Myriapod Myriad

myriapod \'mir-ee-uh-pod\ n. a myriapod is a "bug with ten thousand legs".

myriad \ˈmir-ē-əd\ n. a very large number of things; ten thousand.

So....   Myriapod Myriad \'mir-ee-uh-pod ˈmir-ē-əd\ = 10,000 10,000.

10,000 Came

It's summertime in the Deep South.

And because of that, it will rain.

Here it comes--the rain has begun.

Steady, for five minutes.

And yep, here they come--millipedes. 

They pop out of the soil.  They creep out from under the foundation and its surrounding leaf litter.

Onset of the raid; climbing up from the foundation.

And UP, UP they drive, in droves, as if on a mission, they come literally by the thousands.  They inch up the outside of my house, up the screens around the porch, onto the porch's slab floor, and into the house.  The basement gets filled first.  Eventually they occupy the rest of the house, even up to the window sills.  I walk around the outside of the house to evaluate the invasion situation, and they are clustered in wads under the eaves of the house, all around it.  Smell that smell... 

UP, UP the outside walls

...even up to the windows...

Technically speaking, what are they?
  
The following educational information is not essential to the enjoyment or understanding of this article.  It is, however, interesting.

The genetic lineage layout of these critters goes, from top to bottom, like this:   

1. Kingdom Animalia (animals/like you and me)...
2. Phylum Arthropoda (arthropods/no internal skeleton)...
3. Subphylum Myriapoda (myriapods/bugs with ten-thousand legs), and then...
4. Class Diplopoda (diplopods/thousand-leggers)--collectively known as millipedes.      

They don't really have thousands of legs, but they can have a couple hundred.  Mine only have 60 legs. 

They eat plant materials and decaying organic matter.

All lack eyes.

Millipedes come in all sizes, but the ones in my story are about 2.5 cm (1") long, brown, and quite shiny.

Most have stink glands; hence the aforementioned smell.       

The very closely related centipedes are "hundred-leggers", but centipedes are not in this summer story.

The star--Oxidus gracilis (I think), 
or commonly called Greenhouse Millipede

What do they want?

The intelligent brains that be (the entomologists) say that the millipedes arrive regularly in autumn, and the reason they inch upward in droves is because they are in search of moisture.

Now, I always wanted to be an entomologist (bug expert), but the closest I ever got was by being a professional exterminator for 16 years.  I do, however, "hobby around" with bugs, so I know a little something about them.  And the storming pattern of these fascinating critters has in no way resembled the routine described by the intelligent brains! 

The millipedes have presented themselves to me in cycles that have been spaced apart, ten years (plus or minus), so I have gone years at a time without ever seeing any in my area.  During those 16 years of pest control in the same geographical area, there was only one year that I received scads of calls from customers needing help with millipede invasions.  Then, for a decade or so, not nary an encounter with millipedes.

Until...

Until the summer of 2004.  All that summer, my basement was jam-packed full of those things.  I sprayed chemicals inside, and I dusted with carbaryl (Sevin) outside.  That killed them, only after they all crawled up and out of the ground.  The only thing those applications do is give you big piles of dead millipedes all over the place, it doesn't prevent them from popping up out of the ground.

So as you see, this is not just a fall-of-the-year thing.  These millipedes, when it is their year, are an entire summer event.  They don't wait 'till fall.

Porch Crunch

And then came summer of 2014.  Here they all are again.  Same as in 2004.

The very first signal I got came in late May during Mass at St. Cecilia Catholic Church.  It was crawling across the floor beside me as I knelt in the pew.  And there was another on the wall, and then another.

And yes, it had rained.

Questions:  If the millipedes seek moisture, why do they flee from the ground as soon as it starts raining?  It's like they are trying to get away from moisture.  Or hey, maybe they feel it and want to rush UP to it faster.  Maybe they've felt too dry for too long.  But wait!  It's summertime in the southeastern United States.  It rains everyday.  Why do they make a beeline into my dry, dry, screened porch?...Only to die in a couple of days from the Sevin dust that I applied three weeks ago for the chipmunk ticks?

Yeah, yeah, there was a tick situation, but I nixed it.  You'll be glad to know I'm not talking about that today.

I know the questions I ask sound so layman-like, and I always liked to think of myself a little above that when it came to arthropods.  But hey, what the experts say about the millipedes' behavior is not matching their behavior here.  So I'm gonna' ask a layperson's questions.

The back porch's outside wall.  All those specs are the invaders.

Don't SLAM the porch door!  Small wad of millipedes at the top.

Meanwhile, my screened in porch floor is one solid mass of dead, crunchy millipedes.  Nowhere on it can you walk without hearing and feeling the crunch, crunch of multi-legged carcasses under foot. And incidentally, did I mention the SMELL??

Millipede pile after I swept my porch.  Card is for size comparison.  Most of the pile is millipede star of this story, but there are a couple of large ones from another order.  You'll also see a couple of pecan shells from the chipmunk problem.  There's a leaf or two.  And yeah, there is some dust!

Dead and Plenty

By the close of this "occupation", I will have witnessed the slow demise of many a Myria-clan member.  For instance, death at the hungry venom-filled whims of the webbed house spider invaders that I have allowed to settle in the corners of my home.  Many more of the millipedes will fall victim to my hands, either by chemical applications or the good ole' mash-effect.

I'm sitting in my living room by an open window, enjoying the rain sounds.  The screen is suddenly covered with millipedes.  With a single flick of my finger I thump the screen, thereby ejecting a hundred millipedes.  They uncontrollably fly out and away.  They come back in less than five minutes, only to be bounced again.  They keep crawling back because they must enjoy the thrill of the jettison.

A few have made it past the screen, and are checking out the window sill beside me.  I mash one with a paper towel.  Five minutes go by and I mash another.  In five more minutes I mash a third.

I discovered if you mash three or four of them within 12" of where you are seated, that in less than 10 minutes you will not only smell an extremely strong turpentine-like odor, you will also taste it on your tongue.  Mash a few more, and you'll feel it in your throat.   

I read that some very large species actually squirt their secretions out at their attacker, and that information makes me look at my own millipede situation with gladness; joy even.

They are so plentiful outside that when I arrive home and step out of my car, my senses are assaulted with turpentine sensation--from the living and from their deceased brethren.  You'd think I had a dead body lying around out there somewhere. 

You might already know, if you read my blog, that I can fill several pages with one smell .    
Aside from spiders, chemicals, and the "mash", many of the millipedes seem just plain suicidal.  By that I mean that they come in, head straight for a dark, dank corner of the basement, and wait to die--as if they have just given up on life.

   Final stop for some:  A basement corner with mold and mycelium hyphae (fungus), 
which I will eliminate after the millipede season has passed.  

On the lighter side, most of them will return to their obscure, hidden places after the sun comes out, and after the rains subside.  They retreat so as to wait until the next rain comes, and then it will all happen again--the millipede uprising.  Over and over, rain in and rain out.

VALUE$

After a couple of months of listening to me gripe about the millipede invasion, Joe is sympathetic to my annoyance at the intrusion of thousands.  But they have not bothered him to the gripe-point as they have me.  He has crunched his way over many a sheet of millipede carcasses without uttering a complaint.  His nose isn't as powerful as mine either, so he isn't aware of their odoriferous qualities.

One night, I'm surfing the internet and Joe is sitting over there in his recliner.  I search the web with the line "how to use a millipede".  The next interaction happened in a blast of an instant--a hilarious instant.

"I just found a new use for millipedes," I announced to Joe.

I didn't exactly mean to say "new use" because I had just read that it was a long-time behavior of Capuchin monkeys of Venezuela to smear millipedes all over their bodies to act as an insect repellent.  In my mind, I had discovered a new and natural product to help us with mosquitoes that plague our own yard.  So it was only new to me.  The "new use" part slipped out of my mouth and made it sound like millipedes were really a valuable asset, and that we had been truly blessed.  The way Joe heard me, in that one little sentence "I just found a new use for millipedes", he automatically deduced that the things I formerly complained about were now financially worth something to us.    

"Well we're one shy!" he stressed harshly as he flipped the recliner upright.  What did I hear?  Is he on the defensive?  "I just flushed one down the toilet!" he quickly barked.  I began laughing uncontrollably at this point, because I knew he had wrongly deduced that I now appreciated that the millipedes were here.  "Well, I f#ck#d up!" he sharply apologized, knowing I would become more hysterical with laughter.  After I told him, with broken breaths, the monkey and mosquito repellent thing, he starts with the "Why are the big ones the centipedes and the little ones the millipedes?!" (he's mistaken, by the way).  He is stirred up now--angry at the bug world.  This conversation is making him think about the mosquitoes and ticks that have likewise been giving us much grief this summer.  I am laughing again.  I am trying to type what he is saying and he knows that's what I'm doing.  I say "slow down so I can type you," and "you say such funny things!"  His profound response, "I need a scribe like David to follow me around."

I digress.

So they DO have market value, but not in Alabama.  And they DO have some natural predators in the world, like my house spiders, for instance.  Many other types of "bugs" eat them, too.  And birds, toads, and several other animals are natural enemies to the millipedes.  We know monkeys, right?  Although they don't prey upon the millipedes to eat them, they just use them.  If we had the same millipedes here that are in the Venezuelan rainforest, we'd also have Capuchins here to wear them.  Our millipedes just aren't as good as the ones in Venezuela.  

        This large millipede from a different order is not a member of the invading hoard.  These are occasional visitors.  Also harmless, but they leave a red, smelly puddle-of-a-mess when they die.  So rancid are they that the flies move in for a feast and an egg-laying frenzy. 

I Don't Really Fight It

As I mentioned before, applying chemicals so many times just leaves you with a bunch of carcasses.  The best way to fight the millipede invasions at your place is to clean up the leaf litter and other organic matter around your house's foundation.  Unfortunately, that also means getting rid of any of that fancy mulch you have applied to adjacent flower or shrub beds.  If you want to apply chemicals, there are things you can get over the counter.  Some of the best on the current market are Bifenthrin granules.  You can also get spray formulas such as Deltamethrin or Cypermethrin, or you can apply more eco-friendly sounding applications that are available; comprised of things like clove and thyme oils.  No matter what type you use, always follow manufacturer's directions. 

Why don't I clean up my yard to ward them off?  I guess I get too much enjoyment out of them.  I like watching the spiders get them, and I like flicking them off the screens.  I like counting them and snapping their photos.  I like complaining about them.  And crunching them.  And mashing them.  And smelling them.
 

           #  #  #   

It Smells of Nostalgia

A few weeks ago as I walked downstairs into my basement, I picked up a musty-like waft of odor that gave me sudden feel of nostalgia.  A quick, but strange comfort came over me. I didn't know why, and it was gone as quickly as it had come.  Both the feeling and the smelly waft were gone.  I went about my business in the basement.

There it was again!  The smell.  It was not a "good" or a "nice" odor.  As a matter of fact, it would have been "bad" had it been amplified many times.  I hadn't identified it yet, as I had only grasped a fleeting whiff, but it was, for sure, there again.  And for sure, it was gone again.  It came and went so fast, but this time the nostalgic feeling stayed.  Why did that odor give me a feel of bygone comfort?  And by the way, what was that smell?

A day or two went by.  I take something down to the basement.  There's the fly-by odor again, and before it got away from me this time, the answer to my déjà vu hit me.  Tennessee...my Mamaw Reno!  NOOO, she didn't smell like that, but that is an aroma I associate with all my wonderful childhood visits to Tennessee to see Mamaw and all the Reno relatives. 
  

Mamaw Tressie Lee Reno--April 1964

                                                                     
When I was a kid we would go see my dad's mom and family in Townsend, TN outside of Maryville and adjacent to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  I joyfully remember those road trips--as we were heading out of Miami, Mom would turn around from the front seat and tell me "we're going to the mountains"!  I knew that meant joyful times ahead.  We would always (it seemed) stop on the way at Suwannee River State Park to have a picnic lunch.  My sister Colleen went with us sometimes on those trips, but for most of them she stayed with her dad's mom, Grandma Rose, a grandma I also loved very much.  

As I stand in the stairwell, registering the aroma and connecting it to memory, the warm thoughts of staying at Mamaw's are upon me.  I remember Mamaw's house.  It was a wood frame house with a long porch.  It had two front doors, as did many houses built back in the late 1800s-early 1900s.  It had unpainted hardwood floors and walls.  It was a fantasy house to me, and that it had no indoor plumbing added to the "dream house" effect for me.  

Tammy (left) and I sitting on Mamaw's front porch--April 1964

Bedtime was extra special, too.  My little cousin Tammy and I would be put into an old-timey bed with a charming hand-made quilt over us, "now I lay me down to sleep..." having been prayed, a chamber pot under the bed, and my Teddy Bear on the pillow between our heads.  The Teddy Bear that Daddy gave me played Brahms' Lullaby when you wound him up.  Tammy was a delight to me as she giggled every time I turned the key to play the bear's tune.  Her giggling made me giggle, and so we giggled ourselves to sleep in Mamaw's wonderful old house in Tennessee.
                                                   

  

 http://www.pinterest.com/pin/465841155176565737/

      Chamber pot under the bed 



Oh yes, I loved that concept!  Being a kid living in the early 1960s Miami, of course we had an indoor toilet.  But Mamaw did not have one.  Going to Mamaw's was a comfort, a joy, and an adventure!  She had chamber pots for the night time, and an outhouse for the day time.  An outhouse!!  It was a genuine thrill for me to go to the outhouse. 

                                 

Aunt Betty Curtis (dad's sister) with her kids Patsy, who is holding little Tammy, and their brother Mike.  I am the one standing directly in from of my aunt.  See the outhouse in the background.  It is also in the photo of Mamaw pictured above

Thrilling as it was, it was also a little scary to close that outhouse door behind me.  Once inside, I would ponder the gaping hole that opened to the dark, perilous mystery below.  Yes, I did have mild reservations about falling through that big hole, but since Mom or my Aunt Betty always escorted me, I got past the fear and enjoyed the outhouse effect.  What a wonderful vacation it was to be in Tennessee at Mamaw's!  And meshed in with all that wonder and joy and comfort is that aroma.  

C'est l'odeur.

Time has passed by, and I am grown up and at my adult home.  I enjoyed the reminiscent whiffs for a week or so, off and on, until the once faint odor gradually grew stronger.  It became an entity of its own, and took over and away any pleasant déjà vu I had experienced.  Nostalgia now displaced, I knew the reality that there was either a septic tank problem or a sewage leak under the house.  I went into the crawlspace to see what the situation was.  There, under the bathroom--a drip--at the base of the toilet.  That drip had now developed into a gnarly pool of sewage adjacent to the basement.  Ugh! 
                                    

Tammy (age 3) and me (age 5)--April 1964

On another note, I still have the Teddy Bear.  He's in the smelly basement.

# # #  

Fondly Thinking of Life With Mom

The "it's for your own good" Mom, or rather, Doc Mom

As far back as I can remember, Mom always gave me Coca-Cola when I had nausea.  Most of the time it fixed it.

I went to the clinic to get the dreaded vaccinations.  I heard children crying everywhere in the room.  I was very small, and I remember getting my shot, then adding my cries to the mix.  Mom gave me a sugar lump and told me to put it in my mouth.  It was, unbeknownst to me, a Polio vaccine.  All I knew was that my mother was giving me a tasty treat to calm me after that horrible shot.  She was wonderful!

Mom, with a pair of tweezers, gently removed all those apple peelings I had packed tightly inside my nostrils.  And no, I don't know why I put them there.

I had a bad case of measles, and I remember feeling very sick and being speedily carried towards the bathroom one dark night.  Don't know what the hurry was, but it's probably a good thing that I don't remember everything.  Feeling the sick is not a good memory, but the simultaneous feeling of security is a wonderful memory.   

She's kneeling down next to me at the toilet.  She's wiping and helping me get my underwear back on after potty-poop time.  Even at 3 or 4 I remember her looking into the toilet behind me.  I asked her what she was looking at, and she flat out said "I'm looking for worms."  She was my Mom and she had a plan.  So no more questions by me--what she said was good enough.  

My Mom was the best sand spur remover of any little foot in south Florida!

She had me lay my head on her lap while sitting on the living room couch so she could apply a cool damp rag to my forehead.  It had a giant knot on it from having flown over my bicycle handlebars a few minutes before and hitting head first on the asphalt.  I was having fun before it happened, as I followed Colleen, and our friends Kim and Jolene.  And I was happy after it happened, because I had Doc Mom to baby me.

At six and seven years of age, Mom would routinely administer alcohol baths onto my person after berry-picking trips during visits with Mother and Pop in Tallahassee.  "Chigger days" may sound dreadful to most folks, but they were wonderful days to me.

I went to the dentist at age seven, a dentist who was right next door to our house on the other side of a concrete wall at the end of our cul-de-sac, and he filled my mouth good with lots of silver.  It was shortly before Halloween, and the dentist told Mom to put a strict limit on my candy intake that year.  I remember going Trick-or-Treating, and that evening having all my goods poured out onto the kitchen table.  Mom was divvying out what I was going to be allowed to eat that year, and it was slim.  I felt like that dentist had done a Trick on me that Halloween.  Bummer.

She lied to me about why we (she, Colleen and I) were headed to the doctor.  I was in for a tetanus shot, but mom didn't want me to stress over it ahead of time.  She made it a "surprise" since I had always been such a baby about shots.

"That's all you need right now.  If you eat too much of it raw it'll give you worms."  I liked the taste of raw potato, and if I was in the kitchen when she was cutting up some for supper, she would always slip me a couple of pieces.  "Just a couple, now."

She refused to let me get my ears pierced!  No, I'm not "fondly" stating that.  I wanted them pierced from at least age six, but she wouldn't let me do it until I was 12.  I told her about some self-piercers you could buy to do it yourself, and she got some for me.  I was a wimp and I couldn't put them on myself, since they had such seriously sharp points.  Once attached, they would start to slowly work their pointed way through your ear lobes, and I especially hated pain that was self-inflicted!  Mom put them on my ears, and she did them so perfectly, so aligned, that to this very day I look at my earring placement and say "thanks Mom" for making my earring holes just right.  It was a very big deal to me!

During some of my eighth grade year, we lived in Florida, and I had to walk back and forth to school.  No problem for me, but one day it was pouring down rain, and it was a given that Mom had no way to come and get me after school.  I think she felt bad about that especially on this rainy day, as I was soaked to the skin when I got home.  She had a very worried look on her face as she urged me to get out of my wet clothes.  I was getting into dry clothes, and Mom was fixing me a nice cup of hot chocolate.  In her mind, she was warding of pneumonia, but to me she was just being a great Mom!    

I remember her washing my glass-filled bloody hand off after I cut it wide open on a broken soda bottle at the local candy store.  It looked nasty, and I didn't want to look at it, so she handled it.   

She urgently insisted we go to Dr. Brand to see why my side was hurting; turned out to be pulled ribs from a bout of influenza I'd had.

Mom's Food-Related Regulations and General Eating Lessons

I had most of my "eating" instructions by 4-5 years of age.  

I couldn't go away from the supper table until I ate all my hominy.  I hated that stuff.  I lined the hominy under my small plate to "hide" it, and would then get to leave the kitchen.  When the plate was removed, the tell-tale circle of hominy would be discovered.  I feel sure I did this on a regular basis, but I never remember getting in trouble over it. 

I had to eat my English peas before I left the table.  Colleen and I were alone in the kitchen one night after suppertime, she at the sink washing dishes, and me still at the plate of peas.  I dropped a pea onto the floor, and was glad that away rolled one I would not have to eat.  Colleen picked it up and cheerily dropped it into the middle of my pea pile on the plate.  I, the screaming little tattle-tale, wailed loudly.  Mom came in and released me, instead making Colleen eat the peas with the unidentifiable dirty one in their midst.

At lunchtime, Mom would tell Stevie it was time for him to go home for his lunch, then I would come into the house for mine.  I really loved the chicken noodle soup she gave me.  After lunch, Stevie would be back over yelling for me through the back screen door.  Life was good!

When I turned about six or seven, I found out that my cousin Angie got to have cinnamon toast and chocolate milk for breakfast.  I liked the sound of that, but when I suggested it to Mom, I got a "no" and "you'll have your Cream of Wheat...it's better for you."  Oh well.  

Probably well before 4-years-old:  I remember being in the backyard sitting on a bench next to Colleen.  I was wearing only my underwear, and I had an ice cream cone.  I guess Colleen had one, too, but she was old enough to stay fully clothed.  I saw ice cream drip onto my thigh.  It was vanilla.  I don't know what the occasion was, but I'm sure Mom was behind it.  Else why would I have been dining outside in my underwear?

Worried Mom/Defender Mom
 
When I was in the 2nd grade, my class shared our room and teacher with a 3rd grade class.  We sat in the classroom, half of it 2nd, half of it 3rd, and Mrs.VanZant in the front.  We also shared recess together.  Mr. Tibbert was our gym teacher.  He was a tanned, muscular man with dark hair combed in a side part and sprayed with something stiff.  He wore dark sunglasses during gym class, and he always acted like he had just gotten' out of the Army.  He talked to us like he was a drill sergeant , and made us sing march songs as we exercised.  We would stand in our respective class lines and follow his military song-lead as we did deep knee bends or arm extension moves:  "I've got a headache.  Take some aspirin." Over and over we repeated as we flexed and stretched, and bended and turned.  Class over, Mr. Tibbert lined us up, grades side by side, to "march" out.  "Quiet!" he'd say.  I talked too long, and Mr. Tibbert came over to me, grabbed my arm, and shook it several times while yelling at me in very close proximity to my scared little face.  He was gripping hard and shaking my arm, and he was very angry at me.  I was stifling sobs, and trying to stifle the pee running down my legs.  As the puddle formed on the concrete ground, Bradford from the 3rd grade line next to our line yelled out joyfully "She's peein' in her pants!  That girl's peein' in her pants!"  Mr. Tibbert never acknowledged that I had peed.  My mind had blurred and I really don't remember for sure, but I think he barked at Bradford to "shut up" as he went back up to the front to dismiss us.  I was just hurt and embarrassed.  When Mom came to pick me up after school, my friend Sydney came with us as she had done sometimes before.  As I cried, Sydney told Mom what happened.  By that time I had developed bruises on my arm from Mr. Tibbert's grip.  You could see the "mad" growing in Mom's eyes as Sydney spoke.  My mother promptly escorted me and her wrath into Mr. Tibbert's office.  She put him in his place as she showed him my arm and read him the riot act about how he needed to keep his temper from her child.  I don't remember him saying a whole lot while Mom was letting him have it.   He was a humble man as we took our leave.  My Mom GOT mean Mr. Tibbert for me!  

In high school, I backed into a girl's car in the parking lot.  I had no insurance at the time, and the girl's dad came to the house to "settle" when I was not there.  The man made improper suggestions to my mom--made an unsolicited pass at her--and I got to the house as he was leaving.  She was visibly aggravated and annoyed.  She didn't ask for all that hassle, and I felt guilty about being the cause of the situation.  She shrugged it off and told me not to worry about it.

I was a 17-year-old who wasn't at home one night when Mom thought I should be.  I had been hanging out with Brian, my friend/boyfriend "sort of", at the gas station where he worked.  I drove Brian home after he closed up, I dropped him off, then headed home.  I hadn't been doing hanky-panky, or anything out of the ordinary (for a change), but Mom had made "inquiry calls" around of my whereabouts (I found out that the next day from the call recipient--yet another story).  When I got home I got a "fussing at" which informed me I was supposed to still let her know if I was alright, "even at 17-years-old." She was genuinely concerned, which was reassuring to me. Something I really needed during that time in my life.

A "fun guy" friend of mine, Mark, drove unexpectedly into our yard kind of early one Saturday morning.  Mom, never having met Mark, woke me up to tell me I had "visitors" out there in the car.  I looked out the window, saw Mark, and the two guys he had in the car with him.  I didn't know the guys, and I wasn't interested in Mark romantically (anymore, that is, but all that's another story), so I was not thrilled to see him.  I was friendly enough though, and wore a smile as I headed out the front door to talk to him (them).  Mom stopped me by grabbing my arm with a soft grip, and she firmly, absolutely, almost angrily, told me "don't you dare go off with those guys!"  I assured her that I wasn't planning to go away with them, but as I walked out that door, I was a beaming 17 year old who knew how much my Mom loved me and wanted to keep me safe from the ills in the world.  I felt comforted as I watched Mark and his buds drive away.

A couple years later, Mom talked me up after a wreck I had in my Malibu.  She came out in the night, and informed the other driver of my lack of insurance and my "multiple troubles and financial woes".  The driver left feeling sorry for me, and went on to handle the dent in her car without me. 

Practical Mom (and Just Being A Nice Mom)

I had a lollipop in church, and Julian, one of Mom's babysitting wards, had none.  We were in the pew, Mom in the middle, and me eating the lollipop.  I don't know why I had one and he did not, all I remember is him leaning up every time Mom leaned up, and back every time she leaned back.  He was trying to keep my lollipop in his line of vision at all costs.  He was kind of getting on my 5-year-old nerves!  Mom pulled out a Life Saver from her purse, and gave it to him.  Julian de-stressed; problem solved.

She provided Batman and Robin capes for Stevie and me to play in.  At least that's how I remember it.   She may have made a Robin cape for me for Halloween (at age 5, I liked Robin best), and made up a Batman one for when we played the caped crusaders in the backyard.  Regardless of how they came about, she is the reason we had them, and the reason I have great memories of running around in capes and saving folks.

It was hot in south Florida, and we kids were always outside playing.  Mom would hand us plastic bowls filled with Kool Aid infused ice cubes.  That refreshing and tasty treat always made play-breaks just fine! 

She made a ballerina costume for me for Halloween, in my 6th or 7th year, when I began thinking outside the tomboy box.  She also made a cloth trick-or-treat bag one year, since the paper bag I used the year before tore through and all the candy went out into the street. 

She let me join the pre-Girl Scout club Brownies, and gave me the dimes for our weekly 10 cent fee.  She made, for the most part, the Brownie cushion that I was supposed to make but couldn't get enthused enough about the sewing-up aspect of it.  Shortly after beginning the Brownies, I received a swimming pool.  I talked Mom into letting me skip the regular Tuesday afternoon meeting so I could play in the pool.  The next week came and I still wanted to swim.  Next week and the next, and that's how it went.  She let me drop out of Brownies, after having invested who knows what for the uniform, the little purse, the change holder, the belt, the book, and so forth.  Probably a small fortune for 1966-67.  She never fussed at me about it.   

I got in a car wreck at age 19 and bloodied up a beloved trench coat I had.  During stitches at the ER, Mom learned about the power of peroxide for blood removal, and when we go home she spent a few hours on my coat.  I wore that coat for the following 15 years, until it wore completely out.  I was always grateful to her for the work she had invested in the coat that night. 

Pensive Mom/Philosophical Mom 

"If you cross your eyes, they might get stuck that way and never un-cross."

Mom always told me not to handle puppies or kittens too long, or the mother would reject them.  Although I suspected this was just her way of getting me away from the adorable objects of my then desires, I grew up to learn that parents always tell their children this story.  I've told it myself on several occasions.

"You'll ruin your eyes if you sit too close to the television set."  It didn't, and I still do.   

Aged eight and traveling up the Blue Ridge Mountains.  I'm horrified already about the height, and the U-Haul fishtailing behind us, and the sharp curves in the cloud-smothered roads.  The tension in the car was so thick, Colleen and I in the back seat, could feel Mom and Bill's uneasiness from the front seat.  That's about the time Mom looks out and down and says "if you fall here you'll starve to death before you hit the bottom."  I took it quite literally, and my worries were promptly compounded for the remainder of the ascent.  
 
Mom-Schooling

I accidentally knocked over the dog Tinker's water bowl.  When Mom asked me what happened, I remembered Colleen's truth a few days before about the same issue, "Tinker knocked over the water bowl," I lied.  I got the gentle yard stick, and the gentle guilt-talking-to.  Don't lie to your mommy.

I tried it again with the Oreo cookies Stevie brought over and gave me.  I ate them after Mom said "don't eat any cookies."  When she saw the black crumbs on my mouth, she asked me what it was, and I said it was dirt--that I had fallen in the yard and dirt flew up onto my face.  Yard stick and talking-to.  Don't lie to your mommy!

Stevie and I were sitting on the ground playing, Mom came and sat down on a flimsy metal chair beside us.  She had a book with her she was going to read while she watched us.  The chair toppled backward with her on it.  Stevie and I laughed and, as she got up to rectify the situation, firmly stated that "it's not funny!"  We shut up immediately.  I think back to that moment when I was five years old, Mom was only 25.  She had on a mid-60s dress, and her hair pulled into a blonde ponytail.  I wonder now what that book was she had.  Did she hurt herself when she fell?  I think that was the only lesson I needed in my young life to teach me not to laugh at another person's misfortune.  No, it wasn't funny, but I remember it fondly regardless.     

I came home from a second grader's day, and went to the kitchen to tell Mom a joke that a girl named Debbie had told me.  I said "say cheese."  "Cheese," she said.  "Dirty dirty Japanese," I blurted out with a big smile.  I got the riot act from her about not making fun of others people's race--about liking everybody no matter their skin color.  I felt very ashamed, and that feeling and lesson stuck with me always.  For me, that was the instant anti-racism principles began to be convictions.     

Mom and I went to visit her older sister Lucille in Tallahassee.  Lucille had a son named Michael who was mentally challenged, and I don't even remember him being able to speak words.  I liked Michael, and I played with him while Mom and my aunt chatted.  I found a plastic egg-half in the yard, and held onto it until we left.  When Mom saw it as we were going down the road, she seriously made me feel bad for having taken it.  She said that it might have been Michael's, and I felt very guilty for having it in my possession, especially since I felt sorry for Michael already.  As I look back, I don't figure Michael missed that piece of plastic, but that wasn't Mom's point.  Her point for me was to not take other people's property.

Aggravated Mom

Mom would get so frustrated trying to comb out the tangles in my hair.  I'd never comb it, and it would get matted up pretty bad.  She finally gave up and started cutting my hair in what she called a "pixie" cut, which was really short and boyish.  I was a tomboy anyway, so that was fine with me.

Mom used to fuss at me for picking my nose.  She told me not to do it.  I particularly remember being about six years of age and coming home from school, and having Mom get really mad about dried nose pickings all over my dresses.  By the time I was 7 or 8, I learned to wipe them onto the girls' dresses in front of me while standing in lunch and recess lines.  Sweet!

When I was in my teen years, Mom would stand at my bedroom door fussing at me about how badly it needed cleaned up.  She'd say "this room looks like the Dickens!" in a very angry tone.  I couldn't help it but I always burst out laughing.  What did that mean?  What did Charles Dickens have to do with that mess?  I was usually laughing too hard to ask her for details about the metaphor, but as she walked away, she'd be stifling smiles.  I generally cleaned the room up after those episodes.  

Regarding "this room looks like the Dickens":  I could now say likewise about a room or two that Mom has.  

Fun Mom

She took me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs at the drive-in when I was six or seven.  Just the two of us, and the first movie I ever remembered going out to see.  It was magnificent!

She got two string art boat kits, one for her and one for me, when I was about 15.  I thoroughly enjoyed the two of us working on these fun projects together.  I still have mine.  I will always treasure, not the boat, but the togetherness we shared making our art projects. 

In our Twilleytown living room, Mom and I accidentally stumbled onto a PBS channel that was showing us our first taste of British humor.  We both seriously cracked up over something called Picadilly Circus--we laughed so hard the entire show.  At 17-years-old, it was an especially memorable bonding moment.

My 18th birthday was a hoot.  Mom braved it all and came with Colleen, Teresa, and me to eat out at El Palacio's Mexican Restaurant in Birmingham, then on to the movie house to see Halloween.  Mom sat calmly--unmoved and unshaken--during the killing spree of nutcase villain Michael Myers.  She did however get some entertainment watching the three of us wildly screaming and flailing all through the movie, as the monster always just missed Jamie Lee Curtis.
 
General Momming 

Aged three or before, by the toilet, and Mom just took off my underwear.  She is pouring a whole bunch of little turds, similar to the pelleted droppings that a rabbit leaves behind, from my underwear into the toilet.  I remember them landing like BBs in the toilet bowl water.  A "fond" memory?  Believe it or not, yes.  That was Mom taking care of me. 

Mom and I went to some church camp for a few days, and I only remember staying in some barracks-type buildings.  Doesn't sound cozy, but it was, because I remember I got to sleep in the bed with Mom.  

From baby to about four years of age, Mom made me take an afternoon nap.  I remember one day I was lying in my bed in our room (Colleen was at school), and listening to the quiet.  I was supposed to be asleep, but I got up, sneaked to the door, peeked around into Mom's room, and she was lying on her bed trying to nap.  She was awake!!  She got up quietly, came walking towards me in her mid-60s dress, and I rushed back to my bed in big hurry--like I hoped I'd be asleep by the time she got to me.  She didn't "get to me", and the last thing I remember is her at my door, and me frantically crawling up onto the bed.  I stayed put; Mom was kind but she was scary.

Thank you Mom for letting me watch Captain Kangaroo every morning.  I know that he was a sitter of sorts while you did stuff around the house, but I loved that show.  And after the Captain, Stevie would come over, stick his face to the back screen and yell "Amberrr".  I say again, life was good!

Mom knew Stevie and I played "noodles" (never mind!!) and didn't make a big deal out of it like Colleen did.  Sounds strange, but those were innocent, and truly pleasant memories.  Mom also placed five-year-old me in the bathtub with three-year-old Joey (with our underwear on, mind you) and didn't monitor us.  By then, I had the "noodle" game experience under my belt, so to speak.  Surprise Joey!  Thank you mom for giving me those opportunities for some early peeks! 

Mom woke me in the dark of the early morning one summer day.  Dressed me, and we got in the back seat of a car.  I laid my head on Mom's lap to go back to sleep.  "Where are we going?" I asked.  "Alabama," she told me.  We went to Corona, AL to the Frost home place, and stayed in a very old and cool house next to a creek and railroad track.  We were with Geraldine and Diane, ladies from church and good friends of my Mom.  We bathed in the creek, and in the washtub in the kitchen.  I collected fireflies in a jar.  I saved a frog from the well.  I have such wonderful memories of that place and that time spent there.  

A mean little girl waltzed into our backyard from some houses way behind ours, and Stevie and I were in the yard with our capes on.  The girl had a particular liking for my little red wagon, and she nonchalantly grabbed the handle and started home with it.  I began crying, standing there in my Robin cape, and Mom came out to see what was up.  Stevie was mad that the little girl had done me wrong, and he asked Mom if he could go get it from the girl.  Mom said "yes, please" and off he went, my 5-year-old hero in the Batman cape, to get my wagon.  From the distance I could see he pried the girl's hand from it, and she went towards her home crying.  Stevie came back with my wagon.  He said "you like me, don't you Amber?" and I, sniffling, nodded my head vigorously up and down.  Mom had already gone inside and missed the "Amber likes Stevie" drama.  Well, she probably stayed on top of all that through the screen windows.  In any case, I never saw that mean little girl again.

My first grade teacher Mrs. Metcalfe came to visit us at home one night to talk to Mom about my school behavior and/or grades.  I do not remember Mom getting mad at me about that, although I do remember feeling some tension in the air while Mrs. Metcalfe was there in the living room.  Whew!  

My Sweet Mom

Way before I was old enough to properly bathe myself, I remember Mom giving me my tub baths.  She would rub the soapy washrag over my arms and shoulders, and it would feel a little cool, but I knew to expect the subsequent contrast of warmth as she squeezed bath water over me to rinse the soap off.  What a comforting and strong memory of my Mom.

A few years ago Mom and I were in her backyard next to the kiddie pool she had.  I had just used it to bathe and flea-dip her two little dogs.  I dumped out the insecticide-laden water, and the earthworms began coming out of the ground where we stood.  I commented that the chemicals had driven them out, and that they would probably die.  My mother bent over and started picking up the worms.  I could not believe what I was seeing--my Mom trying to save earthworms in distress.  I teased her a little, but in reality I was stricken by this renewed view of my mother--this tenderness and "motherliness" she exhibited towards some of the smallest of creatures.

My Literary Mom 

Mom gave to us (Colleen and me) some of the neatest LP 33 records that provided many hours of story-telling enjoyment.  These early-day audio books were Disney stories, Hans Christian Andersen, Washington Irving, etc.  Kids didn't have their own televisions in the mid-1960s, and these records were fantasy worlds that carried me far away to wonderful lands.  I still have the records, and every once in a while, I sneak away to "closet listen" to a few of my favorites.  

My Mom is the reason I read books.  She began providing books for me to read long before I could read the words.  I have a very early book made of plastic so my toddler paws wouldn't tear it up.  She would read to me when I was small.  She always gave books to me as gifts, and she always had books around the house.  She loved to read, and she passed that passion on to me.  After I was about 12 or 13, she recommended a book for me to read called Miss One Thousand Spring Blossoms.  It was a good romance for a young girl.  She introduced me to author Phyllis A. Whitney, whose works I truly loved over my teen and young adult lifetime.  Mom bought a book for me, The Sword of Shannara, which absolutely opened up another realm of fantasy for me.  I realized the fantasy world was better from a book than from any television programming.  Because of my Mom, I love to read and always will.  Because of that knowledge, skill and creativity that Mom encouraged, I write for enjoyment and therapy.  Mom's reading background and teaching is the bottom line and root of how I come to write my blog.

I love you Mom. ---Amber

# # # 

The Bellhop's Rabbit

If you hate cats and/or love rabbits, this is probably not for you.  

I had a beautiful Maine Coon cat, the Bellhop, with the most easy-going disposition you could ever find, yet with an overwhelmingly adventurous spirit.   He was always surprising and delighting my 15-year-old son Chris and me.  He also unintentionally horrified us a couple of times.  

The original name I gave the cat was Bela, like Bela Lugosi of 1931 Dracula fame.  That name just didn't stick long, especially after I had the cat's tail bobbed (that's another story) during his neuter surgery a couple weeks after I got him.  He was certainly more suited to be the Bellhop, as he knew his way around the place, and around us.

I used to, during pleasant days, prop the back storm door open so the Bellhop could freely come and go as he liked.  See, if you didn't get to the storm door fast enough to open it, he would wildly jump up on it when he wanted in, to the point that I worried he would injure himself.  Also, if you didn't let him out when he wanted, he would scramble across bric-à-brac tables, breaking stuff as he obsessed with whatever was out the windows.  He wasn't deliberately destructive.  He was just oblivious to anything in his path during his urgent exit modes.   

One nice afternoon, we had the door propped open and all the windows raised so we could enjoy the weather. I was sitting on my living room couch and Chris was standing directly in front of me.  We were involved in a conversation.  I don't remember what the topic was, but we were focused on it. 

The Bellhop had run into the house and was on the floor in between Chris and me.  He was throwing some item up into the air and was grabbing it as soon as it landed, then repeating the action--like a kid throwing a ball up in the air over and over.  He did it a couple of times without our paying attention because we were used to his antics, plus, we were involved in our conversation.  You could be conscious of the Bellhop's behavior without looking straight at him. You know, his actions weren't registering at first even though he was directly in front of us.  

About the third time the item landed on the floor, Chris and I looked down and saw it was a baby rabbit.  It was around 4 inches long, typical brownish-white, and very much alive.  It also looked physically unharmed as yet, although I was sure it was emotionally quite scarred at that point.  I screamed, "Christopher, get it away from him!!"  Chris quickly tried to grab the thing, but the Bellhop, being familiar with my panic squeal, clamped it firm in his mouth.  Christopher tried to softly retrieve it but the Bellhop wasn't going to let him have it.  I moaned "just take him outside with it 'cause we're gonna' kill it trying to get it out of his mouth!"  Christopher, though quite enamored with the Bellhop, gingerly picked him up and, holding him at arm's length in front of him, escorted the rabbit-mouthed villain to the outdoors. 

I said in a defeated tone, "he's gonna' kill it and there's nothing we can do about it."

We composed ourselves, as this really was a day in the life with the Bellhop; always adventure.  We resumed our conversation in the same positions in the living room--shifted back to normalcy.  In he came with "it" again!  Chris hadn't closed the storm door.  The little rabbit was still visibly unharmed, but the Bellhop was not gonna' let go of it.  Same motions as before:  I wail loudly and avert my eyes; Chris marches out with rabbit-toting cat at arm's length. This time he shuts the door behind him.  The Bellhop and his pitiful little play pretty would stay out! 

A few minutes later, Christopher had gone to a neighbor's house, and I sat on the living room couch reading a book.  I started to hear loud screeching-screaming sounds going on outside.  I was reminded of the Bellhop's prey, and knew immediately that he was torturing the thing.  If you've never heard a rabbit, even a small one, screaming in fear and pain, you don't know what horrors you're missing.  It is really loud.  It's overbearing when it is right in your yard and you are helpless to rescue it from its captor.   

Needless to say I couldn't concentrate on my book anymore.  I sat there on the couch, and heard that poor rabbit screaming around and around the house for 30 minutes.  I yelled out to the Bellhop "KILL IT! KILL IT!" so it would stop suffering.  Now I know he heard me, but he just kept running around the house with it in his mouth.  An adrenaline-pumped bobtail Bellhop with a screaming baby rabbit in his mouth.  I knew it would do no good for me to go out there and chase him, since the damage to the poor thing was done.  But why was he dragging this out so long??       

The screaming abruptly stopped.  He had killed it, and I felt a sigh of relief for that poor little rabbit.  

I shifted gears and started puttering around the house doing some chores.  A couple of hours went by and I went outside--just out my back door, and got down on hands and knees to begin pulling up a few weeds around some flowers.  The Bellhop was a few feet away, shuffling leaves, ignoring me, and every once in a while banging something up against the side of the house.  I concentrated on weed-pulling and was likewise ignoring him.  He habitually spent a lot of time batting rocks or acorns about, similar to his frenzied slamming of Brazil nuts around in the kitchen as if they were hockey pucks.  So, no, I didn't notice him right off. 

I'm intent with eyes 12 inches from the ground, while the Bellhop is busy slam-banging a "thing" three feet over from me.  Suddenly, the "thing" rolled right under my face in front of my eyes--a little bitty rabbit head, smaller than a golf ball, tiny ears and all.

Instinctively thinking "how cute", and simultaneously jumping back in horror, I yell out "Bela..!!"  He didn't care, he just came over there and started slamming it around and up against the house again.  I got up off the ground to go inside--to get away from the wildlife horrors. 

As I rose, I looked over to my left and saw, half buried under some leaf litter, a small pile of soft brownish-white fur, two miniature front bunny paws, and a rear rabbit's foot--a teeny weeny unlucky rabbit's foot. 

What a busy day the Bellhop had.  What a worrisome day I had.  One of many worrisome days, courtesy of that beautiful and beloved Maine Coon cat.  

The poor little rabbit. 

# # #      

    

My Brain Purchase

I've had some mild obsessions with particular human body parts off and on during my life.  Not my own body parts, but just the parts in general.  One of those body parts was the brain.  I felt like I just had to find one, aside from the one (or half o' one) I already had inside my head.

I remember as a small girl watching a 1962 movie called The Brain That Wouldn't Die.  My sister Colleen and I saw it on afternoon TV's Creature Feature while we were at Grandma Rose's house for the weekend.  It was a really stupid movie, and now rates about a 3 out of 10 on the "good review" scale.  But it effectively scared my 6-year-old self to death.  It disturbed me in some ways, like when the guy got his arm ripped off at the end of the movie.  It intrigued me, too.  Like when the lady's decapitated head was sittin' on that table, all wired up to some laboratory contraptions, and all of a sudden her eyes popped open and she started talking wickedly to passers-by in the lab. 

I wondered at the time if you could really keep a person's head alive with the right electrode wires and blood circulation tubes running in and out of it.  That got me to thinking about basic brain function in general, never mind the head that encased it.  As years progressed, I watched and was smitten by repeats of the 1931 James Whale/Carl Laemmle version of the movie Frankenstein, with Boris Karloff as the monster requiring home assembly.  The subsequent 1935 Karloff version Bride of Frankenstein rings in as my second favorite, although in that one the doc wasn't as interested in a brain as he was in finding a "young" heart.  Third favorite has to be the Mel Brooks' 1974 farce Young Frankenstein.  Then there have been strings of movies since, spin-offs and weird unrelated stories, that all had that one special mesmerizing prop in them:  A brain in a jar.

I guess that brain fascination business led me to take Psychology in college, and after the lectures and films on mental institutions' unsavory histories, and especially on the lobotomy procedures, my interest was further piqued.  All of it was casual interest in the sense that I never became a brain surgeon, or a psychotherapist, although I did later get a minor in Psychology.   

When VHS movies came out, I bought the Karloff Frankenstein and Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein.  I would sit and watch them repeatedly, especially enjoying the "brain" focus.  You know, where lab assistant turned thief Fritz/Igor scares himself and drops the jarred brain onto the floor, thus transforming it into a pile of busted glass and upchucked scrambled eggs.  Then, only trying to cover his error, he sneaks back to the castle-bound laboratory with the "abnormal/'Abby Normal'" jarred specimen.  I enjoyed these movies over and over.  But still, something was missing for me.  The brain "hard copy" as it were; a tangible specimen that I could have and hold as my very own.

Then I remembered a catalog that I had from which I had ordered insect pins, jars and insect display boxes (another hobby) a few years before.  It was the Carolina Biological Supply Company, and I recalled that you could order animal fetuses, human skin slides, disease in vitro dishes, human and animal innards, skulls and skeletons.  And yes, you could buy human brains--sliced, quartered, or whole--and by gosh I was going to get one, a whole one!  

I dug out the already old catalog--a 1982 version--and there it was, a human brain, and the description said I could buy the "Entire brain with most of the cranial nerves intact.  Mounted in a clear acrylic museum jar with a removable screw top".

The cost in that #52 Catalog was $194.50.  But by 1994, it was gonna' cost me $465.00 (dang the inflation!), so I had to save up for it.  I began putting money away every week into my "brain account", and when I had it all, I placed my order.  There was one drawback, but that didn't hinder me:  You weren't allowed as an individual to buy a human brain.  You had to be affiliated with an educational institution or a medical facility.  I wonder...Why do you reckon that was??  

So I got a doctor friend to order it for me in his name, and I just reimbursed him--it was that easy. 

I anxiously waited for the Arrival Alert call to come from the doc's office.  Then on the day it finally came--"I'm on my way!" I told them excitedly.  When I arrived, the doctor's office was all abuzz with excitement, too.  The brown cardboard box had been delivered by UPS, and marked "fragile" and "this side up".  I opened it very carefully while we held our breaths.  As I slipped the clear, brain-filled canister out of the box, we all heaved a big sigh of awe at the fresh, flesh-colored jewel inside. 

It was beautiful!

I knew from my layperson's studies I had done that, being without any smoothing out of the convolutions of the thing, this was not from a chronic alcoholic, nor from someone afflicted with Alzheimer's, nor any other major mental disability.  Other than that, I knew nothing else about its origin.  Gender, age, ethnicity, I.Q., etc. were all classified info--known only by the doctor who had removed it from it's skull casing, and by the records monitor of the Carolina Biological Supply Company. 

I took it home and placed it on top of my television set.

The next few times I watched the Frankenstein movies, I sat with it on the couch next to me.  I carried it to my son's school one day during the "pick-up-your-kid" hour, and drove around back to the gym where I knew his coach, a.k.a. science teacher, was at that moment.  "Look at what I've got," I lured with a coy "come here" head-jerk.  He walked over to peer into the driver's side of the pickup I was driving.  There I had it, in the seat right next to me.  He asked the questions, and I gladly, proudly gave him the story behind this prized possession--my brain.  I told him he could borrow it sometime for his science class, as long as I could deliver it personally and stay with it the whole time.  For some reason, he never did.

Now, twenty years later, what used to be a fleshy-beige-colored brain is now a cloudy-gray-brown clump of a specimen.  And it rests thoughtlessly on my bookcase in my living room.  I have moved it around the room over the years to keep it as a focal point, but some time several years ago I had stopped placing it near any windows for fear that the sunlight was doing it harm.  The last 5-6 years I have been more aware of the discoloration of the formaldehyde in the container.  I also noticed the organ's dregs in the bottom of the canister becoming more numerous as the years go by.  Whenever I move it now, and that's rarely, I do it so slowly and carefully so as not to shake any more "matter" loose.  

Dead tissue does tend to deteriorate quicker than live.

I still have the receipt from my purchase of this donor/cadaver tissue.  And, despite that the canister has a threaded top that can be twisted open after the removal of three large screws, I have never opened it.  For some reason however, I worried that someone else would.  So, I always left threatening, forbidding notes taped to the thing, to make sure nobody tampered with it in my absence.  And I'd drape little hairs over the top of it to provide evidence of tampering, in case someone did.  

In truth, I never really had any problem with people wanting to handle it, open it, feel it, examine it, or otherwise fondle it, nor even shake it into cerebral smithereens.  Nobody really cared about its presence as much as I did, besides of course, its original owner.     

My other body part obsessions, and pursuits thereof, I will tell at a later date.  Some will be after certain statutes of limitation have run out.             

     

# # # 

 

Take All Day

Before you read the "take all day" post, put in your mind that I was 18 years of age at the time that the story started, and I had only been to Jasper, AL a couple of occasions before this.  I was not yet aware that there were organizations that catered to particular "groups" of people, or that those organizations utilized various health, recreation and well-being resources about town.  As I write this, I relive the ignorance I had then, and the humor that went with that ignorance.  I do not write it to make fun of another person.

Don't you know it has to be at least mildly interesting when the writer has to make "excuses" at the very beginning?    

Around 1977-78, I used to go just about everywhere with my older sister, Colleen, and her two toddler boys.  More than half the time, I would be the chauffeur for her errands around town, most often being trips to the grocery store and to the laundromat at Bruno's/Jack's parking lot in Dora, AL.   We also visited the county Health Department in Jasper fairly regularly.  We would go there for Colleen's checkups, which were provided at that time for low-income women, and we would also go for my nephews' required vaccinations.

Dora, I knew very well.  Jasper, I knew not.

One such occasion we went to the Health Department for the boys' shots.  After waiting in the crowded lobby for a little while, Colleen's name was called, and she and the kids went back with the nurse.  I stayed out in the lobby to wait.  Just after they went back, in came a large group of people--about ten or twelve in all.  This diverse assemblage of adults consisted of men and women, black and white, and young and old.  It seemed like one or two particular women were coordinating the seating arrangements for the group, and after some inconspicuous maneuvering, everybody was settled.  Although I was mildly curious about this eclectic-looking mix of people, I didn't pay a lot of attention to them because I didn't want to stare.  

After about ten relatively peaceful minutes of waiting went by, I heard someone say "take all day" in a low tone.  I immediately thought "oh great, a complainer in the crowd".  Three or four minutes more went by, and again "take all day".  Hmm......that time he was a bit more vocal.  

I knew by the voice that the speaker was African American and male, and I knew (or thought I knew) that we now had an agitator in the room.  You know, like those people who start vocally complaining to themselves in a bank or checkout line, and they hope the person in front of and behind them will join in on the malcontent, and next they can all gang up on the teller or cashier to "hurry up".  Yeah, that's what I mean by "agitator".  I also knew this "agitator" was one of that diverse group of newcomers that had come in.

Well, another 3-5 minutes went by and "take all day" again, and then  "take all DAY!" and "take ALL day" and  "TAKE ALL DAY" and so it went every 3-5 minutes.  I thought it odd that nobody in the lobby displayed any reaction to him one way or the other.  Nobody helped him "agitate", nobody told him to be quiet, nobody looked at him, ...nothing.  Nobody even seemed to hear him.  But for me, I tensed up with every "take all day" because I felt like he was peer-pressuring all of us to join in and rally with him against the implied slow service.  

Finally, a name was called and one of the "in charge" women in the diverse group got up and escorted two other women of her group into the back with the nurse.  As the women passed in front of me, I realized the situation--that this group was from a facility that served physically and mentally challenged individuals, and they were here for their checkups or vaccinations or whatever.

I felt quite a lot better about the fact that the vocal "take all day" man was not an agitator.  He was just a man who innocently liked making one particular verbal statement, and who just happened to have a mental impairment of some sort.  This was the first time I had seen this group of people, but I deduced that everybody else in the lobby who seemed oblivious to the "take all day" man had at least seen him before.

After a short time and several more "take all day" proclamations went by, Colleen and the kids came out and we left.  I didn't even mention the "agitated man" story to her, and I thought nothing more about it.

Nothing, that is, until about three years later.  

At 21 years of age, I was a fresh member of St. Cecilia Catholic Church in Jasper.  I am sitting in the Mass listening to Father Jerry Deasy's homily.  Father Deasy, an Irish priest with a soft-spoken manner and a great disposition, had gone on for a few minutes, when "take all day" came out from about two pews behind me.  I caught my breath and felt my whole body stiffen.

Now, if you don't know the Catholic Mass, it is a quiet affair, with a particular format.  It is a solemn, reverent service without any unscheduled audible "amens", "glories", or otherwise out of order shout-outs, unlike some other types of church services where it is allowed and even expected.  But at no church service is "take all day" expected, nor particularly enjoyed.

I hope Father Deasy didn't hear that!  Surely everyone around me did, but not one person looked around to see who complained.  Three tense minutes I waited, then "take all day" was louder.  Now I know everyone must have heard that!  But Father Deasy did not miss a beat with his homily, and nobody made a scene by turning around to stare at the vocal man.  

I was on edge with worry because I knew what was up with this guy--I knew he really was not an agitator, but I did not know if anybody else in the church knew it.  I held my breath through the rest of the homily, and through a few more "take all days".  The remainder of the Mass sort of drowned out the final "take all days", thanks to the congregation's songs and scripted vocal queues.

Evidently Father Deasy had seen these folks before, because after Mass I saw him shaking hands with them, including the "take all dayer", as they left the church.  Father had never once suspected that an "agitator" was at Mass, and even if he had, he would not have tensed up over it as I had.           

That has all been thirty-plus years ago, and I wonder what became of the "take all day" man.  I hope everything worked out with him, and that he has enjoyed a happy life all this time, despite his seemingly restless eagerness.  He wasn't really an impatient person, he wasn't trying to rush people or hurry-up life, he was "just sayin'..."

# # #

    

The Prank Calls

I learned how to make prank phone calls when I was nine years old.  That was in 1969, way before "Call Return" and "Caller ID".  That was back when phones were attached by a wire to the wall of your house.

I was living in my step-aunt Bobbie Nell's house in Graysville, AL, and when all adults were out of the house, my sister Colleen and my step-cousin Jack (we called him Jackie), both aged 14, would start with the calls.  I was allowed to observe these masters of prank, but only if I refrained from making background noise.

They would take turns picking random numbers out of the phone book, dial them, and give the poor recipients their anonymous treat of the day.  Colleen and Jackie both altered their voices to sound adult and authentic.  I remember their spills.  He did the now stale "is your refrigerator running?", and then told the party on the other end that they'd better go catch it before it get's away.  He also did the cliché call (although it was new to me at the time) to the drugstore to ask if they have Prince Albert in a can.  "You'd better let him out before he smothers!"

"Ha ha ha ha", we all laughed with delight. 

Colleen had a particular prank call that she used regularly.  She even had the script for it written out on a piece of lined notebook paper.  It was a telephone commercial for a non-existent cologne named Nothing.  She would start the call by asking if the lady of the house was home.  That was an OK and fairly typical question to ask in the 1960s, even though the answering party always knew there was to be a sales pitch following that question.

Colleen would begin her "nothing" cologne spill, while Jackie and I sat anxiously but quietly listening; our eyes intently focused on the fake saleslady.  Her act went something like this:

"When you wear 'nothing', your husband will not be able to keep his hands off of you.  Every man will love you if you are wearing 'nothing'.  Wearing 'nothing' gives you confidence.  Be assured that if you wear 'nothing', you will be appreciated as a modern woman.  Every man will simply love you if you wear 'nothing' at parties", and so forth it went, depending on the other party's responses.

OR, if the woman of the house was absent or non-existent:

"When you give 'nothing' to your wife/girlfriend, she will always remember you.  When she wears 'nothing', you will fall in love with her all over again."  Colleen even turned "nothing" into a man's cologne one time when she dialed a man who had no "lady of the house". 

And so on it went--you get the idea.

Now, Colleen never did well being in the limelight.  Anytime she was ever placed as the center of attention, as she was at that moment with our eyes and ears upon her, she would get embarrassed and sometimes even tear up to the point of crying.  She also would tear up when she got to laughing too hard.  Well, this was the moment for both.  She stumbled halfway through her first sales pitch, and had to abruptly hang up so that she could be free to burst out laughing along with Jackie and me.

Okay, she dialed another one with a determined seriousness, and she went through the whole spill to a patient man on the other end of the line.  Jackie and I had to put pillows over our faces so Colleen wouldn't see the twinkles in our eyes or hear the giggles we had to stifle.  She finished that one like a pro!  And, hanging up the phone, she beamed at our applause and loud bursts of previously contained laughter.

Jackie and Colleen went another round, each taking a turn, and each congratulating one another after their calls.  I was being left out of their club of mutual admiration.   

I wanted MY turn.

Since they were being kind enough to even permit me, a nine-year-old, to stay in the room while they worked, they had to discuss letting me make a call.  After an agreement, they allowed me to do one, however I had to demonstrate to them that I could lower my voice enough to sound like a grown-up.  I chose to sound like a man, and I auditioned for them.  They "ok'd" it, and I dialed the phone.  A man answered.

"Do you need your house painted?" I asked in a manly voice.  The split-second of silence was enough to make me think he was actually considering it.  He said "no".  I said "alright then", and we hung up.

Nobody thought it was funny, not even me, and nobody was laughing.  I felt satisfied though, that I had been granted a screen test, or in this case, a "receiver" test.  Next thing I knew I was being screened out of the prank session, and I had a feeling I would be granted no more chances to actively participate.  I had my go at it, and bombed out.  Colleen and Jackie worked on a few more victims for a bit, and when the adults came home, the prank party was over.

I had learned plenty though, for later.

A year or so after, I was living in Twilleytown and hanging around with my friend Teresa.  During one of our lull days when we had the house to ourselves, the telephone came into play.  I told her about "nothing" cologne, and how we could "sell" it.  We got the phone, which had a very long cord on it, and dragged it to the middle of the living room floor.  That was our stage for opening day and phone prank days to follow.  We did the "nothing" commercial for potential "customers" on the other end of the line; thus beginning a long audio acting career.

As the next couple of years went by, we honed our skills by asking weird questions of people ("can I borrow a cup of flour?"), making strange statements to people ("we are holding your cat for ransom"), and sometimes screaming out horror scenarios to people who subsequently stressed over how they could get help to some girl "being strangled" in the general area.  We even serenaded some poor folks with the break out of song as soon as they picked up their phones.  We were scaring, distressing, worrying, lullabying, etc. many unseen strangers.

In time, we even became brazen enough to call people we knew, and with much success, in that they never recognized our voices.  We discovered that it was more fun to call people we were acquainted with because, knowing what they looked like, we could envision their expressions and reactions, and therefore more thoroughly enjoy the moment.  It was a special thrill when we could picture the victims' faces as they heard the nonsense we dished out to them.  We got Aunt Bobbie one time, and Teresa's Aunt Birdie another time.  We got neighbors, we got Jack's Hamburgers a time or two, and I think we even got one of our teachers' houses once--Mr. Gann, maybe.

One day my parents brought home a crate of baby chicks.  There were, it seemed, about a hundred 3-day-old biddies (that's what we called them) in that box.  I can't say "a hundred" with absolute certainty, but there were a bunch of them.  My parents left the house again to go get chicken-raising supplies or something, and left me (and Teresa) in charge of biddie-watching.  Our stage, the living room floor, was set.  The cast?  A hundred funny, fuzzy, chirping biddies.

Not that the biddies didn't hold their own on entertainment value; they did, with their cute and comical appearance prompting us to laugh, to swoon, and to fondle them.  But we just had to carry it a step farther via telephone.  We made several anonymous phone calls to people to let them hear the melodious sound of a hundred chicks "peep peep peeping" into the receiver, while we held our breaths, silently listening to the people's responses.  Our rolling hysteria after the phone "slam" was our reward. 
 
We did the same with a small box--maybe a dozen in number--of ducklings about a month later.

It went like that off and on for a few years.  Then, at some point, I began to do the prank calls on my own.

I'd dial.  "Hello"
Me:  "Is Henry there?"
Them:  "You've got the wrong number."
Me:  "Well could I just leave him a message?"
Them:  Could develop into anything from a stern but patient "you've got the wrong number--there is no 'Henry' here" to an intense "YOU HAVE THE WRONG #@!x:%!! NUMBER!!" to a "slam" of their receiver.

Dial.  "Hello"
Me:  "This is the operator with your requested party. I have your long distance call on hold for you to Singapore" (or Cairo, or Tahiti, depending on my mood). "One moment please, while I make the connection."
Them:  "Whaaaa...?"  he fades as I scrape cardboard over the receiver's sound holes a few times to simulate transmission sounds.  I joyfully hold my breath and listen to him quizzing his wife and/or kids about "who have ya'll been calling??"

Dial.  "Hello"
Me:  (in a gum-chewing-smacking teen voice) "Where's Angie at?"
Them:  (tersely) "There is no 'Angie' here.  You have the wrong number."
Me:  (smacking gum) "How do I get 'hold of 'er?"
Them:  (not laughing) Slams down the receiver.

Dial.  "Hello"
Me:  Violently coughing and 'trying' to speak. A broken "s'cuse me" inserted a couple of times.
Them:  "Hello??"
Me:  "Just a minute" hack/cough ''s'cuse me"; clear my throat really really hard, ''alright then"....."who'd you need to talk to?"
Them:  "Do what?!" and/or "Who's this?!"
Me:  "Who's this?"  "You called me!"
Them:  SLAM

I knew how to entertain myself.

I got a part-time job when I was 16 and I had access to many names and numbers of people around Walker County, mostly on the east end.  I was left alone to "man the store" several times.  There was one customer of the place where I worked, and his name was Ollie.  I had never heard of a real person named Ollie before. I had heard of Kukla, Fran and Ollie, but never an actual Ollie person.  One day, I called this Ollie's house, and quickly inquired "Hey Ollie, where's Kukla and Fran?"  After hanging up really fast, not waiting for him to answer, I burst out in a rewarding hysterical laughter session that lasted me about five minutes.    

That unethical act would definitely be a firing offense in this day and age.  Would have been then too, but I got away with it.   

I grew up (allegedly), being in my 30s, but continued on with the tradition.  I had a Motorola Bag Phone by now and carried it around in my truck.  Still no "Caller ID", not in my circles anyway.  I bought a Frankenstein doll in the middle of a workday from Walmart's Halloween aisle, and the doll would moan and groan when you flipped on his switch.  From my Bag Phone I called Colleen first, my prank-call guru, and anonymously let Frankenstein moan into the phone at her while I held my breath.  She hung up without a word.  "Of all the nerve!", I thought.  My mentor hanging up on me, not appreciating how much her 1969 student had progressed.  She didn't even allow herself a moment to savor a well-done prank call; just unemotionally hung up on me.  Me; the reigning master of prank!

I immediately called her back, laughing despite her snub, and told her it had been me.  "It sounded like a cow" she said.  Okay, she was right once I had thought about it.  But, where was her prank call spirit of the old days??

I then dialed my mom.  She listened silently for a while to the moaning and groaning of the animated Frankenstein.  I couldn't believe she listened into her receiver as long as she did.  I finally burst out laughing, thus identifying myself, and asked her what she thought.  She said she thought it sounded like a cow, too.

That was about the last prank phone call I made.  Not because I had so matured, but because of the kill-joy prevalence of "Caller ID", "Call Return", and other likewise "FBI" phone boxes that took away any anonymous phone fun you could have.  Then cell phones came around, totally displacing house phones, or land lines, and almost eliminating the classic "pay phones".  You can't even find a pay phone anymore to do anonymous prank calls.

If I could get away with it now, I would.  If I could find just one lone phone booth, I would have a field day of laughter.  I'd carry a bag lunch, and I'd spend the whole day calling, at least until my change ran out.  I don't even know how much it cost to make a pay phone call anymore, should a pay phone booth still exist.

All you people who think you're getting harassing phone calls now--with the "800-unknown caller/ad callers/scam callers/etc. callers"--you either don't remember or you are too young to even know about true prank calls.  The good old fashioned traditional prank telephone call.  It was a real art, and I was a deviant artist.

# # #