The Thelmian Chronicles

Deep. Deep in the recesses linger memories that were.

And are.

Deep. Deep in the recesses nestles hope for dreams.

For things to come.

Deep. Deep in the recesses I am.

Still.

Filibuster [noun, Thelmese] a bronc buster for female horses

Okay…at age five, I wanted to be Hopalong Cassidy when I grew up. Santa even brought me the Hoppy outfit — black shirt and pants, black hat, and a six-shooter! Truly a goal worthy of pursuit, right?! Alas, fickle me! By age eight, I had already abandoned that dream and went on to aspire to be Roy Rogers (no Dale Evans skirt stuff for me).

Somewhere over the next few years, I lost track of those lofty dreams. I wanted to be a teacher, an artist, a nothing-in-particular…but never a nurse like my mom. Looking in her medical books at a drawing of a cross-section of a human being would send me screaming in horror. And blood — nope! Wasn’t going near that stuff!

Somehow as I neared adolescence, I decided that I wanted to be Brigitte Bardot. Sadly, that did not happen. (I still want to be Brigitte Bardot, but hey! That ship went the way of the Titanic long ago.)

In high school, I had a brief infatuation with Lawrence of Arabia and especially with camels. I wanted a camel to ride. Seriously. (It replaced another brief dream of riding a tractor in the city.) I even learned to make a camel face and to vocalize like a camel. (I drew the line at spitting.) The camel impersonations went on for quite a few years, mostly as a source of entertainment for my kiddo and his friends. Note: my husband has never seen this portrayal, much as he might have wheedled. Part of the dream came true many years later when I got to ride a Bactrian camel, Wookie, three different times at the zoo. Let me assure you….camels do not do their job happily or willingly. Wookie had a cute (hah!) way of stepping away from the platform just as I would put my leg over his back. So…one foot between Wookie’s humps, one foot hopping on the platform, the rest of me straddling the air in between. Fun, huh?! And Wookie managed to sway his body from side to side while being ridden, gaining momentum, with the rather obvious hope of pitching me off. I guess that’s what happens when a camel that usually totes children has to tolerate an adult. A, shall we say, less than tiny adult. Okay, a fairly heavy adult. Even if camels are pack animals designed to carry heavy loads, it doesn’t mean they want to. (Actually, Uncle Neal, whose family had fostered me while my mom was hospitalized, had been a missionary in Egypt for forty years, and he had warned me that camels were unpleasant creatures. He also said that doctors in Egypt treated more cases of camel bites than any other ailment. So I should have known….)

In between wanting my own camel and becoming all the people I have been during my adult years (student, mom, advertising worker, poet, quasi-hippie, motorcycle mama, pit mom, social worker, school psychologist, supervisor, theatre person, speech/debate judge and coach, instructor, writer, grandma, GGma, and who knows what all else), I spent a bit of time wanting to be Holly Golightly. There was an air of sophistication involved with that one that I never really achieved, but it was fun dreaming. (Actually, there was a brief beatnik period in there, too.)

I often think I’ve led a rather quiet, boring life. But maybe not…..

You allegedly only live once, so why not concurrently live as many lives as possible during that once?

Energy is life. Every substance in the world (and probably the universe) has a unique energy of its own. Animal, vegetable, or mineral — all consist of interchangeable, interdependent elements. Animals get their nourishment from other animals, plants, and the earth (minerals). Plants get their nourishment from animals, other plants, and the earth. As the life cycle goes on, the earth replenishes itself through life forms that die and provide the substance for new life to form and sprout.
While we human animals understand our human capacity for emotions, we also are beginning to realize that other animals have similar capacity. But what about plants and rocks? How can we assume that they do not have feelings? People talk to plants to encourage them to thrive….and it seems to work. And stromatolite, (of which I have a rock on my nightstand) is reportedly the first life form on our planet (found in coral reefs off the coast of Australia).
So…as we worry about being, say, vegetarian, how can be sure that the crunch we hear when biting into a celery stick is not actually a scream?

As a child, I was a shy youngster and often relied upon my mom to speak for me, extending friendship invitations and the like. And, except for being an only child/spoiled brat, I was generally a mild-mannered compliant goody-two-shoes.

Somewhere along the line that changed. I’m not sure when, but I have memories of things uttered by the new (and not necessarily improved) me. Read along for a brief history of random things I might have said.

While I am aware that I had gradually developed a penchant for flippancy, the first specific memory I can conjure up at the moment involves being a young college student back in the hippie days, my reticent self, at a predominantly male gathering wherein the guys were bent on embarrassing me. Soooo…when one brashly asked, “Do you believe in free love?” I responded, “Not as long as other people get paid.” Met by silence. Felt kinda good. The birth of smart-aleckism!

As young adult, phoning the garage to find out about the status of my car’s brake repair job, the young man on the phone told me, “Bob hasn’t been able to find shoes for it.” So I blithely responded, “Can’t he even find socks?” Again, silence. Hehehe……

Years ago (many), before our antique house had a full basement put under it, it was a partial basement with a dirt floor and a curb wall. Waterproofing telemarketers would call and ask, “Do you have trouble with water in your basement?”…to which I’d respond, “No. It comes in through the walls and goes out through the floor. No problem at all.” There would be silence, a stammered thank you, and the soft click of the phone hanging up. It was fun.

Going through a McDonald’s drive-through to let my friend pick up supper for her husband (since we had been out gallivanting all day….does anyone ever say “gallivanting” any more?), my friend told me to order “two big Mackies and a fishy-poo.” So I did. (Smile, chuckle.) Silence.

Again at McD’s drive-through, I noticed the following statement on the marquis, “If you can’t read this, please come to the window for help.” So I went to the window and told the young lady to let management know that, “If I can’t read this, how will I know to ask for help?” (Point taken.)

Yet another McD’s experience involved bacon egg and cheese biscuits which I’d order on the way to work. Apparently McD’s grill cooks had never heard of trichinosis (the nasty parasite from undercooked bacon) and continued to produce bacon that could be used for a slingshot. No matter what the request — crispy, extra crispy, burnt, well-done, ad infinitum — the result was the same. Twaaaangg!! So one morning I finally, in exasperation, asked the person taking the order, “Can you please have them make sure the pig squeals at least once on its way across the griddle?”.

And…(.a classic)…..Years ago at the bike races, a burly spectator sported a t-shirt with the message “If you aren’t a Harley rider, you ain’t sh–.” Being both a motorcycle fanatic and a grammar grinch, I was conflicted, yet intensely tempted to point out that, grammatically, that meant “if you do, you are”. Wisely, I resisted!

Recently seeing a production of Tennessee Williams’ “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” conjured up a long-ago memory for me. Once upon a time I had the privilege of being cast as Mae (Sister Woman) in the show at a small local theatre. The venue was a pole barn, and staging was theatre-in-the-rectangle — essentially seating on all four sides of the stage area.

The final dress rehearsal was the night before the show opened, and we had a preview audience of senior citizens from local facilities who came equipped with umbrellas due to the heavy rain that evening.

This was our first show with an audience. The director had had fun with my character and that of Maggie and had us at each other throughout the play. The crescendo of this relationship culminated in the third act when I (Mae) backed Maggie down on the bed shrieking “How can you have a child by a man that won’t sleep with you? How can you? How can you?” … at which point, in surround sound, came a deep growling from the entire group of senior citizens who I feared were about to descend upon me and throttle me with their bumpershoots. Wow! What a way to discover you have been effective!

Another little memory has to do with the no-neck monsters, Mae’s children. One of the little boys had a penchant for unruliness, so, as we waited to go onstage, I would softly whisper to him a threat to cut his “tail” (a hairstyle popular in the 80s). No more problem with that kid!

And, to make it a bit more of a family-friendly production, the director changed Big Daddy’s outburst of “_ _ _ _ the #@!! preacher!” to “Rut the #@!! preacher!” … But the night we had the sign language interpreter, the deaf audience saw the original word.

Ah, memories…..

Hiking on a sprained foot is contraindicated as it will not unsprain the foot.

If someone at a barbecue asks you to keep an eye on the chicken, they probably actually want you to intervene should that chicken, say, catch fire.

It is inadvisable to soak your favorite plastic drinking cup in Zud if you are likely to forget the Zud is in it before drinking out of it the next time.

When in heavy rain, it is possible to use a large plastic trash bag as a raincoat, but be advised that the water will run down the plastic and soak into the legs of your jeans.

Deep. Deep in the recesses linger memories that were.

And are.

Deep. Deep in the recesses nestles hope for dreams.

For things to come.

Deep. Deep in the recesses I am.

Still.

Once upon a time, long long ago, we acquired (somehow people would just give us their rejected critters) a little beagle pup with a stub tail (not sure how that happened) and a crooked nose. He came to us as “Chico”, but spent most of his years with us as “Chickie Poo”, later shortened to just plain “Chickie”. He was a stubborn little guy, and he loved to feign stupidity in an attempt to get away with doing his own thing. But we knew better. Chickie loved to curl up on the sofa (no-dog’s-land) for his naps. We would patiently pull him down off the sofa, each time met with a blank look of (fake) confusion (“huh? I didn’t know better”), replaced with obvious disgruntlement at having to go to the trouble of getting himself back up onto the couch to his napping spot. This little guy, who pretended to be ignorant, would inadvertently give himself away by displaying an occasional intelligent response to the English language. For example, at baseball games, he would follow my son out to home plate (as my son was catcher for his team). From the bleachers, I would call to him, “Chickie, get out of there. Come back here and sit down” and he would obediently make a u-turn, exit the ball field, and climb up to the top row of bleachers to sit with me. Soooo….selective stupidity.

Chickie’s best buddy was the boxer, Schultz, all white with a black ring around one eye (like the original Taryton smoker who would rather fight than switch, for any of you old enough to recall that ad; and/or like the dog belonging to the Little Rascals in the Our Gang films). Schultzie was dauntless. His swagger said it all! Schultzie’s favorite sport was pinning down other dogs and intimidating them and backing people up against their cars or houses, barking at their stomachs, ….just because he could. Interestingly, he never actually bit anyone. Okay, he sort of bit one kid, but he didn’t break the skin. My human son loved to zoom around on his bike, and, back in the day, he wore bell-bottom pants. Schultz’s part of the game was to chase him and grab the pantlegs in his teeth. While that worked well with my son, the result was a bit different when Schultz attempted to play the same game with the kid up the street who wore peg-leg pants. Schultzie got the leg instead of the pants, and the kid’s mom was threatening to sue for the doctor bill ($10 back in those days, but that was a lot!) until she came to our house to talk it over, sat in the kitchen and had Schultzie trying to climb into her lap to slurp her face in sloppy boxer love. (Schultz charmed his way off the hook for his mistake, and we later learned that the “bitten” kid’s skin was not even broken.)

But our boy Chickie was an instigator. HIS favorite sport was starting fights with other dogs in the neighborhood (preferably in their own yards), then stepping off to the side leaving Schultzie to defend his honor. (Note: all those years ago, in a quasi-rural neighborhood, leash laws were not so prevalent, and the local mutts would cavort about outdoors with a fair amount of freedom, often with the kiddos from their respective households. In addition to that, when we did strive to contain the critters indoors, we found that Chickie and Schultz were amazingly talented at finding ways to let themselves out to play. Life is a challenge, right?)

Chickie and Schultz were with us during the early years of Mo (third child, second monkey child). Due to Schultz’s delusions of invincibility, Mo had to train him not to steal the monkey chow. (See story More Mo, Mo Mojo, Mo-dini – The Thelmian Chronicles.) And, when a stray cat adopted us, Chickie and Schultz double-teamed him ( Schultz, PomPom, and How a Toy Gun Stopped the Violence…. – The Thelmian Chronicles).

Schultzie, to add to his set of challenges, suffered from colitis, which made life interesting and a little scary (reference the blog article It’s a Guy Thing…Caught in the Middle – The Thelmian Chronicles).

Chickie had a few of his own little quirks, too, as referenced in Hamster Dance…beyond Mo… – The Thelmian Chronicles. And poor Chickie Poo, who unfortunately liked to chase cars from the front, eventually met his maker that way overnight one night. (And his good pal Schultz tried to jump out the second story window when he heard the yelp…but we intercepted him.) At some point there will be a rather odd story about how it came to be that Chickie was buried in the outhouse, but it’s not time yet…..

In this world, everyone discriminates in some manner at some point in time. But we cannot make assumptions about why another person might do so. For example, I may choose not to walk on one side of the street because I see that the sidewalk has not been shoveled. You might choose not to walk on that side of the street because you know there is a large dog in one house that has a tendency to lunge at passersby. Someone else may choose to walk on that side of the street regardless of the suspected, known, or unknown consequences. As human beings, we have the ability to hold conversations about our choices, whatever they may be. With so many venues that present opportunities for one-sided expressions of opinion, people are losing sight of our humanity and our connectedness. There is so much that we share as humans that gets lost nowadays in the preoccupation with things we might not share (or sometimes with things we might actually share but not realize we are saying the same thing with different words). I would urge everyone to take a step away from being judgmental and to listen to your fellow human beings. Just listen, because whatever they are saying is probably important to them whether or not it is in sync with your specific way of thinking. I was raised with the “golden rule”; i.e. “do unto to others as you would have them do unto you”. It is golden because is a shining, valuable example of how to interact respectfully. When I was in junior high, kids would paraphrase that rule with things like “do unto others…and run!” In junior high, that seemed funny. In today’s world, not so much because it is all too real.