Spiders, Raccoons, and Frogs... Oh, My!

For months now, every time I go to take a bath or shower I find a spider in the bathtub. Every. Single. Time. I don't know what it is about my bathtub that is such a draw to spiders, but it seems that there is some sort of spider law that a single spider must take up residence in there at all times.  I carefully remove the spider using a yoghurt container and a piece of paper, relocating little Igor or Charlotte to the back yard, yet the next time I go to use the tub, there is inevitably another eight-legged critter in there waiting for me.  It's like my bathtub has a vacancy sign that only spiders can see: 

Spider residence now available!  

Must fill immediately!  

Move-in ready! 

Disclaimer: Slight chance of free relocation to a more outdoorsy abode.
Take possession Today!

It's funny, I seem to have a history of critters of various sizes entering my homes (or yards) uninvited.  I've had frogs, raccoons, squirrels, hummingbirds, cats, bunnies, and dogs appear in our house or yard without invitation... not to mention the numerous critters our cats used to catch and release in the house when I was a kid, or the animals our neighbors would bring to my mom to rehabilitate.  We wound up with several unusual birds that way... golden pheasants, crows, ducks... 

I've written about the frogs who have not only appeared in my garden, but have hopped right in the door and across my living room floor - more than once! I actually thought that the little frog was one of the kids toys left out during a recent visit with N&J, until I saw it leap a couple of feet up and to the right.

I've mentioned the hummingbird that I had to rescue from the eating area of our house, and the squirrels who ate from my hand.  I learned how to patch up drywall when mom and I cut several holes in the wall to rescue a baby squirrel who got stuck in the wall of our house. 

Let me see if I can clear up some of the other animal appearances...

There was a giant neighborhood dog that used to break into our backyard and patiently wait there for me to come out and give him pats and scratches behind his ears.  He knew how to push open the gate latch in order to enter the yard, where he would visit with our dogs.  He showed up on the sundeck a couple of times, scaring the begeesus out of me before I realized that it was my furry and unnamed (to me) friend.  Our neighbors across the street had a black lab named Shadow.  He had an electric collar linked to an invisible electric fence around his yard.  He would carefully weigh the discomfort of the shock he knew he would receive if he left the yard (provided the fence was turned on, which it often wasn't) against how much he wanted to visit his neighbors.  I found him lurking in our carport numerous times.  Often I wouldn't know he was there until he was nudging his head against my hand to tell me he wanted to be patted, RIGHT NOW!  He managed to scare each of us more than once because he just blended into the shadows, so you rarely saw him coming.  He loved our neighbor Mr. G.  Mr. G was a quiet neighbor who usually kept to himself, but when Shadow was around he would just light up like a little kid, and made a point of visiting Shadow in his own yard every day so that he wouldn't get zapped crossing the invisible fence.

It was Mr. G who found a tiny baby black and white bunny in his garage, thought it was ours, and asked me to come retrieve it.  While we did have a rabbit matching that general description, Domino was about a hundred times the size of the little guy I found hiding in Mr. G's carport.

A few years ago we had a raccoon mama that moved into the shed in our backyard.  She found a large Tupperware container and used it to create a nest for her babies.  She let me take several photos of her, cooperating as long as I didn't try to get too close.

raccoon babies

When I was a teen, my mom stayed up late one night baking several dozen muffins to take to work the next day.  She left them out on the counter to cool overnight.  We woke up the next morning to find that every single muffin had at least one bite missing from it.  We scolded the cats, thinking that was the end of it.  A week or two later, I was in my bedroom downstairs when I heard a rustling sound in the hallway.  The bag of cat food was kept there, so naturally I assumed that one of the cats had gotten into the bag and was helping herself to a snack.  I called out an admonition, but the rustling started again after a brief pause.  I peered down the hallway to find two beady little eyes staring back at me.  Those eyes didn't sit on the face of one of my cats, but on the masked face of a rather large raccoon.  The raccoon had discovered the cat door, let itself in, and not only helped itself to the cat food, but to the muffins mom had made earlier.  To get the muffins, the raccoon had to go through the cat door, up the stairs, onto the kitchen counter and back out again without being discovered by one of our dogs or cats.  I really don't know how the furry little bandit managed it!

Speaking of our cats... around the time of the raccoon invasion, we had two cats, Quixote Anne (not to be con fused with our former kitty, Don Quixote) and Kira.  Kira appeared one afternoon in a nearly empty flower planter on our sundeck.  We went outside, heard a pitiful mewling sound and found a tiny, very dehydrated kitty curled up in the dusty planter.  How she got there, where she came from, and how she instinctively knew that ours was a safe place to go, we will never know.  We called the vet, described her condition and were told to try to give her some water via syringe or turkey baster, but not to hold out much hope.  If she made it through the night we were to bring her in, but not to bother right away as she was unlikely to make it. (In hindsight, it seems like the vet on duty was not very compassionate.  I've met vets since then who would have insisted we bring her in immediately, planter and all in order to avoid jostling her.)  Against the odds, we managed to get Kira to drink some water, and she gained enough strength to curl up in our laps and purr like mad.  The vet was quite surprised when she went from deathly ill to remarkably healthy in a short span of time.  Her growth was stunted, but she was a lovely and affectionate little kitty who liked to curl up next to our dog Gandalf. At nap time, she acted as if he was her mama, he in turn tolerated her unassuming presence.  Quixote on the other hand, he avoided like the plague after an unfortunate encounter in the eating area (of hummingbird fame) where he cornered her, then didn't know what to do with her, so he kept barking while lunging at her while she swiped her claws at his nose.  She won the battle, he skulked off with a few nasty war wounds, and that was the end of their chances at a lasting inter-species friendship.

Thundering Word Heard

In 2004, when I was a student at UBC I was given an assignment for my Canadian Poetry class: Go see a live poetry reading, interview a published poet and write a review of the performance. I went to what was at the time a weekly gathering of spoken word poets, “Thundering Word Heard.” T. Paul Ste. Marie was a poet well known in the Vancouver community, and I had had the honour of meeting him and Shane Koyczan at the Vancouver Folk Music Festival a year or two earlier when they were there as performers. Backstage, we joked in the lunch and dinner lines for volunteers (me) and performers (them) while we waited for our free meals. Their unique personalities and senses of humour led me to seek out their performances at the festival, and they did not disappoint. I quite enjoyed their slam poetry at Folk Fest, so when I needed to find a poetry reading for class, it seemed natural to go to a poetry slam hosted by T. Paul and frequented by Shane - who you might recognize from his performance at the Vancouver Winter Olympics. I absolutely LOVE Shane's Remember How We Forgot:

I had a great time at Thundering Word Heard, and meant to go back repeatedly, but only made it out to one other performance. T. Paul passed away unexpectedly in 2007. He used to open every TWH night with his slam poem “Invocation,” insisting on audience participation.

Here is the review I wrote, followed by the Q&A's I managed to get some of the performers to participate in. I wish TWH was still a weekly event, as I am sure it would be a treat to re-immerse myself in that world.  I would be sure to raise a glass to T. Paul, while remembering not only his passion, but that which he insisted upon inspiring in others.

********************************

 March 14^th, 2004

Café Montmartre: Thundering Word Heard

Enter a dark, low-lit Parisian-style café, narrow yet deep. Tea lights on each narrow table are flickering in the breeze caused by the door propped open to Main St. at 28thAve. A combination of pop-art, photographs, mirrors and prints cover the walls as an old-fashioned tricycle and a pair of gauze and feather wings hang suspended from the high ceiling. The audience fills the many tables, reaching far into the back of the narrow café. It is 9pm on a Sunday at Café Montmartre.

T. Paul Ste. Marie steps up to the microphone as his theme music plays. He asks the audience "what do we need?" "Passion!" is the weak but unanimous reply. "I'm sorry, what do we need?" "PASSION!" shouts the audience. This play between host and audience evolves into T. Paul's weekly recitation of his poem "Invocation." He pauses intermittently to ask the audience what is needed. Each time the response is "PASSION!" "We've got to EXPAND on this vocabulary, form a mental constabulary arresting ignorance at hand because knowledge IS power." T. Paul finishes his invocation with the following lines: "And some days they split atoms. And some days they kick stones. Today they find our voice."

After completing the introductions, T. Paul calls to the feature performer of the night, Paulie Lipman, an American spoken word artist currently touring the West coast. Lipman has been writing poetry for 18 years, has produced two chapbooks, You Are Here and Evolution of a Dork In Progress, and two CD's Doing the Door and What's With All The Shouting!? All of Paulie Lipman's published works are available through his website fearofsilence.com.

Before taking the stage, Paulie climbs atop his chair in the middle of the café and shouts "I am feeling the spirit tonight! Now the subject for this evening's sermon is rooted in the utterance of the Lord communicated unto Larry who occasionally dabbled in prophecy. And on the eve where Larry contemplated whether or not to give this prophet gig a shot, the hand of the lord doth appeared in the heavens and the lord doth proceeded to righteously bitch-slap Larry. All the while proclaiming: BE NOT HALF-ASSED!" This is the beginning of Lipman's poem "Potential Damnation" in which he preaches not religion, but individuality. The poem holds a caution to measure people by their actions, not by their "potential."

This touching poem is followed by the comical "Lacka-Assa-Tosis" in which Paulie Lipman describes his "medical condition" of having no behind. While his poems contain a substantial degree of humor, Lipman has a number of insightful messages to share with his audience. Having dropped out of college, Lipman believes in the school of life. "Sometimes ya gotta quit reading and writing… get out and live." When asked if he had any words of wisdom for aspiring poets, Paulie Lipman replied: "Keep at it. A goal to strive for is to be personal and universal at the same time." He certainly achieves this goal in his own work.

Following Lipman's performance, the open mike portion of the evening begins. Poets and musicians are each given ten minutes to perform. Some performers choose to combine poetry with recorded tracks of music and background noise, while others read from their own chapbooks. The most entertaining moment of the evening occurs when accordion-playing Rowan Lipowitz asks if there are any requests from the audience. A joker in the back of the café calls out "Hit Me Baby, One More Time!" Instead of going on to a more serious suggestion, Rowan indeed begins playing and singing the pop song. There is little in this world that can compare to a thirty-something Jewish, accordion-playing man singing one of the best-known and most-hated songs to emerge from the commercial pop-music industry.

Once the crowd has contained their laughter, Vancouver poet Fernando Raguero takes the stage and performs a number of his works, many of which can be found in his chapbooks two dragonflies mating on my toe and one hand tied behind saturn. "Ode to Suburbia" scoffs at the cookie-cutter style of suburban greater Vancouver. Raguero's single-line poem "Warm" paints a vivid image of downtown Vancouver. "It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling when I see two crack dealers overcome their differences and embrace." His poetry contains simple, everyday language which does not hide the message with "too many big words." Raguero encourages poets to "keep things simple, there is great beauty in the ordinary, things don't have to be complicated to be great." Raguero's final poem "Measuring Stick" is a tribute to "all those who have been called weird of strange or whatever." Through the poem, Raguero points out that the "weird" and "mad" person's perspective can be a wonderful thing.

The night continues with a number of performances both of spoken word and music. Cole Robertson performed for the first time, reciting his poem "What can we know of another?" T. Paul encouraged Robertson and the other first-time performers to return and share more of their work in the following weeks. Cole Robertson's self-published Chapbook "What Happens" is currently only available through the author. If his performance is any indication of his ability, his work will soon be found in more established publications. Cole's advice to other new spoken word poets? "Write all the time. Perform even if you think you aren't good. You'll get better."

As the evening draws to a close, Laughs are had, tears are shed, and Thundering Word Heard founder and host T. Paul Ste. Marie brings a special energy to the evening. New performers are given warm support and encouraged to return. Returning performers of varying skill and renown are welcomed back to the stage. The audience is energetic and supportive of all performers. The food and coffee are amazing. I recommend attending Thundering Word Heard's open mike night each Sunday from 9 to midnight. Those wishing to perform should arrive at 8 to sign up. Arrive early as the tables fill quickly.

****************** Q&A ************************

Cole Robertson:

What poem(s) are you performing tonight?

"What can we know of each other?"

How long have you been writing poetry? Do you write prose as well? Do you prefer one over the other?

3 years. Yes. No.

Do you have any published work? Chapbook(s)?

Sort of. (He gave me a copy of his chapbook "What Happens")

How long have you been participating in spoken word?

This is my first one.

Do you have any words of wisdom or encouragement for the aspiring poets of tomorrow?

Write all the time. Perform even if you think you aren't good. You'll get better.

Paulie Lipman (Featured Performer):

What poem(s) are you performing tonight?

"Potential Damnation," "Lacka-Assa-Tosis," "First Ever," "DJ," "Orion's Example," "History After Hours," "Slowly Written Suicides"

How long have you been writing poetry? Do you write prose as well?

18 years. Not really, no.

Do you have any published work? Chapbook(s)? If yes, where would one find these works?

Yes 2 chapbooks (You are Here and Evolution of a Dork in Progress)

2 CD's (Doin the Door and What's With All The Shouting!?)

Available at fearofsilence.com

How long have you been participating in spoken word/ poetry slams? What drew you to this particular form of poetry?

About 4 years, slams I heard about from a friend of mine. What drew me to it was the energy and honesty of the audience.

Do you have any words of wisdom or encouragement for the aspiring poets of tomorrow?

Keep at it. A goal to strive for is to be personal and universal at the same time.

Any other information you feel would be beneficial to English Lit. and Writing students at UBC?

Sometimes ya gotta quit reading and writing… get out and live for that is what inspires the writing.

Fernando Raguero:

What poem(s) are you performing tonight?

Some old, some new.

Among them were: "Ode to Suburbia," "Warm," "Bukowski Can't Save Me," "Measuring Stick"

How long have you been writing poetry? Do you write prose as well? Do you prefer one over the other?

I've been writing for twenty years, just poetry, prefer poetry.

Do you have any published work? Chapbook(s)? If yes, where would one find these works? Under what title(s)?

Two chapbooks, [you can] get them from me.

"two dragonflies mating on my toe."

"one hand tied behind saturn."

How long have you been participating in spoken word?

4 years, [I] heard about it about 4 years ago.

I like it because it's spoken, you are forced to listen.

Do you have a favorite Canadian poet/writer? Have they influenced the content or style of your own writing?

Favorite Canadian poet: Leonard Cohen.

I am influenced by Charles Bukowski.

Do you have any words of wisdom or encouragement for the aspiring poets of tomorrow?

Keep things simple, there is great beauty in the ordinary, things don't have to be complicated to be great.

Any other info you feel would be beneficial to English Lit. and Writing students at UBC?

Don't use too many big words.

Fires & Free Furniture

My mom was in a house fire when she was an Au Pair in her 20's.  She has understandably been hyper-aware of fire hazards and fire safety ever since.  When I was a kid, we had household fire drills where we would have to list and then use specific escape routes should one be blocked.  Those drills ended in tears when her 8-year-old daughter adamantly refused to climb out of her second story window onto a precariously placed ladder leaning against a flimsy wooden flower planter.  What?!  It was SCARY! I was 8!  14-year-old me would have loved the excuse to climb out the window, but 8-year-old me was rather wary of heights and enough of a daddy's girl to have a working knowledge of math and rudimentary woodworking.  She took one look out the window at that ladder and that planter, did the math, and said NUH-UH!  NOPE! NOT GONNA HAPPEN!

When we moved out of the house I grew up in, mom chose a place directly across the street from a fire hall. She maintains to this day that this was merely a coincidence. I think not.

Me & N visiting said fire hall (& fire men!)

The ironic twist?  Shortly after moving into the new house, my mother - the one who fiendishly drilled into our heads that we shouldn't leave unattended candles burning, or heating pads plugged in - after years of these warnings to groans of "I KNOW Mom!  Duh!" she left a plugged-in faulty heating pad on the couch and left the house.  It melted a quarter-sized hole through the fabric of the couch before I woke up and noticed the burning plastic smell, ran upstairs to investigate, and yanked the damn cord out of the wall.  Unfortunately, there wasn't really any smoke to speak of, so the firemen across the street never saw signs of distress and never ran to the rescue... Alas, my dreams of being "rescued" by handsome firemen were dashed. A few months later I posted an ad on Craigslist to get rid of the couch and a few other items.  I wrote the following (mostly true, though not contiguously so) story to advertise them waaaaaaay back in 2007.  I have slightly edited it, only to remove glaring spelling and typographical errors.  Sadly the accompanying pictures have disappeared, so you'll have to use your imagination.

Title: (free stuff) FREE Furniture - you pick up.

Picture this:

It's my day off, so I have lazily stayed in bed until around 10:30am. 

Finally resigned to getting up, I swing my legs over the side of my bed.  My feet do not reach the ground, as the mismatched Queen-sized Mattress set I've had for a couple of years and the new bed frame I've had a few months put the bed top to about waist height.  I jump off of the bed and land on a soft, warm rug.

The "Rug" Kaila

The "rug" gives a yelp and limps off out of the way, favoring one of her rear legs.  Yes, that's right, it's my dog, not the fuzzy rug that's supposed to be covering the floor by my bed.  No - that has migrated to the other side of the room, due to the dog's midnight need to dash back and forth (barking of course) through the house chasing fairies or gremlins, or whatever it is that dogs noisily chase in the middle of the night when the household is desperately trying to sleep.

Having convinced the dog that she is in no danger of being stepped on again, I coax her over and am able to ascertain that she isn't seriously injured, just understandably cautious of feet falling from the sky.

I start up the stairs to get that much needed mug of tea from the kitchen, only to trip over the same dog as she decides that she needs to occupy the same part of each step that I do, at exactly the same time as I occupy it.

Halfway up the stairs, having only tripped over the dog four more times, I smell something that isn't quite right.  I struggle with the "child proof" baby gate we have installed at the top of the stairs to keep my niece and nephew from an unwanted tumble, and with a final yank, manage to open it.

Trying to place the smell, I follow it into the family room where I can see that the heating pad on the couch is emitting an unwelcome waft of smoke.

I rush over and unplug the heating pad, trying to avoid the grotesque smell of melted plastic and fried electronics.  After rushing the melting heating pad to the kitchen sink - only tripping once over the dog, who is quite interested in the intriguing smells emitting from both furniture and heating pad - I rush back to the couch, thinking it must also be on fire.

Attempting to sidestep the dog, and thus avoid tripping over her for the umpteenth time, I misjudge the width of our dining room table and catch the leg of one of the dining room chairs on my way past.  You can probably guess by now that the chair and I both take a dive, with the dog bouncing back and forth, voicing her excitement over the entire situation, and punctuating it with a big doggy kiss on my cheek.

Figuring that the potentially burning couch is a priority, I don't even glance at the toppled chair until much later.

Now limping to match the dog's earlier gait, I make my way over to the couch.  To my amazement and relief, it is not on fire, nor has it been too badly damaged.  The couch does have a small discoloured area, but is otherwise in good shape considering it's brush with certain firey death -er- destruction.  I won't lie to you, there is still the small matter of the smell to be attended to, but at this point I am just glad the house hasn't burned down, and I haven't killed the dog or been killed by tripping over said dog. 

Yes, for months my friends and I have been constructing elaborate fantasies involving ways to run into the firemen across the street, but smoke billowing out of the family room window is NOT how I want to grab their attention.

I should probably note here that the heating pad in question was one of those heating pads that is supposed to automatically turn itself off after a set amount of time, and is supposed to cut out if anything goes amiss.  Yeah, right.  My mother had left it plugged in (but turned off) the previous night, and had gone off early in the morning to some appointment or other, blissfully unaware of the coming excitement.

Nursing my bruised shin, I open the windows to air out the room, and make my way back to the toppled dining room chair.  It did not fare so well.  Somehow in tripping over it and landing partially on it, I managed to break one of its legs in half.  I don't know about you, but a three-legged chair just doesn't quite work for me.  Apparently my mom agreed, because she later replaced the dining room chairs with simple, yet much sturdier wooden ones.

This was not the way I'd planned to spend my one day off.

Since the day these events took place, we've made a few changes around here.

Sadly, the heating pad did not survive the ordeal.  It went to the place where all heating pads who have exhausted the ability to serve their owners wind up - the city dump.

The broken dining room chair and it's remaining 4 relatives were relegated to the garage while the garage-sale sturdy wooden ones took their place.  They're what many craigslisters might call "retro."  Personally I think they're gawdaful ugly, but I'm not one to judge other peoples opinions, and you may like the design... Or maybe you've tripped over one or two of them yourself, and need more to make a full set.  You could always recover them to match your decor.

The Queen-sized Box-spring Mattress has been removed from my bed, and placed in the garage for storage.  Note that this is only the box-spring part of the mattress, the other part is happily residing on my bedframe.  Now my feet can actually touch the ground when seated on the bed.

The dog has since passed away.  No, this was not a result of being stepped on or tripped over.  She was 10, and she had a relatively good life with us.  The mattress was removed a couple of months before she passed away, so for those months she was only bumped by feet leaving the bed, not jumped on as in the past.  Though I should note that her habit of being literally underfoot never was resolved.  She tripped many a person in her remaining months.  We loved her anyways.

The Couch on which the melting heating pad was found was placed in the rec room downstairs, where it is now taking up too much space to allow the room to actually serve its purpose.  The couch is in surprisingly good shape.  As you can see from the pictures, there is a discoloured area, but the fabric did not melt through.  The odour is long gone.  If you throw a blanket over the couch, you'd never even guess that anything had ever happened to it.

If you can provide any or all of these items (the RECLINING LOVESEAT, BOX-SPRING MATTRESS, 4 INTACT DINING ROOM CHAIRS, even the 1 BROKEN CHAIR) a home, and a ride to that home, please contact me.

I don't intend to have another day off like the aforementioned one anytime soon.  I've still got the scar on my shin to remind me of this one.

*************

I had fun with this post, getting several positive responses before some holier-than-thou people decided they (and I quote) "didn't want to read a book" to find out what I was giving away.  So they flagged it and the post was removed.  Funny how I could get ten emails from people saying that they were nominating the post for "best of" and thanking me for giving them a chuckle, then two emails from people who couldn't be bothered to read the post (newsflash, ya don't have to read it if you don't want to...) and then the post was deleted by automatic flagging. 

I did get responses from people who wanted the couch and chairs, and someone took the box-spring when we leaned it against the fence, so it was ultimately a win.

Just Call Me Snow White...

When I was a teenager my mom and I spent hours upon hours building up a relationship with the wildlife that frequented our sundeck.  I spent several hours each day for a week or two one summer sitting on the sundeck with a book in one hand and birdseed sprinkled along the other, ending in a pile of seed in my palm, and seed scattered nearby.  It took a while, but I got the Chickadees to happily land on my hand and eat to their hearts content, and even got a couple to land on my shoulder with regularity.  They are so small and so lightweight that I could barely feel their little talons on my skin.  For years after that summer the Chickadees would land on my hand looking for food.

I spent hours getting the little brown squirrels to trust me, especially one I named Skittles, and like the Chickadees he would climb up to my shoulder and chatter away whilst devouring whatever treats I had with me.  He even brought his babies to meet me, teaching them that this was the easy way to food.  Their mom would stay a few feet away, occasionally braving the journey to my outstretched hand only to grab a nut and dash to safety, but the babies and Skittles would sit right next to me, or on my arm and chow down.

I think it was mom who first convinced our favorite Steller's Jay "Buddy" to eat from her hand, but I was quick to join in the fun.  He became so tame that he'd land on my hand or wrist and chow down on whatever seed or nuts I had on hand... even if they were meant for the Chickadee's or squirrels. In addition to food and mimicking sounds, Buddy liked having his head scratched.  He liked to sit on the bracket that once held our air conditioner just outside the eating area, and receive his meal through the window.  If he saw that mom or I were home and horror of horrors, NOT feeding him, he would sit on the bracket, shriek, and tap his beak against the window to let us know he was hungry.  If this didn't work, he would follow us from room to room outside the window, and squawk as loudly as he could, going through his repertoire of imitations of other birds and man made devices like phones until we acknowledged him.  He especially liked to sit in the fir tree just outside the kitchen window and watch us, becoming increasingly cheeky if he was ignored.

My single most memorable instance involving a feathered friend from the great outdoors involved an entirely different type of bird, and for years afterwards this bird and his friends and relations were sure to remind me of the incident frequently.  One afternoon while mom was at work my dad and I were in the family room, likely working on homework - mine the studying for a test type, his more of the marking tests variety - when we heard the oddest sound.  Brrrrrrrrrr Ding, Brrrrrrrrrr Ding, Brrrrrrrrrr Ding, Brrrrrrrrrr Ding, Brrrrrrrrrr Ding, Brrrrrrrrrr Ding... it continued until I finally got up and followed the noise to the kitchen eating area.  A tiny little green hummingbird had somehow gotten into the kitchen through the hole in the screen door and couldn't find a way back out.  He was repeatedly flying into the window, rather persistent in his quest to get outside.  When I approached he stopped and sat on the window ledge.  He made no protest as I scooped him up, then checked him for any sign of injury.  He let me gently pat his tiny head and back, as his heartbeat thrummed against my palm. He seemed fine, if a bit stunned, so I carefully carried him over to Dad and told him what I'd found.
"Wanna see?" I asked, lifting my top hand to show him my quarry.
"Hmmm.  Uh huh," was his enthusiastic and clearly intrigued response.
"You know, Mom would think this was awesome..."
"Mmm hmmm."

I gave the hummingbird one last pat as I opened the screen door, and he sat on my hand until we cleared the doorway, where he cocked his head at me once, then took off to the safety of the nearest tree.  I figured that was the end of it, thought about the amazing speed at which his heart seemed to beat, and smiled as I went back inside.  From that day until the day we moved out of the house, EVERY TIME I was on the sundeck and there was a hummingbird around it would either hover directly in front of me or buzz past my head missing by mere inches.  We would joke that the humming birds were dive-bombing me, and it really seemed to be the case.  They didn't do it to anyone else, just to me, as if that one little hummingbird had told all his friends and future relations about me and they were doing fly-bys to thank me for helping him.  

Don't ever tell me that small critters like squirrels and birds aren't intelligent.  I had Chickadees, Brown Squirrels, Steller's Jays and Hummingbirds who remembered me year after year and brought their babies to me to teach them that I was a friend who they could trust.  The hardest part of leaving that house was knowing that my furry and feathered friends were being left behind and it would take months of patience and calm determination to ever build up that kind of relationship and trust with wildlife again.

To this day, whenever I hear the telltale thrum of a hummingbird flying overhead I reflexively duck ever so slightly, and then I smile as I think of my little green friend and imagine him telling the other neighbourhood hummingbirds all about the girl who gave him a helping hand just as I tell others about the wonder I felt holding such a perfect and tiny creature in my hand for those few minutes.  Regardless of the mood I am in, I cannot hear that sound without smiling.

Tales From The Fishtank

Happy April Fools Day!

I know I ought to be writing a brilliant and insightful post right now, but I've been chasing Pokemon characters in Google Maps on my iPhone.  You never know how long these April Fools Day gags will continue, and I've caught 47 of  the 150 Pokemen. :)

Since most of my attention is otherwise occupied with this extremely important and time sensitive task, here is my favorite April Fools Day prank followed by a brief look into the lives of my fish. (No, really!)

My all-time favorite elaborate April Fools Day hoax:
The Spaghetti Harvest, The BBC 1957.

 

_________________

Tales From The Fishtank:

From FB before the Great Fish Plague of 2014:
I released the baby guppies into the main tank as I couldn't just pick a few to keep in sequester, so i figured they could fend for themselves in the plants and let nature take it's course - some will survive, some won't. They were all swimming around the top of the tank when I went across the room to use my computer. About 40 minutes later I looked over and couldn't see a single baby fish. Not one. I went over to the tank thinking there was no way all 40 babies could have been eaten in 40 minutes, and boy was I right. All of the babies (and I do mean ALL of them) were swimming in a group in the corner behind the plants and the Plecostomus. They seem to have adopted the Pleco as their Nanny/Guard Dog and whenever he moves, so do they, following as one. It's quite cute really.

From FB a couple of months ago after the Great Fish Plague of 2014 ,which only Pleco survived:Right now Pleco is going to town on a piece of broccoli. I think this is mostly due to the fact that I took away the tattered remains of the slice of zucchini that he devoured while I was at work today. The day before yesterday he discovered that he could eat the skin of the zucchini as well as the innards, and boy does he like it!
Also, today he murdered the last remaining live plant that was in his tank... he thrashed his tail against it until it fell apart and had no hope of survival, so it too has been removed... so much for things he can hide behind. Now all he's got is a TARDIS (it's tall, but not sufficiently wide enough to properly hide a pleco) and a bubble curtain (that he rearranged twice to form an arch instead of a solid curtain of bubbles from the bottom of the tank up). He's "hiding" under the bubble arch now, and newsflash: I CAN SEE HIM!

More recently: 

My little orange guppy has decided that unlike the 4 new guppies, he is a pink danio. He keeps following the 3 new pink danios around and trying to "school" with them, while they're like..
"Uh... what's up with this dude following us? Yo, guppy! You're a GUPPY, not a danio!"
"But I wanna play with you!"
"Dude! you're not one of us. Go play with the other guppies."
"But we're practically the same colour and everything! Puhleeeeeeze?!"
"Meh, fine, you can follow us around if you really want to, I guess..."

Meanwhile there's a new yellow guppy, and the orange guppy (the veteran) keeps looking at him like he's doling out warnings.
Yellow: "OOOOOOHHHH! Look! A big spotted rock! I'm gonna check it out!"
Orange, while following danios around: "Dude, you don't wanna go over there..."
Yellow: "I think some food fell on this rock... I'm gonna chow down!"
Orange: "That isn't a rock..."
Yellow: "Oh! Look there's a space under the rock... I'm gonna go check it out!"
Orange: "Not a good idea..."
Pelco: "Now seems like a good time to stop contemplating my nonexistent navel in complete silence and stillness... I think I'll go for a swim. VOOSH!"
Yellow: "YOWZA! OMG I'm gonna die!!!!!!! AAAACK! What happened to my rock!?"
Orange: "I told you so!"

That brings us up to today.

I am pretty sure I have a pair of gay guppies.  I have only male guppies as female guppies cause the male guppies to go gaga and chase them relentlessly until they finally stress out so much that they die.  Also, female guppies have babies, LOTS OF BABIES, and I just don't have a big enough tank to go through that again.  My point is, the guppies I have are all male.  Two of them seem to be pretty chummy.  At first I thought it was a one-sided thing, as one of the boys has a dark belly, making him look a little like a female guppy...  to a myopic and horny male guppy that is...  So I thought: okay, dude is horny, so he starts to chase the only fish that looks like it might possibly be a viable route to procreation... but I watched them closely today and the fishy affection is clearly not one-sided.

My favorite fish in the tank right now are the baby Panda Cory Catfish.  They are very cute little guys who scour the bottom of the tank for any food that the others don't eat before it hits bottom.  There is a small problem with these adorable little fish though: they blend into the gravel so well that I keep thinking I've lost a couple of them.  The other day I frantically searched the tank, moving plants and other decorations, but could only find two of the four babies.  Resigning myself to the idea that the other two didn't make it, I finally gave up.  Two hours later, I looked in the tank and saw three of the little buggers.  I can only seem to find three at a time right now, so I don't know if I have three or four, but given their incredible ability to blend into the gravel when not in motion, I am holding out hope that the fourth is still alive and swimming.  He or she could always be hiding under Pleco. :)

Will Wonders Never Cease?

It may be cheating a bit to post a story I wrote years ago here, but there's a story to go with the story, and that's new at least.

I wrote the story "Will Wonders Never Cease?" for an art history class many years ago.  The assignment was to write a story that encompassed the mood of a work of art selected from our Art History text.  I chose Jess Collins' "Will Wonders Never Cease?" 1969, and drew upon memories of the adventures that my childhood friend Rachel and I had when we stayed at her family cabin on Galliano Island to create a tale that I felt suited the painting.   I posted the story on my old website, then I moved and promptly forgot about it and the other writings there.  A few years ago I got a message on Facebook from Gioia, the author of the poem that I quoted at the end of the story.  She is now a teacher in Surrey. When we were in high school, we both entered a district writing contest, for which her poem was picked and published in an anthology, while mine was not quite up to par and did not make it... I have no idea which poem I entered that year, but clearly Gioia's and a few others' were better. :)  In college and university I had a habit of including quotes or poems in essays and papers, and this story was no exception.  I had copied her poem into one of my many journals full of poems that I enjoyed, and thought it fit well with the story.

Gioia was teaching a lesson to her class about social media, warning them that once something is on the internet, it stays there.  She Googled herself in class, telling them that she was usually rather careful about what she put out there, but that even so, she'd likely find something unexpected about herself online.  Sure enough, she found my story with her poem quoted.  She tracked me down and we conversed a bit online.  She assured me that she didn't mind her poem being used in the story online (which was a good thing as I wasn't sure even I could access my Shaw account to change the webpage!) and said it was a great example for her class, not only for the lesson on online content, but of how to credit the original author when using a quote in your own work.

 
Here is the story (and Gioia's wonderful poem) for your enjoyment.

_________________________________

Will Wonders Never Cease?

By Janine Sebastian

Will Wonders Never Cease, by Jess Collins
via famousartistsbirthdays

When I was a child, my brothers and I would spend hours upon hours playing outside, dreaming up adventures and searching for treasures. Every time one of us brought one of our found treasures to Daddy, he would say the same thing: “Will wonders never cease?”

He would ask us about the treasure, where we found it, what we thought it was. Then he would examine it and either confirm our consensus, even when it was far fetched, or he would tell us a story about the real origin of the object.

When I was seven, we spent the summer up at my Uncle Joel's cabin on Galliano Island. We had a great time searching the shore for lost treasures and mystical creatures. Daddy told us a story of how he had seen a beautiful mermaid in the nearby cave once. He spent years searching for her, but never saw her again.

My oldest brother Jamie, who was nine at the time, swore he saw Daddy's mermaid hiding in the nearby cave. Lorne and I searched and searched but we never found her. He also thought that by standing in knee deep water, trusty net in hand, he would one day catch a fish big enough for our supper. Eight year old Lorne swore that there was a treasure buried somewhere on our beach… Uncle Joel was surprisingly understanding about the many holes we dug in his property. He had only two conditions on our digging there. The first condition was that should we find it, we had to share the treasure evenly, without fighting over who got what. The second condition was that any hole we dug, had to be refilled before the next one was begun. Being of reasonable mind, we agreed.

Once when we were combing the beach for shipwrecked treasures, I found a small tooth caught between a rock and some driftwood. I took the tooth home and showed it to Daddy, asking him what kind of animal it came from. He looked at my treasure and exclaimed “Will wonders never cease!”

“Oh Daddy, don't be silly. Is it a sea monster's tooth? Jamie says it's a wolf's tooth, but wolves don't walk on the beach… do they?” Before he could answer, I continued with my monologue. “And Lorne says it's from a baby sea monster, like the Ogopogo. I think they're both wrong,” I stated matter-of-factly.

“Do you now? And what do you think it is, Princess?”

“I think it's a dolphin's tooth. We saw those dolphins last week, and they had teeth this big. Do you think the tooth fairy visits dolphins too?”

How ever did Daddy put up with my constant stream of questions? I'm sure he often felt like he was under interrogation, yet he was always patient in his answers.

“Well Princess, I think you're right. It looks like either a dolphin or a shark's tooth. And there's probably a dolphin out there with a tooth missing just like you have. I imagine the tooth fairy left him a nice fish in exchange for it, then accidentally dropped it on her way up to the cabin to take your tooth.”

Pleased with his answer, I slid from his lap, and went in search of my older brothers to gloat. I love my brothers, but they've always had the propensity to think they are the authority on everything. It was nice to be proven right for a change.

One afternoon, we were on the beach with Daddy, and he pointed out an orange starfish that was stuck to one of the rocks in the shallow water. After assuring us that it couldn't hurt us, we each reached out to feel it's slimy surface. Daddy bet us that we couldn't find eight different types of starfish on the beach. The wager: if we found them, he's take us out for ice cream at the end of the week. If we couldn't find them, then we had to help him wash his car. Lorne tried to pry the orange starfish off the rock, to start a collection, but Daddy said that the starfish needed to be in the water to survive. He gave us his Polaroid camera to take pictures of each of the starfish we found, making us promise to put them back as soon as the pictures were taken.

The next day, Jamie was reaching for a purple starfish, which was partially hidden under a particularly large, slimy rock. We couldn't take a picture of it unless we could get it out in the open where we could see it. Well, he reached too far and fell in the water with a big splash. We all laughed and he sloshed onto the shore triumphantly holding the elusive purple starfish in hand. We took the picture, and took turns holding the starfish, before returning him to the general location where we found him.

It took us three days to complete our task, but in the end, we had pictures of eight different starfish, each a unique colour or shape. When we marched into the house on the third day, with the photo's in hand, and triumphant grins on our faces, Daddy made his usual exclamation.

“Will wonders never cease! I guess I owe you all some ice cream sundaes.”

On the drive to the ice cream parlor, I asked him why he always said “Will wonders never cease” when one of us showed him a treasure. He said that it came from a line “Will wonders never cease to amaze.” Then he explained that it meant that he was amazed that we could always find something new and interesting to fascinate us. He told us that when he was a boy he and Uncle Joel and Aunt Elizabeth would do the same thing, always finding some way to entertain themselves during the long summer. It was hard to picture them as children, but if I tried really hard, I could imagine myself as my namesake, Aunt Elizabeth, looking at all the little things with wonder.

One afternoon, we were all sitting down to lunch, when we noticed that just outside the window, there seemed to be a constant flow of minks between two large rocks in the brush. Daddy said that years ago someone on the island had been breeding minks, and a few of them had mysteriously gotten loose. That was why there were so many of the creatures wandering the island now. The look on Uncle Joel's face when Daddy told us this, was quite suspicious. I asked him if he knew how the creatures had gotten out, and he nonchalantly claimed that when he and Daddy were children, someone opened one of the cages and set the doomed animals free. Somehow, with the infinite wisdom of a precocious seven year old, I knew that they had something to do with it. When I asked if it was him that had opened the cage, Uncle Joel had the following response:

“I swear to you, neither your father or I ever touched the latch on that cage… your Aunt Elizabeth however…”

“It was Aunt Liz? But she said you and Daddy were the ones that always did things to get into trouble.”

“In many instances we did, but in this case our hands were clean.”

“True enough, but it didn't take much persuading to convince Liz that they were doomed to become fur coats if they stayed in that cage…” Daddy grinned, as if he could picture the day clearly. “As I recall, we had to hold her back until the coast was clear, she was so eager to set them free.” Daddy and Uncle Joel laughed at the memory.

Jamie and I watched the creatures weave through the brush, and noticed that there was one mink that seemed to stay in the same place all day. He was tucked into a crevice in the rock, and the other critters just kept scurrying past him. We became determined to find out what was wrong with him that he would just huddle in one spot while the others appeared so active.

Jamie devised a plan, to surround the mink's hiding place, and spook him out into his net. We clambered outside, chasing away all of the minks except the one we had dubbed Fred. Fred remained huddled in his hiding spot. When we had each blocked the other possible exits, Lorne started making a ruckus, and lightly kicking at the rock. Fred scampered out from under the rock and right into Jamie's waiting net. Jamie scooped him up, and we all crowded around to see our new captive. Fred just stared up at us, and after a few minutes of wriggling in attempt to get away, he seemed to see that there was no escape, and he stilled. Jamie carefully reached into the net and pulled out the small animal. We noticed at once that one of his hind legs was bent at an odd angle, and had dried blood on it. I began to cry, and insisted on being the one to hold him. Jamie handed Fred to me, and I tenderly held him close, my tears falling on his soft fur.

Whenever one of us was injured, we would go to Daddy, because he always seemed to know what to do to make everything all right. So we did just that. I carried Fred into the house, while the boys hurried ahead to find Daddy. Seeing my face, Daddy got this look on his face that he always got when he saw me hurting. He pulled me close and looking at the mink, tried to reassure me.

“Will wonders never cease” he said gently. “It's all right baby, we'll take him to Doc Bennet, and she'll fix him right up, okay?” Doc Bennet was the town vet. “Then we'll see what it will take to get this little fella back on his feet.”

We all clambered into the car and made the journey to the vets office on the other side of the island. I spent the whole trip crooning to Fred, telling him that we would take good care of him and that he would be all right now.

Doc Bennet treated the wound and wrapped the leg in a tiny cast. A few hours later, upon the ardent assurances of my brothers and I that we would take care of Fred while he was healing, she sent us all home with a bag of feed and orders that Fred be kept inside until it was time to take the cast off.

For the next month, Fred was a household pet. He would follow us around the house, hide in our sock drawers, and cuddle with us at night. Even Momma took a liking to him. He would sit on her shoulder while she read in front of the fire in the afternoons. We would leave him in the house during our adventures on the beach.

We continued to bring home treasures and snapshots of creatures such as hermit crabs and seals. Lorne had the misfortune to discover of a group of jelly fish. He was searching the shallows for an elusive hermit crab, when he stepped onto a clear jelly fish. We took a quick picture before rushing him up to the house. Momma was there when we arrived and quickly rushed him to the doctor to treat the painful sting. We learned to be careful not to touch any more jelly fish.

We befriended a sea lion who liked to splash us and quickly dip under the water, only to pop up ten feet away. We would throw stones and drift wood and he would “chase” the objects, popping up right where they hit the surface of the water. He never got less than three feet away from us, but he was a regular playmate for two weeks straight.

With the aid of his net, Jamie caught a number of small fish and crabs, which we took pictures of and then set free. I found a handful of perfect shells and even a sand-dollar. Each new treasure was met with the familiar phrase from Daddy, “Will wonders never cease.”

At the end of the summer, we had a box full of treasures, and an album full of pictures of the critters we had discovered. Among our treasures were a number of special finds. A rusted nail still in a chunk of petrified wood, which we imagined came from a shipwrecked galleon full of golden doubloons; a handful of perfectly shaped, colourful shells; chunks of smoothly shaped driftwood which Uncle Joel claimed were perfect for whittling. The dolphin tooth, my most prized discovery, had a small hole drilled into the base of it, and it hung on a chain around my neck.

The last week of our vacation, Fred's cast came off. We all gave him a tearful farewell, and set him free in the back yard. He visited us a couple of times each day, and Uncle Joel promised to keep an eye on him for us during the winter.

The day before we left for home, we went wandering the shore, knowing in our little hearts that it would be the last time that summer. We were about to go inside for lunch, when I happened to stumble while climbing between two large logs. I was uninjured from my fall, and while I was trying to regain my footing, my hand touched smooth glass. I had found a bottle with a message in it! This was the ultimate discovery, as we had each thrown a bottle with a message at the beginning of the summer. I hurried to the house with my new find, and Daddy carefully removed the cork and the piece of paper within the bottle. He read the paper, then softly exclaimed:

“Will wonders never cease! I threw this into the sea with a letter, over fifteen years ago!” He gathered the family together, and read the paper to us. It contained the following poem:


Liberty
I want to soar through the sky on a magic carpet
I want to run barefoot through the purple grass
I want to watch the roses dance, waltzing to the sound of
Laughter and maybe join them for a step or two.
- Gioia Breda
On a second slip of paper was the following message:

“Young Charles, wherever you may be, I hope this returns to you. I remember the days when everything was seen from the eyes of an innocent child. Thank you for reminding me to value the little things in life. Keep searching for that mermaid.

Andrew Arlington.

Portland, Oregon.”

Haircuts 2.0

You may remember a few years ago when I chopped off all of my hair and donated it? (Or several years before that when I did the same thing?) Well, I did it again. Only this time I didn't have the lovely J there to hold my hand and take me to an actual hair dresser... Nor did I have my Bronzer friends there to take me to get it cut by a barber in LA...*

I just did it myself at home... without anyone around to trim and tidy up the back, so there's no telling how uneven it is. I have a braid that's about 18 inches long waiting to be donated, and just above shoulder-length hair. I think this is actually the shortest my hair has been since I was about 4 years old! I tried the whole picture in a mirror thing, but can't get a good idea of how uneven it looks, so I suppose I'll have see if I can coerce someone into being kind enough to even it up for me sometime in the near future. 

Before

After (I trimmed it a bit more after this and it got less straight, but more even in length front-to-back.)

I love it when my hair is really long, but I also tend to kind of hide behind it. When my hair is long, I get lots of comments about it, and subconsciously I figure that if people are looking at my abnormally long hair, and admiring it, they're not looking too closely at the rest of me (and I don't mean just physically). I also tend to literally hide behind it, pulling it around my shoulders like a cloak of invisibility or some such thing. Silly I know, but old habits die hard.

When I go for a drastic cut, it usually means I am gearing up for some change or challenge that I'm about to face. I'm taking off that cloak of invisibility and getting ready to face the world and tackle the next hurdle. I'm not entirely sure what that next hurdle is going to be this time around, but I've been thinking of cutting my hair for a few months now and the night before last I just got an overwhelming urge to do so RIGHT NOW BEFORE YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND AGAIN DAMMIT! So I did.

I keep hearing that song from West Side Story, “Something's Coming.” I don't know what that something is, but on some level, I'm gearing up for it, whether it be somethin new, good, bad, scary, challenging, or exciting... 

The haircut is just the first step... Something is coming... and I'm almost ready to face it... 

 

 

* The day I cut my hair in LA (PBP weekend) a large group of us got together in Cricket & Ivy's hotel room to watch that week's new episode of Angel.  That episode "Couplet" happened to involve one of the characters, a somewhat magical being from another dimension named Groo, getting a major haircut.  Just before Cordelia cuts his hair she asks: "Oh, wait. It's not like your strength is in your hair, or anything like that, right?"

His response: "No. I believe it is in my muscles."

While we watched this I was feeling a little under the weather, was wrapped in a blanket, and using my friend Becker as a pillow.  I believe there are pictures somewhere on the inter-webs to document this, along with before and after pics of my hair.

Once the scene ended and cut to a commercial, Becker looked at me with my newly cut hair and said something along the lines of: "So that's what's wrong with you!  Your power was in your hair!"*