S’mores: The Real Story

roasting a marshmallow (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are so many things I enjoy about summer. For one, since I am a teacher, I get to be a bum for several months. That’s always nice.  I love waking up in the morning to the sound of a mockingbird. I love corn on the cob and watermelon. And right up there on my list of summer favorites is sitting by a campfire. It’s so relaxing and peaceful.  But, it always brings back thoughts of how hard I worked while attending campfires when I was young.

No, people didn’t make me lug firewood  and pile it in a heap or throw gasoline on the logs or anything like that.  It wasn’t that kind of work, although making a kid throw gasoline on logs and light it would be a bit unsafe, don’t you think? No, I worked hard and long avoiding the usual campfire expectations: eating s’mores.

Now, you are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. S’mores are a part of America, just like baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie (Or in my case, pumpkin pie). But, before I get started on why I worked so hard trying to avoid eating s’mores, let me explain what those are for my foreign readers. Yes, I have foreign readers and they may have no idea what the hell I’m talking about.  Even some of my regular readers will be surprised how s’mores were invented.

S’mores: Goo on a cracker

 The very first printed record of the  s’more recipe was in 1927 in a girl scout’s manual entitled, “Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts.”  I would like to offer my account of how this went down.

Once upon a time,  many many years ago in a national park somewhere in the dark, ominous woods,  a girl scout troup was settling by a campfire after a long day of earning a badge for being bitten by a snake.   Those girls were not able to participate in that night’s campfire.  Anyway, some of the girls were hungry because all they had to eat that day were wild berries and grasshoppers. So, they brought some of their food stash that was delivered from their loved ones from home.

For example, one of the girls had a bag of marshmallows. One girl had a Hershey chocolate bar, and one had a sleeve of graham crackers. The fourth girl, who the others were frightened of because she was a bit off, sat holding some sticks that were whittled down to sharp points at the end. Her knife was sitting on her lap.

campfire fun

Separately, their food items sort of sucked.

“All I have is a bag of marshmallows.”

“Well, that’s better than what my mother sent. I have stupid graham crackers and that’s all.”

“I have a lot of chocolate,” said the plump girl (you could say that back then).

They all then looked over at the fourth girl, who was still whittling.

The girls looked around at each other and one girl offered the others some of her marshmallows. Soon, they were all trading their items. The odd girl scout, who I will call Cheryl, promptly shoved her marshmallow onto her stick.

“Look, my marshmallow has been impaled.” Cheryl smiled, while the others moved their camp chairs further away from her. Cheryl then stuck her marshmallow on a stick into the fire, because she was also a practicing arsonist. One more fire and she would be kicked out of the girl scouts. She didn’t care. She wanted to watch the marshmallow turn into a raging goo. Yes, raging.

“Golly gee, Cheryl!” (Girl scout lingo)

Cheryl took the hot blackened mess off of her stick and shoved it into her mouth. “O-M-G! (Yes, Cheryl was a visionary with her lingo.) This is really good.”

The other girls began putting their marshmallows on the borrowed whittled sticks and another girl laughed, “Hey, let’s make a marshmallow sandwich with my crackers.”

Soon, they were eating marshmallow sandwiches. The plump girl secretly put a piece of chocolate on top of the graham cracker and then put her gooey marshmallow on top, followed by the top graham cracker.

“Yummy in my tummy!” she exclaimed.

Soon, they were eating this concoction and could not get enough of them.

The next night, after a long day of working on their “poison ivy” girl scout badge, all of the itching girl scouts clad from head to toe in calamine lotion were able to sit by the campfire. The four girls shared their new goo on a cracker.

“S’more please,” yelled the little girl scout with a speech impediment. (It happens).

Next thing, you know, s’mores have been invented.  Sadly, the four girls weren’t able to see how popular their invention became across America because Cheryl threw gasoline on the weakened fire the very next night.

The End

No mores

Stay tuned for  part 2  of my s’more avoidance campfire story.

 

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Jumping in Mud Puddles: A Memoir of a Picky, Hyper, Big Fat Liar

The Popcorn Muncher

Sometimes I get a chuckle from facebook status messages. One of those messages  made me laugh out loud this morning:

“If someone in Fairview is missing a goat it’s in my yard!!”

I laughed and then I smiled with a great memory from when my children were young. We lived “out in the country” if you want to call it that. We sat on 13 acres and I had wildlife at my kitchen door daily. It was wonderful. We used to watch a snapping turtle climb out of our pond and creep up to the top of  hill by our house and work for hours digging a hole to deposit her eggs. She did this every year. I had no idea that a snapping turtle finds the highest point she can for her egg delivery. I went out one year and dug a hole parallel to where she was working to no avail. She would look over at me like “What the hell, lady.”  As soon as I went back in the house, she moved over and continued where I started digging for her. My children loved it and I felt like an awesome mom and general turtle helper.

Well, every Christmas season, which is right after Thanksgiving in my household, I would bring out the air popper and make popcorn for our Christmas tree. I learned over the years to let the popcorn sit out for a few days for easier stringing. It just sucks to try to push a needle through fresh popcorn.It was hard not to curse in front of my children. “Oh….sugar” just didn’t make it. Some of those  needle-through-my fingers needed a full f-bomb rant. It wasn’t until after the internet was invented (thanks Al Gore) that I was able to read advice on proper popcorn stringing. Some years I would feel more energetic with my popcorn stringing and completely loop around the tree. Other years, not  so much. I would faux string it, which means cheating and only showing the popcorn string where people can see the tree.

List of U.S. state foods (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After Christmas was over and the tree was taken down, I would slide the popcorn off the thread and put it in a large stainless steel bowl.

“Kids, I’m going to put the popcorn out on the mound so the birds can have a Christmas treat.”

Am I an awesome wildlife lady or what? The mound I am referring to was a place underneath a hickory tree near our pavilion. When we leveled the yard after we built our home, I wanted to save the hickory, so we left a little hill area in front of the tree. We placed a large granite stone at the base of the tree. This is where I would lay out goodies for the birds  and squirrels. And after Christmas, it was where I put the popcorn.

So, one day I had the kids put on their coats and I took that stainless steel bowl outside and explained to the kids what kind of birds may want to eat the popcorn.

“Let’s keep an eye out, because we may see blue jays…..and crows…..and..maybe a bird we haven’t seen on the mound before.”

It was starting to snow, which was great while decorating the tree. It really puts you in the mood. My daughter loved to help put the ornaments on the tree and it wasn’t too long when she too, would stand back after carefully deciding where to put a particular ornament. My son was generally waiting for me to put together my little Christmas  village of buildings and people as he loved putting a little boy headfirst down into the well or laying  him on the white ground with a horse drawn sleigh getting ready to run over him. To be honest, I loved walking into the kitchen to see what he moved around next.

A few hours after I put the popcorn out on the mound, my daughter ran into the Hearth room with a big smile on her face.

“Mommy, there’s a cow eating the popcorn!” Cackling is always a great laugh, and Alex was doing her share of cackling.

Whaat? We walked over to the  kitchen french door and lo and behold, there indeed was a cow munching on our popcorn. It was a big solid black cow and it was loving the popcorn. This was the year I made a large popcorn garland for the Christmas tree, so there was a heap of popcorn on the mound.  Popcorn was coming out of both sides of his mouth. The cackling from Little One continued. Adam took a break from putting a dog on a roof  in the village to join us at the door.

“Mommy, you never said a cow would come to the mound,” she managed to say between her wonderful laugh. Adam stood there watching the cow munching like it hadn’t been fed in a while.  It was a funny sight, especially since the most we were expecting were blue jays or crows.

a similar cow

We stood there for a long while, actually stunned that there was a cow in our yard. Our neighbors had cows, but they lived down over the hill and were far away from us. I knew it had to belong to them. The cow must have slipped through a broken barb-wired fence and trotted away and decided to visit us, I guess.

After I made the call and our neighbor came to retrieve the popcorn munching cow, we continued to decorate the tree and my son continued messing with the village, placing the little Christmas town on alert for the boy lost after jumping off a bridge.

It was a wonderful, wonderful memory and I thank my facebook friend who found a goat in her yard this morning.

It made me cackle.

What The Hell, Seagull?

Gull drool (Photo credit: Tom Clifton)

I saw a seagull today. I realize that is not an unusual observation for many. People always see them at the beach. After all, that’s where they belong. So, why the hell are they flying around my local Walmart’s parking lot? In West Virginia.

I came to Fairmont to go to college in 1974 and there were a few seagulls in the Middletown Mall parking lot. I was confused then and I am confused now. They have no business being in the mountains of West Virginia. That is against the laws of nature. Why, that would be like seeing a polar bear on a Miami beach, a rattle snake crawling along in the Arctic, or a moose hanging out in Central Park. So, after going through more “animals out of their element” scenarios, I decided I needed to learn more about seagulls and why they are in Fairmont, West Virginia. We only have streams and rivers. And they aren’t even cool rivers, like the Columbia…..or the mighty Mississippi. No, my seagulls are near the Tygart and the West Fork Rivers. There is no sand, no waves, no crabs to peck at. Why, oh why, are they flying above me in the freaking Walmart parking lot? The search was on.

Many people are perplexed as well. A woman wrote from Iowa about seeing seagulls in her Kmart parking lot. Many other land-locked puzzled people were wondering the same thing. Is it a migration route? And if so, where the hell are they coming from or going to in Iowa? That makes no sense at all. Iowa is too far away. And a blogging friend informed me that the seagull is the state bird of Utah. Utah!  Seems that years and years ago locusts were eating a lot of crops and all of a sudden seagulls appeared and ate the locust. The Mormons saw that as a sign and the next thing you know, they’ve got a state bird. Apparently, the seagulls in that state like the brine in the Great Salt Lake.

Maybe the seagulls think West Virginia is part of Virginia. They, afterall, have Virginia Beach, seagull capital of a small stretch of beach. There are a lot of geographically challenged people out there who think West Virginia is western Virginia. Maybe the seagulls think the same.

Years ago, near Point Pleasant, West Virginia, people thought they saw a strange flying “thing” that was dubbed Mothman. Hysteria reigned in that small Ohio River town for many years afterwards. Mothman supposedly had red eyes, a large wingspan and could pick up a German Shephard and carry it off. There is even a statue to Mothman and a Mothman festival. But, a wildlife biologist said all along it was a sandhill crane,  a large American crane almost as high as a man with a seven foot wingspan featuring red circles around its eyes. He said  the bird may have wandered out of its migration route.

I guess not all birds know what the hell they are doing. Sure, Canadian geese flaunt their knowledge of their ABC’s by flying in a V formation. They fly south for the winter. Well, they used to until they decided that since these silly Americans are  feeding them, they’d just stay all year long. We can’t get rid of them or their trail of slimy algae green poop.

So, maybe my Walmart seagull got lost on his way to Bora Bora or Aruba or where ever they fly on their migration route. I had no idea there were so many varieties of gulls. All I know is that they can attack. I know this because I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Tippi Hedren got pecked in the forehead by one.

In the end, I guess I feel sorry for the seagull who is living at the Walmart parking lot. Where does he sleep at night? Sitting on a light pole can’t be fun. Doesn’t he miss the sound of the ocean waves lulling him to sleep?  And if he doesn’t leave, will the crows let him hang out with them? They are usually a tight group, not making friends easily.

I did just read that we may be confused by their name, as it implies the “sea.” Someone wrote there is no such thing as a “sea” gull.  Gulls can adapt inland. Well, then maybe their name should change. Canadian geese are no longer Canadian….. Hermit crabs are quite social……a teddy bear hamster is not a damn teddy bear……

and a jumbo shrimp is not a big little thing. Whoever is naming animals is on drugs.

Beepo and Geepo, The African Frogs

I admire teachers who have little class pets in their classroom. Well, not really. But, you have to give them some credit for the extra duty contract they take on by hosting live things in their classroom. Someone has to feed them every day. Someone has to change their habitat. And there are benefits. Some children do not have the opportunity to own a pet. And they  could, after all, save your life one day, like the little ferret in Kindergarten Cop did. He was hiding in a student’s jacket, and jumped out and bit the bad guy. The little fellow saved the entire school. You know it could happen.

As I walk down the hall each morning, I can see the little habitrails for Mrs. Karr’s hamsters. I don’t know what else she has in her room. I am sure her second graders appreciate having furry little fun. Further on, I can smell the African frog in Mrs. Arthur’s room. She couldn’t find the lttle hopper one morning. An all-points bulletin was put out for him. I have been feeling sorry for the frog for a year or two now. It just sits in a small aquarium, just hanging there, with its face above water. Poor thing. The whole room smells like algae water. Until last week, she finally changed it.

She changed the water and filled it up too high. Somehow overnight, the frog  got out of the aquarium via a small hole at the top of the container lid and made a run for it. Well, it made a hop for it. She was shocked. She thought that he should be found dead near the container. I thought for sure it floundered or hopped somewhere in her classroom. The kids would surely find the froggy, dead and covered in dust bunnies. I am positive the frog commited suicide. I mean, if I was that frog, I would have made a hop for it long ago.

It made me think back to Beepo and Geepo. I had always owned weird animals.  I had a salamander named Newt. Thumper the skunk joined our household when I was in college. I had Igor the iguana between my hamster Growl Bear and my Guinea pig, Quincy Bozo. I’m surprised my roommates didn’t frown upon the new additions I brought home with me throughout the years. Especially Beepo and Geepo.

Beepo and Geepo were African frogs that I bought when I was in high school. I think I was in high school. My bff Ramaine and I bought them on the same day. I had them forever. One day Beepo died. Or maybe it was Geepo. It was hard to tell them apart. They weren’t wearing collars. They must have been identical twins. My roommate, Paula, started complaining about Beepo/Geepo  chirping every night.

“Vickie, your damn toad is chirping. He chirps all night long.”

“Oh, he does not. He is under water. Frogs can’t chirp.” I imagined that maybe he could “blurp.” But, chirp, oh hell no.  I also wanted to remind her that there is a difference between a frog and a toad. Get it right, Miss Fairmont State beauty queen.

Well, I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and heard a cricket chirping. Well, I’ll be. Beepo/Geepo was chirping.  Aww, he was crying out for his mate. I felt awful for him. So, I made sure that I tapped his glass and paid more attention to him, which is a little hard to do.

I honestly don’t remember how long Beepo/Geepo lived after that. They can live for a long time. Ramaine’s frog lived forever and grew to be the size of a…..baby bullfrog.

So, as I applauded when they found Mrs. Arthur’s African frog alive, I also felt sorry for it. It just hangs there in the water all freaking day…in greenish water with a fake plant nearby. Her class takes turns feeding it and well, that’s all you can do with an African frog. I’m thinking it needs a friend. I’m going to bring that up at the next Faculty Senate meeting. Ok, I sure as hell will not, but dammit, I can’t stand walking by it every day and I know it is lonely. And it makes me think of Beepo and Geepo, circa 1976.

I know that you are probably wondering if I also have class animals in my room, and the answer would be, “Oh, hell yeah.” I have spiders and other crawling things that the kids scream when they see one by their desks. I rescue it with a sheet of notebook paper and put it back on the windowsill. I would not have a class animal because I would not teach. I would be watching that damn rodent going around and around in its wheel. The kids would not be listening to a damn thing I said. I was not attentive when I was a child, so I am sure I would be distracted by a hamster biting at the metal bars trying to get the hell out.

I remember two years ago getting ready to step out into the hall when I noticed something near my feet. Mrs. Arthur also had a damn hermit crab in her classroom that escaped somehow and was walking down the hall. She let the kids decorate its shell, so I could see the shiny sequins as it clawed its way to me. I remember sitting down at lunch, saying, “I almost stepped on Diana’s goddamn hermit crab this morning.”  See, it was trying to get the hell out of that classroom. Her gerbil, Digger, escaped for days last year. There is a pattern going on here. I’m thinking pets don’t want to be in Mrs. Arthur’s room and they are planning and executing prison breaks.

I do have a pet panda.  I put the Panda Cam from the San Diego Zoo on one of the computers so they can  watch the new baby panda. I told them that this was our class pet. They don’t see to have a problem with that at all.

I think about my African frog pets a lot, only because of……….Lonely, the one across the hall. I just named him.

It sure as hell isn’t Lucky.

Making an Ass out of Myself at the Zoo

There are advantages to going places by yourself. You can set your own time limits, do what you want, and go home when you don’t want to be there anymore. You can’t do that when you are with other people. Well, I guess you could, but I am thinking your circle of friends would get a little smaller each time you brought down your gavel.

Ever since I visited the Bronx Zoo in April while visting my daughter in the Big Apple, I have been on a zoo kick. I hadn’t been to a zoo in years and really didn’t think much of them. I almost cried the last time I saw a dolphin in a very small swimming area. I did cry when that nut case let out all of his zoo animals before he took his own life. All of those animals had to be killed. It broke my heart. So, no, zoos weren’t high up on my bucket list. But they are now.

I fell in love with the Bronx Zoo and had a blast taking pictures of the animals with my new camera that has a zoom lens. I had fun.

I just can’t take pictures, though. If it doesn’t make me laugh, I really don’t stay with anything. I found humor in my next subject: my  daughter. I wanted to take a break and she plopped down on a caterpillar seat of some sort that other women were sitting on. So, I laughed and motioned for her to move over like she was with the people.

The girl next to her thought she was hogging the caterpillar or something.

I think she thought Alex was too perky or maybe invaded her personal space. She was not a happy zoo attendee.

She left. And that’s how you get the caterpillar all to yourself for a picture.

Well, it’s been a few months since I visited the Bronx Zoo. If I wanted to visit all of the zoos in the United States, like I wrote on my Bucket List on Pinterest, I thought I’d better get a move on. So, I headed up to the Pittsburgh Zoo. I went by myself. It is a 2 hour drive and I just wanted to do something by myself. Thank God, because I got good photos only because I acted like a loon.

I hadn’t been to the Pittsburgh Zoo since my children were little. I was looking for a nice quiet day, strolling through the zoo, taking an occasional picture of a cool animal. Well, I was surprised how close we were able to get to the animals. Oh sure, some had the foggy glass that separated us, but some were open and close, especially with my zoom lens….and my mouth.

People were taking pictures of a lion and were making clicking noises for the animal to look their way so they could snap a picture. I noticed this at every exhibit.  The animals weren’t buying into this bullshit. We were close enough that the animals could hear us, so why make stupid clicking noises. So, I started talking to them.

First up was the lion. I didn’t have to talk too loud. She heard me. “Aw, look how pretty you are.” She perked up and I snapped her picture.

Notice she has a “what the hell was that?” look.  I decided that clicking noises were bad, and sweet talking was good. Now, if someone would have been with me, I wouldn’t have said a word. Oh, shit, that’s a lie. I found something that worked. So, I was off to the next exhibit.  The elephants were hanging out near the stream across from the viewing area. If I had peanuts or a beer can to throw at them, I could have hit them. That’s how close they were. Time for me to sweet talk the baby elephant.

The first time I yelled over, “Aw, look how pretty you are,” the woman beside me looked at me like I had lost my mind. I didn’t care. The elephant heard me and looked right over. I got a good shot and someone standing behind me said,  “Nice shot.”  Well, the elephant kept staring at me, so I started talking a bit more and added a “Just look at how pretty you are.” The elephant walked to the water’s edge across from me and started moving its trunk back and forth and flapping its ears. I heard cameras snapping. I realized the lady was now filming the elephant and now had my lovely voice recorded on her camera. I talked a bit more and then the elephant ran back when the zookeepers appeared with food. Time to move on.

 I was starting to feel a little cocky because I now realized that I was like a Dr. Doolittle. I could talk to the zoo  animals. I was able to tame all the critters that came to my back porch. I tamed a skunk to walk a few steps into my kitchen to get a peanut. I had a squirrel that would knock on my french door for a peanut. I had six turkeys actually run to me when I opened the door and yelled, “Hey, you guys!” like the creature on the Goonies. Yes, I knew I had a way with backyard critters. But, zoo animals. I would have to hit a couple more exhibits before I could put that crown on my head.

  I could not believe my eyes when I went to the next exhibit. Gorilla land. They were right in front of us. There was no window. There was a canyon-like separation and that was all. They were so close. My zoom found the old man first. I wasn’t talking yet.

 This guy creeped me out a bit. He started staring at me after I took this picture. Sure, there were other peopel squeezed in beside me, but I have 7 pictures of him and I swear he is looking at me. I decided to start talking. I immediately got a response.

 He turned around and looked at me. “Yes, you. Look how pretty you are.”  I started snapping pictures. Some guy behind me told me to keep talking. Oh, sir, you have just created a monster. I was being egged on. Ok, sure. You have no idea who the hell I am and you will never see me again. So,I started talking to the gorillas.

 After taking a bunch of pictures of this guy, he looked at his gorilla friend like he was saying, “Is she talkin’ to me. You talkin to me? What fun. Well, after I heard a couple people now yelling out at the gorillas, I decided that my time with the big guys was drawing to a close. I moved on and talked to the other animals. Two broke my heart. The bear looked at me like, “Please get me the hell out of here.”

  A black bear doesn’t live on rocks. The poor thing had no grass or trees to rub his back. They threw him a chew toy and that was about it. He wanted to go home with me, I’m sure of it. There weren’t many people at this exhibit, so I talked to the bear for a long time. We bonded.

My last picture was of an African painted dog of I don’t know where. I’m assuming Africa.  I didn’t know.  I just know there were a pack of them sleeping. So, I didn’t want to wake them up. One was looking at me. I smiled and waved. I’m sure I looked like a loon. I laughed at myself. Did I expect a head nod or a wave of his paw? I have no idea. But, I got one shot before I left. I was leaning over so far to get a good picture, I thought how easy it would be to fall. That would not have been good.

I was happy with my pictures and thought that I would share some of them with you. I hope to head to the Cincinnati or Columbus Zoo next. That may not be until next summer. But,in the end, I was happy that I acted like a loon. Sometimes you have to go out of your comfort zone to get a response. I am beginning to think that I am quite comfortable with acting like I’ve lost my marbles.

After all, they will never see me again, right?

Wrong. I saw the guy at Walmart in my hometown just yesterday.

Just kidding.

Hickory Dickory Dock

My daughter told me a while back that she heard something in the walls of her New York City apartment. Then she called and told me she saw a mouse scurrying by in the kitchen. She named it, even though she only met it once. Or twice. She is so like her momma. But, it made me think of what else could scurry through her apartment. I guess a rat could scurry.

When I hear the word, “scurrying,” all I can think of is mice. Mice scurry. Nothing else scurries. Nothing. Well, the freedictionary.com uses stupid examples of the word, “scurrying”:

“….lashed the scurrying horses” and “…..the pedestrians scurried for cover.”

I just don’t see it. I know what scurrying looks like. The word evokes sneakiness. Running away from trouble quickly. Horses are not subtle or sneaky. Neither are pedestrians. I really think these dictionary people need to confer with me more often. I would set them straight. Amazon.com is selling a book that I would tend to agree with its title:

Something “scurried” past Obama at a White House press conference. I am sure there is a metaphor for that one. I myself, wondered how he got by security. He scurried, that’s how.

I finally found a reference that I agree with. Merriam-Webster has their shit together. They used “….mice scurried around the house.” I like this example, because it is a true statement. Mice scurried around the house…… They sure did.

My house. But, let me back up a bit.

The first introduction to a mouse for many of us is when we are little, with the introduction of Mickey Mouse. Mickey is not scary, or rodenty. (I truly enjoy making up new words).  He doesn’t carry diseases like the mice and rats did during “Black Death” during the 14th century, that killed twenty-five million people. Twenty-five MILLION.

The Danse Macabre -photo via wikipedia creative commons

Oh, they still carry diseases. A bunch of them. So, bubonic plague is nothing to laugh at. The oriental rat flea was the main culprit back then, hitchhiking on a black rat. I know a rat is a rat and a mouse is a mouse, but some view a mouse as a rat. Some view a chihuahua as a rat. Some ex-husbands are rats. So, you know, whatever.

Maybe we should be pissed at Walt Disney for making his main character a mouse. Children all around the world think that it is ok to pick up a field mouse and hug it. (I know where you think I’m going with this, but no, never hugged a mouse.)

But, you gotta love Mickey Mouse. Sure, I’ve worn mouse ears and have seen my plastic flip flops melt from standing in two hour lines on asphalt at Disney World in August. Sure, I have no brain. But, it was for my kids. I introduced them to the main mouse when they were little.

My next meeting with a mouse is when we learned to sing the ever popular “Little Rabbit Foo Foo.”  This is how we sang it-

Little Rabbit Foo Foo

Hopping through the forest

scooping up the field mice

and bashing them on the head….

Now, I have to admit that all of the online versions of Little Rabbit Foo Foo has him scooping up field mice and ”bopping” them on the head. I am thinking that we changed the version. Or, I am thinking we were violent children. Regardless, mice were getting hit on the head left and right. Why?

Because they scurry and can’t be trusted.

There were other mice. For example, let’s take a look at Speedy Gonzales.

Speedy Gonzales (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Speedy Gonzales was the self-proclaimed, “fastest mouse in all Mexico.” Speedy never scurried. He wasn’t known as Scurry Gonzales, was he now? No, he was speedy, quick, and efficient. He got in and got out.

Now his cousin is another story, but he doesn’t scurry either. No, his cousin is a slow-poke. Slow Poke Rodriguez.

Slowpoke was the slowest mouse in all Mexico. He would never scurry. I think he was drunk half of the time. If he was on The Andy Griffith show, he would have been sitting in a cell with Otis, the town drunk, discussing stuff. You would never see Otis scurry either, I mean, if he was a pedestrian.

One of my favorite mice was Jerry Mouse from the cartoon, Tom and Jerry. Oh, the trouble those two crazy kids got into! Even when I was little, I had a problem with his name. Who the hell names a mouse, Jerry? Jerry Mouse. Sounds stupid. Harry would have been better. Tom and Harry. Maybe they had another friend named Dick. That would have made sense. Tom, Dick, and Harry. But, the names of the cartoon characters was the least of their problems. It was the violence that made some parents shudder. Yeah, parents who lived in a box and never got to watch Saturday morning cartoons during the era that cartoons ruled. My era!

But, besides watching Tom get electrocuted and sliced with a knife, this cartoon taught me about rivalry. Jerry taunted Tom. Tom chased Jerry. Tom got abused and injured. Comic violence. Poor Tom makes numerous attempts to catch Jerry. I mean, it is Tom’s house. He’s a house cat, just trying to protect his owner from contracting the bubonic plague I’m guessing.

 I’m trying to think of all of the ways they tried to kill each other. It was like War of the Roses, but without a divorce. My favorite one is when Jerry put Tom’s tail in the wall outlet to electrocute him. He would light up and you could see his skeleton. Oh, cartoons, how you make me laugh! They also used an axe, guns, explosives, traps, and poison to try ot finish each other off.  I also liked the one where Jerry put matches at Tom’s feet and lit the matches. Yeah, I bet there were little kids in the early sixties lighting their baby sisters on fire after watching that episode.

The final reference to a mouse is the most important to me. Hickory Dickory Dock. We all know the rhyme.

Hickory Dickory Dock

The mouse ran up the clock

The clock struck one

The mouse ran down

Hickory Dickory Dock

I never knew what this nursery rhyme meant. I was smart enough to realize that “one” and “down” didn’t rhyme worth a shit. But, but besides that, what the hell was supposed to happen at 1:00? And what is the importance of a mouse?

Well, I found out years later.

My husband and I purchased 13 acres of farm land in 1989.  We decided to build a house on a site that an old dairy barn was previously located. It was an exciting time. I had fun decorating the house. We purchased an antique gingerbread clock and set it upon the mantle in our hearth room. I called the room the “Hearth Room” because I refused to call any room a “living room.” And, well, it had a hearth in it. A living room reminds me of plastic on expensive furniture and a room with no television. Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

After a couple of years, we brought home a kitten from the animal shelter for our daughter. Whiskers. Now, Whiskers was a great cat. She was entertaining and could leap buildings in a single bound. She could locate a spider and pounce on it as quickly as she saw it.

But, she didn’t give a shit about mice.

Of course, we didn’t know about the mice either. But, Whiskers sure did.

My kitchen had an island where the stove was located along with a seating area with three highback stools. I loved my kitchen. Sometimes late at night, I would walk downstairs to get a cold drink of water and see Whiskers perched on top of the island. What the hell are you doing sitting up there, Whiskers?  Boy are you going to get in trouble if he sees you sitting where we cook.

Well, this happened quite a bit. The kids told me that they saw Whiskers sitting either on top of the stove island or right beside the island, looking under the stove. Uh oh.

Uh Oh for sure. I was wondering if there was a mouse in the house. After all, we built our house in a field. A mouse may try to infiltrate the solid construction. My husband would not hear of it. “This house is built air tight.”

Tell that to the mice.

Mice as in plural.

One day, I decided to clean and dust the stuff on my mantle. Normally, I don’t take the gingerbread clock down. I just spray some Pledge on it and dust it and around it. But, I was feeling especially energetic and decided to take it off its lofty spot.

Shit.

A mouse had built a nest in the back of the clock. A nest. In the back of the clock.

Hickory Dickory Damn!

So, that meant that Whiskers would watch a nightly parade of mouse or mice coming from somewhere near the stove, scurrying across the kitchen floor, turn the corner, scurry through the Hearth Room, up the side of the mantle to build its nest. Ok, so unless the mouse used U-Haul, it had to make many many trips to the clock. And that also meant that it liked it enough in my house to make a nest there.

Nice job, Whiskers.

So, after I showed my husband that a mouse or many mouses (mice, whatever) were making their way to the clock, he put a couple of traps under the house, in our crawlspace. I cold hear some snapping every once in a while and it just made me cringe. Poor mice. But, what made me really cringe is that I found another nest in my laundry room, behind a shelf. And I found yet another one when I was hunting for the remote control down in a couch in the Hearth Room. We had all been sitting on baby mice.

Dear God, the cat probably popped some popcorn and watched the fun unfold nightly. Why try to catch mice? Her bowl was never empty. I did notice that she seemed to be eating more than usual. Ew, the mice were eating her cat food.

I wouldn’t let the husband put a snapping trap under the stove. I didn’t want to hear the trap go off. I can’t kill a spider, let alone a poor field mouse.

photo via
http://thelaughingpet-ourdailybark.blogspot.com

So, he purchased one of those traps that a mouse can crawl into but can’t get out and then I would make him drive the mouse a mile or two down the road and set it free. I think we caught several mice that way until Spook showed up at our door. Spook, the stray cat. I talked the husband into letting him stay. Caspar the cat showed up soon after. Two outside cats kept the mice away after that. Over the years, Muffin the cat and Izzie the cat have also stayed awhile. Mice were never a problem after that.

Three years ago, I divorced and moved out of our home. I never spoke of the mice in the house to anyone because it just makes you feel sort of….cockroachy in a way. But, hey, it’s not my house anymore, now is it?

The clock just struck 1

Oh My God, Here Comes a Flood

I have to drive the back roads to get to my school each morning. You city people just have no idea. You can hop on the A subway train and just hold on until you get to your destination. Sure, you may have to walk up and down stairs to get to the subway, but it isn’t a real chore. A real chore is driving from the country INTO the country.

My drive to and fro is in what I call segments. There is one segment from where I live to over Manley Chapel Road to Route 19. Most of you have no idea what I am talking about, so just think small country roads with no berm and a bunch of dead deer on the side. One dead deer has his little leg lying right in the road. Move over, dead deer. Anyway, this segment is where I shall die, I am sure. The road is paved and the two lane weaves and turns and meanders up and down and around. And trucks really enjoy driving left of center. So, drivers on both side love to speed and take the curves like they are wearing a helmet and an outfit of corporations’ logos. Yes, this is where I will die, no doubt about it. I was hoping it would be in my sleep, but things don’t always go my way.

The second segment is a fisherman’s paradise…if one enjoys fishing in pot holes. The pot holes on Idamay Road are gigantic. I really think they could stock them with fish. This road climbs a little in altitude and this is where I lose my cell phone service at times. Every once in a while you will see a couple of parked cars on the top of Idamay hill, talking on their cell phones.

The third segment is the Farmington to Fairview Road. This is where I stop at Subway to get my 6in. turkey breast on Italian, provolone, little lettuce, little onion and 1 narrow line of mayonaisse about three days a week. They see me coming and start preparing it. How’s that for service? I also have someone pump gas for me at this intersection also.  Segment three, not so bad. I don’t mind this portion of my daily drive.

It takes me higher in the sky and big hills that are not fun in the winter. But, this is also where I usually get behind old people drivers. I then cross the railroad tracks over a bridge and into the town of Fairview. Now, this is where I stop at the Dairy Mart. If you are ever in Fairview and stop at the Fairview Dairy Mart, watch where you walk, ok?  Just warning you, because the coal miners who stop here after work for their bottle of beer really enjoy spitting out their chewing tobacco in the parking lot. It’s so much fun tip-toeing around it. I end then at my school and all is right with the world. I have made it another day.

But, today just sucked. Sucked, I tell ya. Because we had a little bit too much rain. Now, you have to understand, city people, that our county  has a lot of streams that run beside our winding ass roads. I can get home several different ways. But, today’s drive home turned into a race to see what roads weren’t flooded….the worst.

It rained all damn day. I didn’t mind it, because at least it wasn’t snow. But, it rained. The windows in my classroom were leaking. I had kids running for paper towels so I can blot the long window sill. When I left at 3:45, I had no idea it would take me so long to get home. The first two segments on my return trip weren’t that bad. Sure there were a couple of places where the water ran over the road, but it wasn’t bad. I just remember thinking that the water was a bit high. I cursed as I hit the fishing pot holes, as they were hidden by the water on the road.

The third segment was a totally different story. First, I had to deal with rocks in the road. Many many rocks and mini landslides.

Many portions of this road where covered with rocks. This is farmland. You would not believe all of the flooding land. I saw some cows wearing life vests as they floated by. That farmer was thinking when he purchased those vests. Cowabunga, Dude.

This is where I started talking out loud. My “Oh my God” repetition first started like a Valley Girl remark. “And like, Oh my God.” But, the more my poor tires had to creep over small boulders (I laugh at my oxymorons), the more my “Oh my God” changed. I sounded like a damn pet store parrot. “Oh my God….Oh my God…..Oh my God…..Oh my God…..” But, really, “Oh my God.”

And then I came upon raging water. Crossing the roadways. What the hell? I mean, “Oh my God!”  Notice, I am using an exclamation mark now. I had never seen it this bad before. What is crazy is that this road is not in a valley where you would think it would flood. Little pockets of rivers were now crossing my path. Ok, I just looked back. Maybe “raging” was a bit much. If it was raging, it would have taken my car. Wow, didn’t think about that.

Then, a traffic back up at the top of the final hill on Manley Chapel Road. Little cars had pulled over onto the berm. Oh wait, there is no berm on that road. Little cars stopped. So, some big trucks went around them. Those little cars knew something that I did not know. Oh shit.  I mean, “Oh my freaking God.” There in front of me, at the base of the hill was a river crossing the road. Trucks were trying to get through it one by one. I was behind a Jeep. I was in a Santa Fe. The problem with that is that I FORGOT I was in a Santa Fe. I was in a truck.

I decided the best thing to do is drive like an idiot and hope I didn’t stall out. I rushed through it, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. The water was spewing up by side windows. Muddy water. I got through! On the other side, a guy in a big pick-up smiled and gave me the thumbs up. He was impressed with my stupidity.

I didn’t take a picture of the Mississippi River crossing Manley Chapel Road. I was too busy with my hands planted 2 and 10 on the steering wheel, uttering, “Oh my God.” I finally got through and took the above picture. This is actually what it looked like in about seven or eight pockets on this section of road. Notice there weren’t any little cars in the photo. Because little car people have brains.

Manley Chapel intersection via Facebook Denise Gum Ice

After getting through several areas of more water over the roadway, I passed several homes that were surrounded by water. On Facebook, people were posting pictures of what it looked like in other parts of the county. It was unreal. Many people weren’t on Facebook because they were trying to stop the water coming down into their basements. I drove into a nice dry garage. I was home.

So, I am writing this, courtesy of a two hour delay we have this morning. I’m usually out the door by seven. Only four of the 55 counties in the state of West Virginia have a delay. It’s always nice getting that call in the morning. So, I thought I would sit down and write a post about my drive home before I head off on that same road, hoping that the small boulders (oxy) are now on the side of the road.

I guess I could have just said, “Oh my God, the roads were covered with water.”

“Like, Oh my God.”

The Staring Contest

You know, it’s really hard for a hyperactive kid to win a staring contest. It just can’t happen. Through the years, I have been asked if I wanted to have a staring contest, and my answer has never changed.

“Oh, hell no.”

Of course, I don’t really think I said that when I was ten or eleven the first time I was asked to participate in a staring contest. I am sure I obliged, ready to stare down my opponent. But, it never happened. It couldn’t happen. I did try.

The object of a staring contest is an easy one. Stare at someone without taking your eyes off of them. The first one who breaks the stare is a loser. A big time loser. So, of course, everyone wanted to play Hyper Girl. I didn’t know I was hyper at the time. My mom never told me. She just gave me a little green tranquilizer every day and called it my “car sick pill.”  You’d think that with a tranquilizer digesting and spreading calm and coolness throughout my tiny body that I would be able to sit still long enough to win a staring contest.

“Vickie…you already lost…..Yes, you did. You just looked away!!……….Yes, you did………………..Yes, you did…….Wanna play again?………………..You did it again…………..Yes, you did. I win…….Vickie, you looked in my eyes for like ten seconds and then looked away………..Yes you did.”

So, this hyperactive child learned to hate staring contests.  As I grew older, I was a side-line watcher….for a few minutes. They just bored me to death. I remember one time watching a neighborhood staring contest with some older kids outside at dusk,  until I saw a spider spinning a web. I was mesmerized. What staring contest? And really, in the end, what is the big deal? It’s not like it’s an arm wrestling contest. At least that’s a physical challenge. A staring contest is just an eye control contest. Unless you had a lazy eye, drifting toward the middle, or you were hyperactive or you had pink eye and your eye was leaking, anyone could be in a staring contest. Most people can look straight ahead without moving their eyes. Big whoop. Picture the Hulk Hogan winning a staring contest, and then ripping off his shirt after the kill.

“I am so tough. I just beat someone in a freakin staring contest. YES! ….. Take that, Grandma!”

Staring contests have been around for a very long time. I think boxers have the best stares. They march up to their opponent in the middle of the ring, getting right in their face, and just stare. Pretty intimidating. Did you know Rocky Balboa was in a staring contest?

 So, to me, staring contests were stupid. I stayed away from being in one or even watching one. Until many years later, when the chance arose once again. I was a mother, probably about forty-four. My daughter was a spectator that day, and I believe she may have been fourteen or so. I am probably wrong, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I almost died that day……because of a staring contest.

 The day started like any ordinary day. It was a beautiful summer evening. My daughter and I were outside, standing on the brick patio right beside our house. I loved that property. We had wildlife visiting our place every day. I kept binoculars on my kitchen counter so I could quickly check out a new bird, or the fighting neighbors. Never a dull moment.

 This one particular summer evening was one for the memory book. I spotted a deer, standing down in front of our house, taking more than his share of the fallen apples. He had his back to us. Hmmmm.

“I bet I can sneak down real close to that deer.” I said to my daughter. She stayed at the top of the hill by the house. I realize the picture was taken in winter, but just humor me for a minute. The deer was beside the tree that I have noted with the red circle. I began my trek down the hill, moving slowly and quietly. The deer did not hear me. I looked back at my daughter, smirking at my agile stalking.

I got pretty close to the deer. He turned and was shocked to see this strange creature so close to him. I froze. He stared. I stayed frozen. He stared.

 He then snorted and stomped his foot on the ground. I knew what he was doing. He had no plans to leave the plentiful bounty that was lying on the ground in front of him. Them apples were for him. I stared back, and then snorted and stomped my foot. I was wearing tennis shoes, so my stomp sounded intimidating. He snorted again, raised his hoof and kept it in the air, lingering for a few seconds, and then stomped again. I snorted and stomped again. I was winning this freaking starting contest. Ha! I finally will win one. Sure, it may have been against an animal, but a staring contest is a staring contest.

Shit. I took my eyes off the deer to look back up the hill at my daughter. When my eyes went back to the deer, he snorted and charged at me. Holy shit! I let out a scream and then ran like the wind. Luckily, I had just changed from flip flops to tennis shoes, or I would have been deer stomped.

I never ran so fast in my whole life. I mean, there was a snorting, stomping deer with unchewed apple in his mouth coming after me. I had no idea when, but I felt that he was going to tackle me from behind and kick me to death. So, I did the Forrest Gump thing and I ra-an. I made it to the top of the hill to greet my laughing daughter. She couldn’t quit laughing at me.

“Mom, I never knew you could run. Haahahahahhahahahha.”

Well, when you have a crazy deer charging at you, you really should move. The deer chased me halfway up the hill, but must have known by my pathetic “Monster is chasing girl” scream, that the apples were pretty much his. He went back down the the apple tree, knowing that he wasn’t going to be bothered anymore.

And for me, well, that was my last staring contest. Deer will win every time.

 Killer deer

Bologna Fishing

I don’t know if I am much of a camper. We just didn’t camp out much when I was little. I can’t even imagine the Mendenhall family, aka the Griwsolds, sitting around the campfire, singing Kumbaya. I imagine it would go something like this:

Mom: “Elwood! Elwood!…….Where did that man go? ……I need you to put up this tent…..Elwood!…….I’m telling you, when they were passing out brains, your father thought they said, “train” and left…….Elwood!!………………Well, we are just going to have to go home.”

Elwood- (2 miles away, press camera in hand). “Ahhh, just look at this beautiful tree!” (Takes pictures of the probable pine tree from different angles. Can’t hear Mom because he has wandered purposely away from the camp.)

Vickie- “Mom, look what I found! (Holding a skunk.) Can it sleep with us in the tent? I think he is lonely.”

Cheryl- Cheryl is still in the car, having another one of her famous temper tantrums. We can hear her muted screams through the rolled up car windows. “I HATE YOU…….STUPID MOM…..I HATE YOU…….” .BLAH BLAH BLAH SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM KICK THE BACK SEAT REPEATEDLY…….SILENCE…………POUTING……….

David- (Holding a stick, trying to wittle with a butter knife) Smiling…”This is fun.”

No, I can’t even imagine camping back then. My dad was a scoutmaster, so he used to go camping all of the time. It’s just when Mom was thrown into the mix that Dad just wanted no part of it. My dad was always “damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.” That was his motto. My mom was one of those rolling pin wives. Bitch bitch bitch. Dad was Wally Cox. Wally Cox was a mild-mannered, soft spoken actor, aka the voice of Underdog. “There’s no need to fear, Underdog is here!” Well, except my sweet dad sounded just like Ronald Reagan.

So, needless to say, the Mendenhall family rarely went camping. To compensate for our outdoor challenged lifestyle, my dad built a playhouse in the backyard. I know you are probably picturing a little playhouse nestled in a tree line on the edge of the property. Oh, no. This playhouse was as soon as you opened the back door.  Down three steps, turn left and Voila! A cabin…..for camping. Swell.

I went camping when I was in the Campfire girls. Campfire girls were like the Girl Scouts, but we had campfires. They had Samoa cookies to sell while we put marshmallows on the end of whittled sticks. Well, most of the girls put their marshmallows over the fire. Not me. That was gross…and black. Who the hell wants to eat charbroiled marshmallows. And then some older girl came up with a bright idea.

image via whatscookingamerica.net

“Hey, Susie, I see you are eating grahamn crackers. Can I have one?  And you, Cindy Lou, I see that chocolate bar you are eating. Can I have a small section?  Next thing you know, the older camper put a melted marshmallow and a piece of chocolate between a graham cracker sandwich and ate the damn thing.

“Hmmmmm, I wish I had “some more.” And the rest is history.

image via wikipedia

You believe me, right?

Well, I wasn’t much of a Campfire camper. While walking to the pool one day in my bathing suit, clothing wrapped in my towel, my underpants fell out of my towel and onto the ground. Everyone laughed at me, and I wanted to cry. I sent a postcard home to my mom that I wanted to come home. How funny, because I lived like ten minutes from the camp and we were probably only there for two nights at the most, maybe. I was home before the postcard even arrived.

The next time I went camping was when I was in love. My boyfriend, (future husband, future ex-husband) nicknamed Magoo in my posts, was a list maker, so we had everything you could possibly think of. He even had cut wood on the top of his car. We were, afterall, going to a National forest, so they would probably frown on cutting down trees for fire wood. The first time we went camping, Magoo had everything packed in so tightly you couldn’t add even a spoon (just a slight exaggeration). He had a hatch back, and when he slammed it down to shut, the window burst. He didn’t check to make sure the damn hatch back would close without hitting something. No problem. Magoo took out several black garbage bags, duct tape, and after a few minutes we were on our way. Well, after I swept the glass off to the side of the curb.

We usually went with another couple. The first time we went camping, we took Brent and Jeannie with us. Brent was Magoo’s best friend. We drove to the Monongahela State Forest in our wild wonderful West Virginia mountains. I know West Virginia gets a bad rap, but it is so beautiful in the mountains. Breathtaking, really. The first time out we were hunting for a place called The Sinks of Gandy, a cave that we wanted to explore. I was all about seeing some bats.

image via cavingintro.net

The Sinks of Gandy are a tunnel that the Gandy Creek flows into and disappears into the mountain.  It is on private property, and is actually hard to find. We weren’t all the way stupid. Just partially stupid. Years later, my son was a guide for a summer adventure camp, and made numerous trips to the Sinks.

But, anywho, the next thing you know, we are on a gravel road, stopped because a bunch of sheep were standing in the road, looking at us. Um, Magoo, where the hell are we?

So, we never found the Sinks of Gandy, and drove around forever. Where the hell are we going to camp? We finally found a sign for the Monongahela National Forest, dropped down the mountain, and a beautiful sight unfolded right in front of our eyes. It was beautiful.

 The Monongahela National Forest at Laurel Fork Campground

I immediately fell in love with the place. And there was no one else in the whole area for the first part of the long weekend. There was a large stream that ran by us, and a trail head in case we wanted to take a hike. It was perfect. It was Fourth of July weekend, so we had a cooler full of picnic food and bags and bags of snacks. The boys, who had been at fishing cabins throughout their lives, remembered the time they were stuck eating nothing but hot dogs for 2 days, so they packed a lot of food.

 Since I was not a camper, and the damn campground did not have any bathroom facilities whatsoever (that we knew of at that time), I made the guys build a bathroom area. I don’t even want to try to explain it, but it consisted of finding three small trees close to each other, a large piece of cloth (told you the man could pack), a hammer, and a couple of nails. Dig a hole, and a “dry creek bed” and we had ourselves a bathroom. Magoo even brought toilet paper and little garbage bags. Also, it looked like rain, so the guys put up a makeshift canopy, since we thought we would find a place that had a shelter or something. So, we improvised and it was fun.  Sort of. I couldn’t go past 10:00 in the morning without taking a shower. My skin starts to crawl, like I have cooties or something. I HAVE to take my shower. So, I walked over to the creek, walked in with my tennis shoes, and took a creek bath. Washed my hair and everything. It was so freaking cold. I thought I would turn to ice in the middle of the stream. Next thing you know, Magoo and Brent come running in, holding soap, laughing, and sat right down in the creek. They, too, I thought, must feel cooties after 10:00. Jeannie didn’t care. She put a scarf on her head and claimed that she liked being a dirtball. So be it.

So, yeah, it was a fun weekend.

Well, until the guys disappeared.

We were supposed to go fishing, and I hadn’t been fishing since I was little and went with my dad. I used to go all of the time, and either fished, or chased dragonflies around the lake. To this day, dragonflies are my favorite insects. I knew you would want to know that. The guys wanted to go outside the Monongahela Forest to find more firewood somewhere. And yes, Magoo had a saw with him. So, they hopped into the car without a back window and off they went.

And they never came back. Well, that’s what it felt like. It was at least four hours. We were pissed. So, we decided that we were going to fish all by ourselves. We didn’t need a man to put a worm on our hook. We could be hookers. (she cracks herself up) Well, hell, they were all gone. We were wormless. We had no dough balls. We had nothing.

Well, we did have bologna.

Jeannie and I cracked up, as we took a slice of bologna and tore it to look like a worm. A bologna worm. If colorful little bobbers or lures attracted fish, wouldn’t a worm dangling off of the hook?  It was a brilliant, hooker idea.

No it wasn’t.

The bologna hung on the hook for just a few seconds, and would then slide through the hook and fall into the creek.  We tried it a “couple” of times. Defeated, we went back under the canopy (that leaked later when it stormed), and just started drinking. We did get scared when two guys walked very close by our campsite. We saw them coming and we were very frightened. We ran to the tent and zipped ourselves up and looked out the little screened area. We were going to get raped. No doubt about it. All we had to defend ourselves was some bologna and a flashlight. But, wait. Magoo brought a handgun. (What did I tell you?) And it was in the tent. I could kill them.

Well, at the time, we had no idea that the start of a long hiking trail started right beside our tent. We knew it was nearby, but the trail went right by the tent. They were simply two hikers who were following the trail.

Our mountain men finally came back. They got lost. And they had no firewood. Worthless.

Jeannie and I were already drunk. Well, I had two beers, so I was sloshed.

The guys were so fixing us dinner that night. Magoo opened the cooler.

“Hey, what happened to those two packs of bologna?”

I guess I didn’t mention that we made two packs of bologna worms. We really thought we would get one to work.

We were hookers working our corner of the creekbed.

Two Bee or Not Two Bee

I’m allergic to bee stings. Like anaphylatic shock allergic. So, imagine how mad I was this week when two of my co-workers started using bee pollen to help them lose weight. Bee pollen? The hell you say!

Apparently, bee pollen is the brand new weight loss magic. And I can’t take it because I’m allergic to stupid bee stings.Wrong bees

Back in the early sixties, summertime fun included running through the grass barefoot. I couldn’t. Of course, I didn’t want to, because there was all kinds of shit in the grass, just waiting for your feet to apply pressure on it. You are probably thinking that I stepped on a bee, and that’s why I am barefoot-in-the-grass challenged. But, the answer is no. It was much more complicated than that.

To understand how I got stung, you have to understand the kind of kid I was back then, in 1962 or so. I loved animals. All animals. When my dad found a copperhead nest in our backyard and my brother, David, almost stepped on one, it left my dad no choice but to set the whole yard on fire. Ok, I’m teasing. He killed the snakes. And I cried. I just loved animals that much.

No, I got stung in a way that made my siblings make fun of me for years afterwards.

I was sitting on the wooden seat of our sandbox. A bee with long skinny, bent legs flew right by me. It scared me, because it came right out of the blue, and I didn’t know what the hell it was. So, I swatted at it, and it fell to the ground, which was the sand in the sandbox. I felt horrible! I may have killed the poor unknown creature. Upon further inspection, I saw that it was a bee. It was injured. Or so I thought. I somehow was able to scoop it up into the palm of my hand, and what I did next was best deemed  as “ridiculous.”  I put the bee up to my cheek and said, “Awwwww. I’m sorry!”

Bzzzzzzttttt!! The son of a bitch stung me on the cheek!

I think that I was more pissed than hurt. I mean, really? I try to hug you and you reciprocate by stinging the hell out of my little child face. Well, it didn’t take me long to realize that I was in pain. I ran inside. My younger sister followed me into the kitchen.

Mommy!!……… Vickie got stung by a bee!……………. She tried to kiss it!” Hahahahahahahaha. What a little snot.

I didn’t try to kiss it, stupid sister. I tried to hug it. Big difference.

Well, I guess some bees like to leave their calling card behind. The stinger sometimes stays with the injection of bee poison. My mom tried to take a look, tweezers nearby. But, she didn’t have time to dig the shit out of my cheek. I was having trouble breathing. Uh oh. My mom grabbed her suitcase of a purse, and me, and we flew down the steps to the garage, where her Cadillac sat waiting for a day just like today.

My mom rushed me to the hospital. Rushed was an understatement. She drove like Mario Andretti. We didn’t wear seat belts back then, so I was in quite a pickle. I was going into anaphylactic shock. I’m sure when the doctors found out that I put a bee to my cheek,  they probably decided to run some other tests. I’m surprised that didn’t take me up to the fifth floor. My mom looked at me like I was retarded for a few weeks afterwards. I heard her on the telephone, talking to the neighbor ladies.

“Did you know that I had to take Vickie to the hospital? Get this. She tried to hug a wasp……..She swatted at it and it fell to the ground and she picked it up and told it she was sorry and put it up to her cheek and…..” I eavesdropped enough. I got out of my eavesdropping hiding place and went to my room.

After I got stung, I was always on the lookout for wasps. After doing some research on wasps, yellowjackets, and hornets, I read where, “Wasp stings are more painful than the sting of any yellowjacket, hornet or bee.” No shit, Sherlock.  I cried. Well, I was a kid. Kid’s cry if someone looks at them wrong. But, I remember how much it hurt. But, then I forgot, because, well, my throat was closing in.

After years of searching, I found the son of a bitch that stung me.

I went to a police sketch artist and this is what he came up with after I gave detailed information on what the wasp looked like. He did a wonderful job, don’t you think? It’s an uncanny resemblance to the real culprit.

I never got stung by a wasp again.  I’ve been stung by other kinds of bees over the years, and have promptly taken Benadryl and waited for my throat to close in. I did well. I think it was the wasp sting that sends me off to the hospital.

So, it brings me back to bee pollen and the want to lose some weight. My co-workers aren’t hungry and swear by the 60 capsules @ $60. Bummer. Should I take the chance and see if my body can handle the bee pollen? I went searching for answers.

“Some side effects are allergic reactions like itchy throat, wheezing, coughing, hives, and skin flushing.”  Ok, I should maybe just actually try to diet and exercise, perhaps. Hives suck. I read on…

“Severe allergic responses are also possible, including anaphylactic shock.”  Shit.

Well,  I guess I will have to skip the bee pollen way of losing weight. I’ll have to visit the elliptical, instead, and drink a boat load of water every day.

Thinking back, I guess it wasn’t such a smart idea to try to hug a wasp.

I should have thought BEEfore I did something so unBEElievable…… Like write that previous line.

Groundhog Day And a Haiku or Two

Image via Wikipedia

So, February 2, 2012 will be Punxsutawney Phil’s 126th prognostication.

According to legend, if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter weather. If he does not see his shadow, there will be an early spring.  I wish I had the internet when I was younger, because I always wanted to know about Groundhog Day and why a groundhog got to predict the weather?  I was a curious child, and I had a lot of questions. My mom was worthless. Worth. less.

“Vickie, what are you doing? …………..It is 6:00 in the morning…………….I don’t know why they don’t use a dog to predict the weather……….Vickie, why are you putting on your coat? Where are you going?…………….Susie can not predict the weather………….No, she can’t…………..No, she can’t …………….Vickie, it is snowing outside, and you are not taking Susie outside…………….She does not have to pee….No she doesn’t…………..VICKIE!!!  Get back in here!……..(Pause, muttering, pause)…….Of course she didn’t see her shadow. It is dark out there…………..She almost disappeared in the snow!………..Groundhogs can’t predict the weather……..No, they can’t!…… It’s just a joke.”

Joke? A joke? Punxsutawney Phil, that Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages,  Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary. He wasn’t a joke. The weather guy on tv said he was real. People went to see him.  My mom just pissed me off. I wondered how far that place was away from us. I thought I would ask my dad. It was too late to do it that year, of course, since it was February 2. And Susie didn’t see her shadow. I wonder if he would take me there next year.

“Vickie, Gobbler’s Knob is on the other side of Pennsylvania and it would take 2 days by car to get there. It is just too far away.”

Well, that just sucked. What really sucked was the fact that my dad lied to me.  I found that out a couple of years later in school. Our teacher told us about the time she went to Punxutawney to see the famous groundhog.  It only took 2 hours to get there by car?  What?  I was crushed.

So, I grew up, still curious about the little rodent. I would read bits and pieces about Phil in the newspaper and watch the goofy guys pull him out of a hole, where he would speak to the president of the Groundhog Club in “Groundhogese.” This was a language only understood by the current president, who wore a top hat and a long black coat. I wondered why the groundhog rat never bit him in the face. I mean, if someone woke me up out of a deep sleep and dragged my ass out into the cold, I would probably bite his face.

After the groundhog whispers, “I saw my shadow, dip shit,”  a proclamation is announced to the world.

A proclamation that is made every year. And every year I have my fourth graders write a haiku for the famous little rodent. Some of my students wrote normal haikus:

I like Groundhog Day

Are you afraid of Groundhogs?

Don’t eat me, Groundhog

~~~~~~~~~

Groundhog hit by car

Why are you stupid, Groundhog?

standing in the road.

~~~~~~~~

The famous groundhog

lives in a warm heated hole

Why come out, Groundhog?

~~~~~~~

Groundhog, please come out

But will you see your shadow?

Can I have some spring?

~~~~~~

And then there’s my favorite:

Ms. Mendenhall, why

do you like groundhogs so much?

They don’t like you. Ha!

 In the end, you know people know that groundhogs don’t speak their own language. You know that they really can’t predict the weather. And what I have learned more than anything is best said in my very own haiku. You see, I performed another experiment the very next year after Susie the dog didn’t see her shadow.  Not good.

A pet guinea pig

is not a groundhog you know

Leave it indoors, please.

 

Swamp Constrictors and River Monkeys

Lee Ann wasn’t allowed to get her ears pierced in fifth grade when the rest of us did.  I didn’t care if she got them pierced or not, but I was upset for her, because she really wanted them pierced. She told us her dad wouldn’t let her. So, the next time we were at her house, I thought I would ask him.

“Why can’t Lee Ann get her ears pierced?”  I was afraid of her dad. He sat in his chair a lot and rarely talked.

“If God wanted you to have holes in your ears, you would have been born with holes in your ears.”  He looked at me like that was the best answer in the world. I thought it was stupid. I mean, really stupid.

“Well, then why is she wearing clothes?”   I can play this game too.

“Go home, Vickie.”

I thought about this conversation when I saw a picture of a boa constrictor or python (a snake is a snake, maybe) slithering along a highway in Florida. Seems that people are letting their pet snakes loose in sunny, warm Florida, where they are multiplying and living the good life in the swamps. Well, except for the fact that they aren’t supposed to be there. Just like the holes in Lee Ann’s ears. Nice segway, eh? Well, then it got me thinking about some animals and plants that are where they aren’t supposed to be. I’ll start with the python.

1. Welcome to Sunny Florida, home of the python- The picture I saw on facebook made me shudder. I can’t imagine walking outside and seeing a very long snake hanging out in your yard. But, that’s what’s happening in Florida. And you can blame it all on the international pet trade. Those smugglers of tarantulas and monkeys, and anything else deemed exotic, bring the animals in, and Americans with a need to own a 14 ft. snake, are purchasing animals. But, soon after they notice their poodle is missing, they take the snake for a car ride and drop him off at the neighborhood swamp. And the python has no problem acclimating to his new environment. Afterall, he’s lived in a glass home, with a light bulb as his sun, and live rats to munch on. Now he has fights with alligators in the swamp and is having the time of his life.  Just in one year, 95 pythons were captured in Florida’s Everglades National Park. Did I mention that 100,000 pythons are brought in to our country every year? Fun times ahead for Floridians, because if they open a new university in Pensacola, they just might be called the Pythons. There’s already the Florida Gators, well, because they have a lot of gators. But, look out, because slithery super snakes are there to stay.

2. Kudzu, the plant that ate Georgia- Well, Georgia is still there, but when we drove to Walt Disney World years ago, I was amazed how plants covered telephone poles and other trees. They looked like topiary. Except they weren’t. It was kudzo, from Japan, that was brought over by idiots to use as an erosion stabilizer. What the hell were they thinking? Kudzu now covers over 7 million acres in the south. And it is creeping up north.

Kudzu was introduced to the United States in 1876 at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia. Countries brought exhibits to celebrate the 100th birthday of the U.S. The Japanese entry was a beautiful garden filled with plants from their country. American gardeners loved the sweet smell and large leaves of the kudzu. They just had to have some. Soon nursery owners were selling kudzu.

During the Great Depression of the 1930s, some bright man in the Soil Conservation Service suggested kudzu for erosion control. Hundreds of men were paid to plant the kudzu. And look what has happened since:

  

It grows a foot a day and will cover anything it meets. It is as far north as southern West Virginia, but I would argue with that because our neighbor in Fairmont, West Virginia, has kudzu growing on his property. It has creeped up and has covered several pine trees on his property. Goodbye pine trees.

3. The Dreaded Northern Snakehead- Another damn snake? Nope. This is a fish. And it is trouble with a capital T. The exotic snakehead fish was first discovered in 2002 in a pond in Maryland. Oh, this is no ordinary fish. That is probably why it has the word, “snake” in its name. It is a non-stop eating machine. It has no natural enemies and eats anything in its path. It is originally from China, and is found in vegetated muddy swamps, ponds or small streams. But, this part is creepy. Snakeheads can breathe air and live up to four days out of water. Oh, I’m not done. Why you ask, would they need to be out of the water? Well, my friend, they can leave their water home and travel over land to new bodies of water by slithering or wriggling their snaking bodies over the ground. Yeah, creepy.

According to a story by the Washington Post a while back, a man had purchased two snakehead fish at a market in ChinaTown in New York City. He was going to prepare a traditional soup for an ailing sister. Instead of cooking them, since she was feeling better, he released them into a nearby pond. Uh Oh. The man confessed, but the damage was already done. Officials and management teams tried to make sure the snakeheads didn’t escape to nearby waterways by conducting a controlled fish kill. Did it work? Maybe. Maybe not. I would freak out if I saw a fish walking on land. (She shudders.)

4. Wild Monkeys- There are wild monkeys in Florida. Oh, but there shouldn’t be. They have been living there since around 1930.  There is a population of rhesus monkeys in central Florida that have been there for 80 years. Some people say that the monkeys escaped while a Tarzan movie was being filmed in that location. Other people say that a manager of a jungle cruise boat ride released them on purpose so tourists would see monkeys, tell their friends, and those people would come for the boat ride. I mean, who wouldn’t want to see a monkey in Florida? People go there to see a mouse. In 1984, there were reports of 400 monkeys living along one particular river. I wonder how many there are now?

  I guess I could go on and on. So, there is a big problem. There are thousands of animals and plants that have no business being in our backyards. But, here they are. People travel to see the wild horses in Virginia. and Maryland. That doesn’t seem to be a problem there. There are hundreds, if not thousands of iguanas that have no business living in our country. But, they are in Florida, also. And what about the poor ladybug? It was brought to this country to control aphids. What is going to control the ladybugs now?

I guess it could go the other way. Tarzan and Jane had no business living in a jungle. But, there he was, wrestling with alligators every day when he wasn’t a native species. Who bitched about that? No one. (Ok, I realize that it wasn’t real, but I’m trying to make a point.)

So, you know, if God wanted monkeys to live in Florida, he would have had them in Florida.

So, the moral of the story is that you shouldn’t get your ears pierced, dammit. It’s not natural.

 

Local on the 8′s

Forced listening. It is all around us. First, it was elevator music. I remember humming, Do You Know the Way to San Jose? for weeks after getting off of an elevator one time. I would rather listen to the grinding noise of the cables, pulling up the precariously hung ancient Otis elevator  than some of the music they make us listen to.

Image via Wikipedia

And then there is the ever present telephone prompt waiting. I know why they put terrible music on the telephone while you wait to talk to someone about your new laptop’s green screen. They want you to get soo sick of listening to depressing, cobwebs- growing -on -you music , so that you just get mad and hang up. You’d rather live with the pukey green screen than listen to 45 minutes of Lawrence Welk music.

And then we come to the Weather Channel. First of all, you have to understand that I am the local self-proclaimed weather person on Facebook. I give the ~Weather Dork Report~ for my friends, as I always have the Weather Channel on in the background. I love the weather. But, I just have one bit of advice for the those wonderful predictors of the weather….

  If I worked for the Weather Channel, I would use  music to match the weather when it’s time for Local on the 8′s.  For those of you who do not live in the United States, the Local on the 8′s is the local weather that is shown several times each hour, such ast 9:08, 9:18, 9;28, etc. There is music in the background while some man reads the weather report. Now, to give them credit, they are getting better with their music choices. I think I just heard Coldplay on the last Local on the 8. But, I’m not talking about music in general. I’m talking about the THEME. Although The Weather Channel is getting pretty snazzy. They did release a Smooth Jazz CD in 2007, based on the music played on the Local on the 8′s segments. They are progressive. But, I like my idea. If not every day, then maybe on April Fool’s Day.

For example. I think that if it is going to be a beautiful, sunny day, they should play songs like, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” or  a Disney happy tune, like Zip E Dee Do Da or however you spell it.

When a horrible storm is nearing, play music from Jaws. Wouldn’t it be fun to hear this music when a straight line thunderstorm is approaching:

You could sit on your couch, turned around, with your knees on the cushions, and your elbows on the back of the couch, watching out your picture window, bowl of popcorn nearby.  You know the storm is getting closer, because the music is getting louder and faster. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

And of course, who couldn’t resist a little Flight of The Bumblebee when a blizzard is knocking on your door?

I guess I could go on and on with musical selections that match the weather. There are different kinds of genre to choose from.  Or music with “weather” in the title:

You are The Sunshine of My Life- Stevie Wonder

Windy-The Association

Who’ll Stop the Rain-Creedence Clearwater Revival

Walking on Sunshine-Katrina and the Waves

Sunshine on My Shoulders-John Denver

Singin in the Rain- Gene Kelly

Riders on the Storm- The Doors

Please Don’t Stop the Rain- James Morrison

November Rain-Guns n Roses

I Love a Rainy Night- Eddie Rabbitt

Here Comes the Sun- The Beatles

Good Day Sunshine- The Beatles

Ain’t No Sunshine- Bill Withers

Against the Wind- Bob Seger

Ride Like the Wind-Christopher Cross

Buckets of Rain- Bob Dylan (Thanks Pat!)

You are My Sunshine (Thanks Pat!)

I guess I could go on and on. I don’t know. I just think I have something here.

In the end, we will have weather.

Rain will come.

It will be miserably hot.

We will carve pumpkins.

And then hit people in the head with snowballs.

Might as well set the mood with music.

Something to Crow About

Most mornings on my drive to work, I notice crows out in the middle of the road, pecking at a dead animal. I always yell at them. “Ewww, don’t eat that.”  That just really bothers me. I mean, why eat dead, rotting corpses? Who does that? Well, obviously, crows do.

What’s worse is that I watch it. “Stop it, you stupid crow. You’re gross.” Well, except for the fact  that crows are not stupid. Far from it.  They are very intelligent birds. They are supposedly one of the most intelligent animals on Earth.  They shouldn’t have to depend on road carnage for their meal. I know they are smart enough to fool people to feed them. Case in point: The Hardees drive through. As soon as winter approached, the crows have been gathering at fast food drive -throughs. And this makes animal lovers

Donut, please

feel badly. Poor birds. They are starving. I think I shall buy them a biscuit. Well, maybe two.   A car in front of me did that several weeks ago, so I followed suit. These crows know what to do. We both pulled over, tore the biscuit in little pieces, threw it out the window, waved at each other, and off we went. I felt really good. If it keeps one crow off the gut-spewed road, I have done my job as an animal lover.

Of course, I am sure it angers the little wrens and sparrows that have always hung out at fast food restaurants. They were there first, after all. And they aren’t scavengers like the big black crows.

I would love to tame a crow. I have tried, but they want no part of it. They used to get into my garbage when I lived out in the country. Oh, I could hear them squawking to their relatives, “Hey, Ralph, the stupid lady put her garbage out.” Sure , we had two cans, but most weeks we had an extra bag or two. I soon found out that the crows could see a white bag and were on it before I could say, “Shoo, crow!”  But, then I smartened up too. At the time I was a stay-at-home mom, so on garbage mornings, I would start throwing crumbs of old bread out into the yard for the birds, particularly the crows. I knew they would come quickly.

This weekly routine was all I needed. The crows were fed and it was an easy meal. They didn’t have to tear open garbage bags only to find cereal boxes. This was a given. I thought that they would warm up to me, like the other critters who I easily tamed. This was a tough crowd.

Grandpa Williams had a pet crow.  He acted like it was a menace, but if my grandpa was in the backyard, tending to his garden, that crow was following him around. He was a crippled crow. Oh, he could fly alright. But, once on the ground, he hobbled as if he had one leg shorter than the other. My grandpa would sit in his chair and that damn crow would fly up and sit on the back of the chair, right by Grandpa’s neck. No wonder there was white bird poop all over the back of the chair. After visiting him, I came home wanting a crow as a friend. Didn’t happen. They just don’t like me.

Crows are very social and live in a tight-nit family.  A bunch of crows is called a “murder of crows,” which is stupid.  I was a bit shocked to hear that they are very susceptible to the West Nile Virus and the disease has wiped out about 45% of the American crows since 1999. That is a lot. But, why doesn’t anyone seem to be alarmed?

Blame it on the farmers. The whole scarecrow on a pole started on farms because of the crow. Farmers consider a crow a pest, mainly because it loves corn. Although it will also eat insects, mice, frogs, snakes, eggs, and nestlings, it’s main crop choice is corn. So, farmers erected a scarecrow to….scare crows. It is supposed to look like a farmer from up above, but crows aren’t stupid, remember. They probably figured out a  long time ago that people aren’t stuffed with straw.

All in all, I think crows are neat birds. I like hearing their “caws.”  We had crows that would warn each other when a red-tailed hawk was in the area. To me, it looked like they were warning my squirrels. The squirrels knew what was going on and would hide-tail it up the nearest tree. Yep. My crows were looking out for the squirrels. Quite intelligent.

And that’s something to crow about.

Weather Dork Report

I’ll admit that I am a weather dork. I enjoy watching the Weather Channel and monitoring an impending snow storm. I even report on it on my Facebook status with my Weather Dork Report.  My friends depend on me. They do. Really. I wish I had this when I was younger.

I used to sit and watch the weather man on WTAE Pittsburgh.  We only got three channels back then. Can you imagine? We had ABC, NBC, and CBS. That was it. As my dad read the paper for what seemed like hours, sometimes with a pipe coming out of his mouth, I would listen to the weatherman. I would then turn around on the couch, on my knees, push back the curtains and watch for the first snowflakes to fall.

I learned early on that most storms came from the west, and I knew where to look for the storms. I was so excited to see the first snow fall. It’s funny, because I hated to go outside in the snow. I hated to be cold. Still do. I’d get all bundled up to go outside, and my lips would turn blue immediately after being outside for just a short time. I earned the nickname “Bluey” because it really looked like I applied bluish purple lipstick to my mouth. I would shiver, get on the sled a couple of times, and then head to the house.

Back then you would only find out about the weather at 6:00p.m. and 11:00p.m. newscast. Since I was young, and a bit hyper, I was put to bed early. Oh, but that didn’t keep me from finding out about the weather. I  would sneak out into the living room when my parents were sitting in the kitchen, and stand behind the ugly white and gold curtains that ran to the ground. I was tiny, so I could stand right in front of the huge picture window and watch the snow come without being noticed. “Don’t pay attention to that child behind the curtain.” I do remember a neighbor, Joe Minco, driving by slowly, waving at me as he entered his garage. I watch for the snow, and then turn around to see if the 11:00 weather man was getting ready to talk again. It’s a wonder I got up in the morning for school. I never slept. I guess hyper kids don’t need sleep.

It didn’t seem like we had many snow days off school back then. Then again, I don’t really remember for sure. I do remember that after we would have a big snowfall that we could built a snow fort and it would last for a very long time. It was cold. But, the main thing I remember  is that my mom would make homemade bread or refrigerator cookies when we didn’t have school. I ate cookies and watched for more snow all damn day.

“Vickie!!! Vickie, get in here………….Why are there so many cookie crumbs here?” (Pulling aside the curtain in front of the picture window)

There were crumbs all over the floor. Well, refrigerator cookies broke off a lot. My dog, Susie, didn’t particularly care for them. So, they sat where they dropped. Little kids don’t bend over to pick up cookies. Why would they?

Fastforward many years. We now have internet and many channels to get our weather information from. And that brings me to the Weather Channel. I could leave the Weather Channel on in the background all day long. Oh, and believe me, I have. I get excited when I know there is a snow storm coming. I’m a teacher, so we love snow days. Some of my friends on Facebook tell everyone to wear their pajamas on inside out and do a snow dance. I don’t know where the inside-out pajama ritual came from, but I guess if you wear them inside out and dance, snow will come and there won’t be any school. Yeehaw! I love feeling like I’m getting away with something. I have a friend, Suzanne, who is the ultimate snow momma. She would love it to snow every day of the year. I tease her, but understand her love of snow.

When my kids were little and I was a stay-at-home phenom, the kids would watch tv for the Snowbird Report on WBOY tv, channel 12. There was a jingle that would come on first, and my kids would run to the tv to see if Marion County schools were canceled that day. It would just make me smile.

And then I would make cookies.

So, yeah, I’m a weather dork. I watch and report the weather, especially when the snow flies.

I’m 55 years old going on 7. Like a giddy little kid, I still enjoy sitting on the couch, cookie in hand, waiting for the first snow flakes to fall.

I may have the internet for precise information, and Jim Cantore from the Weather channel broadcasting live from the epicenter of heavy snowfall prediction, but nothing beats quietly looking out the window, and smiling when it begins.

Mosquito Activity Forecast

Image via Wikipedia

Isn’t it a wonderful thing that the Weather Channel has started a mosquito activity forecast? All I have to do is type in my zip code, and a chart and hourly forecast pops up.

“Forecast covers a broad range of mosquito types. Specific mosquito species may be more or less active than the overall forecast, depending on weather conditons or time of day.”

There was no such thing as West Nile Virus when I was little. We played outside and compared the sizes of our mosquito bites. Yes, they itched like hell, but they were a kind of rite of passage, a transition from whiny childhood to less whiny childhood. We quit running to our moms to be sprayed with OFF. We wore our mosquito bites with pride. “Hey, look at my mosquito bite. It’s huge!”  Only pansies cried over the wounds left by these insect vampires.

But, you can’t do that anymore. Mosquitoes are now vicious, blood scalpers. And the Weather Channel is letting us know when the thugs are in our area.

“Because mosquitoes tap into the blood of birds, animals and humans, they can be ghoulishly efficient at transmitting certain diseases. Fortunately, fewer than 100 of the world’s 2,700 mosquito species carry disease, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture. While some mosquito-borne diseases can be deadly to humans, many cause only minor, passing symptoms in most people.”

Ghoulishly. That’s what they wrote. Mosquitoes are “ghoulishly efficient”.  Although I’ve never seen anyone dress like a mosquito at Halloween, this may all change now. But, seriously, how did this happen? Why can’t kids go outside during the summer, catch lightning bugs and get bit by mosquitoes anymore?  When my kids were little, I put up a bat box on a high tree. Well, I didn’t. I made my husband climb up a tree and place it facing south, as the directions stated. We had bats at night. Might as well let them live close. Bats eat over 500-1000 mosquitoes in one hour. I’d like to meet the man who actually saw one do this, but if this is true, bats rule!

Of course, when West Nile virus first made the news and we found a few dead birds lying about, I did become concerned. I would be a bad mother if I did not. But, I was confused. I thought mosquitoes only wanted human blood, and here they go landing on birds.

The CDC warns of mosquitoes on their site and has a cute title, “Fight the Bite.”

The CDC states: “If mosquitoes are still flying there is still a danger from West Nile virus. Infected mosquitoes spread West Nile virus that can cause serious, life-altering, and even fatal disease. Keep using insect repellent, wear long sleeves and long pants and dump out standing water in the yard where mosquitoes can lay their eggs.”

There goes another childhood excitement: puddles. Kids love to jump in puddles, make mud pies, and some goofy kids will even sit down in puddles. Well, not anymore, puddle jumpers. Mosquitoes lay their eggs in shallow puddles. Any standing water is a no-no. A bird bath is a prime example. No water cooler talk for the birds anymore. There are baby mosquitoes ready to attack. They are like Navy seal mosquitoes, but with a different modi operandi.

While you take a bite out of your burger – don’t let mosquitoes take a bite out of you! Use an effective insect repellent to avoid being a Bug’s lunch.

This is from the CDC site. They don’t want you to bite into a mosquito. I think that’s what that means.

I don’t know. I don’t mean to make light of this. Many people have died after being bit by a mosquito. Florida, for example, is mosquito stalker heaven. It’s a vast swampland, and mosquitoes hang out at Disney World, searching for their next meal. But, don’t worry, mouse house visitors, I do know that Disney World has a full-fledged mosquiter stalker on site. The guy goes into the swamps every day, retrieves his traps, and then heads back to his lab. He knows where the concentration of mosquitoes are, and he maps out a plan of counter-attack. From what I have read, they are very pro-active in the fight of the West Nile virus.

My daughter accidentally discovered how not to get bit by mosquitoes. She was studying abroad in Guanajuato, Mexico, and was living with a host family. She did not have a screen on her bedroom window, so she woke up every morning with bug bites all over her body. She noticed that after the nights they went out dancing and drinking, she didn’t have any bug bites. So, she tried an experiment and drank a beer before she went to bed. No bites the next morning. So, every night she had a beer before she went to bed. She swears that she was never bitten by a bug when she did this. She probably should have a drinking problem, but she doesn’t. Her roommate should have chugged some beer, as she was bitten by a scorpion that was on her dresser handle.

I guess we could spray kids with OFF, and then give them a glass of beer before they went outside to play. That would be interesting in a neighborhood.

So, in the end, mosquitoes have mutated into a terrible, blood sucking, death provoking insect. It is no longer cool to see who has the biggest mosquito bite.  There are  little pens you can put on your bite to take the sting out of it. Kids are wearing long sleeves in 90 degree evenings. Many are staying in, playing video games and don’t know what the hell Flashlight Tag is. They are being sprayed with chemicals to keep the gnawing insects  away. Adults burn citronella candles on their patios. Bats are flying overhead. Chaos.

I’m so glad I was a child in the sixties.

Something to Crow About

Image via Wikipedia

Most mornings on my drive to work, I notice crows out in the middle of the road, pecking at a dead animal. I always yell at them. “Ewww, don’t eat that.”  That just really bothers me. I mean, why eat dead, rotting corpses? Who does that? Well, obviously, crows do.

 What’s worse is that I watch it. “Stop it, you stupid crow. You’re gross.” Well, except for the fact  that crows are not stupid. Far from it.  They are very intelligent birds. They are supposedly one of the most intelligent animals on Earth.  They shouldn’t have to depend on road carnage for their meal. I know they are smart enough to fool people to feed them. Case in point: The Hardees drive through. During the cold, snowy winter we are having, the crows are gathering at fast food drive -throughs. And this makes animal lovers feel badly. Poor birds. They are starving. I think I shall buy them a biscuit. Well, maybe two.   A car in front of me did that several weeks ago, so I followed suit. These crows know what to do. We both pulled over, tore the biscuit in little pieces, threw it out the window, waved at each other, and off we went. I felt really good. If it keeps one crow off the gut-spewed road, I have done my job as an animal lover.

 Of course, I am sure it angers the little wrens and sparrows that have always hung out at fast food restaurants. They were there first, after all. And they aren’t scavengers like the big black crows.

I would love to tame a crow. I have tried, but they want no part of it. They used to get into my garbage when I lived out in the country. Oh, I could hear them squawking to their relatives, “Hey, Ralph, the stupid lady put her garbage out.” Sure , we had two cans, but most weeks we had an extra bag or two. I soon found out that the crows could see a white bag and were on it before I could say, “Shoo, crow!”  But, then I smartened up too. At the time I was a stay-at-home mom, so on garbage mornings, I would start throwing crumbs of old bread out into the yard for the birds, particularly the crows. I knew they would come quickly.

 This weekly routine was all I needed. The crows were fed and it was an easy meal. They didn’t have to tear open garbage bags only to find cereal boxes. This was a given. I thought that they would warm up to me, like the other critters who I easily tamed. This was a tough crowd.

 Crows are very social and live in a tight-nit family.  A bunch of crows is called a “murder of crows,” which is stupid.  I was a bit shocked to hear that they are very susceptible to the West Nile Virus and the disease has wiped out about 45% of the American crows since 1999. That is a lot. But, why doesn’t anyone seem to be alarmed?

 Blame it on the farmers. The whole scarecrow on a pole started on farms because of the crow. Farmers consider a crow a pest, mainly because it loves corn. Although it will also eat insects, mice, frogs, snakes, eggs, and nestlings, it’s main crop choice is corn. So, farmers erected a scarecrow to….scare crows. It is supposed to look like a farmer from up above, but crows aren’t stupid, remember. They probably figured out a  long time ago that people aren’t stuffed with straw.

 All in all, I think crows are neat birds. I like hearing their “caws.”  We had crows that would warn each other when a red-tailed hawk was in the area. To me, it looked like they were warning my squirrels. The squirrels knew what was going on and would hide-tail it up the nearest tree. Yep. My crows were looking out for the squirrels. What a great friend.

 And that’s something to crow about.

Embrace the Skunk

     I don’t know why skunks get such a bad rap. They are my favorite animal, next to squirrels.  I think people need to embrace the skunk. And I will tell you why.

 Skunks, even though a member of the weasel family, are not weasely (Yes, weasely). They aren’t sneaky or mean. They go about their business, foraging for larvae, insects, mice, and fruit. They don’t disrupt. People should be happy to have a mice-chewing skunk outside their home.

 The reason people don’t like skunks is not because they are ugly. Look at these pictures. Skunks are beautiful. Even more so up close. They really have it going on. They have long black fur and white stripes. They have adorable little feet. I mean, if you can get by the initial realization that there is a skunk in front of you, take a look at their feet before it sprays you. Adorable.

Other animals have embraced the skunk. Cats have been known to accept orphaned baby skunks as their own. Cats and skunks get along.  The cat on Pepe le Pew didn’t want anything to do with Pepe, but it was the 60′s and people weren’t so open to inter-racial couples back then. But, in reality, other animals hang with the skunk.

 

This is obviously not Stinky and PoopyButt.

I had a skunk named Stinky (who I will talk about later) who hung out with an opposum named Poopy Butt. They foraged for food together. They were together for several years, coming nightly to eat at my kitchen nook door. I sat out cat food for our outside cat that we really didn’t have. So, now we know that cats and opposums like skunks. So, why can’t people?

Dogs even want to be skunks

No, the reason people don’t care for skunks is because of their smell.  I personally like their smell.  I knew someone who liked the smell of gasoline a little too much and well, let’s just say her elevator doesn’t go to the top floor if you know what I mean. So, embrace the skunky smell. It’s a fine fragrant.

 Skunks only spray when they feel scared or threatened. If you slowly make friends with a skunk like I did, you will be fine. Skunks are great marksmen. They can hit a mark from a distance of 9 feet, sometimes up to 12. So, make sure you take out a measuring tape when you go outside to visit a skunk. By the way, they have enough ammunition to fire about six times in a row before needing some time to re-load. They are like a little black and white Uzi.

 Skunks give warning. When they see you, they don’t immediately spray you. That would be rude. No, they tap their adorable little feet. That’s warning #1.  If you are still standing too close to them and are too stupid to heed the warning, they give you another chance. Their tail goes up in the air. Sometimes they will even put their legs up in the air. Like in this video. If you are still stupid after these warnings, you deserve to be sprayed.

 When I was in college I purchased a skunk from Kmart. I swear I did. They sold skunks in the Weirton WV store in the mid seventies. I bought it for $35 during the summer before I went back to school. I named him Thumper. My mom was quite happy.

“Vickie….Dear God, you are holding a skunk…….Vickie, Kmart does not sell skunks…….No, they don’t.”   So, she called Kmart because she didn’t believe me. I don’t know why.  “Vickie, you’re taking it back to school with you, right?……………You can’t keep it here….It will attack Cricket.”  Cricket was my little white dog. While she was saying that, I had put Thumper down, and Cricket came over to smell him. Instant connection. eHarmony circa 1975.

 My dad spoke up. I almost fell over. My dad never spoke back to my mom. He was Wally Cox with Ronald Reagan’s voice. “I’ll take care of the skunk while you are in school.”  My mom shot him a look, like “How dare you speak.” 

So, Thumper slept all day, like skunks do, and kept Cricket up all night. The dog was exhausted. Thumper went to the bathroom in the kitty litter box, but also enjoyed digging in my mom’s many potted plants she had littered around the family room. Well, that’s what vacuum cleaners are for. Cleaning.  My dad LOVED Thumper. Probably because my mom hated the poor little thing so much. I would sometimes walk into the family room and Thumper would be curled up, sleeping on my dad’s lap. He would just look up and smile. When I went back to school in the fall and when my dad wasn’t looking, Mom sold Thumper. Witch. Not only did she sell Thumper, she sold him for $40 and told me she was keeping the $5 to buy more potting soil for her plants. Wicked witch.

 Fast forward many years and I made friends with Stinky. We could open the kitchen door and yell his name, and he would come

This is Stinky

running. For a peanut. We even got him to step into our kitchen. We loved Stinky. He was like part of the family. One night, during the huge March snowstorm we had in the early 90′s, Stinky showed up in the newly plowed drive-way, bloody and disoriented. Someone had hit Stinky. He was badly injured. I begged Jay to put him out of his misery. We buried Stinky out on the ridge, under the grand daddy hickory tree, next to Chuck the hamster and Sweetheart the Squirrel. I cried for days.

So, people, if you see a skunk in your yard, he may help you out by munching on mice that would otherwise try to enter your home and eat your cereal and poop in your corners. Mice don’t poop in the middle of the floor, everyone knows this. But, skunks don’t mind when you haven’t taken a shower. So, don’t get grossed out with the smell. It’s not a bad smell.

    In the end, skunks have a place in our lives. I can’t wait to move to a place that is near the woods and a creek (prounounced crik in my world), so I can start feeding wildlife again.

Happy Valentine's Day

And I hope to find something stinky in my backyard.