We’re in the teeth of winter now. The actual temperature is -5F but the wind chill is -15F to -25F, which means the wind sweeps away your body heat at a rapid clip, and flesh freezes in mere minutes. In this bitter cold both animals and humans are suffering. Although we got our power back, not everyone did, and outside in this dangerous weather, there are people working hard to protect the rest of us, restoring power and operating community shelters.
I’m watching the turkeys this morning from my warm, comfortable vantage point on top of the hill, looking down into the woods. We have a flock1 of nineteen this year, somewhat smaller than usual, but always fascinating.
After the deer had finished their morning graze, the turkeys came down from their roosts and spread themselves among the three spots where we have put out seed. As I watched, I saw my one-footed friend—who has been with us for several years now—sit down by himself in the snow, fifteen feet removed from the rest of the flock as they fed. He knew he could not compete with the rough and tumble of the flock’s drive for food. My heart broke for him, because even though the others do seem to look out for him generally, the nature of turkeys seems querulous and wholly intent on individual survival. I told myself he would be able to eat when the rest had finished, but wished I could go out to give him his own little stash. He looked cold and lonely.
As I watched, one of the other turkeys broke off from the flock and walked over to him, nudging him gently. He got up, and together they walked to the pile of seeds, and, shielded by his friend, the injured turkey joined the others and began to feed. For the remainder of breakfast time, the limpy guy ate with all the others.
If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.
The turkeys are still here, and have been joined by squirrels, junkos, and chickadees. I know from long observation that today, instead of marching off on their usual trek, the turkeys will stay close by, puffing up their down coats, and sitting on logs somewhere out of the wind, preferably under bushes or brush piles. And they will all have eaten enough to fuel their bodies against the cold.
So, who wants to discuss how animals don’t practice altruism?
For domestic turkeys the correct term for a group is rafter. I have been informed, however, that wild turkeys are in flocks. Don’t ask me. ↩︎
Yesterday was a curiously lost day. It was a little bit worrying to realize how much I depend upon technology, and how lost I was without it.
It was a busy day for us, however. There were branches hanging heavily with snow needing to be brushed off or beaten with a broom to keep them from breaking. There was the driveway to clear, along with the two foot high barricade of ice from the snowplow. And there were fallen branches to remove and add to the growing bonfire pile, all to the cheerful accompaniment of playful dogs.
But once we had done what could be done, we came inside to a strangely silent house.
At one point, cold, but too grubby and unshowered to go anywhere other than the hardware store, I just drove around, charging my phone and listening to music, while my exhausted husband napped. The snow was beautiful in the sunshine.
Later, despite my hair—which made me look as if I’d just been released from the local asylum—we went to a nearby restaurant for wifi, and by mutual consent, put Dry January on the ash heap of history. We met our favorite neighbors there, by chance. They had also been caught in the clutches of Dry January, and had thrown it over the night before, when their tree took out everyone’s power line. We traded anxieties about frozen pipes, spoiled food, and what to do if there was still no power on Sunday. They, too, have a pair of big sweet dogs, which we agreed tends to make you unpopular with hotel management. Our conversation was interrupted by several recorded phone calls from the power company, dangling hope with laughable vagueness.
Nevertheless, on the way home, parked alongside the road to our house was an armada of utility trucks, and the big tree that had been leaning perilously on the main lines was gone. The dogs greeted us as if we’d been gone a month, even though it had been little more than an hour. The house was ridiculously dark and growing cold, so we settled into a very early bed, with dogs and the gas fireplace to keep us warm, buckets of snow on the hearth, downloaded movies, and a decanter of Irish whisky.
This morning, the heat is on; hot coffee was waiting when I got up at 3:30; and my computer is up and running. In a little while I will reload the dishwasher and finish restoring the kitchen to its normal cheerful order. Most important: we will be able to watch the Packers game this afternoon.
As with so many life experiences, we have come away with an important lesson learned.
We woke to steadily falling snow. The wind is whistling through the eaves like the sound effects in a particularly corny old movie, and the predicted snow totals have risen to a minimum of nine inches. We already have at least six, and it’s supposed to snow all day.
The dogs are in the kitchen, lying on their tummies to better savor their breakfasts of turkey bacon and eggs. There is a fire here, and fresh tulips on the mantel. My cup of coffee steams nearby.
People are stranded on the local highways, and I am betting the blowing snow makes the rural roads impassable. Semis are unable to make their way up minor slopes on the freeways. I hope they will all be merely inconvenienced.
I had planned to run out this morning on a minor errand, but that seems unnecessary. I cancelled the electrician, thinking that standing on a ladder working on light posts seemed unpromising in this weather. He seemed to agree.
Very soon I will need to bestir myself to accompany the dogs on a morning walk. Eli will not go without me, but I don’t mind. I have boots and a good parka, and sufficient inner child to find it fun.
I may have to spread the 160 pounds of bird seed I bought yesterday a bit sooner than planned. I saw the deer chewing on brush yesterday, and things will be harder now. Another child’s adventure.
The local weather guy says we may or may not meet the specific criteria for a blizzard, but why quibble?
Seems like a perfect day to stay home and design new cocktails for Roger. If you know, you know.
Yesterday I never got out of my pajamas. I walked the dogs in my down coat, so no one could have known it was covering pajamas. I knew, however, and it made me inexplicably happy.
I took a very long scented bath.
I did not put on mascara.
I did not write.
I also did not drink. (Oh, Dry January, get thee behind me.)
I did not cook, other than the avocado toast with poached eggs which we all ate for breakfast. (Except the dogs, who do not like avocado, but just had their poached eggs on toast with rice and ground beef and pumpkin and goat yogurt. They were happy.)
I lay around and read a book.
I searched online for vintage houses in unlikely places and concluded that people who watch HGTV should be prohibited from remodeling any house built before 1970.
I annoyed friends and husband with texted listings of vintage houses in unlikely places. Husband promised to send postcards.
I did not mop the floor.
I did not take down the small tree in the library.
I did not run to the local co-op for any missing pantry item.
I achieved Genius level in a NYTimes word puzzle. Even the venerable NYT has succumbed to grade inflation.
I actually did not nap, but I snuggled my big dogs while they dozed in the sunshine. Auggie purred. Eli snored.
I watched British Antiques Roadshow on the new tv in the library.
I bored myself, which, I think, is something we all need now and then.
This morning I had a full hour more of essential REM sleep than previously, even though I thought I was awake all night.
It’s nice not to be in charge. This is why being a non-custodial grandparent is so much fun. You don’t have to be responsible. You can be funny. And silly. And a little crazy. You can speak with affectionate irony, and not be worn down with worrying about whether they turned in their homework, washed the slime out of their water bottles, and picked up their damn backpacks off the hall floor.
So, it’s good to have the boys’ mom around to do the enforcement. I can get back to being the fun one.
And we did have fun yesterday, even at the grocery store. The boys were barely reined in racehorses pulling at the bit. Naturally, they were in charge of the shopping cart, which is potentially disastrous, but people were in a mood to smile indulgently when I apologized and rolled my eyes, calling out “Say excuse me!” to the boys and “I’m so sorry,” to innocent passersby. The boys were polite nevertheless, and, if I may say it, so adorable it was impossible to be annoyed.
The eleven year old is particularly endearing at this stage, with his straight dark hair falling across his big brown eyes, and his shy, accented English. He’s not careful, like his brother, and at the stage of boyhood perfection: childish, wide-eyed, charming, and full of mischief. Very much like a puppy. When they’re together, the fourteen year old reverts to that phase, too, and together we become like a small traveling circus, with me as Ringmaster.
There were so many carts and people. As I moved rapidly through produce, grabbing the last few things I wanted, I looked around for them, and there they were on the far side of the section, waiting for me, and happily waving their arms to draw my attention. Their happy faces filled me with joy, and I forgot to be tired.
Children really do make Christmas.
I’ve joked a lot about having a week-long nervous breakdown when they’ve gone. But I’m going to miss them.
I have an heirloom dollhouse that I have been saving for my two great nieces. I sent it with my niece and her husband when they stopped to visit us on their cross-country move from Seattle to Philadelphia. At the time, one of her daughters was about three, and she was newly pregnant with the second, so we agreed that they would save the dollhouse for a time when the girls were old enough to appreciate it.
This is the year.
It’s a big dollhouse, made of wood, with wallpapered rooms and big muntined windows. I think it dates to the early 1950s. I was not the first little girl to play with it. It had belonged to my father’s cousin, and then to her daughter.
I thought it would be nice to include a set of the right sized dolls. I had no idea how difficult this would turn out to be.
I tried the hand-made website; and the auction website; I visited the very few actual toy stores. Nothing quite right. They had dolls, but they were either hideously plastic or one step up from corn husks. Nothing that simply had a nice face and reasonably-shaped body.
So, reluctantly, I turned to the Seattle guys. They do have dollhouse dolls. But you know how the algorithms are. Even if you reject something it keeps showing up in your feed. There is no Boolean method of saying “But not that”. And there is a series of dolls that, at first glance, seemed nice. The dolls come in different ethnicities and ages. But the longer you look at them, the weirder they become.
Do you see what I mean?
I showed them to my friend at lunch to see if she noticed. Maybe it was just me. But, no. She started laughing. “What is with their crotches?”
Exactly. And once you see it, you cannot unsee it. And it doesn’t really make any sense, either. I mean…never mind.
My friend texted me later with a suggestion of some animal family dolls she came across. One great niece will get a kangaroo family, and one will get a giraffe family. They will have to co-inhabit.
There was a spectacular sky this morning. A front coming through created a sharp diagonal line of clouds moving against the hot pink and orange of sunrise. Two great horned owls conversed at some length. I bestirred myself from my writing and stepped out onto the back stairs to look out over the woods, listen, and breathe. It’s cool this morning, cool enough for snow. But there’s only rain in the forecast.
Eli did not bark at the grandson when he came downstairs. We never know with Eli. He has a strange case of situational amnesia. But now grandson’s off to school, and Eli’s cuddling with his gorilla. Auggie has finished staring at the treat jar because I stopped paying attention after four, and has now settled on the couch.
I used to teach Lord of the Flies, but somehow its theme hadn’t occurred to me in the context of a birthday party. It’s interesting–and as a former teacher of teenagers this should not be news to me–how individual boys can be just fine, but a group of ten transforms into something new. And I now know the exact number at which the change occurs.
Oh, did I say escape?
We had two cars. My little hatchback fit four boys; the rented Pacifica took the other six. The difference between four and six is significant. Because on each 30 minute portion of our drive to and from the Escape Room, the mix of four was civilized; the mix of six was not. It may have helped that I had assumed the teacher mode with my group, occasionally making ironic comments that kept them in check. My husband preferred to adopt a cover of anthropology, quietly studying the locals’ habits. This was a less successful approach.
We had planned to drop the critters boys off at the Escape Room and sally forth into the chic environs of Milwaukee’s Third Ward for an hour. When I found a parking spot on the street, my husband stopped, too, and let his group out so he could find a spot while we went on. At least, this was how he explained it. I now know he had ulterior motives.
It took a minute or two to finagle the parking app (How are these convenient?? A quick plug of quarters would have handled the whole thing in seconds.) while the marauders wandered out of sight around the corner making more noise than one might have expected.
We arrived in the small warehouse lobby. I turned my back to register our arrival–to the accompaniment of the most astonishing volume of boys–and when I turned back, they were literally jumping off the furniture. I’m serious. I commandeered the situation with my teacher voice.
It was at this point that the management informed me that an adult would have to accompany them into the room. Delightedly, I texted my husband the good news. I knew he would be thrilled to have this experience with his beloved grandson. This, however, turned out not to be the case. His exact words texted to me were “Can’t you ESCAPE??????” And then, “FUQ”.
I have seen the billboards for this adventure over the years, and each time my inner voice has said, “Sweet Jesus, No.” What a nightmare to be locked into some dank room and find it fun. Now, one of us had to go. And it turned out to be the one with mild claustrophobia.
If you have ever seen film of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, you will note that while the bulls run when released, they do not howl like banshees. This was not the case when the door was closed to the escape room. I took a deep breath and found a corner to sit on the floor and send retribution texts to my husband.
There was no cooperation, no leadership, and very little thoughtful investigation. They were simply romping through the room, banging on things, pulling on things, and causing far more trouble than a litter of giant puppies. And they made an ungodly amount of noise.
There was a bar setup–it was a spy-themed escape–and there were rows of empty plastic wine bottles. At one point they began hitting one another with the bottles. I mean, these were not friendly raps. They were pushing one another into a corner while beating one another on the head. I felt like a prison guard. Sighing, I intervened. “Give me the bottles. NOW.” Meekly, they each handed them over. I had to explain to one of them to stop punching people.
Meanwhile, my husband is texting me. “I’m SO sorry.” And “How long do we have to have them in the house?”
If the intercom voice who was present to give clues and keep an eye on things had comments to make, these went mostly unheard. At one point, when the boys unlocked a door into the next room, there was a big metal box which had signs in big letters saying “DO NOT TOUCH.” Naturally, everyone had to run their hands over it.
Eventually, upon reaching the third room, which had a “DO NOT CROSS RED LINE” marking on the floor, pretty much everyone crossed the red line, resulting in a hideous siren going off. After about a dozen of these events, the management came in.
“You’re done.” “Did we lose?” The boys asked. The manager assumed a look of weary irony. “You lost.”
He then told them to stop making so much noise.
I went up to the startled group of adults in the lobby. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I turned to the boys and raising my voice told them to wait outside on the sidewalk. “DO NOT GO ANYWHERE.”
I asked the manager if he had whiskey.
My husband texted me from his hiding place. “The ride home will take 4 years in Grandparent Time. It’s like dog years, but longer.”
As we drove home I began laughing out loud.
“Why are you laughing?” one of them asked.
“I was remembering you guys hitting each other with the bottles.”
We got home in one piece, and the boys tumbled downstairs into our basement family room. I had spent two days cleaning, cooking, shopping, and organizing. Or, as my husband put it, “putting doilies on things.” There was enough food for thirty adults, tons of candy, chips, and cupcakes. My husband poured himself a glass of wine. I reminded him that he owed me a carry-out margarita from the taco place down the hill. I could hear the clanking of the weight machine downstairs. “Make it two. Each.”
After a few moments, our grandson came upstairs, a somewhat anxious look on his face. “Can we go outside to play hide and seek?” I summoned a silent prayer of thanks. “Of course.”
There was a rumbling on the stairs as they came racing up to put on their shoes. It was dark. It had been raining much of the day, and it was going to be muddy. I didn’t care.
It was beginning to snow. I had imposed upon our dear friend, Scary Lisa, to wrangle the dogs, and the three of us now settled into our snug library to drink margaritas while ten boys, stripped to their waists, whooped and hollered, and ran rampant through the woods. I texted the neighbors in warning.
For the boys, this was clearly the unforgettably wonderful part of the day. Elliott said later: “Oh, Grandma, that was the best time ever!”
As half-naked teenagers streaked past the windows, we adults looked at one another. “You know,” my husband said, “it’s like Christmas morning, when you give the kid an extravagant present, and he spends all day playing with the box. Next time, it will be Chex Mix and a bonfire.”
One boy disappeared and was unfindable for twenty minutes. One lost his shirt. One fell off a wall. There was a sprained ankle.
Margaritas never tasted so good.
Oh, and by the way, DO NOT TAKE TEENAGERS TO AN ESCAPE ROOM.
J.F. Riordan 