The Thelmian Chronicles

Today, the last Saturday in June, I am grieving the loss (hopefully only temporary) of a family dirt track racing tradition. Were it not for the disruption of the coronavirus, we would be on our way to the Grand National Championship motorcycle dirt track race in Lima, Ohio. During our years on the racing circuit (my son’s racing career and his adjunct career as a performance motor-builder, shop owner, mechanic, and sponsor), we almost always pitted near turns one and two, and once my duties of scrubbing leathers were done I would take my stop watches, notebook, pens, water bottle, sunblock, and an occasional book or puzzle book (for the track preparation downtime) and plop myself in my lawn chair by the fence. Even after the AMA started providing lap times via transponders and computer printouts, I did not know how to watch races without timing. It becomes a programmed reaction, and I am still learning to just watch and cheer. (Actually, once the transponders took over, it became a bit of a game to see how closely I and my hand-held watches would come to matching their times. Woohoo!! Nailed it within thousandths of a second! Simple pleasures!)
Mixed with the smells of lime dust, bike exhaust, and sunblock, Lima has always had a wonderful overlay aroma of roasting chicken, so that had to be supper during the open-pit break when the race fans can come in for a tour and autographs from racers who were not too busy prepping bikes for the events to come. (The open pit after the race ended was the best bet for autographs and memorabilia – posters and the like – as the riders’ major “work” would be done for the evening.)
Due to midwestern weather patterns, Lima frequently involved a traditional Lima severe thunderstorm that would send folks scrambling for cover and prolong the evening as the track prep folks had to redouble their efforts to be sure the races could go on. The year we had purchased our first canopy for the pits, one of those nasty storms rolled through. The winds were so strong they deflated the Camel Pro inflatable Joe Camel (the cigarette company sponsored races back in the 70s) and tried to take our new canopy to Oz. Our whole pit crew was hanging onto the metal frame (along with tethering to a ballast of wheels, tires, and toolboxes) to prevent our new investment from leaving.
And there was the year I managed to catch my foot on the van doorstep and land on my twisted other foot, snapping the tendon in my ankle. Yay!! More fun and challenges for the day. Getting from our pit to the track to take times and watch the races was pretty much impossible since I was unable to put any weight on my foot. Luckily, for the short run, the ambulance folks provided ice packs, and the Camel Pro representatives loaned us their golf cart to transport me. First stop was the restroom under the grandstand. But, of course, we could not take the golf cart under the grandstand to get to the door that was open to the public. So the track folks opened a locked door directly from the pit area just so I could get closer. Still, I had to hop…and I am not coordinated at all! To my rescue came a nice, tall Harley gal who scooped me up with an arm around my waist and hopped me through to a restroom stall, commanding that folks in the long line yield right-of-way for me. Then she waited till I came out (bless her!) and hopped me back to the waiting golf cart…which wouldn’t start. The battery had died. Not to be daunted, my husband found a fellow with a wheel chair which we borrowed to get me up the hill to my lawn chair by the fence. Whew!! (Thanks to Mr. Rayburn!) The next challenge was protecting my foot when practice began. My bum foot was propped on a second lawn chair, and we had to design a barrier with a race program brochure to fend off the spray of pea gravel roosting off the tires as the racers would throw the bikes sideways close to the fence. Lima is a half-mile oval “cushion track” wherein the loose limestone is thrown to the outside during the course of racing, creating a soft deep “cushion” on the high line. (For those of you who are newbies to dirt track racing, the term “roost” is derived from “rooster tail”, the visual effect of the dirt spray behind the bikes as they get into the heavy dirt. So…as the riders would test that high line, my poor foot was being pelted with a barrage of pea gravel. Seems Davy Camlin (a great racer, unfortunately no longer with us) was the guy that year who had me jerking (owwwww…) each time he’d spray my poor beleaguered sole.

One year my son fell down at the far end of the track (turns 3 and 4). I had been sitting on top of the race van with binoculars and, despite a speedy slide down the windshield, I could not move fast enough to get to the far end of the track to see what was what. The report from my husband when he returned to the pit was that my son just had the wind knocked out of him but was otherwise okay. I guess his first words, when he saw the huge scissors wielded by the paramedics and aimed at the front of his leathers, were a breathy “Don’t cut!!!” (Racing leathers don’t come cheap, and we were not wealthy folks. We even had a sticker for the van window that boasted, “We race motorcycles, and we’re broke to prove it.”)

Ahhh, the dirt track days. I am missing Lima right now (and it’s probably gonna storm today….)

Kids nowadays seem to gravitate to electronics. Maybe Edith Anne, my youngest, would have enjoyed video games…if her dainty little squirrel monkey fingers could have exerted enough pressure to click on the screen. (Don’t get me wrong. If Edie wanted something badly enough, those little fingers could hold on with a vengeance! But game screens? Not so much.)

My first child Kong entertained himself by climbing up and down his leash…usually to tease other critters. He’d jump from my shoulder to my arm, then climb down the leash to see what mischief he could reach. (For example, I recall that my friend Nancy had a little cross-eyed kitten, so Kong would shinny down the leash, taunt the kitten, and scramble back up when the kitten would make a lunge at him.)

My human child liked anything involving a ball or wheels…plus the occasional board game. An outdoor type of kid, he enjoyed climbing the tall oaks in our yard. The lowest branches were two stories up, so he’d build little makeshift ladders with wood slats nailed to the trunks. I’d go out the front door to call him and hear a voice from above. There he’d be, high above, on the bottom branch. So…in my social worker self (with a warped sense of humor) would yell up to him, “If you really want your leg broken, I’ll break it for you to save you the trouble of falling out of that tree!” (Needless to say, I didn’t say such things in the course of my employment.) Later on, this was the kid who raced motorcyles, eventually going pro on the Grand National Dirt Track circuit.

Kid number 3, Mo (another furry one) was never really into fun and games. He was older when he came to us and was rather like a lifelong brooding teenager. He did put considerable effort into his Houdini act (escaping from just about anything from his belt to his cage), and he did get a kick out of pestering and intimidating the pets in the house (Schultzie, Chickie, and Gimpy. PomPom could not be pestered or intimidated.)

Edith’s version of fun involved physical activity. In her early years, she really got into a good game of “romp’n’chomp”. She would get into someone’s hand, hold on with all fours, and let us bounce her around on the bed while she scolded and pretended to bite us. (REALLY glad about the pretend biting. I think I’ve mentioned the straight-pin-like teeth.) Great entertainment for a monkey child. “Tree” was another favorite (maybe she was more like her brother than I thought). Since she was not allowed to climb the massive oaks, she would bounce around in lower bushes (often in a quest for an edible snack critter). When indoors, “tree” was us. We would hold our arms up, and she’d jump from arm to arm, swinging her way along to the treetop (arms extended straight up) where she’d bask in being higher than anyone around. Then, arms lowering, back down the “tree” only to start all over again as the arms would get higher. Leap, leap, gloat, repeat! Fun and games for the younger years. As she got older and more settled, her duties as a monkey mom to her jingle bell babies, consumed more and more of her time. Romp’n’chop fell by the wayside, but tree was forever!

I really, really miss Edith Anne! It was a great 28 years with her!

Because Kong (the first squirrel monkey) was an only child for awhile before my human son was born, he got a little lonely at times. (Although he did usually accompany me to the university for class and work, went along on most outings, and was quite a popular little guy.) At one point, I found a very lightweight baby rattle, a little yellow bunny rattle designed for easy lifting by infants. The weight factor was important as Kong himself was only a pound and a half. Kong was instantly enamored of the bunny, and they became fast friends. The bunny had to come along with Kong on outings. They had ongoing conversations with Kong chirping and the bunny clicking his response. It was a close and comforting relationship.
So, when Mo came along, we provided him with a similar rattle friend. Nope! Not a match! Ignored, tossed aside (poor bunny!) Mo preferred to spend his time interacting with the household menagerie of pets. One favorite sport was to hide in an armchair and wait for one of the dogs (Chickie or Schultz) to happen by, then pounce and startle. He like to thump the side of his cage to intimidate Gimpy, the otherwise dauntless cat, who would dive for cover behind a chair. Climbing drapes and jumping from curtain rod to curtain rod provide even more good entertainment. Mo was creative like that.
The middle child (the human) would share his toys with Kong early on, but he later came to be attracted to things that involved bouncing, wheels, and/or motors. (Hence, his eventual career as a motorcycle racer).
Years later, little sister Edith Anne was a different story. She loved hanging out with her human family (and did not seem to realize she was a tad furrier than the rest of us). When we gave her cute cuddly toys with faces, she drowned them in her water dish (which did concern us just a bit). We could not find the same little infant rattles that had befriended her older sibs (we think they were removed from the market because the lightweight plastic was fragile and provided a potential choking hazard if they broke). So we tried providing a variety of other types of rattles. All seemed to be heavier and unwieldy…or had faces and got drowned. Squeaky toys were more readily accepted. One strange little yellow squeaky duck seemed to be a particular favorite as Edie would drown him but then pull him back out and dry him off on her pink blankie. Eventually, though, the duck became a bit grungy and was cast aside. Yucky ducky!
Then came the jingle bell babies. Somehow Edith Anne came into possession of a little silver jingle bell, and it was love! It fit perfectly in her hand, was lightweight, and chirped back at mommy monkey with its tinkling little voice. So for most of her 28 years, Edie had at least one or two “bell babies” with her at all times. Because she had two hands, she could generally manage up to two babies at any moment. Three became a bit stressful, and more than that created a very frazzled little mommy monkey. She would have to tote them between her arm and her body and put them down and transport them one at a time if leaping from her room (aka cage) to the bed. While she was a loving mother to her bell babies, she just wasn’t cut out to provide bell baby day care. And we learned very quickly not to create the appearance of threatening a bell baby. (That straightpin-teeth issue again!) If Edie dropped a jingle bell and could reach it herself, it was safest to allow her to do so. (Auntie K, when watching her during one of our racing excursions, found this out the hard way as she tried to pick up a bell and was rather viciously nailed in the hand — much like my friend the Brussels sprout when Kong bit her because his human brother had pulled his tail. Reference earlier blog entries.) If we had to rescue a runaway bell, we had to act quickly and immediately toss it to her (she was a great catch!) Once she had retrieved the bell baby, she was assured of its safety and would be content to cuddle it and talk to it with no need for nipping. Fortunately, she generally left her bell babies lined up on her pink blankie when she came to bed with us at night. I hate to think what would have happened should a bell baby cry out (jingle) in the middle of the night and awaken Edith from a sound sleep. Ouch ouch ouch!!

If 20 years is the projected outset of a good, healthy squirrel monkey lifespan, then it would seem that monkey years translate to human years in roughly a 1:4 ratio. So monkey menopause probably should probably occur at around age 12. And, for Edith Anne, it did. What a little grump!! For a couple of years there, we (none of us) could do anything right! The smallest unintended infraction could and often would elicit at the very least a snit…involving that prickly little I-might-bite-you warning sound…and at most a major meltdown involving teeth. As mentioned in a previous blog, squirrel monkeys have rows of straight-pin-like teeth with four rather nasty canines. Also as mentioned before, Edith slept in bed with us. Suffice it to say that rolling over during the night was, for that couple of years, a risky business. My husband and I were sound sleepers, but the first suggestion of that irritated little voice could send us vaulting from the bed in midair! Usually we were able to clear the imminent danger. But, occasonally….well, you know the rather fleshy area just behind your armpit? Yeah! Once the shrieking quieted down and the lovey chirping began, we could carefully and gently climb back in and settle down to sleep.
Oh, the joys of sleeping with a monkey child!

Because squirrel monkeys need protein and enjoy live food, mealworms tend to be a staple in their diet. For Edith Anne, we called the mealworms the “escapables”, although she gobbled them up in a two-fisted frenzy, so escaping was not really an option for them. In order to cut expenses, we decided at one point to breed mealworms and invested in several plastic critter keepers and a box of bran. Refrigerating mealworms keeps them dormant, so we had to store tubs we had purchased in the fridge. However, mealworms placed in bran tend to find one another, propogate, and eat and poop their way through a myriad of generations. (Interestingly, my oldest grandson used to take some of the creatures out and trap them in structures built with Jenga blocks which he referred to as “Mealworm Alcatraz”. Where do they come up with this stuff?) Back to the reproductive process. A mystery, we learned, was how to grow the newborns to the size of the “giant rainbow mealworms” we purchased in the little tubs. Somehow, the offspring of large mealworms are tiny — and never seem to grow bigger. They do, however, shed their shells and emerge a tiny bit larger. And this cycle repeats itself ad infinitum…never really producing the original-sized mealworm even after several years’ worth of generations. (Sigh….) So we ended up with five critter keepers and gazillions of mealworms in a variety of sizes. Edith Anne preferred the giant rainbow full-grown variety. Eventually the tiny you’d-think-we-could-grow-these-but-can’t variety found employment as plant fertilizer in the yard. And I’m pretty sure we still have respiratory issues from the bran dust. Caution: Don’t try this at home!!

My fourth child (my third monkey child), Edith Anne, was just a little bit spoiled. When she was quite young, we lived in an old house that did not have a full basement (only a dirt floor with a curb wall), so we had to excavate a basement while living in the house. This hefty project involved disrupting the gas line to the house; and, because it was October in the midwest, this meant that we needed to find way to stay warm. Being a pound and a half squirrel monkey, Edie tended to get cold easily. We used a heat lamp inside a tin canister to provide heat for her room (a 4x3x2 cage that was inside our bedroom). Early into the basement excavation, we realized that the light was going to keep us awake all night, and we couldn’t risk using the kerosene heaters while everyone was sleeping. So, being caring parents, we decided that Edith should sleep in bed with us to snuggle and stay warm while the construction was going on. And the construction took awhile. Quite awhile. Long enough for Edie to become very attached to sleeping with us. You know how hard it is to get a little kid to go back to bed and/or stay in bed once they start crawling in with mom and dad? Well, there you go!

Our little bedmate had some preferred places to sleep. Her very favorite was daddy’s armpit (possibly because it was furry), although I could never quite relate to that choice. Phew!! With me, her favorite spot was on my pillow plastered against my face…and, whenever she could get away with it, holding my nose shut with her little furry fingers. To ensure my breathing, I had to devise a hand position which allowed her to cuddle into my outturned palm. Edith Anne eventually appointed herself the bedtime monitor and would take attendance. If daddy had to be up late working, Edie would go to bed with mommy; however, at the hour Edie deemed the appropriate bedtime, she would wake up and begin to pace the bed, running up and down on top of the covers and calling out for her dad. Everyone had to be accounted for at her designated bedtime. But she trained us to behave for the most part and things generally went smoothly. Edie did occasionally have her jealous moments wherein she would wedge herself between us and push our faces apart if she thought we were getting a bit too chummy. (More to come about Edith’s bedtime adventures.)

When we first had Edith, we always joked that she took after her father who was tall and thin and furry. (He sported longish hair and a full beard, and Edie loved to snuggle into his neck and surround herself with fur.) Eventually (a few years later), my husband decided to cut his hair and shave. Uh oh!!! The first time Edith laid eyes on her dad, she went ballistic! Shriek shriek shriek!!! Boom bang boom on the side of the cage!!! Teeth bared and ready!!! He had to walk past her room (cage) to get to his side of the bed, and she was hell-bent on grabbing and biting him. The message was crystal clear — “You’re not my dad! My dad has fur!”

Dilemma! What to do?? Fortunately, it was during a warmer time of year so Edith Anne could spend the night in her room. But she strongly objected and would pace and thump around in her room and fuss and scold. So sleeping was a bit difficult. And yet, she was not about to come out of her room and have anything to do with that non-furry stranger of a man. Nope!! Uh-uh!! Negative!!

Ultimately, daddy started talking to her after dark and with the lights safely off. It was daddy’s voice, so she was amenable to that. And then he would talk to her and bring her out of her room and to bed…in the safety of the dark room. She was amenable to that, too. And somehow little miss Edith Anne decided to accept and love her defective furless dad again.

Edith Anne lived to be 28 years old (eight years longer than the top end of the age range for a squirrel monkey). She shared our bed for 27 of those years. My youngest child. My baby!