Month: January 2020

Right brain/left brain — each, reportedly, has certain delegated functions, the right brain being the creative side and the left, more analytical. But the bottom line is that I have an unusual relationship with my left hand.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I started calling other people Fred — especially if they were in surrounding vehicles, swerving and the like. “Yo, Fred! Your lane is over there!” “Watch it, Fred! You’re gonna be buying a Subaru!” Somehow, when my first grandson was born, he became Fred (not his real name). He actually answered to “Fred” for the first five or six years of his life. “Fred, get down outta that tree!” “Yo, Fred! Time for supper!”

[A bit of a leap here…but my mind does not operate in linear fashion; it spirals and loops, so I am fast-forwarding to a seemingly-not-related-but-absolutely-related part of the story.] For awhile we had my human son and his wife living with us while they were building a house. There were three dogs in the home at the time — Coco and Rocky (female and male boxers) and Bruce (half St. Bernard/half golden lab). Bruce looked a lot like Dreyfus, the dog on an old Richard Mulligan sitcom “Empty Nest” with occasional cameos on “The Golden Girls”. There are Bruce stories to come in the future. However, looping back to the Phredd story, Coco was a bit brazen and managed to mingle with both Rocky and Bruce, hence producing a litter of five puppies — two boxers and three box-nards. We didn’t want to get too attached by giving them names, so I decided we’d call them all Fred as a group. If we summoned “Fred”, they’d all come running. It worked. But….eventually they became Big Big Fred, Little Big Fred, Big Little Fred, Little Little Fred, and Winnifred –individuals, after all.

So…fast-forward once again. My friends who coached the high school Academic Challenge team would take their students to a sports bar that featured NTN Trivia (now Buzztime) to practice a weekly Showdown game as it allowed them to answer questions on a variety of topics as well as to become proficient with speedy responses. Since I would hang out with this rowdy group, I became addicted to trivia. My screen name was based on my own name (not Fred). But…ultimately, when that sports bar closed their doors, we all scattered to other venues for trivia. The closest host for me was in another town as that’s where I was working. Being addicted, it didn’t matter whether anyone went with me or not, and at times I would be the lone trivia player at that location. Part of the joy is competing, not just with the online competitors, but with other patrons of the establishment…..so on quieter nights with nobody else playing, I began to use a second playbox — screen name Phredd. Phredd is my left hand. Phredd actually has his own log-in, avatar, and Players Plus status. Go Phredd!! The weird thing (okay, one of the weird things) is that Phredd seems to know more than I do. I am convinced that he travels via astral projection while I am sleeping and accumulates experiences and knowledge to which I was never exposed. It’s rather amazing, actually. A couple of the guys where we play now have objected to Phredd’s playing and feeling it is somehow unfair. In actuality, it puts me at a disadvantage because neither Phredd nor I always get the same answers right as we often answer differently (although I really should learn to trust Phredd as he seems to get out more). There is a Category round in which competitors vote between two topics, but Phredd often chooses the other topic, so we don’t really even band together to outvote anyone. Phredd is indeed his own person. And besides, I can’t really leave Phredd at home. And it would be impolite of me to play in front of him since he is now addicted, too. It is kind of freaky, though, to be bested at trivia by my own left hand.

Cause and effect!! Six degrees of separation!! Synchronicity!!
“If a bullfrog had a hip pocket, he could carry an automatic.”
“If my aunt had wheels, she’d be a tea cart.”
(Don’t you just love how connected things are?!)
As a child, I was terrified of motorcycles. My main exposure to them at the time consisted of photos of Marlon Brando in the movie “The Wild One” and (the scary part) the earth-shaking rumble of the group of Harleys that throttled their way through the streets of the small town where my aunt and uncle lived, late at night when I would be trying to go to sleep while visiting there. I wasn’t quite sure what “motorcycles” looked like, but I knew they must be some kind of monsters judging by the roaring noise and the jarring of the house.
In a strange sequence of events, that all changed in my life. We’ll start with the sheep.
Many members of my family were (and are) farmers. I, however, was a city kid raised in an apartment building. When I would visit relatives in the summer, the county fair was one of the big events each August. I was the youngest cousin so would always be the tagalong; hence, to be able to get to the fair where they had displays, yummy fair food, and rides, I would go with my older cousins. They, of course, had responsibilities at the fair — for example, showing sheep. My cousin Dave’s sheep were Corriedales, large scruffy, woolly creatures that were not the most aesthetically pleasing of the crowd. They are sheep bred for wool. Interestingly, Merinos, sort of the “greasers” of the wool sheep world, are even larger and oilier than Corriedales…but are reputed to have superior wool. Being a city kid, enamored with cute baby animals, sweet faces, and all things pretty, I gravitated toward several other breeds when hanging out in the sheep barn. Suffolks had black faces and feet and beautiful thick beige wool. It seemed to me that their owners would shear them and primp them for their beauty in the ring. (Not so, really, as I later came to find out they apparently make a good lamp chop.) Dave’s fiance showed sheep, but hers were adorable Shropshires. In more recent times, Shrops have been crossbred to be bigger, but in those good old days they were adorable little curly-headed beings with black faces and black feet, and I came to love petting them and spending time in the sheep barn. And, in the process of watching days of sheep shows, I came to learn more than the average city kid about various breeds of sheep…and enjoyed boasting that knowledge.
How do we get to my husband and motorcycle racing? Read on….
In college, my friends and I would spend time hanging out in the student union where we could get snacks between classes and catch up on events. One day I was chatting with a friend about sheep (who knows why, except that it had become a sort of area of expertise in my life) and I could not remember the breed of sheep that were shortish, white, and whose rams had the big curly horns. First of all, I was trying to show off said “expertise” and, secondly, I absolutely hate it when I can’t remember something I know that I should know (and it will even keep me up at night). So…I was fairly frustrated, and this was in days long ago when one could not pull out (and had, in fact, never heard of) a cell phone and google for information. Long distance charges were expensive, so calling my cousin was cost-prohibitive. So, I went home without being able to name the breed, but the next day when meeting my friend in the student union, a guy sitting next to us (we’ll call him Jerry), tapped me on the arm and asked me if I had been trying to remember Dorsets. Which I was! Apparently, he had been eavesdropping on our conversation the day before and took it upon himself to obtain the information. Of course, I was thrilled. We made friends and even went out a few times, and I later learned he had a friend who was in some of my classes that had wanted to get to know me. To shorten this saga slightly, I made friends with Jerry’s friend and eventually met another friend of that friend…whom I subsequently married. These guys enjoyed going to the motorcycle races, and I would go along. (Even took Kong once, but only once as he was not fond of the noise level.) Ultimately, the fellow I married decided to try racing motorcycles and eventually started our son racing as well. So…motorcycles, from race bikes to the chopper that was being constructed in my living room (hey, it’s a culture of its own, okay?), became a part of my life.
Well, the marriage ended a number of years later, but the racing went on since my son (the human one, of course, as the monkey ones were, at a pound of a half of body weight, never quite physically able to pursue that career) continued racing. My second husband, who I met through theatre, had an interest in auto racing but not bikes. He married into the racing culture and ultimately became a proficient pit crew member (could change a tire in record time and tear down a transmission at the track, among other things).   My son, when old enough, turned pro and raced the Grand National Dirt Track circuit for a number of years, then “retired” to build motors and mentor young racers.
So…if my cousin’s wife didn’t show Shropshire sheep, my husband never would have become involved in motorcycle racing…..
Of course!

During Mo’s ten or so years in our family, the escape-artist monkey child shared our home with a number of pets (dogs, cats, and — yes — hamsters).

Hamsters are, themselves, often proficient at escape, as we learned the hard way. The very first hamster for whom I ever assumed responsibility presented a challenge of impressive proportions. He actually belonged to kids I babysat, and I foolishly agreed to host him in my apartment when their family went on vacation. Of course, the very first night, the hamster got out….in my apartment building…creating immense fear of eviction should he turn up in another apartment (not to mention the fear of the kids’ heartbreak if he got lost on my watch). Well, I developed a very creative (and elaborate) plan to trap the little guy. Since I did not know which room he was in, I placed a small supply of hamster food in each room of the apartment, including closets. So that I could trail him to his hiding place, I sprinkled flour around each food offering. Then, to isolate him in whichever room he was hunkered down, I closed off all the doors by stuffing throw rugs under them. “Aha!” I thought. “No escape for you, little buddy.”

“Ha!” I am sure the hamster was thinking as he set out to foil my plans. The next morning I found that a) all the food was missing from every room, b) flour is not an effective hamster tracking material and makes a mess when it is dragged ALL over the floor, and c) hamsters are proficient at getting under doors by means of flattening out, devouring throw rugs, etc. Hence, no hamster! (Sigh…..) The kids were coming home that day, so I had to ‘fess up that the hamster was still at large. Their mom let them stay over, and the kids devised a very simple trap…a paper grocery bag beside the bed with a handful of hamster food inside. So, while sitting on the bed playing crazy 8s, we heard a rustle, and SUCCESS!! Got him! Whew! (Thank goodness for the simple resourcefulness of children.)

Years later when my son (the human one) was about 8 or 9, we had a series of hamsters. Unfortunately, they tended to escape their habitrail with regularity. And, also unfortunately, our little hound dog, Chickie Poo, had an affection for other animals in the house and wanted to carry them around whenever possible. (He actually did this with turtles as well as hamsters.) My poor son would hop out of bed in the morning and yell (sobbing), “Mom! He did it again!” because he had stepped on a soggy hamster on the throw rug beside his bed where Chickie would deposit it after inadvertently slobbering it to death.

A few of the hamsters were quite characters. One of them, all black, was named Spot, not because he had a spot but because he was a spot. And, amazingly, he learned to respond when his name was called. “Here, Spot!” and his little head would pop up from under the wood shavings in his habitrail. Well, of course, Spot (being a hamster), got out one day. He somehow avoided Chickie and did not meet the fate of accidental drowning. My son kept saying he thought Spot had fallen down the furnace register because he heard scratching. So…down on his belly with a flashlight, he removed the grate, aimed the light down the duct, and called, “Here, Spot!” Scritch scritch scritch — here came Spot clawing up the duct in the basement to get to the juncture that went straight up to us on the second floor!! Wow! Found him! But….how to get him out? Even Spot could not shinny up a slick metal tube. Our hamster rescue innovation involved taking an individual-portion cereal box, putting food inside, tying two jump ropes together, tying one end around the box, and lowering it down the duct. Spot would climb in, and we would oh-so-carefully pull the box up the duct. Each time the box got to about the first floor level, Spot would shift his weight and tumble out and back to the bottom. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, we went to the basement and dismantled that arm of the furnace to get him out. Thank goodness it was not the time of year that the furnace came on!

Pyramus and Thisbe, a pair of hamsters, were perhaps the most odd of the bunch. Indeed they seemed to be star-crossed lovers much like their namesakes. They had a beautiful habitrail network, but Thisbe, the female, apparently suffered from agoraphobia and would not leave the room that held the water bottle even for food. Pyramus, the male, catered to her every need and would tote the food to her. Apparently Pyramus himself had obsessive-compulsive disorder and methodically built an unusual wall-covering in Thisbe’s room. It was a lovely mosaic…..a row of corn, a row of seeds, a row of hamster poop; a row of corn, a row of seeds, a row of hamster poop…. What can I say? Three of my four children were monkeys. Why would my pets be normal?