this morning my hands were in both the toilet and the garbage. i may never bite my nails again. why should a toilet flapper leave me sobbing over the tank like Lucille Ball, wailing as if i'd lost my best friend? but i did lose my best friend. he would have known how to fix it. he knew how to do everything and, if he didn't, he figured it out or made it up as he went along. he'd never cry over a toilet flapper, or over cheap trashbags that breed holes and spill cat letter all over the bed of the truck on the way to the dump. he never would have filled the trashbags beyond their apparent "Hefty" capacity. "always trying to stuff ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag," he'd say to me. and it's true. the men at the DPW with their tanned legs and orange shirts look the other way when i don't have enough lime green dump stickers on my trashbags. they let me slide. they knew bob and they know he died. perks to being a widow.
so my hands smell and i find myself wondering what it is about all garbage that makes that singular smell? and why is the inside of a toilet tank black when the water is allegedly clean? i scrub my hands only to get dirtier, spending an hour or so on the back porch roof buttering it with tar patch. my red Vixen nails outlined in tar. i've added gasoline to the mix because that's all i have to remove the tar. if i lit a match would my hands explode into torches?
bob used to put cigarettes out in open coffee cans of gas. it's not the gas that ignites, he'd scoff dismissively, it's the fumes. and if it's in an open container in open air then you got nothing to worry about. still, i'd back way off when he did it, convinced every time that he'd explode into a human torch. but he never did. he always knew his stuff.
a long, achingly hot shower and i'm still vaguely perfumed with Regular Unleaded and my nail beds are still black. the trash is gone and the roof is almost entirely patched, but that goddamn toilet flapper still has me down. when i removed it from the tank i found that the reason the toilet runs is because the rubber stopper is crumbling at the edges, letting water seep. i can't wait to see this month's Water & Sewer bill. bob, always prepared, had a toilet repair kit on the basement workbench. so i brought it upstairs with complete confidence that it should be a snap. but of course it wasn't and now the old flapper is back in its place and i have to remove the tank lid and make sure the damn thing securely plugs the hole every time i flush. so i'm flushing a whole lot less.
i'l try it again tomorrow. surely if i can fix a roof i can fix a toilet. bob never would have imagined me fixing a roof or a toilet. i'll show him i can do both. i'll put on 1.75 strength reading glasses and maybe i can see through that water better. maybe this time i'll read the directions or consult my Tuff Chix Guide to Home Repair. my sister gave the book to me for my birthday five months after bob died. hard to misplace, being bright pre-teen pink. bob would have a good chuckle because he knew i never read directions, much less a guide. but i swear i did read the "how to" stop a faucet from dripping and i'm still intimidated by plumbing. so my answer was to shut the cold water supply off and brush my teeth real fast. the Hot, after all, turns hot real fast.
did so many things break when bob was alive? did he invisibly fix everything before i ever knew it was broken? could he fix me if he was here? if he came back alive, it would fix me, i'm sure.
but the reality is i am stymied by a jammed garbage disposal (hint: there is a Reset button). jammed it trying to stuff ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
three dollar cat
(i wrote this one night in 1986 on an old-fashioned typewriter and haven't changed a thing just because. it's nothing more than my farewell to my devoted cat, from childhood to adulthood.)
i remember how i cut off his long white whiskers and kept them in an old cardboard jewelry store box so that if he ever died i would have something to remember him by. that was when he was barely more than a kitten, a three dollar cat my father bought for me to replace a cat that disappeared on Halloween night. now the three dollar cat and i are sixteen years older and we are looking at each other over expanse of of my white sheeted bed. i start to cry and Fearless looks at me, his yellow-green eyes rheumy with age. understanding.
he is dying and i no longer have the long white whiskers to keep to remember him by. i lost them years ago, perhaps believing that he would live forever. other cats have come and gone, but Fearless has alwaysbeen here. he's never been sick, never injured, never beat up. he's always been a fat lump of black fur sitting at the edge of the garage, waiting for somebody to let him in and feed him. he's led an ever-hopeful life, walking in his funny stiff-legged way to meet me half-way up the driveway. looking expectantly up at my face as if this was the night he was sure he'd be let in. that fat cat never knew when to stop eating, and when he'd demolished everything within his reach he'd settle his bulk at the end of my bed so that i would have to arrange my sleeping position to lay around him. "Put him on a diet," my family would say as Fearless benignly licked the last of a Friskies Buffet dinner from his lips, his stomach nearly hanging down to the floor. but how do you put a cat on a diet? i took for granted that Fearless would live forever and remain fat even if he were starving.
my opinion is changed now. my poor, ravaged cat sits before me with bones sticking out. his black fur is dull and lifeless. he is dusty looking and constantly shedding. he seems so very old. i lay with my head close to his, talking to him and petting him, telling him how glad i am to have had him for my cat and how i love him. his back ripples and his purr rumbles throughout his body. he loves me right back. he has been my friend for sixteen years, my buddy. a cat so full of personality you couldn't help but like him, even when he drives you crazy.
i remember leaving him at the vet's to be declawed because he was destroying the front of my parents' house. when i went to pick him up the veterinarian and his assistants gathered to say goodbye to Fearless, telling me they could hardly bear to see him go he was such a characer. i wanted to say "well if he was such a joy, how 'bout destroying his bill?"
Fearless would put up with anything as long as i was paying some semblance of attention to him. when we cut wood and brought it in to the house he would follow me back and forth out to the woods, over and over. "stay," i'd tell him, "i'll be right back." but he'd accompany me roundtrip over and over again. he would hobble out to the pool on the hottest days and sprawl his body under the lounge chair i was sunning myself on so he could shield his black fur from the sun. he was happy as long as i talked to him periodically and didn't splash him when i jumped in the water.
i have a picture of him on my bulletin board. he is buried up to his nek in a pile of fall leaves. he didn't mind it any more than he minded being dressed in a doll's dress and bonnet when i was a girl. he didn't mind it at all compared to the time i dropped him in the pool to see if cats could swim. or as much as he minds it every spring when i put the hose on him and lather him up with shampoo. he always submits with resignation, then looks at me in disgust as he stalks across the patio shaking off droplets of water and licking his fur dry.
he is never mad at me for long. he has always adored me even when i ignored him or refused to let him in. he has always been so definitely my cat and i am reminded of this whenever he does anything particularly offensive like use the bathtub as a litterbox. i am always urged to take him whenever i've moved away from home, though i am torn because he is so used to that place and its safety. Fearless doesn't fare well away from home. in my first apartment he disappeared for hours and not even the mention of food would draw him out. when he'd grown accustomed to the place he decided that night-time was cat-party-time. he'd howl songs to the moon, bat at the stereo's speaker wires, and scrape kitty litter out of the box and onto the cold bathroom tile just for fun. all this would routine occur at one o'clock in the morning. at another of my apartments he had a horror of the sound of traffic so close to the house. after all, he'd never heard any before. he would press te bulk of his body against the screen door, squawking like a row until i let him in off the porch. it was funny to see him scared of something because he'd always led such a casual 'fearless' life. even my mother's large German Shepards would give up on Fearless when they realized the large lump of black fur would pay them no mind. Fearless even managed to be home by dinner time the day my mother dumped him off on a dirt road over a mile from home after he'd devoured a bag of deli meat left out on the counter. i sat tearfully at the back window that night until i saw the recognizable blur of black and white fur that was his face march with determination across the back pasture.
Fearless eats his can of Friskies in his usual way. with one white paw he scoops out the meat and eats it. He acts like a person. I wish he could talk. i think he would be a riot, witty and sarcastic, commenting sardonically on his failing faculties.
he always seemed so ageless, but age has caught up with him this year. he is an old and decrepit cat now. he seems deaf to anything other than the sound of an electric can opener. his arthritis makes him look like he is walking on eggshells. Fearless has slowed down, if indeed that is possible.
But what a long, rich life he has led. he's been around a lot longer than most cats. he has lived out his nine lives, i am quite sure. yet his impending death to me is like the end of an era. i cannot imagine life without Fearless.
tonight may be the last night we spend together. i am going to shut out my light and pet my old friend until he falls asleep.
i remember how i cut off his long white whiskers and kept them in an old cardboard jewelry store box so that if he ever died i would have something to remember him by. that was when he was barely more than a kitten, a three dollar cat my father bought for me to replace a cat that disappeared on Halloween night. now the three dollar cat and i are sixteen years older and we are looking at each other over expanse of of my white sheeted bed. i start to cry and Fearless looks at me, his yellow-green eyes rheumy with age. understanding.
he is dying and i no longer have the long white whiskers to keep to remember him by. i lost them years ago, perhaps believing that he would live forever. other cats have come and gone, but Fearless has alwaysbeen here. he's never been sick, never injured, never beat up. he's always been a fat lump of black fur sitting at the edge of the garage, waiting for somebody to let him in and feed him. he's led an ever-hopeful life, walking in his funny stiff-legged way to meet me half-way up the driveway. looking expectantly up at my face as if this was the night he was sure he'd be let in. that fat cat never knew when to stop eating, and when he'd demolished everything within his reach he'd settle his bulk at the end of my bed so that i would have to arrange my sleeping position to lay around him. "Put him on a diet," my family would say as Fearless benignly licked the last of a Friskies Buffet dinner from his lips, his stomach nearly hanging down to the floor. but how do you put a cat on a diet? i took for granted that Fearless would live forever and remain fat even if he were starving.
my opinion is changed now. my poor, ravaged cat sits before me with bones sticking out. his black fur is dull and lifeless. he is dusty looking and constantly shedding. he seems so very old. i lay with my head close to his, talking to him and petting him, telling him how glad i am to have had him for my cat and how i love him. his back ripples and his purr rumbles throughout his body. he loves me right back. he has been my friend for sixteen years, my buddy. a cat so full of personality you couldn't help but like him, even when he drives you crazy.
i remember leaving him at the vet's to be declawed because he was destroying the front of my parents' house. when i went to pick him up the veterinarian and his assistants gathered to say goodbye to Fearless, telling me they could hardly bear to see him go he was such a characer. i wanted to say "well if he was such a joy, how 'bout destroying his bill?"
Fearless would put up with anything as long as i was paying some semblance of attention to him. when we cut wood and brought it in to the house he would follow me back and forth out to the woods, over and over. "stay," i'd tell him, "i'll be right back." but he'd accompany me roundtrip over and over again. he would hobble out to the pool on the hottest days and sprawl his body under the lounge chair i was sunning myself on so he could shield his black fur from the sun. he was happy as long as i talked to him periodically and didn't splash him when i jumped in the water.
i have a picture of him on my bulletin board. he is buried up to his nek in a pile of fall leaves. he didn't mind it any more than he minded being dressed in a doll's dress and bonnet when i was a girl. he didn't mind it at all compared to the time i dropped him in the pool to see if cats could swim. or as much as he minds it every spring when i put the hose on him and lather him up with shampoo. he always submits with resignation, then looks at me in disgust as he stalks across the patio shaking off droplets of water and licking his fur dry.
he is never mad at me for long. he has always adored me even when i ignored him or refused to let him in. he has always been so definitely my cat and i am reminded of this whenever he does anything particularly offensive like use the bathtub as a litterbox. i am always urged to take him whenever i've moved away from home, though i am torn because he is so used to that place and its safety. Fearless doesn't fare well away from home. in my first apartment he disappeared for hours and not even the mention of food would draw him out. when he'd grown accustomed to the place he decided that night-time was cat-party-time. he'd howl songs to the moon, bat at the stereo's speaker wires, and scrape kitty litter out of the box and onto the cold bathroom tile just for fun. all this would routine occur at one o'clock in the morning. at another of my apartments he had a horror of the sound of traffic so close to the house. after all, he'd never heard any before. he would press te bulk of his body against the screen door, squawking like a row until i let him in off the porch. it was funny to see him scared of something because he'd always led such a casual 'fearless' life. even my mother's large German Shepards would give up on Fearless when they realized the large lump of black fur would pay them no mind. Fearless even managed to be home by dinner time the day my mother dumped him off on a dirt road over a mile from home after he'd devoured a bag of deli meat left out on the counter. i sat tearfully at the back window that night until i saw the recognizable blur of black and white fur that was his face march with determination across the back pasture.
Fearless eats his can of Friskies in his usual way. with one white paw he scoops out the meat and eats it. He acts like a person. I wish he could talk. i think he would be a riot, witty and sarcastic, commenting sardonically on his failing faculties.
he always seemed so ageless, but age has caught up with him this year. he is an old and decrepit cat now. he seems deaf to anything other than the sound of an electric can opener. his arthritis makes him look like he is walking on eggshells. Fearless has slowed down, if indeed that is possible.
But what a long, rich life he has led. he's been around a lot longer than most cats. he has lived out his nine lives, i am quite sure. yet his impending death to me is like the end of an era. i cannot imagine life without Fearless.
tonight may be the last night we spend together. i am going to shut out my light and pet my old friend until he falls asleep.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
horses, horses, horses
horses make a fine audience. that is, if you're not looking for cheers and clapping. on the other hand, they will never jeer at your performance. the hayloft, 8 feet off the ground, was my stage and the wood pole end of a hayfork my microphone. i'd bellow "i'm the greatest star!" from Funny Girl from a pyramid of hay bales with the crunch of horse's jaws as back-up. the performance usually began after i'd flung them each a generous slice of hay, a square frisbee smelling of summer fields. my goal the center of each 15 foot square stall. sometimes i missed and the grass frisbee landed on a horse's back, and that was OK because eventually it would fall off into the sandy stall soil. or else the hay might hit a beam and fall, two slices in one horse's stall. annoying, because that meant i had to scramble down the ladder and correct the mistake because there was a hungry, hayless horse waiting in he next stall over. i would often make my exit from the hayloft into an olympic act, taking a couple steps down while facing out at the aisle, then leaping. leaping from the platform of the hayloft itself was always so tempting, but always too dangerous. that could result in broken legs and there was no telling how long i might lay out there like a snapped scarecrow if that happened. i was, after all, usually out there alone with my radio or tape player blaring, and the house just far enough away that no one would hear my screams. sometimes, if i was mad in that teenage i'll get them' way, i imagined doing just that. leap and break my legs. they'd all be nice to me after that, wouldn't they? but i was never quite that demented or self-destructive. so I impersonated Barbra Streisand or sang along with the Top Twenty of the late 70's, happy in the barn because it smelled good and the horses were warm and comforting.
they could be far out in the pasture, grazing mindlessly, until i bellowed "DINNER!" at the top of my lungs. my voice carried well, i could have made it on Broadway. the horses would gallop in, following a silly wormtrail they'd cut into the grass. no wonder the mall pet store called that plastic hamster house a HabiTrail. apparently animals are creatures of habit. hence the saying. the horses wouldn't stray from their trail even with an acre wide expanse of grass to gallop through. single file, dust billowing from their hooves. once in a great while only Chipper would gallop in. fat pony was always hungry. so i'd mount his broad back and run him back out to get his pasture-mates. we'd play cowboy herding cattle, he'd cut circles around the other horses and i'd war-whoop and wave my arms in a show of menace, driving them all in to the barn. i think Chipper enjoyed this go-get-em status. he was raised out west, after all, a descendant of the war ponies plains indians once rode. he was not only a pinto but also an appaloosa and somewhere in his lineage had to have been a draft horse or two. he was as tall as a pony can be and still be a pony, and not at all graceful with those big draft horse fetlocks and wide boat of a back. he was, however, very clever and agile and i could ride him with no bridle and saddle and he understood the squeeze of my knees or a hand waved at the side of his neck. turn left, turn right. he had it down. i could easily pretend i was Cheyenne.
chipper's flexible nature made him my choice for horse tricks. in the winter i would lay a ladder across the 15 foot wide barn aisle and start him with a kick at the barn door. we'd jump the ladder, turn around, and do it over and over again. i wasn't a Cheyenne during this practice. i was a great steeplechase rider. OK, well maybe a combination of the two because eventually i taught myself to take the jump no hands, then arms extended, flying like a plane through the air. it was almost impossible to fall off Chipper's barrel back. still, i considered it quite an achievement. in the summer, outside, Chip would dutifully stand with this ass facing a giant tractor tire laying on the ground. i could count on him never wandering off. my trick was to run, jump on the big rubber tire like a trampoline, and vault onto his back. in retrospect, i am lucky he never kicked me in the teeth. he had ample opportunity. but, like i said, this was a horse with a noble wild west heritage (or so i imagined) and so he did as his Elders would have had him do. which was stand there patiently. at some point in my Indian fetish i asked for and received a plastic bow and arrow, but i could never manage to hit a hay bale from a standstill much less from a horse at a gallop.
Arabess was "my" horse, a three-quarter Arab who'd come to us from North Dakota. only later did we find out she was pregnant with a bonus filly. she and Chipper were our originals. she was much more of an elegant horse, chestnut with a saffron mane, and taller for sure. but she was not the nicest horse and didn't bend to my will like Chip. in other words, she threw me almost every single day i rode her for years. arabs are spooky, so i blamed it on that. cat jumped off a chair, Bess would freak and throw me. it got so i could land on my feet in front of her, still holding the reins. no small feat in and of itself. i liked to ride her because i could ride english hunt seat with my velvet hardhat and satisfy that steeplechase side of me. Chipper just looked silly with an english saddle. like dressing a 300 pound woman in a silky negligee and stilettos. it didn't quite work. he was meant to be western. i rode him english in a 4-H horse show and i'm pretty sure we looked idiotic. side by side, though, he was the better horse. Arabess might have been pretty with the glamour of the Egyptian background, but Chip was a horse you could count on.
you could count on him getting into trouble too. because he was so smart, he figured out how to unlatch his stall with his teeth and somehow breaking into the Tack Room where we kept all the horse grain. he got in there and gorged himself, sometimes bringing the littler pony Misty along for the fun. to avoid colic i'd have to walk and walk him for hours and then he wasn't my best horse. he also opened the pasture gate and took all his cohorts for a walk. we once got a call from Hatfield Beef claiming that if we didn't get our horses out of their yard they'd be horsemeat. eventually an electric fence and it's electric gate cured the jailbreaks although i hated going electric because it seemed i always got shocked. the fence never cured Misty of his jailbreaks though. he was just short enough to scoot under the electric wire and would go off in search of a mare in need of his stallion attributes. poor thing, though. too short to get anywhere near the average local mare's tail. like me, he was lucky he was never kicked in the teeth.
(to be continued shortly!)
they could be far out in the pasture, grazing mindlessly, until i bellowed "DINNER!" at the top of my lungs. my voice carried well, i could have made it on Broadway. the horses would gallop in, following a silly wormtrail they'd cut into the grass. no wonder the mall pet store called that plastic hamster house a HabiTrail. apparently animals are creatures of habit. hence the saying. the horses wouldn't stray from their trail even with an acre wide expanse of grass to gallop through. single file, dust billowing from their hooves. once in a great while only Chipper would gallop in. fat pony was always hungry. so i'd mount his broad back and run him back out to get his pasture-mates. we'd play cowboy herding cattle, he'd cut circles around the other horses and i'd war-whoop and wave my arms in a show of menace, driving them all in to the barn. i think Chipper enjoyed this go-get-em status. he was raised out west, after all, a descendant of the war ponies plains indians once rode. he was not only a pinto but also an appaloosa and somewhere in his lineage had to have been a draft horse or two. he was as tall as a pony can be and still be a pony, and not at all graceful with those big draft horse fetlocks and wide boat of a back. he was, however, very clever and agile and i could ride him with no bridle and saddle and he understood the squeeze of my knees or a hand waved at the side of his neck. turn left, turn right. he had it down. i could easily pretend i was Cheyenne.
chipper's flexible nature made him my choice for horse tricks. in the winter i would lay a ladder across the 15 foot wide barn aisle and start him with a kick at the barn door. we'd jump the ladder, turn around, and do it over and over again. i wasn't a Cheyenne during this practice. i was a great steeplechase rider. OK, well maybe a combination of the two because eventually i taught myself to take the jump no hands, then arms extended, flying like a plane through the air. it was almost impossible to fall off Chipper's barrel back. still, i considered it quite an achievement. in the summer, outside, Chip would dutifully stand with this ass facing a giant tractor tire laying on the ground. i could count on him never wandering off. my trick was to run, jump on the big rubber tire like a trampoline, and vault onto his back. in retrospect, i am lucky he never kicked me in the teeth. he had ample opportunity. but, like i said, this was a horse with a noble wild west heritage (or so i imagined) and so he did as his Elders would have had him do. which was stand there patiently. at some point in my Indian fetish i asked for and received a plastic bow and arrow, but i could never manage to hit a hay bale from a standstill much less from a horse at a gallop.
Arabess was "my" horse, a three-quarter Arab who'd come to us from North Dakota. only later did we find out she was pregnant with a bonus filly. she and Chipper were our originals. she was much more of an elegant horse, chestnut with a saffron mane, and taller for sure. but she was not the nicest horse and didn't bend to my will like Chip. in other words, she threw me almost every single day i rode her for years. arabs are spooky, so i blamed it on that. cat jumped off a chair, Bess would freak and throw me. it got so i could land on my feet in front of her, still holding the reins. no small feat in and of itself. i liked to ride her because i could ride english hunt seat with my velvet hardhat and satisfy that steeplechase side of me. Chipper just looked silly with an english saddle. like dressing a 300 pound woman in a silky negligee and stilettos. it didn't quite work. he was meant to be western. i rode him english in a 4-H horse show and i'm pretty sure we looked idiotic. side by side, though, he was the better horse. Arabess might have been pretty with the glamour of the Egyptian background, but Chip was a horse you could count on.
you could count on him getting into trouble too. because he was so smart, he figured out how to unlatch his stall with his teeth and somehow breaking into the Tack Room where we kept all the horse grain. he got in there and gorged himself, sometimes bringing the littler pony Misty along for the fun. to avoid colic i'd have to walk and walk him for hours and then he wasn't my best horse. he also opened the pasture gate and took all his cohorts for a walk. we once got a call from Hatfield Beef claiming that if we didn't get our horses out of their yard they'd be horsemeat. eventually an electric fence and it's electric gate cured the jailbreaks although i hated going electric because it seemed i always got shocked. the fence never cured Misty of his jailbreaks though. he was just short enough to scoot under the electric wire and would go off in search of a mare in need of his stallion attributes. poor thing, though. too short to get anywhere near the average local mare's tail. like me, he was lucky he was never kicked in the teeth.
(to be continued shortly!)
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
just one more....
i didn't like my brother before he was even born. i demonstrated this when my mother was on her back in bed 9 months pregnant. she asked me to bring her a large encyclopedia, which i delivered and dropped unceremoniously on her stomach. i was 12. i wasn't an evil child, honest. but i didn't like the idea of that thing coming into our lives. i was by then the oldest of 4 children so i felt i'd tolerated enough already. my mother had divorced and re-married and i suppose my step-father wanted one child that was all his. it seemed the 4 of us weren't enough. my 'accidental' drop didn't stop the inevitable and he was born anyway. to tell you the truth, i didn't do it with actual murder in my heart, it was more an act of resentment than anything. here, brat, take that. my sisters thought the little baby was so cute but i don't remember wanting much to do with it.
you couldn't ignore that one for long, though. he was, i am convinced, the most high maintenance child in history, and still is. at least we moved to a place where we had horses and all kinds of farm animals not long after he was born. i could escape him, there was plenty to do in the barn. let my sisters play babysitter, i didn't want any part of it. he demanded everyone's complete and utter attention at all times, which bored and irritated me. i stewed on ways to get him back. as i write this, i am reminded of the lyrics to 'Up All Night' by the Talking Heads:
"sister, sister, he's just a plaything.
i wanna make him stay up all night."
and even to this day when i hear the White Stripes sing 'The Hardest Button to Button' i think of my little brother:
"He had toothache
He started crying
It sounded like an earthquake
It didn't last long
Because I stopped it
I grabbed a rag doll
And stuck some little pins in it"
he thrived and i found tolerating him much more of a challenge than the other 3 had been. one summer one of my sisters went away with a friend for the entire summer and he decided that he had to carry every single one of his toys at all times. i believe there were about 12, from dolls to a push-toy i called the poppity-corn-popper because of the way balls would bounce in a plastic bubble as its wheels turned. picking him up became no easy task and of course there was no refusing his will. you either did it or suffered the consequences. when my sister returned home he dropped all of the toys. then he went through his Hat Phase, which meant that he had to go through and pick the special hat he absolutely needed to wear and nothing, nothing could happen until this hat was chosen and placed upon his precious head. one of the hats was at least amusing - a yellow hard-hat with a red spinning siren/light on top. but a child with a siren and spinning red light on his head is only amusing for so long. especially in public.
and then of course there was the phase when he would open no door with his bare hands and had to use his elbows. since elbows do not come complete with opposing thumbs this little task was not easily achieved. i didn't know whether to smack him or laugh at him. i wasn't allowed to smack him, so laugh it was.
even though i couldn't smack him i found there were other ways to torture him as payback for the way i considered he tortured all of us. these torture sessions usually occurred when my parents weren't home. one night he sat at the dining room table by the big sliding glass doors, coloring with my sister or something. so i snuck outside with a white sheet over myself and suddenly leapt at the window, flailing and moaning. i do believe he peed his pants. another evening, same setting, i had him put on the giant headphones attached to the stereo cabinet. there was a song by Pink Floyd i wanted him to hear called 'Careful With That Axe, Eugene". the song's name gives you a pretty good idea of what one might expect. the song rose up slowly with a slow, persistent, and monotonous beat. he looked at me in boredom after a minute of this, trying to remove the headphones, but i insisted he keep them on. the good part was coming. one of the Floyd people started whispering in his ears and his eyes widened. i could tell he was getting wary.
careful, careful with that axe, eugene
then the blood-curdling screams. i made sure to wrench the sound to full volume for the screaming part. he leapt out of the chair, ripping the headphones off and shrieking.
"but i thought you'd like it. it has your name in it, eugene."
and i laughed and laughed.
i can't remember what it was he did the next time i decided he required torture. was it when he rode his skateboard into the base of the staircase and punched a hole in the wood? my parents were out, so naturally i was sure i'd get the blame for not watching what the brat did. or was it the time he tied a rope from the living room door handles to the shelf on the wall where my father's prized glass-domed clock resided ... then closed the door. i'd run to answer the ringing phone when i heard the horrible sound of glass shattering. either one of them will do. i told him that when mom & pop got home and saw what he'd done they would give his precious tricycle away to brian brown up the street. oh yes, absolutely. he wailed in abject misery.
that'll teach you, you little shit.
of course they didn't take away his tricycle. he never seemed to have to suffer much for his misdeeds, even years later. when i drove a $300 1968 Plymouth Satellite, he had a $300 three-wheeler ATV. he shot my sister's friend's car window out with a bee-bee gun and suffered little consequence other than the pain of a bee-bee imbedded in the palm of his hand later that day when he stuck his hand out as his friend shot. i thought that was pretty good payback.
odd thing, though. i was his 'favorite sister'. the crazy, fun one. after all, when he decided to run away from home when he was about 7 i offered to help him. packed all 2 runaways would need for a night in the woods and drove my Pinto up onto Horse Mountain by the reservoir. i was counting on him having second thoughts when we stopped in the moonless woods and scuffed through dried leaves. a 7 year old who has never spent a moment outside the comfort of 6 other people wasn't liable to find a lot of comfort with his questionable sister, however fun, with nothing between him and the night woods' danger but a sleeping bag.
despite his cherub face and head of golden banana curls, it was impossible not to continue resenting him, though. sort of a love-hate thing. where i, as first born, had to train my parents on what it was like to raise a teenager, he got away with murder years later when he reached his teens and the golden angel turned into a dark devil. by then my parents were weary of doing battle with the little monster. i was a virgin as long as i lived in their house, i never smoked a cigarette, a joint, or even tried a beer. he came home with pierced ears. he came home tattooed. he smoked pot and drank beer and painted his room with hellish black spray-paint. he bought more and more snakes and lizards and spiders. mysterious, because i don't recall him having a job. he was consistently in trouble in school for doing things like, say, spraying "Fart Spray" through the halls. he had loud sex with his girlfriend overhead while we ate dinner downstairs. and he's gone on to do so much more.
they just had to have one more kid, didn't they?
see....i had the right idea with the encyclopedia. i knew it.
you couldn't ignore that one for long, though. he was, i am convinced, the most high maintenance child in history, and still is. at least we moved to a place where we had horses and all kinds of farm animals not long after he was born. i could escape him, there was plenty to do in the barn. let my sisters play babysitter, i didn't want any part of it. he demanded everyone's complete and utter attention at all times, which bored and irritated me. i stewed on ways to get him back. as i write this, i am reminded of the lyrics to 'Up All Night' by the Talking Heads:
"sister, sister, he's just a plaything.
i wanna make him stay up all night."
and even to this day when i hear the White Stripes sing 'The Hardest Button to Button' i think of my little brother:
"He had toothache
He started crying
It sounded like an earthquake
It didn't last long
Because I stopped it
I grabbed a rag doll
And stuck some little pins in it"
he thrived and i found tolerating him much more of a challenge than the other 3 had been. one summer one of my sisters went away with a friend for the entire summer and he decided that he had to carry every single one of his toys at all times. i believe there were about 12, from dolls to a push-toy i called the poppity-corn-popper because of the way balls would bounce in a plastic bubble as its wheels turned. picking him up became no easy task and of course there was no refusing his will. you either did it or suffered the consequences. when my sister returned home he dropped all of the toys. then he went through his Hat Phase, which meant that he had to go through and pick the special hat he absolutely needed to wear and nothing, nothing could happen until this hat was chosen and placed upon his precious head. one of the hats was at least amusing - a yellow hard-hat with a red spinning siren/light on top. but a child with a siren and spinning red light on his head is only amusing for so long. especially in public.
and then of course there was the phase when he would open no door with his bare hands and had to use his elbows. since elbows do not come complete with opposing thumbs this little task was not easily achieved. i didn't know whether to smack him or laugh at him. i wasn't allowed to smack him, so laugh it was.
even though i couldn't smack him i found there were other ways to torture him as payback for the way i considered he tortured all of us. these torture sessions usually occurred when my parents weren't home. one night he sat at the dining room table by the big sliding glass doors, coloring with my sister or something. so i snuck outside with a white sheet over myself and suddenly leapt at the window, flailing and moaning. i do believe he peed his pants. another evening, same setting, i had him put on the giant headphones attached to the stereo cabinet. there was a song by Pink Floyd i wanted him to hear called 'Careful With That Axe, Eugene". the song's name gives you a pretty good idea of what one might expect. the song rose up slowly with a slow, persistent, and monotonous beat. he looked at me in boredom after a minute of this, trying to remove the headphones, but i insisted he keep them on. the good part was coming. one of the Floyd people started whispering in his ears and his eyes widened. i could tell he was getting wary.
careful, careful with that axe, eugene
then the blood-curdling screams. i made sure to wrench the sound to full volume for the screaming part. he leapt out of the chair, ripping the headphones off and shrieking.
"but i thought you'd like it. it has your name in it, eugene."
and i laughed and laughed.
i can't remember what it was he did the next time i decided he required torture. was it when he rode his skateboard into the base of the staircase and punched a hole in the wood? my parents were out, so naturally i was sure i'd get the blame for not watching what the brat did. or was it the time he tied a rope from the living room door handles to the shelf on the wall where my father's prized glass-domed clock resided ... then closed the door. i'd run to answer the ringing phone when i heard the horrible sound of glass shattering. either one of them will do. i told him that when mom & pop got home and saw what he'd done they would give his precious tricycle away to brian brown up the street. oh yes, absolutely. he wailed in abject misery.
that'll teach you, you little shit.
of course they didn't take away his tricycle. he never seemed to have to suffer much for his misdeeds, even years later. when i drove a $300 1968 Plymouth Satellite, he had a $300 three-wheeler ATV. he shot my sister's friend's car window out with a bee-bee gun and suffered little consequence other than the pain of a bee-bee imbedded in the palm of his hand later that day when he stuck his hand out as his friend shot. i thought that was pretty good payback.
odd thing, though. i was his 'favorite sister'. the crazy, fun one. after all, when he decided to run away from home when he was about 7 i offered to help him. packed all 2 runaways would need for a night in the woods and drove my Pinto up onto Horse Mountain by the reservoir. i was counting on him having second thoughts when we stopped in the moonless woods and scuffed through dried leaves. a 7 year old who has never spent a moment outside the comfort of 6 other people wasn't liable to find a lot of comfort with his questionable sister, however fun, with nothing between him and the night woods' danger but a sleeping bag.
despite his cherub face and head of golden banana curls, it was impossible not to continue resenting him, though. sort of a love-hate thing. where i, as first born, had to train my parents on what it was like to raise a teenager, he got away with murder years later when he reached his teens and the golden angel turned into a dark devil. by then my parents were weary of doing battle with the little monster. i was a virgin as long as i lived in their house, i never smoked a cigarette, a joint, or even tried a beer. he came home with pierced ears. he came home tattooed. he smoked pot and drank beer and painted his room with hellish black spray-paint. he bought more and more snakes and lizards and spiders. mysterious, because i don't recall him having a job. he was consistently in trouble in school for doing things like, say, spraying "Fart Spray" through the halls. he had loud sex with his girlfriend overhead while we ate dinner downstairs. and he's gone on to do so much more.
they just had to have one more kid, didn't they?
see....i had the right idea with the encyclopedia. i knew it.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
words that burn
i have decided to dredge my closet for boxes of my old writing. old writing does not equate bad writing. perhaps there is something of substance, something workable in there. if i could make the old presentable then perhaps it would make my new presentable. if i had true ambition i would dive into my antique trunk full of 100+ journals written over the course of my life. but i know they were only written to vent, rarely creative, and probably some very embarassing and painful to read. particularly during my Drunk Phase when my writing often seemed profound ... if i could only make out my drunken scrawl. there again, those may have something of substance in them. they are, after all, the thoughts of a lifetime. never meant for anyone else's eyes. instead, my fantasy was to be burned on a funeral pyre of those journals. i guess that means i have to write more. a pyre must be impressive in size.
Monday, September 1, 2008
the energizer bunny
i turned my new-found roof repair skills to the bunnies' winter condo today. all summer they reside under the pear tree in the shade, catching breezes. all winter they live closer to the house in a wood & glass rabbit hutch with a whimsical rabbit shaped window facing south.
bob built both condos probably 15+ years ago when i had my first bunny, elliot, a dwarf dutch bunny. fur the color of a fawn with white wrapped around his shoulders. ellie lived 10 years, long for a rabbit, until he succumbed to some bizarre brain parasite that first made his head tilt then took him away entirely within a week, to die in my arms. i took his death hard and never came to peace with it until perhaps a year later when i lay on my back in the dark, in 'corpse pose' in yoga class. i'd begun to feel that familiar sensation of floating. you know the feeling when you just barely put your palm to water. that sense of being barely connected to surface. when suddenly out of the darkness elliot hopped, not bound to earth in any way, and slipped into the rabbit hole of my heart. from that day on i continued to miss him, but never again felt i'd lost him. instead he'd become a part of me.
then came pippy & gonzo, twin brothers who looked like elliot but unfortunately loved each other more than they'd ever come to love me. they did, however, accept petunia. i inherited petunia when my mother's other rabbit petie's cage had been torn open by some predator. as was petie. thus petunia came to be part of a threesome, and she liked it. the boys loved her and snuggled on either side of her slender body, and i called it a 'tunie sandwich'. collectively they were known as 'the Pippies'. less impersonal than 'the rabbits'. one by one, however, pippy & gonzo eventually died over the years. bob said they ate themselves to death. they were quite fat. finally only petunia was left. she was a happy and loving white bunny with brown/black ears and nose. her red eyes were preternatural and ruined her chances of being a bunny beauty queen. but we loved tunie.
one day i discovered a lump on her belly which turned out to be breast cancer. if female rabbits aren't spayed early on, and live long enough, they are good candidates for this. my parents had never spayed her. when i took her to the vet they removed not only the tumor, but also gave her a hysterectomy since she appeared to have cancer in her uterus as well. they handed her back to me with the warning that she'd probably only live about 3 months despite my best efforts. a year and a half went by. then i found another lump. breast cancer again. as she recovered from her second surgery i thought tunie should be the poster bunny for breast cancer. she deserved a pink ribbon. bob and i dubbed her 'the energizer bunny' because it appeared that nothing could kill her. even the predator who'd taken petie had spared her.
finally, a few months after bob succumbed to cancer of his own, i discovered yet another lump on tunie, this time on her side. by this time she was living with a smaller version of herself named violet. that is until i realized violet was peeing on her and therefore wasn't the girl bunny we thought. and so violet, now a boy and then a eunuch, is what i call my 'transgender bunny'. i had to separate him from his beloved tunie. at 10 years old and stricken again with cancer, she had no energy for the likes of him beyond touching noses through cage walls. this time the news was bad. this cancer had already invaded her lungs and there was nothing they could do. i asked 'how long?' and they shrugged. 'just bring her in to be put down when she appears to be in pain'. i don't know how to tell when a bunny is in pain. they are masters at hiding their weaknesses. how would she let me know? every chance i got i would let tunie hop around in the yard, free in the grass. sometimes it was harder and harder for her to get upright and at last i put her in a box and called mom to please take us to the vet. it was time. i waited for mom on the front lawn and as the SUV pulled up, tunie leapt out of the box and went hopping - as if she hadn't a care in the world - around the front yard. even escaping my attempts to catch her.
it wasn't her day to die.
mom left and i spent the weekend giving tunie the run of the yard under my watchful eye, expecting i would find her dead in her cage every morning. i did battle with myself. was it up to me to decide when she should die? it turns out the leap from the box and the escape from euthanasia was tunie's last hurrah. like bob, she rallied fully to life before death. as with bob, i was there for her death. as with elliot, i held her in a towel in my arms and watched it come. i don't know how she told me it was time, but i knew, and i held her. my energizer bunny's heart stopped beating as she lay next to my own.
and then it was only violet. but not for long. some irresponsible child lost interest in its black & white dwarf bunny and its irresponsible mother was going to set it loose in the woods to fend for itself. my friend called me to spare its life and, sucker that i am, i took it home and named it Gianni. naturally it too was not neutered so that cost me a nice piece of change, but i wasn't about to have violet or gianni succumb to testicular cancer. not after all i'd been through in the bunny department. violet had never lost his Dominant Bunny standing and wouldn't hear of gianni sharing his cage. bunnies may appear to be sweet, but really they are both cruel and gentle things. without my intervention gianni would have been murdered by violet's hand. or teeth, as it were. they are content to sniff one another through the cage wire, close enough company for either, which is unfortunate because they will never know the warmth of a 'tunie sandwich' on a cold winter day.
it is september 1 and before i know it fall will be here. violet had eaten the plywood roof of the bedroom of his condo last winter, perhaps from boredom, and so i set about repairing it today. it looked like the ruins of Katrina, but on a manageable scale for a lone woman and her table saw. i ripped off the old shredded plywood and replaced it with leftover kitchen countertop cut to size. then i screwed leftover roof shingles to the top, triple level! no wind, rain or snow will breach my roof. it took a hammer and nails, a measuring tape and heavy duty scissors, my trusty cordless drill (one of my last gifts from bob) and the Workmate 400, which i hauled up out of the basement with much difficulty. the last step will be the final seal with roofing tar. but i am far too exhausted at this point to carry a huge can of tar down a ladder from the porch roof.
i know it was mostly my labor and ingenuity that resulted in a beautiful new roof for violet, but i also thank bob who taught me how to do these things. maybe i should offer myself up to Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans. but in my world animals come before humanity, and my humane society (2 bunnies and 6 cats) is hungry right now. as their keeper, slave and recipient of their boundless love, i must obey their call! this energizer bunny is done for the day.
bob built both condos probably 15+ years ago when i had my first bunny, elliot, a dwarf dutch bunny. fur the color of a fawn with white wrapped around his shoulders. ellie lived 10 years, long for a rabbit, until he succumbed to some bizarre brain parasite that first made his head tilt then took him away entirely within a week, to die in my arms. i took his death hard and never came to peace with it until perhaps a year later when i lay on my back in the dark, in 'corpse pose' in yoga class. i'd begun to feel that familiar sensation of floating. you know the feeling when you just barely put your palm to water. that sense of being barely connected to surface. when suddenly out of the darkness elliot hopped, not bound to earth in any way, and slipped into the rabbit hole of my heart. from that day on i continued to miss him, but never again felt i'd lost him. instead he'd become a part of me.
then came pippy & gonzo, twin brothers who looked like elliot but unfortunately loved each other more than they'd ever come to love me. they did, however, accept petunia. i inherited petunia when my mother's other rabbit petie's cage had been torn open by some predator. as was petie. thus petunia came to be part of a threesome, and she liked it. the boys loved her and snuggled on either side of her slender body, and i called it a 'tunie sandwich'. collectively they were known as 'the Pippies'. less impersonal than 'the rabbits'. one by one, however, pippy & gonzo eventually died over the years. bob said they ate themselves to death. they were quite fat. finally only petunia was left. she was a happy and loving white bunny with brown/black ears and nose. her red eyes were preternatural and ruined her chances of being a bunny beauty queen. but we loved tunie.
one day i discovered a lump on her belly which turned out to be breast cancer. if female rabbits aren't spayed early on, and live long enough, they are good candidates for this. my parents had never spayed her. when i took her to the vet they removed not only the tumor, but also gave her a hysterectomy since she appeared to have cancer in her uterus as well. they handed her back to me with the warning that she'd probably only live about 3 months despite my best efforts. a year and a half went by. then i found another lump. breast cancer again. as she recovered from her second surgery i thought tunie should be the poster bunny for breast cancer. she deserved a pink ribbon. bob and i dubbed her 'the energizer bunny' because it appeared that nothing could kill her. even the predator who'd taken petie had spared her.
finally, a few months after bob succumbed to cancer of his own, i discovered yet another lump on tunie, this time on her side. by this time she was living with a smaller version of herself named violet. that is until i realized violet was peeing on her and therefore wasn't the girl bunny we thought. and so violet, now a boy and then a eunuch, is what i call my 'transgender bunny'. i had to separate him from his beloved tunie. at 10 years old and stricken again with cancer, she had no energy for the likes of him beyond touching noses through cage walls. this time the news was bad. this cancer had already invaded her lungs and there was nothing they could do. i asked 'how long?' and they shrugged. 'just bring her in to be put down when she appears to be in pain'. i don't know how to tell when a bunny is in pain. they are masters at hiding their weaknesses. how would she let me know? every chance i got i would let tunie hop around in the yard, free in the grass. sometimes it was harder and harder for her to get upright and at last i put her in a box and called mom to please take us to the vet. it was time. i waited for mom on the front lawn and as the SUV pulled up, tunie leapt out of the box and went hopping - as if she hadn't a care in the world - around the front yard. even escaping my attempts to catch her.
it wasn't her day to die.
mom left and i spent the weekend giving tunie the run of the yard under my watchful eye, expecting i would find her dead in her cage every morning. i did battle with myself. was it up to me to decide when she should die? it turns out the leap from the box and the escape from euthanasia was tunie's last hurrah. like bob, she rallied fully to life before death. as with bob, i was there for her death. as with elliot, i held her in a towel in my arms and watched it come. i don't know how she told me it was time, but i knew, and i held her. my energizer bunny's heart stopped beating as she lay next to my own.
and then it was only violet. but not for long. some irresponsible child lost interest in its black & white dwarf bunny and its irresponsible mother was going to set it loose in the woods to fend for itself. my friend called me to spare its life and, sucker that i am, i took it home and named it Gianni. naturally it too was not neutered so that cost me a nice piece of change, but i wasn't about to have violet or gianni succumb to testicular cancer. not after all i'd been through in the bunny department. violet had never lost his Dominant Bunny standing and wouldn't hear of gianni sharing his cage. bunnies may appear to be sweet, but really they are both cruel and gentle things. without my intervention gianni would have been murdered by violet's hand. or teeth, as it were. they are content to sniff one another through the cage wire, close enough company for either, which is unfortunate because they will never know the warmth of a 'tunie sandwich' on a cold winter day.
it is september 1 and before i know it fall will be here. violet had eaten the plywood roof of the bedroom of his condo last winter, perhaps from boredom, and so i set about repairing it today. it looked like the ruins of Katrina, but on a manageable scale for a lone woman and her table saw. i ripped off the old shredded plywood and replaced it with leftover kitchen countertop cut to size. then i screwed leftover roof shingles to the top, triple level! no wind, rain or snow will breach my roof. it took a hammer and nails, a measuring tape and heavy duty scissors, my trusty cordless drill (one of my last gifts from bob) and the Workmate 400, which i hauled up out of the basement with much difficulty. the last step will be the final seal with roofing tar. but i am far too exhausted at this point to carry a huge can of tar down a ladder from the porch roof.
i know it was mostly my labor and ingenuity that resulted in a beautiful new roof for violet, but i also thank bob who taught me how to do these things. maybe i should offer myself up to Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans. but in my world animals come before humanity, and my humane society (2 bunnies and 6 cats) is hungry right now. as their keeper, slave and recipient of their boundless love, i must obey their call! this energizer bunny is done for the day.
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