Friday, June 29, 2012

A Friend in the Family

"I hope he likes us. Do you think he's sick? I don't think he's eating his food. I hope he's happy..."
I've said a combination of those four sentences for three weeks now, but I'm still not sure he likes us or his food. And as I peer into his tiny black eyes, I can discern no traces of contentment but no definite signs of illness either.

"He's a hamster," my Man says. I still don't know what he means by that. Can't hamsters feel peckish, have preferences for people of different strokes, go on a hunger strike? Can't they be happy?

Okay, sure, when I first met the little guy I saw more rodent than pet in him. It was kind of hard to catch a glimpse of him, too, because all these second graders were passing him around like a pack of bubble gum at Mother's Day Tea. My little second grader was enamored of him, the classroom pet, and had been for several weeks. She had handled him during every break, rushing through her work for a chance to drag his fluffy body from his cage into her waiting palm.

That adoration is how he came to be a member of this family. Well, that, and the fact that my little girl has such a sweet, near-saintly nature that teachers and fellow parents feel she deserves all her heart's desires as a reward for what is essentially a biological luck of the draw. (I try my best to follow her around, hoping the accolades will fall partially on me, the parent, but people tend to sense it's mostly not my doing). Her teacher wanted her reward for a year of excellent classroom behavior to be the classroom hamster, because that is what Miss Bee wanted with all her full, sensitive heart. I was open to the idea. Pets are good things for kids, teaching responsibility, compassion, and, eventually, how to cope with the loss of a beloved friend.

But to be fair: it's been four score and seven years since I had a pet....oh, okay - maybe not quite that long, but we haven't had one non-human creature in this house since the day my husband and I got married. Maybe this is because my husband is not a profound animal lover. The only pet he and his brothers really had was a monitor lizard, and those things will eat you alive while you take a nap. If you're not careful.

We looked our little girl in the eye and told her flat out that she could go horseback riding for her birthday or she could bring home this hamster named Nike.

"Nike," she said.

So began the negotiations and the research. Ah, the research! We had to make sure hamsters were okay to be around our two-year-old (not really but we're vigilant), that its diet did not need to include nuts (no, but you have to get creative with protein sources), what to give it for its teeth, how often it needed fresh food, fresh bedding, fresh water.....and so on and so forth. We wiffled and we waffled, and we just didn't know what to do. Then my husband's co-worker told him to just go for it.

"It'll be good for them," she said, meaning the children.

So here we are with a non-human in our home who runs on his wheel noisily in the wee hours of the morning. Nike's parents, and the parents of the little boy who had become bored with him, told us that if things didn't work out, Nike always had a home with them. Good people. The mother, a very kind woman who helped us with our research, also told me that our daughter was one of the sweetest, kindest girls she had known and reminded her of herself as a little girl. Funny that no one says my daughter reminds them of me.

When we brought Nike home, my anxiety over his comfort and well-being exploded. When after some post-adoption research, I found out I had not been changing his food often enough, my guilt was akin to mama's guilt. When my four-year-old rolled him in his exercise ball along an old, bumpy slide resting on the ground, I was horror-stricken and examined him for the smallest sign of permanent injury. Mysterious seeds and kernels often appeared in his ball, too, and for a few days we were baffled until I realized the little guy was spitting out his stores from his cheek pouch when he ran. And there was the time we thought he was bleeding a little under his little chin until we realized that his fur was just matted and his pink skin was showing through.

The more I held him with my daughter (the little rodents are so restless, it's best to have a few pairs of hands ready to catch them as they scuttle), the more I bonded. I developed a habit of sticking my face right against his cage and making kissy noises whenever I happened to pass. My eldest son hated that and begged me to cease and desist such annoying salutations. What worried my husband, though, was the fact that I began calling the hamster by our two-year-old son's name. Did it mean I felt Nike was like a mischievous, rambunctious toddler - a fifth child? Or that I felt my toddler looked somewhat and behaved alot like an energetic rodent? I just don't know. What I know is that the diminutive creature is so damn cute he deserves to be happy and know he's loved even if he doesn't quite feel the same about me (the hamster, I mean).

I worry about him like a mother. He looks old, and I know he must be, because he's lived with two families before ours. Yesterday I had another scare when we came home, and I found his chin resting against his cage by his water spout, his body at an awkward, fallen-old-man angle. We got him to shift and open his eyes and eat a piece of carrot, but I began speculating on whether he was sick, whether his coat was as glossy as it should be, and what we still might need to get him from the pet store for his health.

"You may not have long with Nike," I told my daughter while ruminating. "Be prepared."

"What do we do when he dies?" she asked matter-of-factly. "Feed him to a bird?"

Evidence, my friends, that no matter how sweet the nature, the macabre will eventually surface.

"No!" I exclaimed, taken aback. "We'll bury him decently. Maybe in a flower pot."

Later that evening at dinner, Miss Bee asked, "I wonder why they named him Nike?"

"Yes, " said her papa. "Why not Puma, Adidas or Reebok?"

Berto and I laughed heartily.

"Berto, did you really get Papa's joke?" I asked.

"No," he replied, grinning.

I explained that Nike was a brand of athletic gear mostly made famous by basketball players, and that Adidas, Puma and Reebok were also popular athletic brands made famous by other sports.

"I wonder what we would call him?" pondered Miss Bee.

"He'll finish out his days as Nike," said her papa, and I nodded agreement. One should not change a pet's name, if you ask me. It's bad form, mojo, karma or something.

"When Nike dies," my Man continued, "we'll bury him under a little headstone that says, 'Here Lies Nike', and then we'll put an Adidas symbol on it."

I almost choked on my bad, processed-food lasagna. I knew it was wrong, and I really hoped we had a good while with Nike, but I laughed it up as my satirical Man gazed back across the table at me, eyes sparkling.


For excellent information on taking care of these precious creatures called hamsters, visit http://www.hamsterific.com/

Friday, June 15, 2012

My Little Anakin

While I'm cooking dinner, sitting at the table, or sweeping the floors and picking up, my son Berto regales me with Star Wars stories. He's obsessed with them and has read plenty of books by many different authors even though he has never seen any of the movies.  He needs to unload the emotions stirred by this epic tale, and his dad thinks that Star Wars, Star Trek - any cultural phenomenon that begins with "Star" - is for nerds. So Berto bends my ear, and I thank heavens he doesn't know I fell asleep while watching Phantom Menace in the theater.

He sympathizes with Anakin. I'm always hearing about how hard Anakin Skywalker had it, what bad luck in his family life, Obi-Wan was just a Jedi bully with no understanding, etc. etc...and that's why Anakin was forced to the dark side of the force, forced to become Darth Vader.





One evening when I probably should have been hurrying my behind to get his siblings in bed, I listened fascinated as my son discussed the history between Anakin, Princess Amidala, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. My son is an oral storyteller like his Paca (my dad), and I felt no rush to veer away from a galaxy far, far away into my real life responsibilities despite the fact that my Man kept making "wrap it up" signals over his dinner plate.

My son's zeal spread into his school life. He had a biography book report to do, his last of the year. He considered Elvis and George Lucas.  Of course, he chose Lucas. The students had to dress up like the individual they were giving the report on, and I was put out, because where on earth was I going to find my son a fake beard and mustache several months out from Halloween? In the end I taught him how to paint a beard on his face with brown and black eyeliner, stuck him in a nice checkered shirt, and gave him a name tag that declared he was indeed "George Lucas".

When I walked into the classroom on the day of the presentation, having just ran my tail off across the courtyard to make it in time (as usual), I saw Abe Lincoln, Cleopatra and various other historical figures milling about. Panting from my exertion and trying to keep my toddler corralled on my lap and my preschooler in line, I watched as Berto got up. What a handsome bearded director he was! His smile was broad (yes, he was glad to have me there), only a few of his lines were forgotten, and he shared how Lucas got the idea for the Force after a devastating, near-fatal car wreck when he was a teenager. Then my boy called out with aplomb, "Alright, people! Lights...camera...action!" while holding his plastic telescope aloft as a video camera, a truly inspired Lucas.

When I was a kid and braided buns over each ear, Darth Vader, and squat, yet exceptionally wise Jedi Masters permeated the culture, I remember being as enthralled by Star Wars as the next kid. I don't think my son would have approved of my favorite character, however. I loved him because he was slug-like and very odd. I also liked his tail and his name: Jabba the Hutt.

(I always rooted for some of the least loved characters. When I saw King Kong for the first time as a little, little girl, I ran to my mother near the end of the movie, crying, "The bagrilla died! The bagrilla died" I was traumatized about that for years.)

I was a strange child, so Jabba the Hutt was just my kind of...whatever the heck he was. Apparently I liked westerns, too, because I remember sticking a twig in the back of my pants in imitation of Jabba's tail, grabbing a fake pistol, and stomping around in cowboy boots to approach various members of my family and say, "Do you wanna see Jesus?" in a rough southern accent. That was a distinctly odd mixture of sci-fi, wild west, and fire and brimstone influences, but my parents thought their strange girl was hilarious. My siblings thought it was less amusing, more like a warning of embarrassments to come.

My son of course would be horrified to know how shallow and muddled was my interpretation of Star Wars then. But like so many things of my youth, I have put aside my love for Jabba the Hutt and even my tears for gigantic mutant gorillas who tragically fall in love with women. In fact, this complicated Anakin character really piques my interest, and the Force, like so many things in a great number of famous tales, is a great device to illustrate the fascinating pull between good and evil humans experience daily.

My son's been begging me, and I'm ready to watch the movies again. After all, I don't have time to read all the books he tells me to read, but I do want to share this with him. We'll make a marathon occasion of it with popcorn, Darth Vader bobbleheads and maybe some nifty light sabers. We'll stay up late and have a ball. And this time I won't fall asleep. The Force will be with me.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Parks, Trees and Love Carvings

As I panted and limped, climbed, slid and jumped on the play forts, I felt like the lame gazelle attracting the murderous attention of the lioness. There were two other people to chase, but I was picked on every time; I was an easy, too tempting target - caught again and again. My children thought it was great fun to have Mama joining playground tag, and even the four-year-old took advantage when my knee gave out.


But never mind. I enjoyed the exercise. I enjoyed feeling like a child, racing to the bottom of a slide ahead of my toddler or scaling the faux rock wall after him. I enjoyed trying to avoid my children's outstretched arms, though I failed miserably, but I did not enjoy being chased. I have a horror of being chased. It feels like the harder I push, the slower I go, so the only option is to turn and face my pursuer with palms out and giggle in a high, unnatural pitch like a crazy idiot. The hope is then that they'll back away slowly, shaking their heads. That doesn't work with my kids. They know Mama's a little strange and it no longer scares them. So they tag me, the little rapscallions, and I am forced to try to catch them - the more luck to me!

Despite my disappointing performance in playground tag and regardless of the heat, I relished being at the park with my children recently. I'm still, I must protest, a country girl at heart, and there are a few special parks in this city where if you turn your back to the road, you feel as if you might actually be somewhere far removed from concrete and artificial light (except for the jungle gyms, basketball and volleyball courts, of course) because of all the wide expanses of green, the little hills and the shade trees.



After tag and swing time, we went to watch my eldest ride his skateboard down a dirt hill, and we all tried this form of dry sledding - bottoms and feet on the slightly curved board as we barreled down, digging the wheels into the dirt with our weight. My son's wheels got all mucked up; he refused to let us ride more, so I invited the kids to sit with me beneath a giant eucalyptus. I leaned my back into the trunk, world's away from the city but within walking distance, and began to rest, perchance to dream.

A while later when I was standing and examining my friend, the tree, and wondering whether it was in fact a eucalyptus (the bark was right, the leaves were not), my son approached and said, "This would be a good tree for carving your name."

"There are names here. See." I pointed.

At least, I assumed they were names. They could have been bad words, but I like to think not. It's bad enough that those abound on the play equipment.

Then I thought about how I have always wanted to carve "H loves M" into a tree. I'm pretty sure my Man would scoff at the idea rather than be flattered, but what he wouldn't know wouldn't hurt him. Briefly, I fingered the car keys in my purse. Would they do the job, I wondered? It might require more labor on my part with no pocket knife. As I pondered this I recalled how as a teenager, my dad pointed out an expanse of forest near the now defunct Cougar Mountain Lodge on the road to Cascade, Idaho. He told how he had carved his and mom's names into a tree there when they were dating. Dad, Mom and I spent some little time trying to find the wooden edifice to Dad's ardor. All those years ago Dad could have added an addendum, "twenty-seven years and still going strong". Alas, we didn't find the old fellow, and the testament to young love was surely faded by then, anyway.

I zipped the purse back up. Today was not the day to scratch at this maybe eucalyptus in this city park. Was it really likely I'd come back years from now, tell the tale of a harrowing game of playground tag, and show the carving to my children or grandchildren? Besides, I didn't want to cause any harm to the bark of my friend in the heat of summer, and I didn't want to get caught by a parks and rec employee. I took my kids back to the playground, and we played in our little country haven until it was time to head back home in the city.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

"Souvenir Rocks"

When I was in high school, I had a friend tell me, "Hillary, you're kind of smart, and kind of dumb."

I took no offense. I knew exactly what she meant. As I never make a habit of arguing with the truth, I didn't deny it.

I think the best example of my special view of this world is demonstrated by what I said on a trip into the Idaho countryside with my parents when I was about 17. I believe we were on the way to Cascade or Council, and we were passing lush fields of mint and grain. Mountains provided a magnificent backdrop for lonely farms and ranches where huge irrigation sprinklers, big as hay bales, oscillated their enormous jets of water across the crops. Miles of fence abutted the road. I was watching the passing cows, crops, horses, and barbed wire as I sat cross-legged in the back seat of the car, and I began to notice something exciting every dozen feet or so along the fence line.

I saw and interpreted what I saw, and then my heart swelled with the knowledge of these lonely ranchers' hospitality for the traveler, for regularly along the fence posts were barbed wire buckets filled to the brim with rocks of every size and color.

"Mom, Dad - look!" I said. They turned their heads, and I pointed excitedly. "Isn't that nice of them? Souvenir rocks!"

Immediately, the laughter broke forth in a cacophony that washed over me without mercy. I had been greeted with such phenomenon before, so I sat it out with little protest even when my parents jabbed each other in the ribs and pointed at me, shaking their heads. My mistake, I doubted not, would be revealed to me when the mirth subsided.

Finally: "Hillary, those are to keep the fence posts grounded!" bellowed still-laughing Dad. "In case of a storm!"

And I was hoping we could stop and pick out a couple to take home. Those are the disappointments in life waiting for someone who doesn't quite understand reality.

But disappointments are also waiting for those who have to live with me. A few years ago my kindergartner came home on a late fall day and presented me with his plain red sweatshirt.

"The teacher says we have to put our initials on our jackets and sweatshirts," he said.

"Oh, alright," I answered and went off to find a Sharpie. When I had my black permanent in hand, I spread the sweatshirt across my lap and carefully wrote my son's initials in big broad letters on the left breast pocket.

I handed it to my son, and he stared at his initials dumbstruck for several moments before looking up at me.

"Mama," he said, mortified. "On the tag..."

Oh sure, now you tell me.

"Wear it anyway," I advised him.

He didn't like that advice, so he showed the shirt to his Papa when he came home.

"Babe, what'd you do?" demanded my Man.

"I initialed it, so it couldn't get lost."

"You're supposed to put it on the tag!"

"I know that (now), but I wasn't thinking."

"No kidding! He can't wear this. I wouldn't wear it," he added, seeing the look in my eyes. "Kids will make fun of him. We'll have to buy him a new one."

Sigh.  Kids made fun of me. I survived.

For instance, there was that occasion in high school when even I wanted to kick myself royally for my stupidity, because it cost me a pretty penny.

Having stayed after school to work on the school newspaper one late afternoon, I was getting a snack of peanut M&Ms from the vending machine to fuel my brain for whatever column I was writing. With hungry eyes I watched my healthy snack move to the edge of the metal precipice, shift, pause...and stop. I tried everything to convince that yellow bag to surrender to gravity and the pull of my own voracious appetite for it, but no; it insisted on playing hard to get even when I kicked and punched the machine. In wild-eyed desperation, I waved a dollar bill high above my head and turned to face the small crowd watching my spectacle.

"I'll give a dollar to anyone who can rescue my M&Ms from this machine!" I hollered.

Immediately, a young man emerged from the crowd. He approached quite calmly, and I eyed him narrowly, wandering what his tactic might be - karate chops, the headbutt, or the oft employed shake and rattle? I was genuinely surprised to see him reach into his pocket, but when he drew out his own dollar bill and slid it into the machine, I began looking around for my fool's cap and a convenient corner to stand in.

One small delicious bag submitted to the monetary command, and the second soon followed. Completely lacking in chivalry, with no mercy for the ravenous, dim-witted damsel in distress, the little bastard held out his hand for his reward. I smacked my money into his palm with a grunt of disgust, only to see out of the corner of my eye that his friend was attempting to make off with my own costly bag of junk food. Two bucks shot with nothing to show for it? Simply was not going to happen.

"Those are mine!" I cried desperately as I dashed after him. The smug smirk on his face as I wrested the bag from his hand said plainly that I might have saved my M&Ms, but my dignity was lost, and I'd always be kind of dumb.

Well, my friends and readers, I argue that that is simply a risk of the human condition. I, at least, get the satisfaction of writing about it. That's one of the things that makes me kinda of smart. So there, haha, and neener, neener, neener.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Turkey, Pie (term of endearment)

Thanksgiving in June.

Why not? Christmas in July is very popular as a means to sell merchandise, because, astonishingly, people who are much better organized and generally smarter than you or me actually do begin holiday shopping then.

So why not Thanksgiving in June? I walked into my house yesterday evening, and the exotic perfume of cloves and ginger hung in the air and I exclaimed, "It smells like Thanksgiving in here!"

There can be no higher compliment to spring from my lips in praise of food. Thanksgiving is to me the ultimate feast with the ultimate spread (a belief established in childhood thanks to my mother's cooking), a glorious tradition that can make an American's heart thump in supreme gratitude and proud patriotism over their full belly as they watch football.

So when I walked in and smelled the aroma of my daughter's birthday pie - pumpkin, chosen over cake - I felt like Thanksgiving in June.

I had felt that way a week or so earlier, too, when cooking a chicken for my friend. The poultry seasoning, olive oil, onions and butter mingling in the hot oven brought back the ghost of November turkey. The smell just about drove my husband to steal the bird for his own consumption. Of course, my friend might strongly disagree with our praise of that entree after eating it; perhaps it turned out like the turkey I fed her and her family at Easter. That was also a smell-good bird that was as dry as its own bones, and I didn't even make gravy to save it from its poverty of texture.

And in the spirit of disclosure, shh...come closer...those Thanksgiving pies in June I made yesterday had charred pastry, because I forgot to turn down the oven mid-bake.

So maybe there's a reason we American cooks go into indentured service for just one day a year. The bird's unstable, the pies - especially the pastry - unpredictable. Then there's the rolls, the dressing, the sweet potatoes, the gravy and the green bean casserole to worry about, too. That kind of stress should be reserved for the third Thursday in November alone. We've earned our freedom for the rest of the year. I just wish I could manufacture the smell of all that rich, spicy food to permeate my home until the harvest feast comes round again. All guests would enter, breath deeply and exclaim in gratitude, "Ah, it smells like Thanksgiving in here!"