Category: Motorcycles, Monkeys, Mischief, and My Life

Once upon a time my human son brought home a “puppy”. We named him Bruce. At eight weeks of age, Bruce was approximately eighteen inches long… or so…and had feet the size of my fist. We later learned that his heritage was half golden lab and half St. Bernard. Bruce grew up to be a big boy!!

Despite the fact that Bruce wanted desperately to be a lap dog, he never fit on anyone’s lap, try as he might. And it became readily apparently that he was not destined to be a house dog. He simply didn’t really fit. There were areas of the house in which he had to back up because he was too large to turn around. So Bruce had a doghouse in the yard on top of which he liked to sleep. When we began to feel guilty about having him live outdoors through the chill of midwest winter, we learned that he could not tolerate being indoors. When we had a record 29 degrees below zero, we tried to bring him in. He began to cough due to the heat and proceeded to whine by the door to get back outside. Bruce, we learned, was virtually weatherproof. He had inherited the best of both worlds — the thick St. Bernard let’s-go-rescue-folks-in-the-Alps fur which ensured that he was snowproof, and the thick wiry labrador coat which rendered him quite waterproof. In addition, his skin was so thick that he never, ever had a flea bite. Ever! In the spring, we had to rake bushels of fluff out of the yard when Bruce would shed his winter coat. Because of his girth and strength, he was on a heavy chain on a runner attached to trees. For sport, Bruce enjoyed chasing the cats. And the cats knew exactly how much “give” was in the chain, so they would taunt him by running along a path just about an inch further than he could reach. At one point we had kittens that were young and naive and could not measure the reach of the chain. Bruce surprised himself by getting a mouthful of kitten. Immediately, “Pfftt!!” — he spit it out. “Ugh! Furball!” (The kittens figured it out.)

After one of the major snowstorms, I looked out the door to see his chain lying across the snow. No Bruce visible. Oh, no!! “Bruce!” I called desperately, hoping he had not gotten too far away. “Bruce!” And the snow rumbled a bit, and a large head (the neighborhood kids called him “Cujo”, by the way) popped up and shook off the snow. Bruce eyed me with an annoyed “duh!” blink. I had obviously disrupted his nap.

Another little adventure occurred when a friend had given me a ride to an all-day speech tournament as we both were scheduled to judge but I had a car problem. On the way home, about half a mile from the house, we spotted a large mass of fur with mud up to its leg-pits. It looked suspiciously like…yep!…Bruce. He had broken loose and was cavorting in the canal. Well, we couldn’t just let him run around and hope that he’d find his way home. So we pulled into a little parking lot. He came immediately when called (always a good boy, Bruce). But he was covered with gobs of filthy black mud. How to get him home? My friend was driving a little Chevette. She popped the hatchback, dug around a bit, and came up with a shower curtain which she spread out in the hatch. “C’mon, Bruce! In! Come on! Jump!” This was a dog who easily would jump onto the roof of a very large doghouse, but he eyed the back of the car as though we were expecting him to pole vault. Well, we weren’t going to pick him up. First of all, we were in our good clothes and he was slimy. But, more importantly, he was huge and heavy, so lifting him was not feasible. My friend dug around some more and produced some rope. (What my friend was doing with rope and a shower curtain in the back of her car I will never know and was afraid to ask!) So we tethered Bruce to the rope and got into the car with my window down so I could hold the rope to guide Bruce home. What a ride! We toddled along between first and second gear with Bruce trotting along beside the car…except for when he would detect a scent interesting enough to stop and sniff. Yikes!! Fortunately, my arm was able to remain in the socket, but….oh, it was a challenge. We did finally, amazingly, get him home. Whew!!

Bruce stood about three feet tall on all fours and close to six feet tall when he would stand on his hind feet with his paws on my husband’s shoulders, begging to take the man for a walk. Big Bruce!! We miss that guy!!

Special theatre memories pop up around this time of year. For several decades, the Women’s Board of our community theatre produced shows for children (with a bit of humor injected for the adults who bring the kids to the theatre). Most often these were stories based on good old standard fairy tales. As with all live theatre, the on-stage and backstage stories go on and on, providing years of fond memories and abundant laughs.

Theatre for kids involves larger than life characters and lots of action (chase scenes and the like). The magic is there for us all!!

A recent chat with a friend got me thinking of the types of things that made these shows so delightful. He recalled playing the hunter in “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”. During one performance, when his 4-year old nephew was in the audience, he walked out on stage and heard the small voice, “Hi, Uncle Dave!” He almost dropped his gun. For me, this kicked off another memory about that particular show. (I worked on the sound crew.) The young lady who played Goldilocks happened to be the daughter of a co-worker of mine, Kathy, an intake caseworker for child protective services. So….one day I called in a report (designated for Kathy) on a little girl who was breaking into houses, eating the food, and hanging out with wild animals. It brought a bit of humor to the intake department.

I was in charge of props for “The Wizard of Oz”. The stage manager and backstage crew had an exciting moment when the Wicked Witch of the West snagged her dress on a cauldron containing dry ice and inadvertently flung the smoking contents all over the stage. The next scene was supposed to be in the forest with no mist, so we props folks were scrambling to figure out how to get the substance cleaned up as there was no curtain in between scenes. The witch’s quick-thinking flying monkeys, already equipped with scrub brushes and buckets as well as gloved hands, deftly handled it by scrubbing the dry ice particles into the buckets and carrying it offstage on their exit. (Thank you, ringleader Julie!) All’s well that ends well! Whew! And the actors always greeted the children in the lobby after the performance, another aspect of the fun. My husband, who sported a full beard, played Captain Verdo, the green-bearded guard outside the Emerald City, so he spray-painted his beard green. Interesting how many kids are inclined to yank on a beard to prove it’s fake. (Owwwww…..!)

The first time I ended up with a speaking role on stage was in “Jack and the Beanstalk”. I was the head of the Christmas show committee so was assisting the director with auditions. As it turned out, we were short on auditioners as another theatre in the area was producing a large-cast show that year. I offered to be Bossy, the cow, if needed, and diligently began to practice mooing. The director subsequently cast me as a little old lady, Old Tyb (which, due to a typo, became old Tub in the program, something I never did live down). I found out that I wasn’t as shy since my costume disguised me well. And I learned that I could not seem to talk unless I was moving my right arm, so old Tyb (or Tub) appeared to have a bit of palsy. The giant in that production was indeed gigantic, tall and large with a wonderful booming voice. The chase scene called for the chased (Jack) to leap off the stage and run up the aisle followed by the giant. In one show, when the giant landed with a resounding “fee-fi-fo-fum” and a heavy thud next to the second row, the little boy on the aisle screamed and proceeded to wet his pants. Ah, the joys of live theatre!! (The giant toned it down a bit in subsequent performances less he frighten away the audience.)

Another kids’ show I was fortunate to be part of was “Cinderella”. I was one of the stepsisters, and the three of us wore huge bustles. Our backs were to the audience during the ball, and we would, together, sway to the music with impressively choreographed bustles. (We eventually became known as the Butt sisters. And proud of it!)

One of my favorite roles was Grovella in “The Tale of Snow White” (adapted for the theatre by Eileen Moushey). I was the evil queen’s handmaiden and chief groveller. The dwarves were named (as I recall) Dilly, Dally, Dodie, three more D-names, and Mel (who was 6 feet tall). When Grovella encountered one of them in the woods, her original line was “Ooh, are you a dwarf?” However, at auditions, she uttered a la (for those of you old enough to remember back in the 80s) the character Stephanie on “Newhart”, “Eeeewww, are you a dorf?!” Not politically correct, of course, but it stuck! Another one I will never live down.

And the last children’s show I did was “Wolf Tales” (also adapted by Eileen Moushey), a combination of Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Little Pigs. (Guess who was a pig!) Darla, Marge, and Tiffany — we all wore snouts and snorted frequently. Again, traits that will remain with me forever. It strikes me that this show was the one where the audience got to choose the happy ending (with an “applause-o-meter”). And…the Big Bad Wolf turned out merely to be misunderstood.

Holidays, that magic time! Children, those magic little people! Theatre, where magic is born!

Theatre folk, please feel free to add your memories!

Originally made by Ken Maely who made the steel “hot shoes” or skid shoes for motorcycle flat trackers, the sterling silver charms were replicas of those larger utilitarian pieces of equipment. Maely passed on a number of years ago, and others currently manufacture the shoes for the racers. Now the hot shoe necklace tradition has been picked up by former dirt-tracker now-jeweler Tom Duma.

Mine was a gift from my flat tracker son and my pit-crew husband long, long ago. People often commented on it, most thinking it was a ballet slipper. So I had the opportunity to explain the racing part of my life — which often was a surprise to the theatre people, the social service people, the speech and debate people, those who comprised other parts of my life.

I faithfully wore my hot shoe daily for about thirty years…until I lost it. The panic that ensued was second only to that of having lost my wedding ring a few years before. Treasured items! While I know that material goods only represent the real things in life (love, memories, etc.), it is still hard to part with something that has been with me daily through life’s trials and tribulations (my son breaking both ankles racing; horrendous storms, two giant oak trees falling on the house while I cowered in the basement) and the joys (grandsons, great grandson, happy occasions, triumphs, etc). I am sure my hot shoe contained particles from dirt tracks around the United States and Canada. Ah, so many memories!! So I did not part with it complacently. I retraced my steps, doggedly made phone calls, cried many tears, grieved….. And, lo and behold, after two weeks I received a phone call from a restaurant where I had eaten lunch that day. While cleaning, an employee had found it on the floor of the ladies’ room and put it into her pocket. She had then gone off on vacation, having forgotten it until she found it in said pocket and mentioned it to one of the waitresses (a recipient of the panicked phone calls). Hurrah!!! Found!!! Reunited!!!

The hot shoe necklace now lives in relative safety in my jewelry tray.

Incidentally, the story of the lost wedding band is quite similar. Retracing steps, frenzied phone calls, enlisting the help of maintenance staff, husband, and flashlights. To no avail. Until a week later, when the front desk at work called to say that what might have been my ring had been turned in by someone who saw it gleaming in the asphalt of the street after it had been run over and smashed flat by a school bus. The person was not even sure what it was but felt it might be important to someone. Me!!! A wonderful jeweler was able to restore it from a flat piece of metal to a lovely rounded ring with “Je t’aime toujours” still inscribed in script inside.

Special symbols….

Who likes snakes? Well, I guess some folks do. And some of us are just a bit….um….intimidated, shall we say?
Having grown up in an apartment building in a city neighborhood, snakes were not really part of my developmental experience. I knew I was supposed to fear them (and I did); and I believed they were slimy (not sure where that one came from).
Jump ahead to life as a parent in the ‘burbs. My human son, at age 5, wanted to go for a walk down the hill one afternoon. At the bottom of the hill was a grocery, a bank, a gas station, a deli, and some other businesses, including a pet store. We visited the deli, and my son had a whopping 17 cents in his pocket. He asked to visit “Bob’s Amazon Pets”, the pet store, on the way home. We had never been there, so we decided to give it a try. First off, we met a java macaque monkey named Tammy. She was tethered to a perch in the showroom of the pet store, and we quickly learned that Tammy was not so friendly. A bit of a surprise for my boy whose was raised with my first child, squirrel monkey Kong, and his second older primate brother Mo who was happily waiting for us to return home at the time. But we got past that and went around the corner to fall in love with the most beautiful cat I have ever seen, an ocelot. The ocelot was behind bars with a sign that read “$400” and another sign which read “Stay 4 feet back from cage”. The amount was cost-prohibitive, or I would have been very tempted. But the clincher was, when I asked why we had to stay back 4 feet, Bob replied, simply, “Because he’ll rip your arm off.” Okay, cancel the ocelot idea. (And there was the issue of how many pounds of raw steak it consumed daily, also out of our price range at that point in time when our family ate a lot of hot dogs.) We were left with 17 cents and no pet to purchase. Until Bob, generous man that he was, offered a $2.83 discount on a $3 ribbon snake. Snake!!! Yikes!!! So….we named the snake Bob (after Bob), brought him home, and set up a terrarium with a screen on the top. His residence was on top of my son’s book shelf in his room. A couple of days later, my then-husband and I were awakened by my son who urgently proclaimed, “My snake got out!” My husband levitated out of bed, dressed at warp speed, and shot out the door to go work on the house we were renovating down the road. Mom (lucky me) accompanied the kiddo to his room to find that, yes, indeed Bob had knocked the screen off the terrarium and escaped. Not too long after, my son tracked him down behind some books in the shelf and returned him to his home with a rock securing the screen. (I’m not sure how Mo would have reacted had he come into contact with Bob; but, as mentioned in previous blog posts, Mo managed to keep all the other household pets in fear of him, so….) Unfortunately, Bob was not with us for long because we could not get him to eat anything. Vegetation, bugs live and/or dead. No deal. And, because my son had made me pet Bob, I learned that he was actually dry rather than slimy and, overall, amazingly friendly.

Actually, a few years earlier, I had occasion to meet a boa that was owned by a fellow who sold us parts for my then-husband’s Harley chopper he was building. That guy, a friend of a friend, was part of an outlaw biker gang in town; and, while we didn’t hang out with him, we did visit back and forth occasionally, briefly, when parts were exchanged. I would cringe when he fed cute little mice to the snake. And later this guy gained a reputation for carrying the boa wrapped around himself inside his denim jacket, waiting for occasions when he would be frisked by the police. So I was rather glad that little Bob had been able to redeem snakedom in my eyes.

On down the line, when I worked with youth clients in a community mental health setting, I had one young man on my caseload that acquired a rock python and a boa constrictor. I recall one afternoon when I had to make a brief home visit to get some paperwork signed, I started to plop down on the couch when my client yelled, “Don’t sit there!” All I saw was a lumpy pillowcase. Which, he explained, had the python inside. Whew!

The biggest snake story (involving the biggest snake) occurred during my tenure as a child welfare worker. I had been working with a teenage mom who had a year-old child as there had been calls made to the agency about the child’s father who reportedly had some temper issues. Some incident occurred which prompted the agency to obtain a pickup order to remove the child and bring him under care. He had been living in the city, and the judge issued an order to convey. Then we were informed that the child was staying in an outlying area with a relative. So…off I went with my order to convey and an officer from the police department local to the area. We pulled into the driveway, got out, and were immediately greeted by a small woman who happened to have an 8-foot boa hanging from her neck, almost to the ground on either side. Yikes!! Large snake!! Do they bite? Mmmm…maybe just constrict? So she’d have to throw it and hope it would wrap around us to accomplish that. What really worried us at that time was a) that the order to convey was for the city, not the county, so the officer could not remove the child, and b) that the woman was yelling at the officer and me to get off her property or they would “blow our (expletive) heads off!” That one got our attention, so we obligingly left. Back to court. Order to convey for the county. Back to that address with five police cars and one unmarked city detective vehicle. (One of the officers had been frantically consulting a dictionary, due to absence of an encyclopedia, to see if boas could bite. He stood at the edge of the yard with his hand on his gun the entire time.) Apparently, neighbors had made reports to the police that there were two boas and that neighbors’ had a number of ducks and geese come up missing. Since the baby was smaller than a goose, we were all a bit worried. This time the woman greeted us and provided an address in the city where we could find the child. When we got there, he was surrendered to us with his little bags packed. (Incidentally, mom and dad were eventually able to accomplish what was needed to ensure the boy’s safe return home. I love it when things work out well!)

Soooo…snakes. Yeah….

Thinking of a friend who got a kick out of this story, I have decided to add it to the blog.
Have I mentioned big-screen bar trivia a time or two already? Pretty sure I have!
To remind you, several friends and I regularly play NTN Buzztime trivia and have been addicted to the games for – oh – twenty years or so. We started when I coached high school speech and the head speech coach, who also coached Academic Challenge, would take that team to the local pub (actually a Damon’s at the time) to practice their general knowledge trivia and their speed punching in an answer. When Damon’s closed, we had to seek alternate locations to play, and that could be quite a challenge.
For awhile the closest venue was a hole-in-the-wall neighborhood bar about ten miles away. The then-owner and full-time cook was a trivia afficionado (played under the screen name Zoom) and hosted the game at his establishment due to that love.
The games feature national contests and track high scores, so they are highly competitive. One pleasant Tuesday evening my friends and I were enjoying a night of trivia. Many of the bar’s patrons were out on the patio, but several folks sat at the indoor bar, and there was a table of ladies having a get-together near our trivia group. All of a sudden, the waitress came running into the bar proper yelling “Paul!” at the top of her lungs. The owner rushed out, and she directed him to the patio where there seemed to be some kind of bruhaha. Soon several patrons entered, escorting a tall young man who was bleeding rather profusely from the face and took him to the restroom to clean up. We looked out the front window and found other patrons detaining a short, stocky, red-faced, rather angry man outside. Paul and the waitress handled the situation; the police came and removed the offender from the premises; we played trivia.
After the melee had died down, the owner approached us with a quizzical look on his face. “I’m surprised to see you still here playing trivia,” he said. “The ladies at the other table cleared out as soon as it started.” I looked at him wide-eyed and replied, “We’re social workers. Was there a problem?” He shook his head and walked away.
Trivia is not a sport for the weak at heart!