Ticked Off

  You may have read in an earlier post, titled DUCK! And Cover, that we are in the midst of the hunting season making ducks fair game.  What you didn't read about is the young man in his mid-teens who eats, sleeps, and breathes hunting...and lives under my roof.  Yes, the clamor of duck calls regularly sounds off in my dining room, accompanied by a variety of camouflage paraphernalia everywhere the eye can rest.  Duck decoys arrive in the mail and are proudly displayed throughout...well, everywhere the eye can rest.  Thankfully those decoys took the loud hint and migrated to the hunter's bedroom.

It's time to go hunting!

  This past Saturday was a decent day for hunting.  I heard floorboards creaking rather early and knew my son was biding his time til he dared disturb his father's slumber.  This period of waiting has become a stressful ritual in our home.  Upon my husband's emergence from the bedroom, he is faced with non-stop references to the current hour and minute followed by intervals of hovering during breakfast.  The subliminal message permeating our mealtime is, "Who has time to eat?!?  There's hunting to be done!"  Thank heavens maturity and consistent working with our son has led to the message being subliminal...time has softened the full-on verbal barrage.

  The time had come and my husband put us all out of our misery by asking our son to load the vehicle, which of course had been done an hour ago.  A kiss from my husband, a forehead presented by my son for me to kiss, and out the door they went.  This was the perfect opportunity for me to grab my eleven year-old boy and head to our favorite trails at the Peninsula.  Yes, the same Peninsula the duck blinds are located on.


  We'd been walking about ten minutes when my younger son pointed to the road which leads back home and announced, "Hey, there goes our van!"  Perhaps the warning bells should have been going off in my head...yet, I've learned I'm never far enough, in cases of emergency, I can't be reached.  So, on we walked...even as the dreaded awaited call came ringing in.  "Yeees?  I said, trying to be as cheery as possible."  I don't wish to bore nor scandalize you with the tirade that exploded into my ear describing how they never even made it into the duck blind.  I won't fill you in on the unflattering and rather disrespectful picture, painted of my husband, with such hostile words.  My teen, who had been chomping at the bit for this highly anticipated moment, was more than frustrated with the hope that had gone dead in the water without firing a single shot.

I admit I did feel bad for the fowl-tempered fella and quickened my pace to get home...though not so much that I would catch the initial fall-out fireworks I imagined were going off.  I even texted a couple nephews looking for a stand-in hunting partner.  I automatically assumed my husband's back was causing him such pain that he bailed and needed to rest.  Therefore, I resigned myself to the rescuer's role and began to mentally prepare to wrap in a blankey and sit in the blind if imploring texts to my nephews didn't pan out.

  With the walk finally over, we headed to the car only to be let down by a deflated rear tire.  Great...what the heck kind of day is this??  I called my husband to ask if I should drive like that.  He said he'd fill the compressor and be right down.  As I write this I'm realizing everything happens for a reason...it's a very good thing he was home or my 11 year-old and I would have had a long, uphill, chilly walk home...after our long, chilly walk we just took.  I was briefly filled-in over the phone how our teen ignored requests to find a trail leading to the blind.  Instead, he stomped right into the tall grasses determined to find a quick route there.  There was something about ticks, which alerted me to my husband's rightful concern... Presque Isle, lovely as it is, is known to have a large deer tick population.  My husband had once been bit by a deer tick, confirmed to have Lyme's disease.  He was never at ease with spending much time at Presque Isle, let alone going off trail and into dense vegetation where they'd most likely be.


Deer ticks can cause Lyme disease

  After his arrival and quick fix of the tire, I offered to drive the van home while he'd take the car to the closest gas station and check the tire's air pressure.  That offer was quickly rescinded upon hearing that three large deer ticks had already been found crawling in the van.  Sure enough, our son had walked right into a hot spot for the buggers before his frustrated Dad demand they were going home due to lack of obedience.

Eeeew!

Once home, I was surprised by the calm I walked into.  I was certain there would  be arguing and pleading for me to fulfill my impatient hunter's plans for the day.  I was impressed to see his quiet resignation as he worked side by side with my husband to rid the van of these tiny, disease carrying, blood suckers.  I was relieved yet horrified that a total of eight ticks were discovered in our family's vehicle.  I listened to my 11 year-old ask, "Dad, what is the purpose of ticks in the world?" and wondered the same thing.  We didn't come up with much of an answer...likening them to mosquitoes and other insects that seem to do more harm than good.

  Perhaps, in that instance the tick's purpose was to provide a teachable moment.  Difficult as it was, there is more patience added to my young hunter's arsenal.  He has learned to pace the floors on Saturday mornings instead of bounding onto our bed...maybe he will listen to the voice that warns him to stay on the path and understand wisdom is born of experience.



Creative Spaces

  Up here in my little wooden room I have a view on the "goings on" in my yard.  It might not be the hustle and bustle of a New York City street that parades under my window but I'm very much at peace with that.

  This was a hard earned view.  When we first moved in to our house eight years ago, this room was "my space."  I was thrilled to be able to set up a creative haven in the very room I used to sleep in while visiting my grandparents as a young girl.  The whole full-circle thing added a cool vibe to the room that was already unique in design.  And better yet...it was to be mine...all mine.  This lasted until sibling rivalry, cramped quarters, and a son's desires for a space to be "his...all his" moved me to the open landing at the top of the stairs.  Beautiful white vases chock full of paint brushes, artist pads, and sharpie markers that once were confined behind a coded lock now beckoned the creativity of all who passed by...probably even the visiting neighborhood kids.  It appeared no-one could resist the call.  It was only a matter of time until a play room was needed for the kids and I headed for the first floor to share an office space with my husband, which was wonderful in theory not so much in reality.  That freshly painted, eclectically decorated space was to exist as an artists den for a nano-second anyway.  The son who needed his own space apparently needed more than a hallway to separate him from the clattering of youngsters and headed to the first floor to kick off his teenage independence from early bedtimes, night-time stories, and little kid stuff.  So, I was back to the second floor and life in full swing.  I don't even think I unpacked fully, just kind of kept dumping more on the surfaces until the coolest thing upstairs was the obstacle course comprised of Mom's junk, bins of Lego's, flowy dress-up costumes, Nerf swords, and boxes of papers that found a home there each time company was coming.

  When we decided it was time to actually finish the drywall upstairs I was like a restless nomad, wandering until, against better judgement, I moved my beloved articles to the laundry room in the basement.  Yes, these inspirational novels, paints, sketchpads, journals, and pictures which once whispered creative sweet-nothings to me now rebelled in silence covered in one layer of dust, a hint of cobwebs and a fine sheen of dryer lint.

  Funny how life brings out a simple truth that less is best.  I learned to create at the kitchen table and journal in bed before falling asleep, or scrawl in whichever half-used spiral notebook was closest at hand .  My Grandmother, who lived in this very house had a saying that brings it all home, "It is what it is."  True that.  I learned this truth in time to witness my oldest son grow up and follow his heart to yet another space that would be his...all his; an apartment in a neighboring town.  I'm glad we could give him the space he needed while it was needed.  My love of stringing words together doesn't need it's own space -- though it's GREATLY appreciated.  And truth be told, I can doodle on a t.v. tray if need be. 

  The night our eldest moved out, his first-floor room was occupied by the second eldest who had been rooming in this wooden space I am writing from.  Though I had to kick his roommates out to get this space I am BACK!!  I'm now allowing those roomies; two stuffed bears, a glassy eyed buck, a turkey in full flight, a fluffy fox-squirrel, and a beady-eyed black squirrel wander like nomads.  And here's some good news- I've only developed a SLIGHT eye twitch since the eldest daughter casually sized up my space and dropped several non-subtle hints about the unfairness in which her brothers had been able to have their own rooms and she was sharing with two sisters. 

twitch...twitch...twitch 

Justice...by "PINKIE"

Once upon a time in the not so distant past there lived a family of seven children under the loving care of their parents...

 One morning the eldest son (we shall call him Sir Grouch-a-lot) awoke to find that he had indeed overslept the royal wake-up call of his alarm.  His kind and devoted mother (we shall call her Queen Deserves the Respect of her Children but Does not Get-a-lot) went to gently nudge him out of his bed and into the shower.  Sir Grouch a-lot did a fair amount of mumbling and grumbling and stumbled into the royal bathroom whilst the rest of the family scurried about the palace (haha) to ready themselves for the 2 mile trip they would travel to see their beloved son/brother off on his very first "away battle" on the field of Lacrosse, in the neighboring village of Pittsburgh. 

The father in this tale (we shall name him King Good Hearted), was determined to see his son would arrive at the site of departure on-time AND with a full satchel of food to fill his belly (since this battle was determined to be a double header).  Suffice it to say there was a lot of roaring and bellowing within the palace walls due to Sir Grouch-a-lot having missed the royal wake up call and having several siblings (we shall NOT call them servants) underfoot during the preparation to depart. 

With the large blue 15 passenger chariot pulling out of the driveway onto the main thoroughfare, young Sir G. (we shall shorten this name to make him seem hip), bellowed at King Good Hearted, "Why are you going this way?!?!"  To which the good King responded through clenched teeth, "We are going to grab you a couple sub sandwiches and some royal Powerades."  The young prince Grouchy (nicknamed thus by his siblings- who are not servants...) forgot his princely demeanor and roared in return, "FORGET THE FOOD...WE ARE LATE!!!  TURN AROUND NOW!!"  The King continued on to the local Superette and "gently" slammed his chariot door as he trod towards the market.  The Queen, using her tone purposed for calming turned in her chariot throne to face her eldest son and remind him the family's efforts were for his sake.  She pointed out this stress would all be over within ten minutes and he would be on his way to battle with food to sustain him.  The young prince grouched and muttered and ordered his fellow passengers/siblings to "SHUT UP!"  However, the youngest Princess (aptly named Lady So Cute You want to Squeeze-a-lot) continued to address her eldest brother by name over and over until Sir G. would relent and say, "What?" and she would merely smile at him then begin calling his name to repeat the process.  The King returned with his purchases for his ungrateful son and tension filled the chariot.  The royal passengers were silent while the Queen suggested to her eldest son to tuck the morsels and drink into his backpack so that he could hop out of the chariot upon arrival.

Seven minutes (and one wrong parking lot) later the 15 passenger, dark blue chariot rolled across the cracked pavement of the departure lot in front of the assembled "battle-ready" soldiers (and some other bleary eyed parents). Sir Grouch a-lot barked out "Sorry,"  to the King as a means of apology and grumped out a "Bye..love you" then threw open the creaky chariot door and whipped around to climb down and out of the ride that had caught the attention of his fellow warriors.  Suddenly there was a collective gasp from the rest of the royal family as they caught site of something so horrendous and hilarious at the same time...

Sir Grouch-a-lot was striding towards his astonished peers with his baby sister's pink, fuzzy blanket which was trimmed with delicate pink satin, trailing from his backpack.  The Prince had accidentally zipped the very edge of his young sister's "Pinkie" into his bag as he loaded his lunch in a hurry!  The Queen could barely garble out a "Waaaitt..." while the young Prince did the confused dance of spinning around and around to see what his family was pointing to.  Of course as he turned the blanket would disappear from his view- like a dog chasing it's tail...

The mute look of horrified exasperation sent to his Royal Mother was a plea for death...or Ground- swallowing disappearance.  The royal punch from the Queen upon her King's muscled arm silenced the King's guffaws immediately as she pleaded through her own clenched teeth, "Not now-just wait!"  A loyal friend raced to help the prince untangle from the "enemy silky" and throw it back in the chariot.  The family bid farewell to their beloved Sir Grouch a-lot while wishing him "Good Luck".  The youngest charming princess clung to her "Pinkie" afraid it might disappear just as suddenly once again.

 As the big, blue chariot rolled away the stunned silence was shattered by the Queen's honking laughter.  The King joined in then each of the six remaining siblings added their own laughter to the chorus...Tears streamed down the Queen's cheeks and she begged "Mercy!," for she truly could not breathe- so strongly had her funny bone been tickled.   Once she regained her composure she slid her eyes in the direction of the King and whispered, "That was BLOG-ALICIOUS!...but I don't know if I could do that to him."  To which the King responded, "If you don't- I will!!"  And their peals of laughter trailed out behind them all the way home.

The End