The Amazing Mr. FOX

I like amazing things. It gives life a little pulse; something unusual I’ve experienced or seen engraves a memory. Last Thursday was an amazing experience. Sure, I saw a cardiologist for the first time in my life but I actually have known Dr. Lightheart for years. So, that in itself wasn’t so stirring.

 When I came home from the doctors I stepped into the backyard to check on how wet the grass was so I could assess if I wanted to tackle mowing the jungle. I glanced over toward some movement along the south fence and saw an animal trotting toward the corner of the yard. I feared the rats were eating really well this spring and had a gargantuan growth spurt. I was pleased with myself that I remembered I had my phone which has a camera in my pocket. So I used my stealth moves and peeked around the corner and saw what I instantly identified as a Grey Fox.  I snapped a few photos then banged on the kitchen window to get Jan to come out.

Then followed an event just like Abbott and Costello movies where Costello sees Frankenstein and yells for Abbott. Costello tells Abbott about what he saw and takes him to where Frankenstein was. Naturally, Frankenstein is nowhere to be found and Abbott hits Costello with his hat for wasting his time. So, Jan comes out and I tell her that I think there’s a grey fox in our yard. She wants to know what makes me think it’s a grey fox. I tell her I know my foxes and this fox is grey so it’s not a red fox. So she peaks around the corner of the house and just like Abbott, sees nothing. She’s about to hit me with her hat when I pull out evidence I’m sure Costello wished he always had, my phone. I flip to the photo and show her. Jan thinks it’s a coyote.

So then she comes in and Goggles grey foxes, coyotes and… quilting borders. Jan gets distracted easily. I yell for her again because this foxyote is on the move. Well, barely moving actually.  When Jan had looked the first time it had hid behind my wood pile. Now it was moving into the open. She too was amazed.  I’d never seen a fox in the wild before.  We learned grey foxes are nocturnal and shy and if we see one around people during the daytime there’s probably something wrong with it.  We kept an eye on it for a while. It would take a few steps then plop down, rest for a while then stand again. It walked gingerly and when standing it would  tilt it’s head into the air and appear to have facial seizures. There were flies that circled the fox like miniature buzzards.

Our first thought was rabies and we called Animal control. I was told they don’t handle wild animals and was instructed to call Fish and Wildlife. The receptionist then followed by telling me Fish and Wildlife rarely answer so I was then given the number of the Sheriff’s Department. She was correct about the Fish and Wildlife department. Their voice message stated they were on unpaid furlough due to budget cuts. So I called the Sheriff. I was told someone would contact me shortly. Time, space and distance must have a different definition in the Sheriff’s department because after two hours we still hadn’t heard from anyone. We called again. A half hour later we received a call from a Medford Police officer who told Jan he was trying to get a hold of someone at the Fish and Wildlife department to find out what he should do about this fox. We wished him good luck with that.

He did mention though that he’s had several calls each evening for two weeks regarding a grey fox or raccoon in someone’s yard acting strangely. This is the season when these critters apparently come down with the distemper virus. It’s always fatal. In fact he’d never seen a live grey fox; they had always died before he arrived.

When he showed up we took him into the back yard. It was now getting dark but our flashlight illuminated this little fox curled up just a few feet away from us with his eyes closed. The officer said there wasn’t anything he could do until it died. He ruled out shooting it because it wasn’t attacking pets or people and just said call them back after its departed and someone would come out and pick up the carcass. Carcass is such a crude word, devoid of any life or humanity.

Jan and I went out back before we went to bed to check on Mr. Fox one last time. He was stretched out from head to tail, not breathing. The virus had completed its work. At least I felt better he died before the night turned cold.

I don’t know why the fox showed up in our backyard or how it even got in. One daughter suggested he thought our yard was more peaceful than others he’d stumbled into. Jan suggested since our yard is in a more natural state, maybe he felt at home. I hope he felt safe during his last hours.  I think we felt an attachment because we often commented on how Kiska, our white  American Eskimo, looked like a fox.  This little grey fox reminded us of her.  I appreciated the visit and another amazing thing to write about.

Give Your House a Name

I heard a brief story on the radio this morning on how naming your house will get you a higher price when it comes time to sell. Quoting an apparently snobby realtor the reporter finished by cautioning you should only name your house if it’s worth over 20 million. The realtor thought it would be pretentious to name your house if its worth was below that.

Over the years I’ve named plenty of houses, but none of them were my own. Growing up we knew most of our neighbors, at least their last names, so their homes were always referred to by the owners. The original owners could be long gone but we’d still refer to the house by using their name.  If we didn’t know the owners we called the house by a feature of the home or property. For example, there was a house a few blocks away that was known as the fountain house because there was a drinking fountain attached to an outside wall.  My sister Shauna and a friend found a home in San Leandro whose yard was paved over. No yard, no grass, just pavement. Guess what we called it? Totally original:  the cement house.

When we moved into our new home the kids named several of the houses in the neighborhood. There was Mustard Man’s house across the street, named for the color of his house, not by what he put on his ham sandwich. There was the angle house a few doors down due to the many corners and angles the homes design has. Some houses were named because of events like Dead Tony’s house. Tony was a single elderly man who was best known in the new neighborhood for watering his weeds. He died shortly after we moved in. A second man died in a house on a few doors down in the other direction. It became known as the other dead guy’s house.

Naming a house seems like a charming thing to do.  The last James Bond movie SkyFall was the name given the boyhood home of the famous spy.  In fact, there’s actually a website that will help you come up with your own house name. Here’s a link: http://www.housenameheritage.com/default.asp

The site provides names of houses in various languages along with some of their meanings. Somehow other languages seem to have one word, that when translated into English, is actually an entire phrase. Because of this many names of homes are in a foreign language, usually a very obscure language.  For example, the Zwengalii word “Coluellala” translated into English means  “the man in this house eats lots of pizza and likes to sing funny songs to his children during the night of the full moon.”  OK, I did just make that up but it sort of proves my point.

On this website some of the best house names were of Australian Aboriginal origin. There’s Alawoona: meaning a “Place of hot winds.” Most likely named for the hot air that comes from the owners. Bundala means “A Large Person.” If you lost some weight you might have to change the name. Culgoa: meaning “a river running through it.” Probably named for a plumbing disaster. There’s  Edibegebege referring to “Plenty of Fleas” a home I’m sure we’d all love to own.   Then for the house with lots of hungry kids there’s the name Maradana, meaning  “animals grazing.”

There’s also a Gaelic term, “Cairn” meaning” a mound of stones marking a gravesite.”  And there’s the Latin: Nessun Dorma meaning “none shall sleep” that was found on a home that was next to the train tracks.

Finally, here’s my personal favorite. In fact, I think I would name my house this if only I knew how to pronounce it. It’s Maori- Titirangi. The translation: “The Fringe of Heaven.”  A house name like that just makes you feel safe, secure and protected, a place that would be home.

Where Old Cars Go To Die

The make: Mercury- messenger of the Gods. The model: Sable- a large African antelope known for its swiftness, courage and long curved horns.

Or

The make: Mercury- a highly toxic metallic element. The model: Sable- a weasel like mammal found in Russia.

Take your pick on the definition Ford used to name this line of vehicles.

At times our 1991 Mercury Sable could act like it was on Godly errands, other times air inside could become toxic causing me to sneeze uncontrollably and it’s paint  shed like weasel fur in spring.

Regardless of the name, it’s now gone. Actually put down last November after a bout of smoke, fluid ruptures and general sluggishness, like in- not moving.

We reminisced a little as we stared at the hulking reddish chunk of metal parked on the street, lime colored fluid puddled beneath. I don’t know why we sometimes treat cars like they have life. Maybe we feel the vehicle is the body and we become the spirit element that makes it move. Or, since horses were our main form of transportation a hundred years ago we’ve genetically transferred our compassionate care and love to our cars.

We never officially christened it but I did call it a few names over the years. Now as I thought about how the car was about to be returned to its fundamental elements I felt guilty.
  

We remembered how excited we were to get this car, purchased from an older couple who kept it shiny in the garage. We packed two adults and 4 kids into it and crammed boxes, suit cases and shoes into the trunk on vacations to Utah, Las Vegas, Portland, the Bay area and Disneyland.  How we all fit I don’t know but everyone seemed to get along.  This car was steps ahead of our previous Dodge products where miles per gallon were replaced with parts lost per mile. The Sable was very comfortable and had a smooth ride. It was my first car with cruise control.  Over the years it hauled papers, kids back and forth to soccer practices, rehearsals, school, and church activities.  Our children learned how to drive behind the Sable’s wheel.

My most memorable moment was when our family was stranded overnight in Fallon Nevada after the water pump ruptured. It’s seen its share of hauls from tow trucks and mechanics probing and wrenches.  As the years passed the cloth covering the roof inside rotted and shred. It would hang from the ceiling like a curtain until we bolstered  it up with duct tape and pins. The once shiny Ming finish wore off and began to peel. Everyone around town recognized our leprous car.  People buy cars so they’ll get noticed. But new cars all look alike; it’s not until they begin to rust and dent that we can identify one car from another of the same model.  Character marks we’d call them. They were really age spots.

We watched out our front window as the tow truck hauled the Sable up the street one last time. As it turned left onto North Phoenix Road we waved remorsefully, sighed then turned away. The car was twenty years old with 180,000 miles.  It was going to the scrap heap, where old cars go to die.

A few hours later we hopped into our little Corolla for a shopping excursion. As we came to make our turn onto N. Phoenix we noticed something metallic in the middle of the street. Thinking it might be something that could damage tires Jan got out and retrieved it. She smiled as she held up the object. It was the front license plate that had fallen off the Sable.  The old car had left us one more memory. Either that or else it was leaving bits and pieces along the road Hansel and Gretel bread crumb style hoping we’d follow and rescue it from its impending demise.

We never had room in the garage to park the Sable in there. Now at least the license plate can stay warm and covered from the elements until we move, the house burns down or we die.

Smart Phones - the Intelligent Choice

I’ve shunned the “smart phone” rush for many years. I never saw much use in having a phone that can provide instant web access (for an added price of course), that can carry hundreds of favorite songs, can play games, read books from, and help keep me organized.  However, the time came to get a new phone.  Jordan referred to my phone as being from “Saved by the Bell,” meaning it was ancient. At least it wasn’t the size of a WWII walkie- talkie. The phone was compact and easily fit in my pocket. It was a hand me down from Kevin so I know at one time it had to have been the “coolest” phone around.

However, the battery wouldn’t keep charged and the speaker sounded like I was talking through tin cans wired with string.  Since newspaper revenues have declined we’ve been leaning more on digital revenues. To prove a point on the popularity of smart phones in a meeting the question was often asked to have those that own a “smart phone” to raise their hand. As time went by it was evident that I was the only one not raising my hand. I felt a sense of pride about that, the lone holdout.  It reminded me of other times I held out, like the last one to use a manual typewriter in the office, or to put down my stone chiseling tools and accept papyrus.

I also had privacy issues. I don’t have a Face book page because I’m very private. I don’t talk a lot about myself or give details about my life. In fact, I can be downright reclusive.  I don’t have a need to know what other people are doing or thinking either. I figure that’s just their own business.  One thing I have learned in all the training and seminars I’ve attended on the new digital technology is that you give up privacy when you go online, or use your cell phone, send a text or email. That’s all trackable, not private at all. 

But, I needed a phone. So when the new Iphone5 came out I figured there’d be a deal on last year’s Iphone 4S.  Jan and I took a trip to our local ATT store a few weeks ago and purchased the 4S for me. They were offering the Iphone 4 for only 99 cents so we got Jan one of those. I’m sure the clerk thought we were high tech novices so when she asked if we were familiar with how to operate these things I queried back about if it worked like my Ipad2.  Jan said I gained instant credibility with the clerk. It must have worked because the clerk then dived into all this jargon I had no idea what she was talking about.

So, now I carry this high tech piece of knowledge in my pocket, right were the old cell  phone used to be. And, there it  pretty much stays. I’m not much of a game player (Angry Birds is boringly repetitive), I have a few songs on there but I prefer quiet and contemplative moments, and I guess I’d rather look at multicolored prisms on my entry room wall than download videos of dancing humans or animals.  Additionally, I find the effort it takes to be organized is stressful.

I’m not saying I wasted money. The phone works great and I’ve even amazed a few of my kids with some tantalizingly clever text messages. I’m sure as time goes along I’ll discover other uses. At least now I can raise my hand when asked how many in the room have a smart phone. Now I just need a smart person to go with the phone.

An Unnatural Natural Wonder

I go through life looking for things, experiences, people who are a phenomenon. Did you know that the plural of phenomenon is phenomena? I would have thought it was the other way around. Actually, I don’t use the word much but if I wanted to pluralize the word I’d just add an “S” making it phenomenons. Now I’ve just been reminded of the old Muppet’s song, “Mahna Mahna”. I had to go to Google to figure out the spelling on the song. I didn’t know there were actual lyrics.

Whether there’s just one phenomenon or many the word is defined as something that is impressive, extraordinary, remarkable or exceptional, a wonder. There aren’t too many of those types of things that happen around here. I suppose if I actually fixed something around the house or if Jan worked in the yard would qualify.

However, we do have something that happens in our home twice a year. It’s a natural phenomenon. I guess this only occurs because the house is here so it’s a natural man made mahna mahna, I mean phenomenon.

It happens for only a few days before the spring and fall equinox and fades a few days after. Plus it only occurs on sunny mornings around 7:45. The rising sun is in the same place in the horizon at both those times. The sunlight beams through the glass in our porch light then reflects through the glass in our door creating a vibrant prism effect smudge of a rainbow on our entry wall. There are actually two smudges that appear about a foot apart. The smaller on the left is only about an inch high while the prism on the right is about four inches tall and three inches wide. Fiery reds on the left mix into orange and yellow then shades into green, and blues.

I consider it to be my very own Stonehenge equinox indicator. I don’t need calendars to tell me when spring and fall are. I just watch for the kiss of color on the wall.

I’ve hesitated sharing this with the world. I don’t want herds of hooded druids chanting on my front lawn twice a year. However, if they have a couple of bucks they’d like to donate I’d let people in before work to take a quick peek, sing a few notes of a chant, then move on. And by chant I mean they’d need to learn the lyrics to “Mahna mahna.” I also have a couple of blue Niagara ponchos, I mean, cloaks with hoods you can rent for cheap.

 

The Wonderful World of Shady Maple

It sounded like a retirement home. A place I could go to relax in loosely strung hammocks that swing with a summer-like listlessness beneath the cool shade of broad leafed trees. I’d told Jordan I wanted to relax a bit during our visit in Delaware.  I thought this kid knows how to make a Dad’s vacation memorable.  When the trip to Shady Maple came up the granddaughters exploded in exuberant joy.

I was confused. “Wait, this is a retirement place right?” Why are these girls so excited? I asked.

“Shady Maple is the best breakfast on the planet!” Hayley shouted.

“The best in the world!” added Tia.

Turns out Shady Maple is a smorgasbord.  According to the girls it was the game of Candy Land, Willy Wonka, and IHOP all genetically fused together in a jubilant mass of flour, sugar, and fat. And, as a bonus, it’s located in the absolute middle of nowhere in the rolling hills of patchwork farmland in Pennsylvania. 

“Mom lets us eat whatever we want, as much as we want!” Hayley exulted as she fell backward onto the couch rubbing her stomach with her hand.

“And, it’s free!” Tia again added.

Turns out it’s not free. According to her dad Tia’s  so excited to go in and load her plate with sausage and ice cream she’s never seen her Dad pay the entry fee.

We got up early and drove the ninety minutes to the feeding.  Shady Maple Smorgasbord is in the middle of Amish territory. The people who live simple lives; no electricity, use hooks and pins instead of zippers and drive one horse powered buggies down the middle of  narrow county roads.  Why would these simple folk be involved in such an enterprise? It dawned on me that out west Indian tribes are authorized to build casinos on their lands. The government must have a similar deal with the Amish to build smorgasbords on their ancestral reservations.

As we got closer it looked like the last scene from “Field of Dreams” - the part where there are miles of cars backed up waiting to see the middle of the corn field baseball park.  Approaching Shady Maple there were cars, trucks, buses, Amish buggies, red Radio Flyer wagons, all backed up, looking for parking. 

This Costco supersized restaurant has a lobby rivaling elegant upscale hotels. There are at least six cashiers with queued lines of hungry people, each talking about what food they’ll fill their plates with first and how many trips to the food tables they’ll make before they keel over in binged induced cramps.  

We all separated once we were ushered to one of the hundreds of tables. Jordan to the grill for some M&M pancakes, Hayley to the donuts, Tia and Grandma to the sausage patties, Christina to the fruit, me- I went for the multiple interpretations of hash browns and bacon.  It was a breakfast eater’s dream. I had pancakes, French toast, waffles, sausage, cinnamon rolls, cereal, and several glasses of juice. Yes, I did throw in a few strawberries. My stomach began to inflate to unnatural proportions.  Occasionally I’d hear calls for help from my co-eaters for wheelbarrows, moving dollies, forklifts or cranes as they attempted to rise from their chairs.

People around us were amused as we took pictures of us acting like we had eaten ourselves sick.

Yes, Shady Maple was a glorious experience. In “the Field of Dreams” a long departed baseball player who came to toss the ball around with Kevin Costner asked, “Is this heaven?”

As I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my glutinous belly with my hands I asked the same question. Looking around the restaurant I realized that if heaven were Shady Maple Smorgasbord it would be filled primarily with hugely overweight angels with steel reinforced wings.

I have fond memories of Shady Maple. I brought home some souvenirs too. They’re the 3 pounds I gained that one warm summer morning in Pennsylvania.