Ringo, head of bungalow security

by on Feb 17, 2012 (4) Comments

Being a dog person, one of the hardest parts of going on vacation is not having Fred, our female goldendoodle, to love on.  When we arrived at our bungalow, Peter, the owner of HareSwiss where we are staying, introduced us to Ringo.  Ringo is a large well-muscled golden retriever mix.  Although he sports a variety of scars indicating he has been in his fair share of doggie battles, his brown eyes exude his gentle, happy nature.  During our introductions, Peter went over the human-to-canine rules of etiquette.  Ringo was not to come up on the porch with us, definitely was not allowed inside the bungalow and we were not to feed Ringo any human food, no matter how beseechingly he looked at us with his big brown doggie eyes.

Our first night on the island, Dave and I went to a restaurant sitting on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.  We were treated to wonderful slipper lobsters and a glorious sunset.  On our ride back to the bungalow, we both commented on how dark the night can be with no streetlights to guide your way.  We parked our car at the bottom of the slight incline to the bungalows.  Suddenly we could hear something barreling through the darkness at us.  Once again I was reminded that I have no fight or flight instinct.  If I was an animal I would most likely be a pigmy fainting goat.  When I get scared, I basically just stand stock still waiting to see what exactly is going to happen next.  To my utter relief,   Ringo came bounding out of the dark to meet us with his cute little doggie smile on and his tail wagging happily.  As we cautiously made our way through the dark to the bungalow, Ringo kept trying to block our path.  Suddenly he reached out and took my arm in his mouth.  Okay, even if I am a huge doggie person, having a strange dog from a strange island clamp down on my left arm like a vise grip was a bit disconcerting.  It would be terrible if my arm were to be torn from my body by Ringo, the serial arm-stealing island dog, only to be identified days later by my golden wedding bands.  In an effort to save myself from a one armed future, I began talking to Ringo in a soothing voice, keeping up an inane blither of babble about what a cute little puppy he was and how happy I was to see him too in the hopes that he would realize I was not a would-be intruder but a guest of HareSwiss, and a fairly nice one at that.  Soon it became apparent that my arm was not in danger of being ripped from my body and carried off into the Rapa Nui darkness.  Just like any gentleman, Ringo was taking my hand to lead me safely through the dark to our bungalow door.

Every day we watched from our porch as Ringo made his rounds securing the perimeter of the property. He would diligently go about peeing on every blade of grass some wild dog may have gotten to in the night while he was sleeping.  Dave and I like to sit on our porch into the wee hours of the morning sipping cold beer and discussing all the wonders we had seen that day. It never fails that Ringo comes for a visit.  Knowing full well he is not supposed to come up onto the porch he puts one paw on the tiles looking at us to see our reaction.  Slowly but surely he adds his second paw, then the third until finally he is standing on the porch.  No matter how many times we tell him he’s not allowed on the porch he stays there putting paws in our laps or leaning his body up against ours until we give him his fill of doggie love and attention.  If he hears Peter coming out of the house he will jump off the porch with a who me? I wasn’t on the porch look on his face. 

One night, sitting on the porch we heard Ringo coming around the side of the bungalow.  Instead of coming right up on the porch he put his head down and let out a ferocious growl.  Dave and I sat up a little straighter in our chairs and peered into the total darkness.  Just because you know that you are on an island with an extremely low crime rate, no vicious nocturnal animals and no slithering snakes doesn’t mean that you don’t get a bit concerned when a dog growls his “I’m going to eat you” growl.  Ringo ran out into the night and was swallowed up in the darkness.  We could hear him growling at something.  A few seconds later we heard the pounding of hooves and a high pitched whinny heading for the street.  Ringo pranced back to us proud as a peacock.  He had saved us from the horses that went bump in the night.  For the next hour or so Ringo camped out in front of our bungalow, laying in the grass facing the street on full alert for any further intruders.  I slept better that night knowing that Ringo was the head of bungalow security.

One Smart Bird

by on Feb 14, 2012 (9) Comments

As I was walking out of my house one morning to take my kids to school, I was hit with a strong wind. I also noticed several pieces of trash blowing wildly through our yard. I figured somebody’s trash can must’ve gotten knocked over. Before I even had a chance to grab some of the pieces of paper blowing around, the wind sent them all across the street and into the neighbor’s yard. Then, just as soon as it began, the wind died down. We got in the car and headed to school.

Later that afternoon, when the kids were outside playing after school, Gracie came running into the house and announced that Spring has officially arrived.

“How do you figure that?” I asked, since it was only a few days into February.

“The birds are laying their eggs.” She declared.

“What makes you think that?”

Gracie pulled on my sleeve as she led me outside. She was so excited because she had made a discovery  – a shell from a bird who had already hatched. She brought me over to one of the trees in our yard and pointed to a broken egg shell on the ground. She carefully picked it up.

“I wonder what kind of bird hatched from this shell,” She said as she caressed the jagged shell. I took the shell from her. I knew where the eggshell had come from but her face was so happy and eager at having discovered the first sign of Spring. As I turned the shell over in my hand I noticed something – a little stamp that said “EB” for Eggland’s Best.

“And see, Mommy, that momma bird puts her initials on the egg,” She said, “That’s pretty smart, isn’t it?”

“Yes, honey, that’s one smart bird.”

So now, whenever Gracie sees a bird flying around our yard she wonders whether it’s EB, the smart bird who apparently has an ink stamp stashed away in her nest.

Wild Horses Couldn’t Keep Me Away

by on Feb 09, 2012 (5) Comments

Our first night on Easter Island found me sitting on the porch enjoying the warm island breeze.  There was no moon and just a few stray clouds floating through the night sky.  David bought a new camera and tripod for the trip.  He was buzzing on and off the porch setting up his tripod in various locations pointing the camera to the sky in hopes of capturing the perfect picture of the amazing number of stars we could see.  Since we live in the well-lit downtown area, even on the darkest of nights we can only see a smattering of stars.  Here on the island it is pitch black dark.  There are no streetlights where we are and very few house lights to pierce the darkness.  With so little light pollution you can see thousands and thousands of stars in the sky.  The Milky Way was as clear as a bell.  What an amazing sight.

Out in the dark we began to hear rustling sounds off in the distance.  Earlier in the day, Peter, our bungalow owner, warned us about several interesting characteristics of the island.  One, there are more than 2000 wild horses; two, there are probably just as many wild dogs; and three, don’t drive too fast as either of these or a wayward cow can wander into the road at  any moment in time.   Finally, most importantly, always close the gate across the across the driveway to the bungalows or the horses will come in and eat everything in poor Peter’s garden.  Even being city people, when the shuffling, rustling and snorting came closer to the porch we knew the horses had somehow gotten into the yard. David and I had gone out for dinner.  When we returned, we obediently made sure that the gate was securely latched across the driveway.   David shined his flashlight down the driveway and sure enough the gate was securely closed.  While we felt personally relieved of the situation, we still felt bad that somehow, despite our best efforts the horses had come in while Peter was out.

David, secure in the fact that there was no such thing as a man-eating horse was not the least bit distracted from his new found love of photography.  He continued to be swallowed up in the dark as he set up his tripod in yet another location in an effort to get the perfect shot of the night sky.  The peacefulness of the evening continued to be broken by a chorus of barking dogs, followed by the sound of hooves pounding the ground as the dogs herded the horses to the back of the property.  Out of sheer curiosity we pointed the flashlight out into the field.   Shining back at us were about 9 sets of horse eyes and at least a dozen doggie eyes.

I spent the rest of my evening sitting on the porch of a lovely bungalow with a warm island breeze caressing my skin, drinking cold beer and listening to the horses munch and run, the dogs yip and bark and David happily muttering to himself while snapping picture after picture.  What a fantastic way to start my Easter Island adventure!

When mommy’s sick she’s on her own

by on Feb 05, 2012 (13) Comments

“Mommy, I need juice.”

“Mommy, I need more tissues.”

“Mommy, can you read to me?”

“Mommy, I’m gonna throw up.”

“Mommy, I threw up in bed.”

Ahhh, yes, the ongoing sweet sounds of having two children who are home sick at the same time. You just get one settled down and the other starts up. It’s an ongoing merry-go-round of retrieving snot-filled tissues from under the covers, holding one child and then the other as they puke every half hour, refilling juice, reading stories, rubbing tummies, cleaning up surprise puke attacks, stroking foreheads, finding a specific toy and reassuring each child that no, they are not vomiting up their entire intestines.

So after days of being nurse, storyteller, housekeeper and cheerleader, I start to see signs of recovery. Thanks to modern medicine, time and mommy’s ever-present TLC, my kids have beaten whatever bug had snatched hold of their precious bodies over the last few days. They are engaging in fewer cough and puke competitions and are spending more time upright in front of the television.

A few hours ago I started feeling congested, achy and my stomach started making very suspicious noises. Feeling dizzy and chilled, I tucked myself into bed. I called out to my children to please bring me a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin.  “We can’t,” replied my daughter. “You might puke on us.”

Apparently, TLC is a one-way street when vomit is involved.

David’s New Toy

by on Jan 30, 2012 (Comments Off on David’s New Toy) Comments

It’s exactly one week before David and I board a plane headed south to Easter Island.  We have said for years that when we get all our children out of the house and out of college we want to travel.  We each have a list of our top ten places we want to see before we die.  When both of our fathers developed Alzheimer’s, we decided we better get on the stick.

A few days ago, David asked me if I would be mad if he bought a new camera.  Of course, this sounds like David is completely hen pecked if you don’t know that he just bought the “I just have to have this” new digital camera before we went to Egypt in September.  Since he is a fully functioning adult male with a good day job of his own, it seems ridiculous that he would even ask.  I think it’s just a game he plays to make me feel in the loop.  I’m pretty sure the half a dozen golf clubs hiding  under his side of the bed didn’t get passed through the Allen family finance committee either.  So off he went to the store and purchased his new camera.

I am now in paparazzi hell.  If you sit still for five seconds, David will be there with his camera honing the fine art of its various settings.  When I am working in my office, all I can hear is the shutter clicking away as he takes picture after picture.  Have I mentioned, just like most people, I really don’t like to have my picture taken when I’m posed and know I have my best face on, much less when I am working on something complicated and have my faces scrunched up in a fierce scowl.  In an effort to divert attention away from me I have sacrificed his mother.  Yep, I pulled out the “your mother would love to see you work your new camera” card faster than a gunslinger flopping down four aces in dusty saloon.  Mom, of course, was thrilled to have David regale her with all his new found knowledge and I was left in peace to scowl at will.  Once David wore out his parents, he moved on to the dogs.  We can have anywhere from one to five dogs in our house at any given time.  Now I have some amazing pictures of my grand puppies and Fred, of course.

Sitting in bed this morning getting my wake up kisses from Fred, I hear the shutter start clicking again.  Ok, isn’t it bad enough that he is taking my picture as I stomp down the hallway to the back office, scowl at my computer screen and glare at my pork ribs for not cooking fast enough?  Do we actually need a picture of me first thing in the morning, sitting in my less than flattering PJ’s, before makeup, but most of all before I finish my first cup of coffee?  Maybe I better be careful about what I write about him in the future.  Like they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Secret Transplant Surgery

by on Jan 22, 2012 (1) Comments

Jack loves his stuffed animals. They all have names and he can recall when and where he received each and every one. He pampers them, worries about them, talks to them, tucks them in at night and splits them up into teams for stuffed animal football matches.

Recently, Jack added a new member to his stuffed animal family. The newcomer’s name is Panda Bear (you guessed it, it’s a panda). It’s one of those Furballz brand animals. For the last few weeks Panda Bear has been Jack’s constant companion.

The rules regarding toys, stuffed animals, homework, and other cherished items in our home changed drastically in October 2010 when we added a rescue dog to our family. If you’ve read my other blogs you’re familiar with Griffin’s insatiable appetite for Barbie limbs. It took a few Barbie dismemberments but my daughter soon learned that Barbie can never touch the carpet if Griffin is in the room. Jack, however, hasn’t gotten that message yet when it comes to his stuffed animals.

Various members of the family have all done their share of chasing Griffin through the house as he tries to escape with George the Giraffe, Berry Bear, Smiley the Shark, Patches the Hamster or one of the other 30 or so members of Jack’s Zoo. Up until the other night, the worst that has happened is that a stuffed animal is saved from Griffin’s mouth with the only damage being a thick coating of dog slobber.

The other night, while walking down the hallway in my bare feet, I stepped on something small, round and hard. I picked it up and upon closer examination I noticed that it was a chewed and very damaged plastic eyeball. This wasn’t a good sign.

The kids were asleep. I went on a search throughout the house to find the owner of the eyeball. Then I saw it… over in the corner of the dining room was Panda Bear. His fur was matted, thanks to the now-dried dog slobber. He was winking at me. I knew I had found the owner of the eyeball. Panda must’ve fallen from Jack’s bed after he went to sleep and Griffin, like a shark smelling blood in the water, seized the opportunity.

Slobber-covered Panda Bear before surgery

I have grown used to late-night covert Griffin damage-repair duties, having hidden a number of chewed up Barbies in the last year and then running out to the store the next day to replace them. So I quickly scooped up Panda Bear and hid him in my office. The problem was, unlike Gracie, who wasn’t attached to any one Barbie particularly, Jack would search for his Panda Bear first thing in the morning.

Panda’s eyeball socket was in good shape. Apparently it had been a clean detachment. With a little Crazy Glue I could do an undetectable repair. My problem? The eyeball itself hadn’t faired so well.

I’m a well-stocked mom but I don’t keep a supply of plastic eyeballs on hand. Then it hit me. Jack had a  couple of stuffed animals that were way at the bottom of his vast pile that he rarely played with. I might be able to get away with it if I could find a good donor match.

I tip-toed into Jack’s room and quietly pulled out all the stuffed animals, being very careful to avoid the ones that squeaked and talked. I didn’t want to be caught in the middle of the night by my son with all his animals strewn around me. That would be a hard one to explain.

Luck was with me. I found a donor at the bottom of the pile. His eyes were a close enough match for Panda Bear. I tip-toed back into my office, closed (and locked) the door and began the transplant surgery.

The next morning, when Jack woke up, Panda Bear was nestled beside him, staring into space with two eyes. The stuffed animal donor was gently hidden away in my closet in case I need another eyeball in the future.

Nothing Better Than New Baby Smell

by on Jan 17, 2012 (5) Comments

Matt’s friend from high school, who is now a grown up going by the name of Jonathan but who will always be known by his high school nickname Spike to me, came by the house on Friday.  He brought with him his wife, Mary Beth and their kids, Brooke, Dillon and Stella.  Brooke has grown a foot since I saw her last.  She is a cute as a bug third-grader going on college senior.  Dillon, who became Matt’s best little buddy, is still the cutest little toe headed kindergartner in town.  Dillon was so fixated on playing with the dogs and Matt, that he barely knew the rest of us existed.   Stella is the four-week-old, blue-eyed, blonde peach-fuzz-haired newcomer to the group.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of chit chat, they were bringing out the baby.  I was glad it was Mary Beth and not me that had to figure out the combination lock to the car seat latches and then pull the precious cargo out without smacking its darling little peach-fuzz-covered head on the oddly shaped handle.  When I had kids, car seats had metal stands, not the cute little double as a rocker bottoms they have now.  And don’t even think about a handle.  If you couldn’t balance that bad boy on your jutted out left hip, you were in deep dirt.  

I should have known that flicking toothpaste into my eye first thing Monday morning was an omen of how the week was to pan out.  True to rights, my week had been one giant pain in the eyeball.  The second I looked into little Stella’s face, all the stress of my week just floated away.  It’s wonderful to hold a warm cuddly human in my arms who has never been touched by the stress of a deadline, who has never known the sadness of loss or the fear of failure. To hold something that just emanates that serene calmness that can only be owned by the truly naive is intoxicating to me.  All the worries of my work-a-day world didn’t seem to matter in those glorious few minutes.  I was simply happy to sit peacefully, absorbing her aura of baby calmness and breathing in her amazing “new baby” smell.  You know the smell of a child that has yet to play in its own poop, eat a bug or decide that rolling around in a mud puddle in their Sunday best seems like a good idea.

Just about the time I was good and relaxed, having pushed all my tension out of the way so that I could selfishly absorb all this baby’s calm, quiet, yummy smelling essence, David turned to me and said, “Does this make you want to have another one?”  Without a moment’s hesitation, I gave him my most heartfelt answer, “Oh god, no.  I just want to play with theirs.”

Where’s Mom?

by on Jan 11, 2012 (8) Comments

My mother is 90-years-old, almost deaf, 4’7” tall, walks with a cane and lives with us. Taking my mother shopping involves patience, good weather (she hates rain) and no sales.  If there’s a sale happening in the clothing store that day we have to leave because she can’t handle the crowds. So we have resigned ourselves to paying more for clothes.

When shopping, we head straight to the “petites” section. It is there that we spend an excruciatingly-long amount of time looking at the same four pairs of beige pants or beige sweaters as my mother tries to determine whether they’re a different shade of beige from the other seventy beige sweaters and beige pants she has at home. So we stand there in the middle of the petites section having a discussion about the varying degrees of beigeness. It’s at this point that my eye starts twitching – a sure sign that Pam is about to blow. Then, even though previous experience tells me what I am about to do isn’t a good idea, I do it anyway. I tell her I’m going over to look at some clothes in my size and I’ll be back in a few minutes. I instruct her to stay in the petites section. My eye usually stops twitching as I steer my little cart away from the beige clothes and toward the racks of shirts and pants in other colors.

You would think that a 90-year-old woman who walks with a cane wouldn’t be able to move that fast but in the 10 minutes that I’m gone, my mom can wheel that shopping cart around that store and end up in the most unlikely departments. So of course, when I return to the petites section she is nowhere to be seen. It’s like this every time. I never learn.

The problem with being separated from my 90-year-old, almost deaf, 4’7” mother in the clothing store is that she can’t be seen over the clothing racks. I can’t call out to her because she can’t hear me. Give her a cell phone, you say? We tried that but she can’t hear the ring, ignores the vibrating alert and even if she did manage to answer it, she can’t hear me on the other end so she just hangs up.

My 10 minutes of shopping on my own turns into 30 minutes of wheeling my cart all over the store, ducking down under clothing racks, trying to spy my mother’s beige pants and beige shoes. I make several trips into the fitting rooms where I peer, like a peeping tom,  under the closed doors, hoping to spot those familiar feet.

If I finally spot her on the other side of the store I have to race like mad, dodging other shoppers (so glad we don’t shop on sale days) to reach her before she ducks out of sight again. Out of breath, I finally manage to catch up to her where she will usually greet me by holding up even more beige clothing for my opinion. There’s no escaping the beige discussion so I don’t know why I even try. We go over every article of clothing until she’s happy that she has chosen some that are just different enough. I don’t ever see any difference in the clothing she chooses but if she’s happy, I’m happy. Just get me out of the store.

Since it’s obvious I’m never going to learn that I shouldn’t leave my mom alone, I’ve come up with a plan. For Christmas I bought my husband an electronic key finder because he’s notorious for losing his keys in the house. I’m tempted to take it and attach it to my mother’s cane the next time we go shopping.

Something’s Missing

by on Jan 08, 2012 (Comments Off on Something’s Missing) Comments

It’s two days after New Year’s and I am putting away my Christmas decorations for another year.  It’s kind of sad, no more nutcrackers holding up the antique cookbooks on the book shelf, no more golden glitter reindeer on the ledge above the TV set, no more LED lights twinkling along the garden fence.

I took down the ornaments on the tree and Mom and I carefully rolled up the gold ribbon we had used for garland this year so it would still be in good shape next year.  We took down the wreathes from the foyer doors and the swag over the entry foyer doorway.  I looked out on the porch and saw that Dave had already taken down the big golden bells from the front door and the outside porch lights.  I went out the front door with the intention of pulling the little Christmas trees out of the front planters.  Once out the door I realized that I was wholly ill-equipped for this job.  My back is doing much better these days and I have no intention of returning to bad back land trying to wrestle the bricks out from around the base of these little trees.  I turned around to go back into the house and it hit me.  Something was missing.

Dave and I had bought a beautiful old huge grapevine basket at a moving sale around the corner from our house.  We had admired the basket for years on our walks around the neighborhood.  It seemed odd that the owners would want to get rid of such a unique basket.   Once we started carrying the basket home it quickly became clear why the owners of the house were eager to sell the thing.  It was huge, dirty, unwieldy and weighed a ton.  Dave lugged it back home, anchored a bolt in the stucco of the house and there our treasure hung between our front door and porch light for the next 15 years.  One of the perks of having my mother-in-law, Jackie, the retired florist, move in with us is that all of my baskets are gorgeous.  When I put the Christmas arrangement in the grapevine basket, Mom worked her magic and made it amazing.  It was full of holiday colors and lots and lots of glittery things that twinkled in the breeze.

Sure enough, there between the front door and the porch light, there was nothing.  No basket, no bolt, nothing.  Needless to say, I was furious.  It’s bad enough that someone felt the need to alleviate me from possession of the strand of Christmas lights that ran across my white picket fence earlier in the season, but really, seriously, to walk right up on the front porch and pilfer a 4-foot tall grapevine basket full of glitter, what kind of nut does that?  I know that living on Main Street means that from time to time someone will take possession of some of your stuff.  Usually though, this is stuff that has some kind of street value.  You know… bicycles, lawn mowers, weed eaters and blowers.  I had no idea that a 4-foot tall decaying grapevine basket with a stunning glitter filled floral arrangement held any street value at all.

My poor basket had become so fragile over the years that every time you touched it, it rained down dried out dirty hunks of grapevine.   I can just see some poor fool sneaking up on my porch in the dead of night and pulling the basket off the wall.  Surely a trail of petrified grapevine stems and wispy glitter wands followed our little thief as he made his way back to wherever it is that nocturnal-basket-stealing fools come from.  He may never get all that glitter out of his hair.  The hateful side of me just wishes he would have stolen it a couple of summers ago when it had a gigantic hornets nest inside it.

Jack’s glasses

by on Jan 05, 2012 (10) Comments

My son got his first pair of eyeglasses yesterday. On the way to pick them up, Jack grilled me on all things glasses. Having worn glasses since I was child I am considered the family expert when it comes to poor vision. So Jack asked me whether he will be considered a nerd and whether I was called a nerd as a child because I wore glasses. That’s when Gracie contributed to the conversation by announcing that they didn’t have nerds back in the old days.

Once at the doctor’s office, Jack was fitted with the glasses and all seemed to be going smoothly. I was thrilled that he thought he looked “cool” and he had a very positive attitude about the whole thing. After having gone through a not-so-fun eyeglass experience with my daughter, I was relieved that Jack was handling this very maturely.

As we walked out of the office and headed toward the car, Jack stopped in the middle of the parking lot and looked at me with a huge smile. “Mommy, I love my glasses. I can really see better now,” He said. “You look so much bigger!” Gee, thanks.

Jack made it through his first day of school with his new eyeglasses. For a seven-year-old boy, I think that’s saying something. I wasn’t sure whether I’d see those glasses still neatly perched on his nose at 3pm, but when I picked him up at school he came walking out with his shiny new glasses sitting perfectly in place. He did, however, manage to lose the case.