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

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