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Before Barbara Kramer was a famous Rock and Roll star touring the world with her band, Avi Buffalo, she was my student.
If you were to ask any of my former students what they remembered most about my class, their first answer would not be, “Studying Catcher in the Rye” or “Learning about John Adams” but would have something to do with the stories I tell them about my life.
They all loved my stories and over the years, I got into a habit of always starting off my class lesson with a “Story of the Day.”
Today, I was reminded of one of those stories by my friends: Rodney Zaccardo and Steve Hendrix.
No, they are not former students, but Rodney almost became a former friend, when he posted a photo on my Facebook page of a bar of soap titled, “Filthy Beaver” with my name tagged to the beaver.
Steve, smart man that he is, commented with, “I don’t know where to begin…” and I honestly didn’t know how to respond myself.
What the hell was Rodney thinking?
Did he really just call my beaver filthy on Facebook?
Luckily, my friend Margie, who was sitting across the table from me working, looked up from her computer and said, “He’s talking about your beaver. You know.. the one that has it’s own Facebook page. That beaver that travels around the world with the band.” She then looked back down at her computer again before I heard her laugh and whisper, “Dork.”
I felt like an idiot for not getting the joke.
One phone call and two text messages from Rodney later… I realized he was worried I hadn’t gotten the joke either.
But don’t worry Rodney.
You’re not in trouble.
I get the joke.
The whole thing with the beaver started because of my chihuahua, Nico.
Nico loves to carry around little toys. He has a buzzy bee, two brightly colored wiener dogs, a piece of a stuffed tiger, just one leg, that he refuses to give up, and… a beaver.
These toys are usually scattered all around the house. And Nico, likes to pick one up and then drop it down to pick up another, changing them randomly, as he shows them off to house guests and moves then about, unwilling of course, to share them with any of the other dogs.
Yes… he is a stuffed animal hoarder.
One day when I was getting ready to go teach school, I heard a loud “SLAM” from the living room and then silence.
I ran out of the hall and looked around but saw nothing but Nico’s beaver on the floor and Nico, standing close to Nana’s lounge chair wagging his tail as he seemed to look off into the backyard.
Now, it was rare to walk into the living room and not find my 84-year-old mother sitting in her blue lounge chair watching TV but, it was even stranger to walk into the living room and find the chair empty AND the room in complete silence:
No Two and a Half Men blasting from Nana’s TV cabinet.
No dogs barking for Nana’s McDonald’s breakfast meal.
Just a beaver lying in the middle of the room and a small chihuahua looking actually, quite suspicious.
Something inside of me told me to call out for my mom and so… I did.
Immediately I saw my mother’s pudgy little grandma arm waving at me from behind the blue lounge chair.
“I’m over here!” She shouted as I watched her hand flap back and forth more like a windshield wiper than an actual signal of salutation.
“What the hell are you doing over there?” I asked as I hurried towards her and worked to pull her back up.
“Oh,” she said as I righted her and sat her back in her recliner, “I tripped over that damn beaver.”
I looked at the stuffed beaver lying on the floor.
I looked at Nico still wagging his tail, pretending to be the perfect dog in every way.
My mom looked at me as if I was stupid because I hadn’t responded quick enough to what she just said, so she rolled her eyes and snapped, “That thing!” as she pointed at the stuffed lump on the floor. “Nico’s beaver!”
For a moment, my mind went to one of those weird places… a place where it associates words with a specific period of time, a place where random images collide with random events… a place where you really don’t want your mind to go and suddenly… I pictured my mom tripping over a giant 70’s porno bush: Nico’s beaver.
I could see it vividly.
The giant vagina somehow detached and misplaced in our living room…
My mom, shaking her head in exasperation as if she knew it had been there all along hiding in the tri-colored shag carpet…
And somehow… she had just forgotten about it while worrying about other 70’s calamities such as my dad’s polyester pants or Dr. John’s latest hit: Right Place Wrong Time.
I couldn’t stop laughing.
I was trying to shake this horrific image out of my mind.
You never EVER want to put “Mom” and “porno” in the same thought box or even in the same paragraph for that matter, and the thought of the ridiculousness of what I was invisioning only made the whole situation worse.
Finally, my mother became totally annoyed with me and said, “I’m fine now. Just go to school. It’s not that funny you know.” Which made me laugh all the harder as I left the house and drove over to my classroom.
When I told the kids my “Story of the Day” of course I had to share Nico’s Beaver.
Everyone was in hysterics except for Barbara Kramer who seemed to be skeptical. Her eyes narrowed as she ran her tongue over her braces, before saying, “Is there really a Nico’s beaver?” with a smack of her lips.
The entire class paused.
They had never even considered the idea that I might be lying, that I might actually just make all of this shit up like a comedy routine I was trying out on unsuspecting English classes.
They all turned to me, begging for confirmation that I was telling the truth, and so, I gave Babs my best, “I’m so disgusted with your question face” before I said, “Yes Barbara, of course Nico has a beaver. Why would I make that up?”
She continued to look at me as if I was a fraud but by then, the rest of the class was convinced I was definitely telling stories in the genre of “non-fiction” and so we moved on for the day.
Weeks later, Barbara came to my house to play with my son Dylan. They were both in a band called “Return to Radio” and practice would take place regularly at our house.
Babs walked inside and met my mom.
“Hi Nana,” she said as she waved to her.
“Oh, hi honey!” My mom waved back.
And then Nico ran up to Babs: growling and wagging, fussing and barking.
She stared at him, as if he somehow had the answer to her question regarding my authenticity as a story teller.
Was I a true raconteur? Or… was I a cheap side-show sham?
I knew what I had to do.
“Nico,” I said. “Go get your beaver! Go get your beaver!”
Nico shot off across the living room floor as if he was in a dog show and knew he was about to win first place for performing this trick.
We watched as he rooted about in his little doggy bed of toys and then plucked his favorite worn brown and beaten beaver out of the batch and rushed back to show it proudly to Babs.
Her face radiated bemusement. She couldn’t contain her glee.
She looked at me as if I was the Holy Grail of Honest Teachers before reaching down and taking the beaver from Nico’s mouth.
“Nico’s beaver,” Babs whispered and the rest, is history.
Babs joined Avi Buffalo. She began to tour the world, and she took Nico’s beaver with her… photos of him appeared with Ben Stein and on ampitheater stages in Canada, Europe, and everywhere in between.
He became legendary, that beaver, and I think Babs loved him. I think that beaver kept her grounded as she learned the world of music first hand… on stage…. and that beaver… always represented love, truth, family, and home.
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I don’t ask for much as a parent.
Well, at least I don’t think I ask for much as a parent.
Dylan and Lexi may choose to disagree with this statement and it’s fine if they do because I AM THE PARENT and I don’t care.
Every once in awhile I ask for a minor thing to be done:
Pick up the dog poop.
Change the Sparklett’s water bottle for Nana.
Take out the trash.
Don’t forget to move the car for street sweeping and…
For God’s sake give me a bun when I ask for one.
It was Dylan who refused me the bun.
All I wanted was one bun for my chicken.
It was Matilda’s first night at our house.
She was a guest.
I had no chicken feed and thought how nice it would be to give her a lovely fresh bun.
Dylan actually snatched the bun bag from my hands.
“You can’t have a bun,” he said and I looked at his face and saw that he was totally serious. “I have exactly eight buns and exactly eight hot dogs. Do you understand?”
Oh, I understood.
Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive was refusing to give me a bun.
I couldn’t believe it.
He was lucky to be alive.
If I hadn’t grown him in my magical uterus he wouldn’t even be standing here with a bag of buns in his grubby little hands… the little shit.
I almost got in a knock-down-drag-out with him right then and there but we had company… not just Matilda… but a whole house load of guests. So, I had to let it go and I honestly planned to let it go forever until I found the bun bag in the trash can exactly one week later.
The whole bun bag.
All eight buns… moldy and in the trash can.
I looked at those buns and I felt like they were mocking me.
Dylan would pay for this injustice.
I waited until he was making his way through the house, walking with one of his little band friends, when I stopped him, pulled the bag from the trash can, and in my best motherly voice said, “What is this?”
Dylan looked at the bag as if he was unable to fathom the alien object in my hand.
“What?” he said but I could tell from his tone he knew he was busted.
“I asked you for one bun. One bun! And look,” I thrust the bag towards his face. “You didn’t even eat one. Not one! Here they sit, molding in the trash.”
“I’m gonna feed them to the ducks,” Dylan said.
This sent me over the edge.
“The ducks? The ducks!” I shouted. “You wouldn’t even give me one for my chicken!”
“Well, you fed your friends my spaghetti sauce!” He snapped, throwing out this minor counter point as if he could win an argument against me with such a weak comeback.
“How much is your rent?” I asked.
He was silent before mumbling, “It was just a bun.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Just a bun.”
We stood quietly for a moment pondering that thought before Dylan said, “We’re going out to the garage to practice now.”
I watched as he walked away wondering what he might refuse me next:
An adult diaper?
My pills and ice cream when I’m 102 and unwilling to eat anything else?
I could see now that I would have to keep my eye on this little man.
It starts with a bun and ends up with a trip to the convalescent hospital for a nice long vacation.
Oh… but he had underestimated his opponent.
My wrath would be legendary.
I would be the old woman who would pee as I walked down the supermarket aisle each time my son took me to the store.
I would be the old woman who would sit in the back seat of his mini-van and flip people off in other cars for no apparent reason.
I would be the old woman who would feed his children candy and play Grand Theft Auto with them when they turned 4.
Refuse me a bun.
We’ll just see about that.
Before the Red Hot Chili Peppers became Rock and Roll namesakes they were just a bunch of goofy guys, playing music and hoping to reach the big brass ring of Super Stardom like everyone else in our music scene.
In the mid-1980’s they were touring with T.S.O.L. and Fishbone and since I was dating the lead singer of T.S.O.L., the man that later became my husband, I was at the show.
I have never been that smitten or taken with rock stars… growing up around “band boys” you are privy to a decent amount of information that takes away the glitter and the glamour of the stage and brings the “fantasy” down to earth…. trust me…. when you watch many of your family members and good friends throwing their talent away on drug and alcohol addiction… the fun goes right out the window.
But at this time, we were all still young and beautiful, still having fun in our world of music and mayhem, and not really concerned much with the future. Most of the players in our group were “interchangeable” which is a really nice way of saying there was a lot of inner circle incestuous dating going on… and because of this… people often kept an “eye” on their significant others for fear that they might pop off with someone much more interesting in a different band at a moment’s notice.
I’ve often actually thought… that these guys weren’t even really that concerned about the person they were “with” … as much as they were worried that the person would leave them for a guy in a band that they considered “better” or “more popular” because there is a a fair amount of EGO dominating this rock world.
I had just walked into the club that evening, and watched as Anthony made a b-line towards me, hair brush in his hand, rubber band around his wrist.
“D.D.?” he asked in his little boy voice, “Would you please brush and braid my hair for the show tonight?”
Now, Anthony is actually three years older than me but I swear he looked like he was about fifteen at the time and tended to act about the same age.
I rolled my eyes, grabbed the hairbrush and the rubber band, and sat down at the bar table to brush his hair.
“You really can’t do this yourself Anthony?” I asked.
He turned his back towards me, stepped backwards until my legs were straddled around him, placed his hands on my knees and said, “No, you brush it.”
Once again I felt my eyes roll as I began to brush his hair. I already had Lex, my youngest child by this time, and so I brushed his hair as if I was brushing my daughter’s hair on a day she was really frustrating me.
“Ow,” he said in a baby voice. “Too hard.”
I fought the urge to hit him on the top of his head with the hairbrush… but I didn’t… I just continued on with my task.
Now there is something soothing, often mesmerizing about brushing long hair and soon we were both quiet as I worked gently separating his strands into three individual groups of hair before twisting them into a long neat braid. I put my hand over the braid and ran my fingers down it from top to bottom, the last touch in the process, making sure that it was smooth and hung straight.
“There,” I said. “All done.”
Anthony turned around, his hands resting gently on my hips as we now looked at each other face-to-face, his body still straddled between my legs, smiling his goofy smile and about to get all flirty with me when my X walked into the club.
It was one of those horrible moments that you can’t explain.
How do you explain how Anthony Kiedis got between your legs?
How do you explain your arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding the braid hanging down his back?
How do you explain Anthony staring at you like you’re a giant ice cream cone and he just wants a taste of it?
You don’t I tell you.
What you do is you push Anthony Kiedis away as roughly as you possibly can before you stand up from the bar stool, and pull your teeny tiny mini skirt down to cover your legs hoping that the five extra inches of black spandex will somehow make you look “virginal,” and watch as your current man storms towards you, hate in his eyes, and you pray that Anthony doesn’t die before set time.
“What the FUCK Anthony?” my X screamed at him.
My X is a big, burly handsome man…. often confused with the Devil… gold eyes, jet black hair, skull tattoos and Anthony backed away with his hands up.
“Hey —,” he said to my X trying to calm the situation down by playing the cool friendship card, “I didn’t know D.D. was your girl.”
And once again I felt my eyes rolling in my head. Everyone knew I was with X… Anthony’s lame excuse was not going to save him from a massacre.
My X was pressing the issue, leaned over, pounding his finger against Anthony’s chest. Every imaginable cuss word being used in the most creative way as it spewed forth from his mouth at an astonishing rate.
I was looking around for ANYONE to come to my rescue, stop them both before they were a bloody mess, and that’s when Mark Johnson appeared on the scene.
Mark Johnson… one of the sweetest, kindest guys you could ever want to know and today, if I had been a smart woman… I would have spent more time hanging out with him but I was too often seduced by the dramatic dysfunction of the scene.
Mark got in between them, calmed my X down, and lead Anthony away upstairs where he was going to hang out in the Green Room until set time.
I spent the next 30 minutes trying to explain to my X that what had just happened was totally innocent but… no luck… he ended up storming off to the bar for a big shot of Ten High as I sat back down at the table… the now “infamous” table where I had illicitly brushed and braided Anthony’s hair, put my hands over my eyes and just shook my head back and forth for a minute, disgusted with the total comedy of errors that had just transpired before me.
I felt like I was wearing a LARGE SCARLET LETTER and I couldn’t help but think to myself that maybe I should just go home now and call it a night. I had a feeling that the fight might ratchet back up after hours if me, Anthony and X were all in the same room and both of the boys were stoned or drunk.
Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and almost afraid to look up, I raised my gaze and was relieved to be looking into the smiling face of Mark Johnson.
“Anthony asked me to give you this,” he said.
I opened the small folded white piece of notebook paper that he had held out to me and read the word, “Hi” with a child-like smiley face drawn next to it.
I looked up at Mark, and then looked back at the note.
“Are you serious?” I asked before rising from the table and grabbing my purse and walking away.
“What do you want me to tell him?” Mark shouted after me.
“That I’m going home,” I said.
“Home?” Mark Johnson said, his voice full of amusement and surprise that I was turning the “little man” down.
“Home,” I said and headed for the door.
I strutted past the bar where I saw my X happily settled in; surrounded by friends and fans, smoke in one hand, bottle of Ten High in the other, and gave one last look back at Mark who waved sweetly before he headed off to the Green Room to disappoint Anthony with my response.
I almost broke into a jog, dying to climb into my old 63′ Buick and race for the safety of home.
“You back already?” My mom said as I came into the house.
I watched as Lexi climbed off her Nana’s lap and rushed towards me.
“Boy drama,” I said to my mom as I grabbed Lex and scooped her up into my arms.
“Oh those boys,” Nana said, “Just like your father was in high school. Pachucos on parade.”
I tried not to smile but I couldn’t help it… she was so right… Pachucos on parade.
I carried Lex into her bedroom, kicked off my heels, climbed up onto the bed with her to read “Pat the Bunny” and left the Pachucos behind me.
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Postings on Wednesdays and Saturdays U.S.A. time : )
This… is Matilda.
Matilda is a chicken.
A Rhode Island Red to be exact.
I didn’t go out and purchase Matilda.
I wasn’t given Matilda.
Matilda, like most of the animals in our home, including Jax, my pet squirrel, just appear to me, usually in dire need, and being who I am… I can’t seem to walk away.
Case in point: Matilda
It was Thursday night, 8pm, after hours at El Dorado park and my favorite time to walk there.
This night I was walking with my two adult friends, Frank and Abe and my 10-year-old friend Finn.
Finn, like me, seems to be some type of “animal whisperer” and so I was a bit concerned when we jumped the rail of the flood control and ran down the embankment to enter the park after hours that we might run into an injured skunk, coyote, goose, hawk, or owl… but I had no worries that we might run into a chicken. For God’s sake…. a chicken?
We were barely past the LBPD shooting range when we saw a small reddish animal bopping about in the grassline…
“Is that a chicken?” Frank asked.
We all stopped to watch as she made her way closer to us.
“It is a chicken,” Abe said.
We didn’t know what to do… I voted to finish our walk and when we looped back, see if she was still around. With Frank, Abe, and Finn all hailing from Arizona…. I knew that this chicken wasn’t going anywhere unless it was going to Ms. Wood’s house and I was trying my hardest to make sure that didn’t happen. I mean the menagerie was really getting ridiculous: Jax (my squirrel) her babies, three chihuahuas, four cats, seven dogs and a partridge in a pear tree; I wasn’t looking to add a chicken to the mix.
I swear I didn’t want to leave her because I’m heartless… I just thought… Maybe if we give it some time… she’ll magically go back to where she came from and I will be saved from care-taking yet another pet… but the boys weren’t having it.
The Arizonians were looking at me with pitiful sad little faces.
The chicken was looking at me with her pitiful sad little face.
“Come on…” I said to the boys as I strided ahead with purpose trying to get away from the bird, only to turn and find the chicken running after us all as she made the saddest little cooing sounds that seemed to say, “If you leave me I will be eaten by a coyote and you will never be happy when you walk in your park at night again, because you will always remember that you left me to die.”
I couldn’t do it.
It was horrible.
They were pulling at every one of my heart strings and they obviously knew just how to work me.
So… I just gave in and turning on my heal, marched towards the exit, while shouting in my best authoritative tone, “Come on, Matilda. Let’s go home!” and watched as she hustled to catch up and walk beside me… as if I were her best friend and we had never been parted.
After a few feet of walking, we realized that it would take forever to get Matilda out of the park at this pace, so Frank picked her up and carried her with both hands, arms extended straight out in front, as if Matilda were a hood ornament on his human car.
It wasn’t five minutes later that the Park Ranger pulled up next to us, rolled down his window and said, “My God! Is that a chicken?”
Apparently he had never seen a chicken in the park either and now, Matilda startled by his big shiny car and flashing police lights was out of Frank’s hands, on top of the hood of his car and pecking at her own reflection in his windshield, like this was all good fun.
Obviously, the park was a wonderful place for Matilda as long as she had humans to protect her.
I asked him if he wouldn’t mind driving Frank to my van and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed.
I smiled as I watched Frank drive off with a Park Ranger and a chicken and I spent the rest of my walk back to the Wardlow Street bridge whistling to myself and making up my own stupid little jokes about it:
So… a chicken and a Ranger walk into a bar……
Or…. Is that a chicken under your arm or are you just…
How did the chicken cross the road? By getting a ride in the Park Ranger’s car.
Before hoping back over the rail and walking to the van.
Frank was in the back when I got there, Matilda running around on the floor, pleased that she was in some type of cage that seemed more comfortable then the cold park at night.
We took her home… gave her some water… and watched as she climbed to the top shelf of the squirrel cage and bedded down for the night. Already content in her new environment.
“Good night Matilda,” I said as I turned off the porch light for the evening…. trying not to be attached to a chicken… but knowing… I was already totally in love.
Okay… so I haven’t always been “honorable” in my relationship with Amy.
I grew up in a family that enjoyed torturing you for entertainment. In fact, we still torture each other for entertainment. It’s good fun to trick someone you love… or just mess with them and watch them squirm.
Being a teacher is an added bonus… I can basically lie about anything and use my authoritative tone to have anyone believe it.
And so… I often put Amy into situations that may cause us both harm… and Amy… loving soul that she is… always gives me the benefit of the doubt.
And after over 16 years of friendship… I’m not really sure why.
This time, we were no where near the El Dorado Nature Center, but we were in an environment that looked quite similar: Catalina Island.
We had gone away for the weekend on a “spiritual” retreat, with a large group of program people: AA, Al-Anon, etc… where we were to stay at a Christian Camp, only accessible by boat.
Now, I love this area of the island because it is truly wild: Bison, mule deer, antelopes, fox, shrews, and my favorite… the feral pig. Aka…. wild boars.
As we were settling into our “woodsy” cabins, I had tried to warn the people sleeping near my bunk, that wild boars would come into the cabin and eat their candy bars, toothpaste, brown sugar bath and body lotion, chewing gum, and therefore, please keep that shit wrapped up tightly and a way from my sleeping area.
I felt bad taking chocolate away from people who needed it over alcohol or chewing gum over cigarettes but… I also knew that if they woke up with a 300 pound boar rifling through their bags that all hell would break loose in the cabin and I’d have 12 crazy mentally unstable people to deal with… myself included.
I did not tell them at this time that wild boars can be quite aggressive… meaning… they won’t just eat your toothpaste they’ll give you a nasty tumble and maybe even quite a nice bite on their way back out of the cabin… and I’m sure you are wondering right now… why I didn’t tell them this?
Well… because I wanted them to be cautious… not terrified for the entire retreat. I felt it wouldn’t really be productive for their experience, strength, and hope if they were worried about being chased down by a wild boar the entire time, unless someone wanted to walk away with this type of experience and find “growth” through strength as they ran away to “hope”fully escape.
I paused for a moment and smirked… I felt sly… If I really wanted to be evil I could use my family strategy of “torture to entertain” and make this a really fun weekend for me. But… I stopped… I chose to take the higher moral path… to follow the principles in all of my affairs, and went back to unpacking my bag instead of fantasies of terrorizing my program buddies.
That night, after a day of meetings and meals we were all back in our cabin ready for our first night of tranquil island sleep.
I looked up at the ceiling, my top bunk dangerously close to a Black Widow spider, and thought, “To hell with this” as I grabbed my sleeping gear, jumped down to the floor, and headed out to sleep on a paddock by myself.
I watched as a dozen little Al-Anon faces peeked out from the cabin windows.
“What are you doing out there?” someone said.
I threw my gear down on the paddock and started arranging it.
“What about the wild boars?” someone else whispered… as if a boar might hear them and suddenly show up on the scene.
“I’m perfectly safe!” I shouted back. “Would I be sleeping out here on this paddock if I wasn’t?”
That’s when I saw Amy’s little head pop up. “Are you sure D.D.?” she asked with her big innocent, trusting eyes.
Now… I love Amy.
She has been one of my best friends forever… but I couldn’t tell her the truth… and you know why… because I wanted to get my way… like the spoiled Big Headed Baby that I am.
I wanted all of those little Al-Anons to come outside and stop being pussies and sleep with me under the stars.
“Amy,” I said with disgust. “Seriously, would I be sleeping out here if it was a problem?” I paused and pointed towards the steps of the paddock. “Do you really think wild boars can climb these stairs?” Then I rolled my eyes to add emphasis before going back to my work at hand and listening, as the Al-Anons took a hushed Group Conscience and then all scurried out to the platform to sleep with me.
I was pretty pleased with myself.
My ability to convince others to follow my direction, only shadowed by the power of my older brother’s persuasion, was pretty damn good.
I watched as they all placed their sleeping gear on the paddock, a little group of hens deep in the task of nesting.
“Like this D.D.?” They asked as they put their blanket inside of their sleeping bag.
“Sure,” I nodded.
“Is it okay to be close to the edge?” Another little Al-Anon asked.
“Oh of course… ” I said as I brushed a leaf off of the paddock. “No problem. Totally safe.”
Soon, they all settled down… trusting little souls… smiling at their own bravery of stepping out from the confines of the cabin into the big bold world… and now… they were sound asleep under the Catalina stars safe in the knowledge that their “Group leader” would never, EVER, lead the flock astray.
I have to say… I was pretty pleased with myself… and actually continued to be pretty pleased with myself, until about 3am when I woke to a 400 pound male feral pig grazing next to the paddock as he scratched his back roughly against the hard wood shaking the entire structure.
I felt my eyes grow large in the dark as the enormous bulk… the actual size of such a beast, registered in my brain and the realization of the danger I had put my little group in flooded like fear across my body.
I lay there watching him grunt and scratch and claw at the ground praying that my crew wouldn’t wake up… but of course they did… I could feel each body become rigid and alert, the way a parent knows when a child is truly asleep or just “faking it.”
Luckily, their terror kept then silent and still….
“D.D.” Amy whispered. “D.D.?” she said again.
“Yes,” I whispered back.
“They can’t climb the stairs right?”
Now… there is a moment in everyone’s life when they realize they should come clean in regards to a lie… but this moment was not one of them.
“Of course not,” I whispered loud enough for all the little Al-Anons to hear. “You guys are totally safe. Go back to sleep.”
And because my voice always radiates authority… they followed direction without question and nodded off at what I felt was quite an alarming pace considering the situation.
I stayed awake for well over an hour, watching as the giant boar made his way around the entire paddock… eating roots, acorns that had fallen from the tree, and watched as he climbed half way up the stair steps, sniffing at the bottom of Amy’s sleeping bag in hopes of finding something worth eating.
I prayed to God that he wouldn’t put his back legs on those steps…. I knew that if he climbed all of the way up… Amy was toast.
I don’t remember what I used to bargain with for God’s salvation at that time… but I’m sure I’m still paying for it.
Finally, the feral pig put his front legs back on the ground, and trotted off in the direction of the men’s cabin… hopefully, where someone had told them to remove their snacks and perfumed after shave from their space.
I waited a few moments… expecting to hear a ruckus, and then relieved that there wasn’t one, fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
I was the last one to wake on the paddock that morning and when I opened my eyes I noted the change in my Al-Anons immediately…
My little group felt like they were the “bad asses” of the world for braving the wild and sleeping outside with the feral pig.
They were walking around the camp… shooing the wild Bison away… as if they were cowboys out on the open range.
I watched as Amy, over by the men’s cabin, clap her hands together three times and shoo a group of wild bison away from their cabin door… leaving the men in awe at her bravery and the power she obviously wielded over the wild beasts.
She turned, a pleased smile on her face, radiating confidence as she walked over to me shaking her head in disgust, “Fucking Al-Anon men,” she said and her swagger was fantastic.
I thought about coming clean… but who was I to take away their new found freedom and power?
And so… I chose not to tell the truth to my little party.
I did however, several years later, find enough strength to come clean with Amy while we were walking the Nature Center one day.
“Dick!” she said in total disbelief before walking on ahead of me, her stride fast and furious.
But I could still see her cheeks, curved up in a big smile as she turned the corner of the trail… and so… I listened for her laugh to ring out from the path ahead.. the sign that I was truly forgiven and of course…