The Snake

In 1963, when I was in first grade, we had an unwelcome visitor to our home. My mother was in the kitchen cleaning after she’d put us kids to bed, and my father was in the living room watching television. My mother said she heard my father say, “Carol, bring me an axe.” 

This was years before Stephen King wrote The Shining and Jack Nicholson creeped everyone out with his performance of the axe wielding crazed husband, so my mother peeked around the corner into the living room to see why a weapon was being requested. There was a snake in the house, coiled around the arm of my little wooden rocking chair. Instead of bringing an axe, she called the next door neighbor. Daddy and the man from next door wrangled the snake into a large glass jar with holes punched into the metal lid. 

The mystery of where the snake came from was solved when it was learned that the pet store on the next block had some snakes escape. Our wooden front door screen was warped at the bottom and the front door was open on this hot August evening. To quote my mother’s written account of the incident in a letter to her family, “That snake just came right in, without even knocking.” 

All these years later, I’m confused by why the boa constrictor was not returned to the pet store, but rather given to my then 10-year old uncle, Steve. Also, what happened to the other escaped snakes? 

In my mother’s letter she continues, “Steve has been wanting a pet snake all summer, so now he has his wish. He picks the snake up and lets it crawl and coil around his hand, arms, and around his neck. One night Steve was playing with the snake and watching T.V. - mostly watching T.V. Well the next thing they knew, the snake was gone and Mother, Sam, and Steve looked all over the den for it. Finally they found the ‘varmint’ hiding behind that big brass plate on the den wall.” 

This was just the first of many snake escapades experienced by my grandmother, aunts, and uncles during the years the snake lived with them.

There is an undated clipping from the local newspaper with the headline: Pet Boa Pops From Hiding. The article states, “A pet boa constrictor, lost for four weeks, tumbled out of hiding Wednesday, much to the astonishment of the Lewis Owen family, 3502 46th St. The two-foot-long snake owned by Steven Owen became lost about a month ago following a trip to Steven’s school, Christ the King. Wednesday Steven opened the door of the family car and the missing snake tumbled to the ground. Mrs. Owen, a teacher at Christ the King, said her son’s pet became lost when they were taking it home from school after showing it to Steven’s class.” 

What the article doesn’t say is that “showing it to Steven’s class” really means they took the snake to school to show his classmates how the snake was fed. I know this because once my entire Brownie Girl Scout troop met at my grandmother’s house to watch as a mouse was dropped into the dry aquarium home of the snake, as the snake froze, then struck the mouse with enough force to stun the poor little thing before it was devoured whole. The horrified Brownies watched as a bulge, that was the mouse, slowly made its way along the snake’s body. There is no telling how many girls were scarred for life on that afternoon. 

Another detail left out of the newspaper article is that during the month that the snake was living free in the car, my Aunt Gail was married to a Park Avenue New Yorker in a lavish Lubbock wedding. Many guests were ferried from the airport, to venues, and to hotels via this very car. My great Aunt Opal, a very genteel lady, would have run all the way home to Canton, Texas had the snake decided to show itself while she was a passenger. Just the thought of prissy Aunt Opal in close proximity to a snake has been enough to send me or any one of my family members into paroxysms of laughter over the last sixty-years. 

My Aunt Gail was only slightly less squeamish about reptiles. A tale told on her was about her brothers, my uncles Sam and Steve, wrapping the snake around the front door handle and then telling Gail the snake was loose and missing in the house. Gail went berserk and ran out of the house, through the front door, grabbing the snake in the process. One of Gail’s sisters, my Aunt Mary said, “When she realized she had grabbed the snake, her life as she knew it was over. As I was coming home from school she was on the front lawn screaming, running and jumping and pulling on her hair.” 

As you can tell, we had a lot of fun having a pet snake at my grandmother’s house. When school was in session my grandmother kept the snake in a terrarium in her second-grade classroom at Christ the King School. Over the years I have met many of her former students who commented on what an interesting classroom my grandmother kept. Sadly, classrooms such as hers are a thing of the past. 

During summer vacations and holidays the snake came home. Every year the rocks holding down the lid of the terrarium got larger as the snake got bigger. Eventually the snake was too big to be contained. After many Houdini-esque escapes and recaptures, my grandmother gave the snake away. She said she was afraid it would eat one of her grandchildren. 

I have many memories of my grandmother and her home on 46th Street. The snake and the antics of my aunts and uncles are all part of a beautiful tapestry that made up my childhood.  

Rumination While Deboning a Costco Rotisserie Chicken

How was my Costco total $352?

How much does a raw whole chicken cost? Surely it’s more than $4.99. How can Costco afford to sell their rotisserie chicken so cheaply? It’s just a ploy to get you in the door. Come for cheap chicken, stay for the expensive nutritional supplements, laundry detergent, dog food, and giant tubs of mayonnaise. 

Are these the chickens that were almost out of date? Chickens they didn’t sell fresh? What’s the shelf life on this chicken?

My dad once told me my mother could get more meat off of a chicken carcass than anyone he knew. From anyone else I’d suspect a double entendre, but he meant it as a sincere compliment. 

As a child my mother could catch a chicken in their yard, break its neck with one quick swing, dress it, and cook it for their family of 12. This is probably why she was so good at picking the meat off the carcass. 

Why do I keep using the word “carcass?”

Did my mother ever know the luxury of a rotisserie chicken? I’ll have to ask my sister if rotisserie chickens were a thing prior to 1991 when our mother died. 

I’m saving the chicken bones in a ziplock bag that I’ll freeze until I have enough to make a batch of bone broth. I’m so frugal. Then how did you spend $352 just now at Costco? 

My mother always said her favorite piece of chicken was the wing. There is little to no meat on these chicken wings! I was a grown-ass adult before I realized my mother didn’t really favor the wing, she just said that so the rest of the family could have the good parts. 

Warm chicken fat is gross. I wonder if it’s a good moisturizer for my hands? Shit, I forgot to buy lotion at Costco. 

How much chicken salad will this make? We may be eating chicken salad all week. What else can I do with this chicken? 

My mother would know. 

Dear American Airlines

Dear American Airlines,

Your flight attendants say, “We know you have a choice when you travel, thanks for choosing us.” Well, dear American Airlines, sometimes we don’t have a choice. Like when I’ve already purchased a ticket and you delay the flight 5 hours (FIVE HOURS) and there’s no way I can catch the last connecting flight home. I have to either wait and hope: a.) the plane I’m supposed to get on arrives from DFW to LaGuardia at some point in the next 5 hours (FIVE HOURS), or b.) the part needed to fix the mechanical issue arrives from JFK and the said mechanical issue is repaired at some point in the next 5 hours (FIVE HOURS). These were the two stories I received from your gate agents when questioned about the 5 hour (FIVE HOUR) delay. 

Let me start at the beginning. I left home 6 days earlier for work travel, flew from the conference in New Orleans to New York to spend the weekend with my daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren, and Lucinda Williams. (Okay, so I only spent a few hours with Lucinda at her show Saturday night.) I got up early on Sunday and had to walk blocks away from my daughter’s apartment to get an Uber because the streets were closed due to the Brooklyn Half Marathon. An eighty-dollar Uber ride got me to LaGuardia in plenty of time to check my bag, go through security, grab a coffee, and get to my gate. As soon as I sat down my phone and every other phone in the gate area began dinging with a delay notice; thirty minutes, no problem. Ding, ding, ding, another delay notice; an hour, no problem. Ding, ding, ding; 3 hours, what the hell? I was number two in line to speak to the gate agent. Rebooked, confirmed on last connection, no problem. Ding, ding, ding: 5 hours (FIVE HOURS); potential big problem. I could only make my connection if everything went perfectly. 

Sitting at the gate with all of the other disgruntled passengers a mass hysteria began to grow. Everyone was mad. No one knew what was actually happening. The gate agent was so overwhelmed with rebooking passengers she gave up and left. Anyone wishing to rebook had to go to a rebooking kiosk on the other side of the airport. The scuttlebutt at the gate was that the flight would be canceled and we were all screwed. At this point, even with my rebooked and confirmed ticket, I decided to follow the crowd to the other side of the airport to find out what the actual hell was happening. 

I got in line behind the eighty or one hundred and fifty other passengers trying to rebook. I waited in line for almost 2 hours. When I first arrived there were four gate agents assisting, by the time I got to the front of the line there were only two. The nice young man who assisted me confirmed my fear that I would most likely miss the last connection home. He offered to rebook me on a flight that could make my connection at DFW via Raleigh, North Carolina, but before he could push all of his computer buttons the flight to Raleigh was delayed. There was no other option but to fly the next day. The nice young man scheduled my flights, put in a request to retrieve my checked luggage, issued me two car service vouchers, and a twelve-dollar meal voucher. 

I was semi-happy. Very irritated about the situation, but at least I wasn’t going to waste anymore time at the airport, or so I thought. In the meantime, the customer eight-inches to my right was in the throes of travel rage. The entire time I was being taken care of by the nice young man, my fellow delayed passenger was being assisted by a nice young woman. My fellow delayed passenger was not anywhere near semi-happy. He was pulsing vein in the forehead mad. He was I’m not leaving this kiosk until I speak to your supervisor mad. He was I want financial compensation and I want it now mad. He was I’m video recording this on my cell phone and posting to social media mad. The nice young woman was I’m calling Port Authority and having you arrested mad. Wow. I was more traumatized by my fellow passenger than I was by the five hour (FIVE HOUR), now actually a twenty-four hour delay. I was shaking when I left the scene of the rebooking. It could have been because I had missed lunch, but I’m pretty sure it was because of the rage-fueled fellow delayed passenger.

Off to claim my checked luggage, hop in a car, and get back to my daughter’s apartment. That sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Wrong. Baggage claims office informs me that it will take forty-five minutes to an hour for my bag to come up. I had the claims agent double check that the nice young man had done everything correctly to request my bag so I wouldn’t be waiting an hour in vain. Check, everything in order. I wait an hour; no bag. I go back to claims office, speak to a different agent who tells me my bag is already on a plane. On a plane to Raleigh, North Carolina. She can put in another request, but it will take forty-five minutes to an hour. I decide to forgo clean clothes, toiletries, and medication just to be on my way. 

I call the car service, tell them I’m at LaGuardia and need a ride. No problem, the driver will call when he arrives, in about forty-five minutes to an hour. Seriously. The driver finally calls, I go out to the car, there are four other passengers in the vehicle. I’m thinking, dear God, we’re going to be driving all over the five boroughs delivering passengers. The driver speaks no English, but I pick up that we are going to JFK Airport. What? I say what about my trip to Brooklyn? I have to call the service, have the driver circle back to LaGuardia and drop me off where I once again have to wait forty-five minutes to an hour to get my ride. Oh, and the car service dispatcher cussed me out and told me that I requested transportation to JFK. Seriously. And, I still haven’t had lunch and it is late afternoon. 

While waiting on the second car to come pick me up, on a whim I go back to the baggage claims office and there is my bag. In the office. Not on a plane to Raleigh, North Carolina. 

After another forty-five minutes to an hour I call the car service and am told they haven’t found a driver to pick me up. Seriously. I take a taxi from the airport and spend another eighty-dollars to get back to my daughter’s apartment. Where I proceed to have a nervous breakdown crying jag in front of my horrified son-in-law and grandchildren; my daughter is used to it. 

So, dear American Airlines, I blame you for my horrible day. I would like to say I will no longer be choosing you when I travel, but like I said in my opening paragraph, sometimes we don’t have a choice. This is what travel has become these days. We just have to go with it and try not to get arrested. 

 

The Hobby

A few days ago a conversation with friends led me to comment that I didn't have a hobby, and I probably needed one. This was after seeing a beautiful knit baby blanket one of these friends had made for the soon-to-be-born granddaughter of the other friend. After a pause of a few seconds, I remembered I do have a hobby — oh yes, I read. I am a voracious reader. Why did I not think of this as an acceptable hobby? 

I've been an avid reader since Mrs. Thompson, my fourth grade teacher, read aloud Charlotte's Web every day after lunch. I began visiting the school library regularly and there began my life-long love of books, libraries, and reading. But, for some reason I cannot explain, reading became a true guilty pleasure, with emphasis on guilt. It may have started because I was reading when I was supposed to be doing other things like homework, chores, or looking after my younger siblings. I remember many a night when I was caught reading under the covers with a flashlight and told to get to sleep. Reading was blamed for my extreme myopia. Allegedly I read in bed (under the covers with a flashlight) for the duration of a bout of strep throat and a high fever, which instantly ruined my vision. I doubt that is a true story, but it is one that has added to the reading guilt-trip. 

As I grew older the reading guilt grew to illicit affair level. I read when I should have been cleaning house, doing laundry, or (gasp) tending children. I’ve ignored my husband on long car trips, stayed up too late on the eve of important work deadlines, and isolated myself during family vacations, all for the love of a book. Is this a hobby or an obsession? 

Do other hobbyists have three or four projects going at once? I typically have one or two paper books, a Kindle book, and an audiobook going at the same time. Do other hobbyists work on their hobbies while eating, driving, or trying to fall asleep? Books are truly an addiction for me. Was Mrs. Thompson like the shady drug dealer who offers a free taste, knowing I would get hooked? I know there are worse things to be addicted to, those are stories for other blog entries! 

I could keep writing about how books bring me joy, broaden my horizons, and open my mind, but I have books to read - I mean, I have a hobby to pursue, and must get to it. I checked out a library book on knitting. Who knows, I might just develop an acceptable hobby yet. 

Cleaning House, A Memoir - Revisited

It has been a while; seven years, one month, and two days to be exact. But, seriously, who was counting? Are blogs even still a thing? Hypothetical questions. A lot of life has happened in seven years, one month, and two days. I'll spare you the re-cap. I'm here now. A challenge of sorts. Get back into writing, stretch the atrophied muscles of the abandoned writer's life. Stop complaining that there is no time, find time. 

I’m doing this thing, a thing I began in January as an effort to embrace change (read: New Year’s Resolution). I am working through Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project with two groups of friends. We meet monthly to discuss how we can be happier. Is it working? I don’t know, I’ll let you know in December when I’ve completed the twelve-month program. Much like a twelve-step program, I have to do the work. This blog is part of the work. 

Why embark upon a happiness project? Am I not happy? How much happiness is enough? Again with the hypothetical questions! I am happy, I want to be happier. I’m examining the things that make me happy. Today, in Chapter Three, Gretchen opined that what one does in their spare time is a key to figuring out one’s passion. Currently, I have no spare time. Or do I? (Damn you hypothetical question.) She also wrote about her blog as a way to find her passion for writing. I used to have a blog. I used to have spare time. I used to have passion. I guess my resolution to find more happiness is about finding that passion again. 

Don’t misunderstand - I do have passion in my life. I love my job, but it has been all-consuming for the past five years. All-consuming. No balance. Not healthy. This year’s resolutions and the resulting foray into The Happiness Project are about finding all the elusiveness of what will bring me balance and, voila, happiness. Easy, right? 

So easy that I’m sure all I have to do is leap across seven years, one month, and two days to become a blogger again and all will be set right in my world. Stay tuned. It could happen. 

The Tree

           

           A special tree has fallen. I saw it on Sunday and felt a pang in my heart. The tree was like an old pal. To see it down and in the water was like seeing an elderly friend on the ground, sad and undignified.

            I discovered the river walk the first time I visited my husband in San Angelo. The locals directed me to it and I knew, as soon as I saw it, that it would be a place I would frequent and that my upcoming move to this town would be okay.

            The tree, stretching and reaching out over the river, welcomed me that day too. What a joy to discover it was inhabited by herons, at least four nests. I was mesmerized. I’d never been so close to these iconic birds.

            Herons have always symbolized something sacred to me, a spirit animal of sorts. To see so many up close and personal was a good omen. The tree became known in my mind as the nesting tree. It was a touchstone in my new life, in my new town, where I felt alone and unsure.

            The next nesting season something horrible happened. The tree died. The herons and their nests were gone. I felt somehow adrift until my eyes followed the tallest dead branch of the tree as it reached out over the river, as if pointing to the trees on the opposite bank, showing me where the new nests were.

            Now the nesting tree had become the pointing tree, still my touchstone. It was as if a neon sign had been erected on the riverbank, flashing “Herons this way!” Their new home is even grander than their original tree. A larger colony has taken up residence.

            On my morning walks the pointer tree has stopped me, has pulled me from my meditation or mindlessness every time I approach with a reminder to stop and watch the herons; to stop and “smell the roses.”

I’ve watched chicks pop their heads out of the nest waiting to be fed by mama and papa heron, I’ve seen fledgling flights, and watched the patience it takes to stalk one’s prey. All because the pointing tree was there showing me where to look.

Now it has fallen down, its root ball exposed in a most unbefitting manner, its branches mostly under water, yet still trying to reach across the river, still pointing toward the nesting herons, still reminding me to take a break from my ruminations and take in the beauty I’m in the midst of.

I’m not sure how long the fallen tree will remain. Perhaps it will be hauled off by park workers or moved by the current of the river. But for now it is there in its new role. Now it is the resting tree. I’ve seen cormorants stopping to watch for fish and turtles sunbathing. I’ll visit the tree for as long as it is there. I will rest beside it and look for what it will tell me in its final chapter. It is a dear old friend.

Rainbow Bridge

In the past few days my dear friends, Sunny and Teri, have lost pets, have had their pets cross the Rainbow Bridge. I feel for them. I hurt for them. I cry for them. Their loss is made more significant to me because my Dixie-Dog is approaching the Rainbow Bridge. She officially has congestive heart failure, arthritis, cataracts, and she is deaf. She can no longer hear me calling to her.

Our love affair began when I decided I wanted a dog for companionship. My husband worked non-stop. I wanted something to come home to. I didn’t realize that that “something” was the most self-aggrandizing thing possible. When I come into the house my dogs go berserk. They throw themselves at my feet in total adulation, I am not worthy. They love me beyond anything I could ever comprehend. What a rush.

One falls in love with their dog. I had no idea that when I decided I wanted a pet that I would develop a life relationship. My first thought was “I’ll adopt a mutt from the shelter.” I decided I wanted a medium sized dog. I’m not a purse-size dog person. I began looking at the website of the local no-kill animal shelter. There was a beautiful “mother.” She’d just had pups and was at a foster home. I made an appointment to visit her.

I told my husband I was just going to look. I pulled up to the property, got out of my car, and walked toward the front door. A black and white Border Collie with a red bandana strutted down the steps toward me. Was this a set-up? She sat down in front of me and raised her paw to shake hands. Oh my. I was smitten. This was my dog. The paperwork went quickly. I paid my $75.00 and promised not to let her ride in the back of a pickup truck.

As I left the property of the foster home with my new companion I realized I had no idea what to do.  I stopped at the local pet store and bought all the necessary accroutrements. As I was loading my car with dog food, and a kennel, and blankets, and treats, and leads and collars, and books on how to let a Border Collie raise you, my husband drove into the parking lot and said, “I knew I’d find you here.”

I felt as if I’d been caught in a torrid affair. “How did you know I’d be here,” I asked. He knew. That’s what he does. He knows!

Years later Dixie is still my companion. Whatever room I am in, she is there also. She sheds more than I thought she would. She is old and coughs and hacks up disgusting “stuff.” She passes gas that would put any teenage boy or old man to shame, but she is mine. I can tolerate the hacked up fur balls, the “un-godly scented vomit,” the gastric aroma, and the shedding.

What I can’t abide is the thought that she will leave me soon. I will love and cherish her until then, thankful that some Higher Power had the brilliant idea of dogs!