Oh, okay, okay. Um, <<tlhIngan Hol gIgatlh.>>

<<QIH.>> said Martin smugly.

<<ghuy.>> cursed Chris.

"Nice one, Chris!" Martin nodded approvingly.

Chris tried again. <<vIjathlh...>>

"Um," Martin put his hand on his chin thoughtfully. "Kind of a lazy shortcut, but I'll accept it."

He stands up and stretches, his arm more than grazing Chris' upper back. He picks up binoculars from on top of a bureau.

"Let's head out to the woods."

"No, that's okay," said Chris, not even making eye contact. "I'm just gonna stay here for a while and study."

"Oh, awesome," said Martin, trying not to let his disappointment show. "See ya ... " he left, leaving Chris hunched over the dictionary.

In the woods behind their house, Martin walks a fair distance. He finds a log. He turns over the log, getting thrilled when he sees tiny newts looking up at him with their cute black eyes. He also sees tiny roly polies. Martin touches their cool, compact exoskeletons; admiring each ridge on their exoskeleton. They curl into tiny balls. He sniffs the breeze, smells the onset of spring.

And he wishes he were not by himself, in the woods.

Meanwhile, Chris Kratt is working hard. As soon as Martin left, he pulls out a notebook and works with an almost feverish concentration. He looks at the Klingon language guide. He write, then erases, then writes again.

He has almost gone through the whole notebook when at last he seems to complete what he is working on. He reads it over, his face seems to glow. Then a look of distress seems to go over his handsome countenance. He crumples the paper and throws it to the wastebasket. It does not go in, but falls to the side.

He exits the bedroom, going to use the bathroom. His bladder is bursting after spending so long on whatever it was.

Martin enters the house, going to the bedroom. He is again disappointed not to see Chris, and he sees a paper wadded by the wastebasket.

Normally Martin would not register this, nor pick it up. Yet something inside him prompts him to retrieve it.

He uncrumples the paper, reading the words. It seems to be a poem.

<<ghot'e SoH vIpar law' Hoch vIpar pus.>>

(You are the person I like the most).

<<rett Sott retlhDaq JIQam vIneH.>>

(I want to always stand beside you.)

Sotl nett VIneH.

(I want only you.)

<<bI'IH Sotl, qIb rur>>

(You are as beautiful as the galaxy)

<<Hovmey rur MinDu'lIg.>>

(Your eyes resemble stars).

<<ChoQuchmoH, bI Dunmo!>>

(You make me happy because you are wonderful).

Chris comes into the room, seeing Martin with his discarded love poem. He stops and blushes rather profusely.

"Oh ... you read my love poem, huh?"

Martin looks at Chris. "This is radical. Did you ... write this for a girl?"

"I wrote it for ... someone."

"Who?? Is it Lisa? Lauren? Meghan? Mary Ann? Kimberly?"

Martin sees the look on Chris' face ...

... and his own look appears on his face.

They stand for a moment.

"Well, if you aren't ready to give it yet, mind if I hang onto it?" says the blonde brother. "For ... research purposes."

"Don't care," said the brunette. "Come on, I'll make spaghetti for lunch."

And so, dear viewer, the bedroom is empty, but has a warmth there that was hidden until now. Maybe its the approach of spring, the withdrawal of winter. Or maybe something else.