RATS - FREE TO GOOD HOME

Pam studied the classified ad in front of her.

RATS - RESCUED THIS WEEKEND. FREE TO GOOD HOME

What could this mean?

As a lab assistant, the advertisement intrigued Pam. She rarely worked with rats herself, but knew that the scientists down the hallway did a lot of work with them. She wondered whether the rescued rats were from that lab, and what the implications might be. A lot of research might have been comprised; the findings obsolete now.

Pam was torn on her feelings about this. On one hand, she understood and appreciated the need for research and lab testing. Important discoveries required testing. And while she didn’t want animals to die or become deformed by the procedures, she didn’t know any way around it, either, if scientific advancements were to be made.

On the other hand, she couldn’t stand witnessing the effects some of these procedures had on lab rats, and worse – cats and dogs. When they were harmed for the advancement of things like make-up, Pam wanted to rage and scream and cry at the injustice. She never did, though. The most she’d done was avoid the labs where animal testing was done. Maybe she could do something else now. Be proactive.

This rat ad intrigued her. Rescued rats? Free to good home?

She dialed the phone.

“Hello?”

Pam stammered. “Uh, hello? I saw your ad in the paper? For the free rats?”

“Oh! Great! They make great pets. A lot of people don’t think of rats as pets, but they can be very lovable and they’re as smart as dogs. They’ll ride around on your shoulder if you let them. Kinda tickles. Mine likes to weave in and out of my hair. Feels really neat.”

Pam shuddered slightly at the thought of a rat in her hair.

“Well, I don’t really know if I want a rat for a pet. I mean, I’m sure they’re excellent pets? But I was thinking more like maybe I could help rescue more rats or something? Get involved?”

There was a distant rustling on the other end of the phone and a clattering sound, like someone was hanging up.

“Hello?” Pam called tentatively into the mouthpiece.

More clattering.

“I’m here. Just dropped the phone. One of the rats was fighting the other and they both ran up my arm at the same time.”

Pam was sure her heart stopped for a moment. She felt frozen into place, as though the rats were about to travel through the phone line and attack her there in her apartment. She instinctively raised her feet off the ground and tucked them under her. This call was a bad idea.

“Oh, well, if you’re busy, I’ll just call back.”

Pam hurried to move the receiver to its cradle.

“No, that’s okay. It’s all under control here. You sure you don’t want one?” the girl on the other end of the phone laughed.

Fight or flight panic flooded through Pam.

“Just kidding,” the rat girl said. “But sure, if you want to help rescue more rats, that would be cool. I think there’s another Chinese restaurant down Columbia Avenue that we can check out.”

Chinese restaurant? Pam was confused. Was this girl inviting her to lunch?

“Um. Well, I guess Chinese would be good. I work full-time, though.”

“That’s cool. We’ll stake the place out after the restaurant closes. The rats come out when it’s dark anyway.”

Pam squinted at the ad again. “Um… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Rescuing rats. Didn’t you say you wanted to help rescue more rats?”

“Well, yes, but I thought we’d be liberating them from a lab. I thought I could help with that.”

Rat Girl laughed.

“No. Though that would be cool. But I’m not into the whole breaking-and-entering-getting-arrested thing. I just save the rats that I find by the dumpsters.”

“Rats by the dumpsters?”

“Yes. They’re the ones that need good homes. Not that the lab rats don’t, but at least they’re in out of the cold and not getting tossed into the back of a garbage truck.”

Pam stared at the ad in front of her. She should have known that the person who submitted it was crazy. She wasn’t even sure how to respond. Her sense of rat injustice dissipated. Crazy people rescued rats. What had she been thinking? The woman on the other end of the phone continued talking as Pam slowly lowered the phone into its cradle. She vowed never to answer a crazy ad again, crumpled up the newspaper and dropped it into the trash.

Cupan Tae

The Gaelic term "Cupan tae" is often Anglicized into "cuppa" or "cup of tea"



Jesus, Mary and Joseph,

wasn’t a blessing,

but a lament that Maura muttered

nearly every time she grabbed a clean cup

from the dish rack by the sink.

Tea was the antidote to most of life’s problems,

and by life’s problems,

Maura meant children --

all six of them;

one more trouble than the next.

Precocious Bridget; she’d find herself in trouble.

Stephen ended up in jail, but at least she knows where he is.

It’s Billy she’s worried about. No doubt

he’s found his way to a bar and a bottle of whiskey.

Patrick is up to something; she’ll find out what it is.

Colleen might make something of herself, if

she’d just get rid of that good-for-nothing boyfriend.

And Jimmy -- well, Jimmy – he’s the baby.

The kettle whistles.

Another cupan tae.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph

How would anyone get through the day without it?

An Evening With Leigh Anne Tuohy

Leigh Anne Tuohy speaks at Fairfield High School

Leigh Anne Tuohy became famous after she and her family took in a 6’6”, 350 lb. black teenager they found wandering the street. That boy is Michael Oher, an NFL rookie who Tuohy says would have been dead by now if it weren’t for someone stepping in before he fell completely through the cracks. He was bound for gang life, where the mortality rate for a body guard is 21 years. Instead, he’s making millions and is loved by a family who took him in and made him one of their own. You know this story; Sandra Bullock won an Oscar playing Leigh Anne in the movie "The Blindside."

Leigh Anne encouraged everyone to get involved with their community in the spirit of “cheerful giving.” She said that we didn’t need to adopt someone into our homes to make a difference. All we had to do was make the world a better place for someone else. It wouldn’t take much more than a smile.

She shared a story about her son, SJ, and a day that he tried to make a small difference in someone’s life. SJ was at a gas station and went inside to pay for his gas since the credit card swiper was broken. Then man in front of him set a $5 bill on the counter and asked the cashier for $5 on pump number 8. With gas at $2.69/gallon, that wasn’t going to buy much, so SJ reached around him and laid another $20 on the counter, telling the cashier to make it $25 on pump 8.

“Why did you do that?” the guy asked.

“Five dollars won’t get you very far.”

“Yeah, but you could use that $20 for other stuff.”

SJ shrugged.

The man was incredulous. “No one’s ever done anything for me before.”

SJ told him to do something nice for someone else someday. Still flabbergasted, the man questioned SJ again and then went out to pump his gas.

The cashier looked at SJ with suspicion.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Just thought I’d do something nice.”

“Nobody’s ever done anything like that for me.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” SJ said as he went out to the pump to gas up his car.

The guy from inside and his friend were still at pump 8 and the friend came over to SJ.

“Did you really buy him $20 of gas? Why’d you do that?”

And on it went. SJ told his family about it at dinner and said that he’d gotten more than $20 worth of pleasure out of the experience and thought he’d do the same thing with three $20 bills the next week. Then he posted the story on his facebook page and got a string of responses, half of which asked “Why’d you do that?”

Leigh Anne encouraged us all to do something like that. She challenged us to volunteer, to help a neighbor, or give money to an organization that would make a difference. She ended by reminding us that no one ever goes poor by giving of themselves.

Monroeville, Alabama

This courtroom was the inspiration for the scene in To Kill A Mockingbird

There’s a small patch of land in rural Monroeville, Alabama that seems like it should be hallowed ground among writers. It is the spot of land where Truman Capote grew up, living and playing with his next door neighbor and best friend, Harper Lee.

It seems as though there must be something magical about the space; something potent in the water, or the air, or the dusty red dirt. Whatever it was, the magic eludes visitors to the spot. Harper Lee’s old homestead now houses Mel’s Dairy Bar. And the house where Truman Capote lived with his cousins and aunt is nothing more than remnants of a rocky foundation that remained after a house fire.

The houses don’t draw visitors to Monroeville, Alabama. What lures people 30 miles off the highway to this struggling small town is the old Monroeville County Courthouse that inspired the famous courtroom scenes in Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. 

The courtroom is almost a temple of sorts.  In fact, a copy of the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel is set on the judge’s bench next to a gavel and the intimidating witness chair. The view from the balcony is even more awe-inspiring than Scout described.

The Museum is kind enough to also offer guests a walking tour brochure. It details how the town appeared in the 1930’s when Lee and Capote lived there. You can wander the streets and try to picture what they saw. Not much has changed, really. The road is paved now, and the businesses inside the storefronts have changed hands. Truthfully, I didn’t walk much farther than down the street to Mel’s Dairy Bar where I stood on ground where these literary greats once stood, and licked my soft-serve ice cream while I waited for a little bit of literary greatness to rub off on me.

Honestly, there was nothing remarkable about their beginnings. They grew up in a small town and wrote stories in a treehouse behind one of their houses. Perhaps the small-town atmosphere was all the magic they needed? Perhaps a childhood spent watching the town go by from the front porch was enough. I could see nothing remarkable from where I stood. But thank God, they did.

What I Don't Know About Botswana

I think they dance in Botswana

What I don't know about Botswana could fill a book. A series of books, actually. I believe it already has. It's called the "No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" series. If I want to know about Botswana, I guess I'll have to read those books.

I attended an international cultural festival yesterday featuring Botswana. I had hoped to learn more about their culture and perhaps be inspired to write something about it. But after spending a day at the festival, I still know nothing about this African nation.
Here's what I didn't get to experience:

I didn't get to eat typical Botswana dishes. The only offering at the Botswana food booth was vegetable stew, but it was being manned by a little girl who wasn't allowed to take the cover off the dish because it was too hot and would burn her.

The World Bazaar of Botswana goods was filled with jewelry, woolen caps, and wooden carvings stamped with 'Made in Kenya' and 'Made in China'. I bought earrings anyway.

My daughter and I went to listen to a speakers' panel about "Growing Up In Botswana". The "panel" was one man named Christopher, whose last name was so difficult that it was not shared with us. Christopher was very quiet and very.. sullen. I can't think of a better word to describe his lack of enthusiasm for telling us anything, and I mean ANYTHING, about his childhood in Botswana. The moderator asked him questions about his family. "There were six of us," he answered.

Q:  What kind of games did you play?
Chris: We used our imaginations.

Pause.

Q: Did you live in a village, or a city?
Chris: A village.

Pause.

Q:  How many people were in your village?
Chris: I don't know.

Q:  I saw a documentary that showed hippos in Botswana. Did you have to worry about dangerous animals?
Chris: No.

After 20 minutes of monosyllabic answers, I felt I'd subjected my daughter to enough non-culture. We left. Naturally, as we walked out, we saw the very end of a Botswana dance performance.

To sum up what I learned about Botswana today:  they eat stew, and they dance. Guess I'm going to have to read the books.

Synchronized Swimmers



Cayman Islands Turtle Farm



“Hustle up!” Coach Bochs bellowed.

Tommy continued floating on his back. Shelley barely even turned around.

Coach Bochs sighed.

“Hurry it up, gang. This is exactly why we have to change the agenda this year. Turtle races didn’t work last year. I think we can all see why.”

Shelley and Tommy continued drifting aimlessly around the pool.

“If we’re going to have any chance of drawing a crowd this year and saving our skin, we’re going to have to come up with a better plan.”

Old Tut and Greenie nodded their heads as a few more turtles slowly inched their way toward the coach. Coach Bochs blew into his whistle. Greenie pulled his head into his shell. He hated that whistle.

“Tommy! Shelley! Listen up while you make your way over here. I have an idea for a new show. The tourists are gonna love it. We’ll do a synchronized swimming routine.”

The turtles rolled their heads from side to side, assessing the reactions among the group. The more advanced swimmers dove briefly underwater and twirled a little on their sides. The old seafarers like Ceeshor laid back and relaxed. They were born swimmers. But Tut and a few other snapping turtles clenched their teeth until the coach was finished speaking.

“Count me out!” Tut snapped. “I’m not gonna flip and flop around like some kind of circus performer. You young whippersnappers can show off and balance balls on your noses like seals, for all I care, but I’m not going to be a part of it.”

With that, Tut and a few other turtles retreated into their shells.

Coach Bochs blew his whistle.

“Get back out here, Tut! You are going to be a part of this show just like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, just like the rest of us!” Tommy mocked him.

“Zip it, Tommy,” Coach continued. “We’re all a part of this. We’re going to swim, dive, roll over, advance and retreat in unison. We’re going to make the dolphins look about as graceful as puppies paddling in the ocean. You got that?”

Tut remained hidden in his shell.

“I said, ‘You got that?”’ Coach Bochs screamed.

Tut poked his head out.

“And what if I don’t?”

Coach Bochs jutted his neck out as far as it would go and leaned into Tut’s face.

“Then you might as well hold out a spoon, cause you’ll be soup.”

And with that, the turtles flipped onto their backs and started practice.

The Bike Wreck



Hamilton, Ohio



It’s funny how some of the biggest moments in our childhood are not clear to us as adults. Some of my memories are really just impressions. Others are tiny details in an otherwise larger story. And some childhood memories are primarily based on what other people tell me. There are moments that I think I remember well, only to discover that I don’t know many of the facts at all.  Such is the tale of my infamous bike wreck.

I was seven years old when I went sailing over the handlebars of my neighbor Lori’s bike and skidded across the road. I was riding her bike around the neighborhood, a typical summer pastime. But Lori’s bike was different than mine; hers had brakes. Mine didn’t. I was still riding a small purple two-wheeler that I stopped by using my feet or riding into the grass. I was thrilled to be riding Lori’s bike that day while she rode her sister’s. The bigger bikes made us both feel older and glamorous.

But when it was time to apply the brakes, I didn’t anticipate how suddenly the bike would stop. It lurched to a halt while my body kept moving – up and over the handlebars.

Or so I think.

In my recollection, I crashed my bike right in front of my babysitter Candy’s house. But I also remember crashing next to the creek where there was always a lot of gravel on the road that made bicycling difficult. In my history tale, Candy then drove me home and Mom took me to the hospital where they put a stinging antiseptic all over my road-rashed body. Those scabs healed, but there was permanent damage from the bike wreck: my two front teeth were permanently chipped.

Now, I don’t know how much of the story in my mind is true. I was unconscious for a while (I think), or else I was just in shock. I don’t know how I got home, but my mother has filled in some of the blanks.

Yes, a neighbor drove me home and delivered my bloody, gravel-caked body to her. She rushed me to the bathroom before my father could get a glimpse of all the blood. He’s squeamish and she had enough of a situation on her hands without having him faint. She started cleaning me up, wiping off my bloody arms, legs and face to assess how badly I was injured and then discovered that I had chipped both front teeth.

We were off to the hospital (still without my father). They cleaned me up. There were no broken bones or serious injuries other than the gaping hole in my smile.  That repercussion was permanent; I’m on my second set of caps. I have been a cautious bike rider ever since.

That moment in my childhood was a life-altering event. And yet, I remember very little of it. It’s odd how malleable our memories are. I can only vaguely recall the events of that day and the memories I do have shift to fit the story that my mother tells. What I think I remember may not be accurate at all. Which makes me wonder what else I’m remembering wrong?