The sounds begin around now. Just after Elihu has fallen asleep and the house is quiet. A tickering sort of sound begins from behind the wall. It’s a slightly muffled, rapid-fire, repetitive knocking sound. Are they chewing? Hammering? Creating a nest? Procreating in a nest??
At first it was cute. We didn’t see them much in the beginning. A couple of years ago we might see a couple of tiny poops laying about in the pantry one morning, perhaps a pile of chewed cardboard, but nothing much more. A year later they began to interrupt me as I read aloud to Elihu in bed. Our nightly routine involved banging on the wall as if to silence a noisy neighbor. It worked for a few minutes. Then, as we finish the chapter, turn out the light and get comfy…. there it is. Bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih….
I have learned to use earplugs in a country home with absolutely no street noise. Aside from Bald Mountain, our resident rooster who begins to announce the morning around 5:30 am, there is no other sound inside this house. It’s not really even old enough to creak. On a rainy night the sump pumps in the cellar will kick on and off, and the furnace grumbles along intermittently throughout the night, but for the most part there’s no sound to interrupt one’s sleep. Kind of. Tonight one particularly industrious mouse is obviously knocking something off his to-do list.
I have found shoes stored in the basement filled with macaroni. I have found rice in my jewelry drawer. I have found a dead, desiccated mouse entrapped in the white hair of a Halloween mask, surrounded by the stores of his cache. I find several dead mice floating in the downstairs toilet bowl each week. One day I broke the crown on a tooth and set the two pieces on the window sill. The next morning one half was missing. I may yet find it in my underwear drawer. Strangely, these creatures have not destroyed anything of value (aside from food) except my very favorite, go-to slip on summer dress shoes. Why, oh why, of all the crappy ass, Salvation Army finds and assorted hand-me-down shoes did they choose the ONE pair I actually love and wear? That was a turning point. In fact there have been several turning points and tonight, once again, I am at another intersection.
I see these little guys daily. Sometimes I have half a dozen sightings in a day. And I do believe they’re getting brave – I swear they slow down now as they cross in front of the stove – I swear they even stop to make eye contact. They know I can’t catch em, and besides, perhaps they’re growing fond of me; I feed them, house them and provide them with so many interesting diversions! What a fun place this is to live! I must do something, right? But just what?
I have tried it all. The humane trap was a bomb. They got in and out no matter how well I set it. The 5 gallon bucket thing has never worked as they don’t cross the bridge to even investigate… the snap traps are good, however they can still take a little time to die (oh dear, horrible to watch) and my now arthritic fingers are just no good at setting them. I can’t do the glue traps for that same reason of an unsure death, in fact they’re much worse as it takes them much longer to die.
I got mad once, broke down and bought the poison. It works, but there is fallout… Smells begin to emanate from the house – bad smells with no definitive source. Also, I have come upon mice that were dragging themselves spasmodically along the floor, obviously having ingested the chemicals. I could not tolerate that – and ended up running over a few of them in the car in order to bring their misery to a swifter end.
My mother keeps talking about calling their exterminator. But won’t they just use poison? And won’t my house just end up stinking like a big, redolent, decaying mess? This alone give me pause. Then I begin to think. I’m not sure why I want them gone. I know that the stove top is covered in their anise seed-shaped droppings every morning, that just today they gnawed the strap off of my camera in the space of a half hour (as I sat in the very room!) and that they certainly must be multiplying. But aside from my favorite mid-heel Aerosoles slip-on sandals, what have they taken from my life? In what way do they seriously diminish the quality of our lives? Why should I worry? I can imagine some folks might cite disease as a concern. Ich. I don’t know. We wash and clean ourselves and our work spaces pretty thoroughly as we have chickens and we’re used to it. Ok, I steel myself. I can do this, I’ll just call the pros. Yes. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Then I remember Winkle. And his friends.
One morning I actually caught one of these lil guys in the bathroom. He must have been a little groggy – I know I was, and I’m surprised how easily I entrapped him under a cup and transferred him to Elihu’s terrarium. Once in his new home he popped up vertically several times to test his environment for an out (that’s the only real disconcerting thing about them in my eyes – ya catch one and they’ll pop up in your face! Ack!). When Elihu first saw him, he said oh so naturally, and without missing a beat, ‘his name is Winkle’. Indeed! Yes, what a perfect, story-book name for a mouse! Yes, he is a Winkle, isn’t he? We kept Winkle for a couple of weeks until one night when I made a surprising discovery.
I had heard noise coming from the living room for several nights. I’d tried to ignore it, but one night it was simply too much. Somehow this sounded different than the other routine mouse sounds of the house. I had to investigate. In the dark of the room I shone a flashlight onto the glass tank and saw Winkle on the inside, his tiny paws stretched above him on the inside wall, and several of his mates on the outside making sounds and moving excitedly; they appeared to be rallying their imprisoned comrade to discover an escape. So this is what had been happening for those many nights! Oh how this stirred my heart, my humanity! Winkle had a family, he had friends, he had others who cared about him! First thing the next morning I took Winkle and let him go in the field across the creek. I had to give him his freedom if nothing else.
As I ponder what exactly it is that I plan on doing about this, one of Winkle’s extended family appears from under my bed and looks up. He sees me and thinks better of his planned excursion, turning around to return from whence he came. Hmm. Would this house seem lonely if all the mice were gone? What is a country house if not shared by at least one mouse? But then again, you can’t have just one mouse, can you? I think of Winkle, and his friends. No, you cannot.
Ok. I’ll say a heartfelt prayer for my dear little housemates, then tomorrow I’ll pick up the phone and make a call to the exterminator. I think…
I’ve had a long-term ear worm the past month. Through the ether this little gem reached me, inspired by what I cannot tell. That I even know the song is somewhat of a mystery; I was after all I was just about eleven or so when it came out. While I do have memories of sitting in the back seat of our Plymouth station wagon, hanging my chin over the front bench seat and begging my mother to please turn on the radio, I don’t think I encountered the song there. At school, perhaps? On the playground? Did my hip-looking fourth grade teacher play it for us in our progressive, 70s classroom? These were the days when music was an elusive treasure; a pre-walkman, pre-ipod culture, so the sources were few. Ah, perhaps I heard it first on my yellow, doughnut-shaped AM wrist radio… yes, that might be it. Imagine this simple little melody, absolutely fixed in my brain after all these years. Well, Glen, kudos to you; you chose to record one sticky little tune.
In an effort to exorcise the nugget from my head I awake early and pull out my tether to the world – my now rather ancient, yet essential G4 I Book – and I cast my line out into the ocean of information. What will I find? My friend Joan told me recently that he doesn’t look so good these days. I’m emotionally prepared. How old must he be? My mom’s age? Hmm… Then there it is. A page of head shots past and present. First, my eyes are drawn to the Glen Campbell I remember, the helmet of perfectly feathered hair, the cleft chin – the classic 70s handsome good guy look shared by the likes of Mac Davis and Bobby Sherman. This wasn’t the type I had gone for back then. I preferred the curling, long black hair of Donovan and Marc Bolan (so much so that decades later I crafted my own look to resemble Marc’s as closely as possible). Then there are the full body shots. The iconic belt buckle, long thin legs, cowboy boots, thumbs hooked onto belt loops with one hip cocked to the side. One groovy, sexy silhouette. I continue my quest. Just what is he up to these days? Soon I begin to collect a tidy list of tidbits on the man. I realize that I know very little of the guy.
My first impression upon seeing the first photo that comes up on his website is that he looks a little Sting-like, only with a wider nose. In the next shot he evokes a little Willy Nelson. All in all, not bad for a fellow who’s been around so long. I learn he has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and has recorded his latest record “Ghost on the Canvas” and plans to do a farewell tour. Sort of. He doesn’t commit to this, but for the time being it appears this is the plan. I look elsewhere and learn that he played rhythm guitar as a sideman on Frank Sinatra’s recording of “Strangers In The Night”. Apparently, he was starstruck and admitted to the producer that it was the reason he kept staring at the maestro. Irked at young Glen’s stares (also perhaps at the session itself as later Frank called the single ‘a piece of shit’) the crooner asked his producer ‘who is that fag guitar player?’ and told him he’d slap Glen if he did it again. Love it. I move on…
I am taken on a brief detour as I chase a link to Anne Murray – and discover that she is probably aging the very best of her generation. She looks gorgeous. After a quick foray into her history and current life I wander back to my man. I visit You Tube and find his song covered by school-age kids in Thailand, in a David Hasselhoff concert in Germany, by a homeless guy in the States and a marching flute band in Ireland. Nuff said. This is an earworm shared by a worldwide family. Lest I make the mistake that I disdain in so many and assume that he himself wrote it, I wonder: who really did write this song? I admit that I was quick to assume that Glen himself did, yet a quick check shows that is not the case. I must remember that the time in which this song was recorded was one in which performers themselves were not necessarily songwriters. This era was on the cusp of change; until that time singers had recorded and performed material created by folks whose sole job was that of songwriter. Even more specifically music and lyrics were two separate occupations. Although the music world was certainly changing by that time, the old architecture still existed; songwriters wrote, managers assisted the artists in choosing material and anonymous session musicians played on the tracks.
Larry Weiss of Newark, New Jersey wrote it. And poor guy, while he’s had a long and varied career since then, he has ultimately hung his hat on that one little song, and is even still actively wresting the life out of it in his current work on the theme for Broadway. Sheesh. But then again, if ‘Mama Mia’, why not ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’? Give the people what they want – redo your kitchen and buy a new car while the iron’s still hot. Why not? I would. I still love my old band The Aluminum Group’s ‘Chocolates’ and never minded playing it at every single show. I admit I was never sorely tested on that front; I really do wonder how folks are able to play their hits night after night after night and still bring it the life their audience deserves. Could I? Don’t know. That Larry and Glen continue to have an interested audience, and that they and thousands more can still make an income off that one two-minute song impresses me.
My tappy-tap tap sounds from the keyboard awaken my son. I greet him with the first line of the song. He finishes it. I guess I’ve been singing it around the house this past week more than I’d thought. He likes the song too. I’m surprised to learn he knows just about all of it. Elihu has a nice singing voice, I get a kick out of hearing him. It gives me an idea. I suggest he might want to sing it at this year’s Talent Show. He laughs and says he’d love to. I can play the piano for him… yes, and he can wear a big belt buckle… I’m getting excited now. Maybe this will be what clears my head of the hit. Hair of the dog, right?
We finish our breakfast and head to the school bus singing. The bus arrives, and my little cowboy rides off to his star-spangled rodeo.
There is a small drawing, done in black sharpie, on the marble hearth just above my fireplace. It is almost unnoticeable – almost – as shortly after the artist created it I worked hard with hair spray and a sponge to scrub it out. Besides, it is nestled inside the permanent brown of soot which still lingers on the wall, making it just a bit less obvious than it might otherwise be. Shortly after my horror at discovering it, the thought occurred to me that one day it might actually remind me, in some poignant, nostalgic way, of this new era in our lives just then beginning. The thought might have been part sour grapes, part truth, however it has indeed come to pass that I now look with very different eyes upon that little inky transgression.
The little image is almost a fish, almost a bird. It is a creature morphing, rather, from one to the next. Elihu drew this the week we moved here, when he was five. At that time he was just coming to the end of his fish phase. There was a time, back in Dekalb, when he would beg me to buy a whole frozen fish at the market just so he could see it up close for himself. He was fascinated. On a lonely weekend in November, when it was just the two of us (as it was nearly all of the time) I bought him his fish. He spent two days on the floor of the kitchen playing with one almost frozen lake trout. I remember the faint odor of fish that lingered in the room all weekend. I was both disgusted and intrigued. My child was obsessed; in his play he mimicked the fish’s movement in the water, pulled out the fins admiringly, posited how his mouth might have opened…. did a fish blink? he’d asked. He was immersed in the study of his fish. And this is how my son has always been. Whatever it is that fascinates him draws him into deep, contemplative study. That had been the year of the fish. I still have dozens of fish drawings in a tiny child’s hand. Fish of every kind and from every angle. When we moved here to New York he was still a child of fish, yet in that one image, things were beginning to change. Its pectoral fins are unusually large; the fish appears to be flying. In fact, the creature almost seems bird-like.
Elihu is very fond of flapping his arms. At the age of eight it’s only just becoming a little suspect. If one didn’t really know the context – his unquenchable love of birds, of all things flight-related – one might begin to wonder if the kid might be behaviorally-challenged in some way. In a moment of great joy, he will beat his hands mightily upon his chest and, well, crow. For no apparent reason he might lift one leg up and spread his arms wide, bending forward slightly. For those who don’t know, I can tell you that he is in that moment a crane, a heron or some sort of stilt-legged water bird. Most often though, he simply flaps his arms. He will pick things up and flap them, holding them close to his face to feel the resulting wind. If it’s an impressive result, he’ll have to show me. He’ll wave the object beside my cheek and look at me, his face tense with happy expectancy; did I feel that wind? Did I think it was a lot of wind? When I come to wake him in the morning, he’ll open his eyes and begin to tell me of his new idea for a way to make himself wings that will actually work this time. He knows the story of Icarus well, and da Vinci’s contraptions too, but he is undaunted. He must be able to fly. He must. It is almost heartbreaking to watch this boy succumb to gravity.
Last night we had the perfect night out. After making calls and knocking on doors, we finally found a kind neighbor who agreed to close in our birds after nightfall so that we could go out. (When one has domestic birds who live outside, one cannot leave them until the birds themselves have roosted and can then be closed safely in. An open coop door after sunset means dinner for local wildlife to be sure. This situation poses many frustrating logistical hitches throughout the year.) After a fine start to Elihu’s Anchiornis costume for Halloween (an ancient, feathered dinosaur) we were off to see The Big Year! Starring Steve Martin (beloved man in my eyes, plus of course, the banjo thing, not to mention the writing thing, oh and the being brilliant… and funny), Jack Black and Owen Wilson, it is about these three men on a year-long quest to acquire as many bird sightings as possible. The men set out across the country to discover these birds, each with his own personal back story of conflict and self-discovery. I flipped when I saw the movie was coming out and I made an effort to see it soon as I didn’t see any way this one was staying in the theaters very long. And although it’s not a terribly funny or memorable movie, (however there are moments – like the one my son first quoted to his father in his re-telling: Steve Martin has a deadpan bit about being funny) the topic alone, and the images of birds to be seen makes it something of a miracle must-see for us. Never in my wildest dreams could I have guessed that one day there would be a movie made for the big screen about birding. Glad we caught it, cuz I don’t think it’ll last the weekend. But heaven for us! Heaven for my beloved son! We were two of four people in the theater for the movie, and it was just we two who stayed til the very end. Seven hundred and fifty-five species of birds appeared on the screen as the credits rolled, and we read aloud every family of bird as they passed, every now and again one would elicit a ‘that’s my favorite kind of bird!’ from Elihu. Can you imagine, an eight year old boy who delights in the Tufted Titmouse for his beautifully modest plumage, who will enthusiastically extol the mind-bending abilities of the Wandering Albatross to anyone who’ll listen and who finds the Golden Plover one of his top favorite birds? Elihu was transported. So was I, just watching his face radiate joy as I have seldom seen.
Today our day is less magical. On to the tedious but inspiring project of creating the costume. It’s to the table, the hot glue gun and the feathers. We study images of the Anchiornis, comparing many versions of it to the one we hold as our model. This past year Elihu has become long-distance friends with a world-class professional bird artist whose version of the feathered dinosaur we are using as our first reference. We agree, Michael’s bill is too cute looking; this is Halloween, after all, and as no one really knows what its size or shape was, we opt for a longer, more menacing profile. All of this flows rather easily. But when it comes time for the wings, emotions run high. In the end, I know that all Elihu wants from his costume are the few hours in which he can run through his world, flapping his wings. He wants a big wingspan. He wants to move some air. Thankfully, he leaves for a play date, giving me a few hours’ head start. When he comes home he is gleeful at the sharp contrast of black and white feathers. He straps on the wings and tests them. Air moves, feathers fly around the kitchen. He giggles and laughs. So beside himself with joy, he almost cries. He runs to the mirror and stares at himself, winged. No matter how the rest of the costume turns out, it is a private success for him already.
He is a boy in love. Finally, he is a boy with wings.
We had the worst fight ever of our twenty-two years together in front of the Castle at Chillon. We had come to the place in order that I might finally see the interior. I’d visited it as a child, but had not been inside the castle; it’s silhouette had lived in my mind for years as a place I simply had to return to one day. I’d heard tales of the dungeons, of the gruesome way they treated prisoners, and I’d wanted to stand in that place and offer my peace to the long-gone tenants as if I could somehow mitigate their long-gone pain. If only I’d been able to offer that kind of peace to myself, and to my partner, that day.
I cannot for the life of me remember what it was that we fought about so terribly that afternoon. We stood mere steps from that stunning building, mountains beyond, sun in the sky sparkling upon the lake, and yet we did not enter it… what could possibly have prevented us from visiting that place? How on earth did it start? As I lay in bed again tonight beginning to pass what will most likely be several sleepless hours, I come upon this island of time in my past and become fascinated. I cast my net wide behind me in time, over the wake of my memories in hopes of catching some evidence or emotional artifacts that can help explain the many fights we two had through our relationship. And it starts at Chillon.
There is a photo of me on the bus, after our fight. My head is tilted, face skeptical. One long, black braid hangs down over my arms, which are crossed in front of me, telling the picture-taker that this is not really over, and you still don’t understand. In fact, your taking this picture – trying to lighten things up – just proves you don’t respect my opinion. And now.. I get it. I wasn’t being heard. I wasn’t being understood. And what’s worse – that’s all I wanted. Understanding. Respect for my voice. Yes, now I begin to recall the feeling…
It occurs to me far too late, that this was the crux of each and every fight Fareed and I ever had. For all my effort I cannot come up with any subject of our arguments, although I can certainly remember many, many fights. I do, however, remember the emotion behind them and the unresolved issue for me: You’re not acknowledging me. You don’t hear me.
I recall another impediment to our understanding. I would crave engagement, he didn’t. I would want a reaction, a witness, a ‘I hear you’. He didn’t have time or energy for that. So I would proceed to try and wring it out of him. He reacted by shutting down. His face would disconnect. I called that his ‘stoneface’. It was one of the most frustrating things about him. Impenetrable as the walls of that old castle.
We worked on all of this through the years, and I can say that I put great effort into curbing my frustration and rage, and he too worked on communicating better with me. We learned a lot from each other and about ourselves. Strangely, although the fights diminished and calmed during our second decade together, that was probably the point at which we began to move away from each other. By then we each became so busy with life that we had little time for our relationship. With dozens of artistic irons in the fire at any one time it was easy to put our marriage to the side. We simply had very few hours together. Perhaps we were both avoiding the truth that our relationship had run its course. I used to think that only people with absolutely no ability to communicate got divorces. Now I think differently. I believe that when lessons are learned, issues are settled, for many that may be reason enough to say ‘thank you’ and walk away. But it’s a sad thing, no matter how right it might be. Not easy to call it quits.
Understanding. I believe that’s all any of us wants. “Mommy, look! Watch! Are you watching?” a child cries. She wants witness to her world, her experience. That’s all. I see the same frustration in my child when he breaks down into his own rage, furious at some main point I am missing. He is frustrated to breaking; he only wants me to know how he sees things. Once my son and I expressed to each other our dearest wish; that each could know fully what the others’ perspective was. We imagined being able to ‘plug in’ to each others’ thoughts. If only we could merely touch the other and receive all of that in one dose. If only we could skip all this tedious, human nonsense of explaining and just be understood already! Elihu and I joke about it when we’re in the midst of a struggle to understand each other. I place my hand on his cheek and say ‘oh, now I get it’, and he laughs. It’s our private thing. We get it. I know how important it is that I understand him. And so I try.
One problem I have with my method – and I’m working on it! – is that I often interrupt my partner, trying to interject what I believe to be the word he is searching for. It’s simply my over-zealous way of trying to show that I get it, but 99% of the time it’s achieving the opposite effect. Remembering my own desperate need to be understood (is that not the crux of this blog?) I must hold my tongue, hold my breath and just listen. Yeah, I’m working on it, but I’m not great at it. I wish to give others what I would have them give me. Witness. Respect and understanding for their side, even if I don’t agree. I just want to know how they feel, why they feel what they do. At the same time, I must also accept that for many people it is not important that they be understood by all. Good for them. It’s gotta be a freer place to live. Nevertheless, I myself wish to live in mutual understanding with the people in my life.
Many people have encouraged me to summon my rage when dealing with my near-ex in his unfair treatment of our son and me. There are moments when I do go there, but I would rather not. I just want acknowledgment, fair treatment. It’s hard to let go of something when it’s so fundamental to you. Maybe, like all the anger I’ve chosen to let go of, I should just finally let go of my greatest wish: that he himself feel remorse for his transgressions and as a result treat us better. But once again, it’s not important to him. Perhaps knowing what I want – and accepting that I may never get it – is the healthiest way to go. Perhaps. Again, working on it.
Last weekend Fareed came to visit. Somehow he seemed different. Disconnected – more than usual. He wore the stoneface more consistently. It wasn’t as a reaction to anything I was doing or saying, it was just there. Fareed seemed swallowed up by his own life. He seemed unhappy, or at least not content. I don’t mean to presume, but I just feel that something is amiss with him these days. Perhaps he too is realizing some things in his own inner life aren’t working. I don’t know. But I hope that he can find his way out. I don’t wish the partner I’ve shared half my life with to live the rest of his adrift, upset, imprisoned.
In fact, my wish tonight is that we may all be granted the vision to see what makes the bars of our own prisons that we may dissolve them and live freely in the worlds beyond…
Heard a loud knocking on the door a moment ago. A very well-groomed, cologne-scented man with a Bluetooth thingee wrapped around his ear stood there. I kinda knew why he was here even before he declared the purpose for his visit. He was here to serve me with a summons. His job can’t always be too pleasant. He’s gotta hear a lot of sob stories. I surely didn’t need to add myself to that pitiable list of sorry sods who feel they must inform the messenger, but I just couldn’t help adding my own tale of injury. As if my re-telling of the tale would help to bring justice to my side, I endeavored to give him the casual, quickie thumbnail: husband left, he shirked marital debts, left son and wife in poverty. I’d happily pay the tab of these ancient credit cards if I had the means, but as a self-employed piano teacher and single mom, it aint happenin. My husband made the money, paid the bills. He bailed, and I simply don’t have enough income to live, let alone tackle several thousand dollars worth of bills. He listened kindly, smiled and offered his condolences on my situation. It helped a little. I shrugged my shoulders and accepted my document. He instructed me to call the number on the bottom.
So I called.
The gal on the other end keeps telling me she can’t give me legal advice. I get that. I persist in my one question: what action do I take now? She repeats herself. Over this we go a time or two. I read through the whole document. I’m not great with this stuff, but I’m usually not an idiot either. I cannot make out what it is that I should do. They can take me to court, but what can they possibly glean from me?? I have no money! I see that I may be liable for court fees etc, etc, if ‘deemed by the court’. When do they do the deeming? Might I represent myself somehow? “Look,” I say, as exasperated as she now is, “I don’t have an attorney, nor money for one. What can I do?” She tells me to contact a local legal services agency. Hmm? “As in a public defender?” I ask. “I told you, contact a legal service agency in your area”. Sigh. I thank her, not without a note of sarcasm, and hang up, a little more bummed out than I’d expected to be.
I can’t worry about this now, I have to get to my son’s school and go over his 504 with the wonderful team that’s come together to help Elihu navigate his low-vision world. At least that’s kinda hopeful.
Hookay. So while I was unable to upload my video to this forum, it was easy as pie to do so on Facebook. However, it took over 50 minutes to upload. And we’re talking about a three minute, low res video here. Am I missing something??
This Monday Elihu had a day off from school on account of Columbus Day and the weather was absolutely fine. We took off for downtown, just five miles from our country home, to take advantage of the tourists that would no doubt be strolling Broadway. Elihu was in a mood to play, and besides he wanted to make a few bucks to put towards the cost of supplies for his Archaeopteryx costume (that mom has yet to make).
We were so happy, so ready for this fine fall day that I kinda forgot all about my parent’s 52nd wedding anniversary. Oops. My dad himself didn’t know the occasion (Alzheimer’s kinda gloms the days together for him) so the day passed as any other. It wouldn’t be like my mother to remind anyone (not sure if it’s the 50s era ‘mother as martyr’ thing or what), so it went unrecognized. Maybe it’s because I always insist we all go out to dinner – and it’s mom who ends up paying. At least she got out of paying a hefty tab if nothing else. (My pitch for going out to a fine dinner is this: I claim the event will be fondly remembered for years to come but the bill will not, making it worth the one-time expense.) Regardless, I feel pretty lousy about forgetting the date. 10/10, how easy is that to remember?! Oh well.
Happily, we had a wonderful outside day full of fresh air and sunshine, music, dog-smooching and people-meeting. Elihu made $40, and we stashed $20. The house rule is “save half”. So half towards the Halloween fund, half for the bank (or the credit union, I should say. !) Here Elihu busks for some dancing babies, then he shares the sidewalk with cigar-chomping old-timers…
A disappointing post-script:
After waiting some twenty minutes for a two minute video to upload to this post, I was finally told that this file type (‘avi’) was not accepted due to security reasons. Huh? What to do now? It’s the only format my videos are in, and it’s never been a problem before. Can I save the file in another, acceptable format? Man. How deflating.
Hopefully in future I’ll have some cute vids here. Meantime, I think I’ll see if I can upload them to Facebook. My computer illiteracy is driving me crazy. If I’d ever thought my handicap was in any way endearing before, I certainly don’t think anything of the sort now. Just wish I knew how to catch myself up… Those classes at the library don’t come close. Sigh.
Instead of video, here is a nice snapshot of the day…
Being a mother is a hard-working job. It’s non-stop and requires a certain finesse.
Tonite it’s a rooster in the house and sessions at the desk trying to get the bird’s likeness on paper – assisting my colorblind son to choose the most realistic colors – to the bath that must follow this after-dinner project. Watch out for poops on the floor. Where’s King George? Our dear little button quail is somewhere upstairs. Hopefully our cat Mina is uninterested in him. Hopefully. (“I come in peace, I come in peace, you can relax, I am coming to be with you in peace, to know your soul, I’m coming in peace…” Elihu sings to his rooster) Now I must create a loving and flawless transition to the bath upstairs. Then bedtime. (“I come to warm your soul and to warm the soul of the earth…”) I must keep things soft, gentle and unhurried if I can – oh how will this unfold tonite?? It is all so good in this moment, but at what moment will it turn an about-face? Will Linda Blair visit tonite? Or will we make it? (“I come to warm the face of planet earth, I come in peace, sit and relax and do not worry, I come in peace. I mean no harm. I really don’t. Sit and relax by my side…”)
Elihu’s song to his rooster continues, and I ready myself for the transition to bedtime.
I could never have imagined myself here a few years back. At the start of my married life I just kind of thought my path was to unfold in Evanston, in my beloved mid century home by the lake. I will admit however, that even then a dim idea existed in the recesses of my mind that the path immediately before me seemed potentially a rather dull life. A pretty one – beautiful house, lovely neighborhood and all the aesthetic details in place – but if mom to two, if no more gigs, if wife of touring musician, then it would certainly be fairly domestic. And I’d readied myself for that. I remember fall, six years ago, when I was pregnant. I remember Fareed and me taking our young old son trick or treating in our lovely neighborhood under a cathedral of elm trees. I can remember the voices of the families echoing between the houses, I can remember the secret my husband and I carried with us that night. It was a moment full of hope, of wonder that we too were pregnant again, we too would be a family like all the others we passed that night. I remember it feeling all very surreal, truly like I was walking through a dream. As Elihu and Fareed walked up the steps and rang doorbells I watched the other young mothers and fathers who passed us on the sidewalk. I remember feeling like they all belonged to this strange club that I was somehow joining despite the fact that I felt I had nothing in common with them. Nothing except having young children. Even so, I was excited in a deep, mysterious way about this new life growing inside of me. It felt unreal. I could not imagine myself the mother of two children. Seriously, me, mom of two? Was I ready? I needn’t have worried. Shortly after Thanksgiving I miscarried.
Fast forward a bit and I’m living in Dekalb, running a nightclub. This too felt surreal – like a life meant for someone else, but not for me. As much as I could make it look fairly satisfying on paper, it just wasn’t satisfying in my heart. I’d so hoped that somehow our move to the rural outskirts of metro Chicago would help us to slow down and merge more intimately as a family. After two years of what I then considered a waste of my precious life (and clock) we ended our role as nightclub owners. ‘Finally’, I thought. Now we can get back to our life. Now we’re finally ready. Now we’ll have that second child. I thought I knew what I wanted, but apparently the universe knew what I needed and shortly thereafter proceeded to give it to me.
Fast forward a couple more years and here I am. In my cozy, tidy home in he country. After a good meal and a glass of wine I retire to the piano to play some Bach, the fireplace glowing and the house warm with the feeling of family. Fareed is in Elihu’s room going over homework with him. It is the three of us again. It’s a short visit, as it usually is, and it will go too fast. For tonight our son is the kind of happy he only gets when we three are together. Finally he has his mother and his father at the same time, in the same place. There are many who wonder why I allow Fareed to stay here with us if he’s treated us so poorly; why don’t I just make him stay at a hotel? In part, it’s because of this. Because in these brief windows of time we are some kind of family. I wasn’t always able to enjoy it as I am now; in the beginning of our life here I felt a queer mixture of comfort and heartbreak when he visited. And when he’d drive off, my eyes would cloud with tears, my heart still unable to understand. Thankfully, time does diminish the pain and it transforms your perspective. Time, plus the stink of man pee in your toilet. (Boy pee I can deal with – somehow it’s not as offensive. Messy and off-target perhaps, but somehow more endearing – well, maybe that’s not quite the right word – and forgivable. Sisters, can I get a witness?) So. That also makes his leaving a little easier.
Another nice thing about having Daddy here is that having a third person in the house really does add an extra energy, it adds life to the place for sure. I do wish he could visit longer than a day here and there, spread months apart. Elihu began to cry this morning when he realized that his father would be gone again tomorrow. “Why can’t I have a Daddy who lives with us like a real family?” he sobbed to me. Not a thing I can say. I can just remember what a good life we have here, and indeed how different and how much less full it would have been had we stayed in the midwest. All I have to do is just picture it for a minute, and I’m able to stay the course.
Just what would our life have looked like had we stayed in Chicago? A garden apartment in Rogers Park, no piano playing in the evenings, no drum set to practice at home, no animals, no money, no car, no grandparents next door… lots of ‘no‘. I would have been full of resentment had I stayed there. Quality of life is everything, and it’s easier to have a good quality of life on far less money out here. Knowing this as surely as I do now, I can offer my compassion for his sorrow and help him ride it out til his heart recovers. I understand the feeling well.
In spite of the crap that my almost ex has caused us, in spite of the Lordly way in which he continues to deny his responsibility, I cannot help myself; I relish those cozy moments with all three of us tidily tucked into our corners of the house. Tonight will be the second and final night of this visit. I still have mixed feelings; strangely, this role of father has become normal in some way. And I’m better with it now. I guess three years of having the bed all to myself has helped convince me. That and the man pee thing. And the blackberry to the ear all the time thing. And the calls to his girlfriend in front of me thing. You know. Those little reminders that say ‘hey, Elizabeth, remember that? Don’t worry, you’ll have the place all to yourselves again tomorrow”…
Poverty or not, father in the house or not, we still have a nice life here in our corner of the world. Yes, if we had our druthers things might not be as they are, yet I humble myself to the path the universe has put before me. Clearly I wasn’t headed in the right direction. What have I learned on this new course? Humility is probably the biggest lesson, and I’m always working on it. Self-reliance, self-respect and self-love are also on the list. The self-effacing thing might work well in a stand-up routine but it aint quite as effective in real life. And I might want to roll up my sleeves and begin to face this poverty-consciousness demon head on one of these days. But not today. Maybe tomorrow.
For now, I’m just going to go outside and watch my son and his father play in the fall leaves. I’m going to sink as fully into the moment as I can, and offer my gratitude for the opportunity to do so.
We live on a hill. The tops of the trees descend down its steep banks revealing a view of the lands beyond and to the southeast. There are two main layers to the many subtle strata of horizons; the darker ridge in the foreground are the low-lying hills just to the east of the Hudson river, the paler profile behind are the much larger Green Mountains of southern Vermont. I love to look out over the vast scape and contemplate the land on the ‘other side’. I picture the countryside’s bucolic scenes, the tiny farms and undulating topography. I don’t often have reason to drive there, for it’s a haul just to reach the foothills – a commitment of 50 miles there and back – so when I have a quest east of the Hudson, my heart quickens at the thought.
Yesterday, Elihu and I had a reason to cross the wide river valley and explore the hills beyond. I should have been excited, but I was not. It was raining and I’d forgotten my hat, I’d not slept more than three hours the night before and I discovered my driver’s license was not in my pocket but probably still at home in my purse (farmer business does not include a purse; important items are transferred to the interior ‘man’ pocket of my farm jacket). After having a little talk with myself, pointing out how there was no benefit to remaining angry, I managed to coax myself out of the pissy mood that had been incubating for the first ten miles of our wet commute. This was our Big Day, and I’d do us both right by just dropping it and welcoming the adventure that awaited us on the other side of the Hudson. We were going to the Fall tailgate poultry sale at the Schaghticoke (say SCA tih coke) fair grounds to find hens for our red golden pheasant, Timothy, whom we’d just purchased the week before. As she does quite often for us, the angel of serendipity came to our assistance that night as we stared in disbelief at our new avian acquisition by placing one Jim De Graff, former zoo owner and breeder of exotic pheasants, in our path. He’d told us about the bird sale this weekend. We were lucky; this event happened just twice a year. He was nearly 100% sure we’d find just what we were looking for. That he could be so sure that we’d find these hens was an indication to me that we were in for some serious, bird-intense sub-culture. We’d waited anxiously all week this very morning. This very rainy morning. Oh well, this was going to be fun no matter what I’d forgotten to bring, no matter what the weather. As Elihu sat in the back seat enthusiastically playing air drums to the radio, his face radiating joy, I began to lighten up too.
Driving south on State Route 40 from Greenwich to Schaghticoke is like driving through a model train set layout. The farms are tidy, complete with outbuildings and vintage tractors, hooved animals and ponds. There is a new scene to be admired around every curve, at the crest and valley of every hill, plus each scene has an expansive view to the west of the great Hudson river valley lands beyond. The forested hills rise to our left as we continue south towards the mysterious convocation of bird lovers. The road winds and winds. Elihu, not usually a child who asks ‘when will we be there?’ (as he thrives on the times when he’s left to live in imagination, something his near-sighted eyes promote on long car trips) finally does. Thankfully, I spy the town’s water tower ahead, and I can tell him we’re almost there.
When we pull in to the fair grounds, we see a makeshift village of tents and awnings. I’d hoped the event might be indoors, and later I discover some of it is, but the bird sales are out in the open. Hmm. Just how wet will we be getting? I wonder. Looking around the car, I find a broken dollar store umbrella and so no longer lament my missing hat. Elihu throws his hood up, we park in the first space of grass we see, and we’re out the door.
Each vendor has backed his vehicle to the gravel drive, rows of cages and boxes spread out on the grass. The breeds are identified by hand-written labels now folding in on themselves in the rain. Some birds are sheltered by newspapers on top of their cages, some are not. Ducks crowd into the corners of their wire cages sopping up the new puddles with a rapid-fire quivering of their bills. The most elegant breeds of chickens are sodden and sorry looking. Thankfully, the customers here can see past the cosmetic handicaps that the day has cast on these birds; every last person here knows his birds, dry or wet. Just like us, everyone here has come looking for a bird, most folks for one specific breed in particular. The very first tent we come upon has game birds of some sort. Two round women in their later years sit on old fashioned lawn chairs while their cigarette smoking husbands in red and black checkered flannel shirt jackets stand in front, greeting passersby. I wonder if it could possibly be this easy. It’s not a huge place, but there have to be at least thirty vendors. As we get closer, I can see these birds are in the right neighborhood – the shape is close, their movements are quick and timid… Could these be young pheasants? I tell the smoking man what we’re looking for. “Red Golden Pheasant hens, two of ’em.” He didn’t miss a beat, nor did he seem overly satisfied with himself that he just so happened to have two Red Golden hens right here in this box. “What?” I asked. “Red Goldens“, I repeated. “That’s what we’re looking for. And hens.” Yeah, he’d heard me. And they were, as he said, right here in this box. I peered in, and saw four brown somethings. Game birds, for sure. Females probably. “I got a Cinnamon too” he offered, holding the flaps open so I could get a better look. Wow. This was the place. Seriously, it was this easy? I asked the price, he told me $15 apiece. I remembered being advised not to pay more than $10 a head. I surveyed the grounds and wondered if there might not be dozens more red golden hens out there. But this was so perfect, and I was just talking about $10 here… I told the man I was interested, but had to look around for a bit. So Elihu and I went off to learn what this thing was all about.
We soon figured out the deal. While there was just about every type of outdoor domestic bird available for sale there, we noticed that there were not quite as many of some, and rather a glut of others. Some vendors had even sold their whole lot by this time and were packing up and heading out. I didn’t want to blow the whole reason for our trip, plus if we just got the hens bought and safely stowed in the car, then we were free to explore. Before we got too far into the flooded grounds, I turned back for the car. I told Elihu to wait at the pheasant man’s tent, I’d be back. I pulled up, paid for the gals and presented the farmer with our luxurious dog-sized kennel in the back. He wrestled the hens from the box, and placed them inside. They were a lot smaller than I realized, their bodies about ten inches long. There were so many questions I’d wanted to ask, but the rain had started up again and I just felt rushed. “They look young, our guy is mature already. Will that be ok?” I shouted over the noise. He nodded and assured me they’d be fine mates. Not much more I could do but continue with the adventure as it swept me along. There was more to see, more to learn, and as I’ve been saying to my dear son since he can remember “you never know until you go”. What we didn’t know about breeding pheasants we would learn as we went along.
I parked the car again and we were free to enjoy the rest of the morning. It seemed the breeds of the day were the Banties. Many vendors had them and lots of folks wandered through the grounds with the sweet-looking chickens in the crooks of their elbows. I guess the appeal of these miniature breeds is that they’re portable, easy-going and make nice pets. Elihu was able to smooch a few of these as they passed by. He was in heaven. In his element. Finally surrounded by people who felt just like him about birds. As a mother, you can imagine how pleased and thankful my heart was as I followed behind my son, watching him stop at each new cage as if it were the only reason we’d come. He was fit to burst and after a while I could not keep up with his wanderings. I’d stop to chat with folks, my quest for information on birds turning more into short interviews: Did these sales actually net them money? (No, not really.) Is this your business? (The layers pay for the rest of em.) Do you do this for a living? (Oh no – I’ve got a real job.) Is this a hobby? (Yes! No one here’s makin any money. This is a hobby. And it takes money!) Well then. I learned something important, that this was a hobby, not a rent-payer. Kinda discouraging (I’d begun to count my exotic pheasant chicks before they were hatched. Think of the money we could make selling them! Piece of cake!) and yet the bit about the layers was good to hear. Our layers had once made us money – until we began to lose them. Layers, wait… We need layers! I was shaken out of my bird-daze and came to my senses. We needed layers, and where better to find em then here? Screw the auction house! This was the fountainhead! I told Elihu our new agenda and we set off on our new quest.
After scouring the entire grounds we found but one vendor who had suitable laying hens. She had two fine looking Aracaunas, one single Barred Rock and a bunch of dark colored Leghorns. Five apiece for the Leghorns? Wow. Seemed we’d found a really good deal. As I learned from the woman selling a pair of Mute Swans, birds you buy at the auction house are likely to be questionable; sick perhaps, behaviorally challenged or some such deficit, usually the very reason they’re being sold to begin with. Here, these were all breeders, folks who sold healthy and well-loved birds. It made sense to buy our layers here if we could. It seemed we’d found our girls. The booth was just across from the food stand, and I thought it might be good if we had some lunch before we wrapped things up. If I hadn’t known it before, I learned it then. Not a good move. Shoulda paid for those birds to secure them before I walked off. After a quick lunch (I ate, he didn’t’) we returned to find the Leghorns gone. Elihu started to sniffle. While it is true that this is a breed he’s long talked about wanting, I still didn’t see the need for tears. Besides, if nothing else, this event had taught me a lesson, which made it worth the loss. Pay for something as soon as you know you want it. Got it. Next time. But for now we weren’t entirely let down; there were four fine hens remaining, two of which were the lovely looking Aracaunas. We paid for them and Elihu begged to move them himself – from the cage to our back seat bin. Elizabeth, the woman at the vegetable/hen stand easily agreed, and when she saw how handily Elihu removed the hens, restrained them, and transported them to his box she complimented him warmly. I watched, proud of my boy. If you’ve ever tried to handle and move a bird, you’ll get it. If you haven’t, all I can say is it’s a gift. Natural to some, unthinkable to others. Definitely takes a knack.
After placing our new hens in the car, I’d tried to back up and retrace our route, but a line of cars behind me changed that plan. Instead, I drove forward along the perimeter of the grounds, and we passed some more stands we’d not seen yet. Finding space on the lawn, I parked again so that we could make one last walkabout before taking our hens home. A long-haired woman stood beside a handful of cages in which a couple of ducks, a fuzzy miniature chicken and one very cramped goose stood in the rain, waiting to go home. I love a duck, I really do, so I just had to spend some time cooing to these guys. Elihu too loves a duck and in fact had talked for several weeks about having a Muscovy duck instead of a dog. We’d long felt an undefinable absence in our home (not filled by a parrot – we tried that – and for Elihu’s allergies unable to be satisfied by a cat) and had thought perhaps – especially since Elihu was eight – this was the right time for us to get a dog. While the idea seemed pleasing, it just didn’t sit right with me – or him. So, he’d somehow settled on the idea of Muscovy duck. We searched the internet for “Muscovy duck as pet” and found a story of a particularly endearing pet Muscovy duck named Archimedes which seemed to confirm for us that this was a definite possibility. So I had to visit the ducks. There was even a Runner duck – the strangest looking duck you ever did see. Long and thin necks, almost vertical as they stand, they just don’t look possible. While I love all creatures and find Runners interesting, I’m not a huge fan. And they certainly don’t look, well, pet-like. Smoochable. Whatever it is that makes a pet a companion and not just another animal. Then I catch eyes with someone. A large head cocks to the side and a marble-blue, orange-rimmed eye looks up at me. “A goose?” I ask, knowing it’s a goose, but waiting for the story that comes with it. “He’s the only American Lavender Ice you’ll find anywhere around here” she offers, beginning to fill me in.
My experience with geese is that they are not very nice. Definitely not smoochable. Not an animal you want to get your fingers anywhere near. However, this guy’s been bred to be friendly. See? She inserts a finger into the cage and wiggles it into his back. He seems to like it. ? This is a first. “He won’t bite me??” I ask, still very hesitant to test her on it. She assures me, laughing. I tentatively move a finger toward his bill. Not much happens. He ignores it, in fact. Really? Another first. I let her talk a bit about him, his breed, what makes him so unique. While that’s all good to know, what I want to know is is he really friendly, I mean really friendly? As in ‘companion-to-an-eight-year-old-boy’ friendly? She assures me. She goes on to tell me that her best friend growing up was a goose named ‘Lucy’. I say, yeah, fine, but a boy? A gander? Males play rough, right? She goes on to tell me that years later she was to learn that Lucy was actually a gander! (They re-named him ‘Lucipher’ because he didn’t like a certain guy in the neighborhood… I kinda let that one pass; it didn’t add to her pitch, and frankly, by now I wanted to be sold on this creature). His eyes, oh his eyes. The same sort of look as a duck, only more substance promised to live behind them. Or so I hoped. Geese lived long, right? Twenty years, some. They get along with chickens? Sure do. They used em as sentries in WWI, would they do the same for me? Yup, they guard the flock, ward off foxes, raccoons. Are you sure he doesn’t bite? Sure. I stood there just looking at him. Elihu danced around, telling me why he had to have the other ducks, beginning to create his campaign for bringing home a final, unplanned member of the flock. Little did he know I was way ahead of him.
“Ok.” I said. “I’ll take him.” Two other birders looked on and nodded approvingly as they stroked the Banties they held in their arms, telling me they’d do it too if they only could. (I could, right? Again, quick mental list – I’d told her about our accommodations and she’d thought they were fine) really, could we? Really? Wow. Who was piloting this ship?? Had I been overtaken by an irrational alter-ego?? Ok, I’d bought an exotic pheasant last week, his mates this week, a car full of hens, yeah ok, but a GOOSE?
“Oh ho! Oh boy!” Elihu leaped into the air and ran to the goose’s cage. “Max!!” he shouted, “you’re coming home with us!”. Max? Sure, why not? Everyone laughed. Kim, the woman who’d sold us the goose, had kindly offered to throw the tiny Silkie rooster in with the deal. She didn’t want to go back home with a rooster (yeah, I hear ya sister). She insisted that Elihu could show this lil guy in his 4H group at the fair – he could easily take the $100 blue ribbon prize. While that wasn’t necessarily a selling point for me (but still mildly compelling), the idea of a tiny bird that Elihu could easily take around with him – perhaps in the crook of his arm at the next fair in spring – was just icing on the cake. Why not? The little fluffy white chicken was docile, sweet and accommodating. Kinda like the bird version of a toy poodle. Perfect. Throw him in the car with the rest of em. Oh heck, he can ride on your lap, why not. After locating a box and shifting the cargo around some (again, praise for Elihu’s deft maneuvering of animals) we were ready to go.
Somewhere inside, I had a feeling our lives had changed forever. I went to Kim and hugged her – in light of the way she’d contributed to the new direction of our lives it felt absolutely natural. Whether the result of her effortless sales pitch or the next step of our destiny encouraged by subtle forces, our lives were now different, our family now larger.
Duck? No. Duck? No. Goose? Why not….
Elihu and Maximus
Post Script: While animal’s names are usually something we like to sit with for awhile and often don’t choose until after an animal has lived with us for a bit , ‘Max’ just seemed perfect from the first moment Elihu said it. His full name is Maximus, and it fits as he is the largest member of our flock.
The Hillhouse 