The Crocodile

Our friend Weegie introduced me to Ox late in the fall semester; he was her fast-talking boyfriend’s friend, straight-man, and singing partner.  She offered a blind date.  I declined; I had a test the next day. She twisted my arm and I went on the date.  Ox’s reputation intrigued me.

We dated several times after that and enjoyed each other’s company.

Ox took a leave of absence for the spring semester.

Weegie’s sister Ann got a spring-break job in a hotel in Lakeland, Florida.

Ox, wore his college boy khakis, oxford cloth shirt and loafers to hitchhike south through the scary southern states.  He carried a dirty raincoat and a bindle with clean socks and underwear.  He slept in a variety of fleabags, farm fields and rooms.  He had adventures.

For example, In Lyons, Georgia, the sheriff had talked with him at the northern city limit, and took him to a jail cell without booking him.  The cell had no window glass behind the bars.  The next morning the sheriff drove Ox to the southern city limit.  He advised Ox, “Boy, keep on traveling.  I don’t want to see you here again.”

In those days southern sheriffs worried about outside agitators.

Weegie and I rode the train to Lakeland.  Ann booked a room for Weegie and me to share.  Ann was thrilled that the Detroit Tigers farm team was staying at her hotel.

Our first afternoon in Florida, Ox telephoned the hotel.  He came by.  He was glad to shower in our room.  During a break Ann visited as well.  Ann was full of Detroit Tigers stories.  I was bored with the stories; I didn’t know the names of any Tigers and really didn’t care.  Weegie and Ox got deep into a discussion of current events.  I attempted to insert sophomoric, ill-informed opinions, which were ignored.  My nose bent out of joint.  I felt jealous of Weegie – a new and unpleasant feeling for me.

Weegie’s and Ox’s discussion wound down, Ox suggested I walk out with him.  We walked along Lakeland’s deserted streets.  We sat under a tree to talk.  Whatever we discussed engrossed us both.  I leaned against the tree.  I am a Californian, barefoot is my preferred mode.  I took off my sandals and crossed my ankles modestly on a vine.  The drizzle freshened to a rain.  We talked on.  The rain abated a little.  We made a break for it, I carried my sandals.  The sun had gone down hours ago.  The night was dark but the streetlight reflections shone in the rainy pavement.  The rain began to pelt.  My ankles started to itch.  At first I ignored the itch.  Soon I had to stop and scratch.  Ox held my elbow while I scratched first one leg and foot and then the other.  As we stood thus off balance on the sidewalk, a huge crocodile waddled slowly down the center of the road.  The crocodile ignored us; he took about 10 minutes to pass out of sight.  We ran back to the hotel room laughing, drenched, hair and clothes streaming rivers of water.

Ann kindly found a room with hotel employees for Ox. 

That was the only crocodile I ever saw in the wild.

Forgetting

If I have had a stroke, or if I have developed plaques and tangles, the area of my brain that holds favorite flower names is the site of the problem.  For two weeks I was unable to remember a favorite blue-flowered plant.  I love the color of this flower, an ultramarine blue shading into purple.  I pass this foot-high creeping plant every time I walk to my studio.  I asked a friend who is a master gardener if she could help me find the name of this plant.  She called back later in the week and asked “Vinca?

“No,” I said.

“Plumbago?”

“YES!  Leadwort!” I crowed.  “Thank you!”

It seems odd to forget Plumbago for so long, then remember its common name when prompted.

Next I forgot another small blue flower that I love.  I kept trying to call it a Morning glory; each time I would picture a real Morning glory and know my plant was not that.  I have a bunch of seedlings of this mystery plant; I recently planted them after keeping the seeds for two years.  Half a week after forgetting its name, the name Forget-me-not popped into brain.  How could anyone forget the name of a plant named Forget-me-not?

The third troublesome plant had a yellow flower.  In the plant’s third year I picked its first bloom ever for a bouquet for an old friend.  The minute I cut the flower I forgot its name.  As I walked into my friend’s room two hours later, I said, “Look! Today is the first time the St. John’s wort has bloomed, and this is its first blossom.”  Two hours forgetting is better than two weeks, but it's too long to call the forgetting a word-finding problem.

People my age often have word-finding difficulty.  I have momentary word-finding lapses from time to time.  I find the lost word quickly.  When Ox forgets a word it pops out of my mouth before his mouth has a chance to find a synonym.  I am more tactful with other friends.  These flower names, however, are a different order of forgetting.

When Catherine was a child I said to her with great warmth, “Goodnight, Wag.”  Wag was our dog and Catherine was indignant that I got neither the name, the species, nor the sex right.  Remembering this has given me comfort for years.  If I could have such a gross lapse in my 40s, and was still kicking and sentient, then maybe I was not yet a candidate for the secure ward.  I’m kicking and sentient now, but I’m starting to worry.

The Pond is Never the Same

We were later than usual and the twilight was gray and heavy.   A white cloud rested on the mountain tops and wisps of it washed down the draws outlining contours we don’t usually see.  It had rained earlier; the streams gushed in their courses and our feet squished in the grass.

As we started across the dam a red-winged black bird claimed his nest in the cattails. Swifts darted here and there following the jagged paths of insects.  A lone fisherman looked silently over the pond, his rod untouched on the ground under his canvas chair.  The storm waters had made the olive green pond muddy.  

Ox pointed to the wake of a muskrat.  The muskrat followed us close to shore.  When he caught up halfway across the dam, he dove straight down.  We didn’t see him surface again.  The only sounds were the rushing water, the black bird’s hoarse caw, the frogs.  Mist quieted everything else.

We stepped onto the path around the pond.  The park people had bulldozed the path and laid gravel.  The path was wider, gravelly and muddy – not as wild as it was last week.  The improved path felt unnatural.  Heavy drops of water fell from leaves of the bushes and trees.  

We looked at the mountain from a clearing on the path, the cloud hid its top.  By the time we came around into the open we saw that the cloud had enveloped the mountain.  The fisherman still sat by the pond.  It was almost dark.

We went home.

Sleeping with Dogs

In the 60s a young woman contested her father’s will.  He lived in an isolated cabin with his dogs and never went out.  Depending on the weather he slept with some of his dogs.  In the depths of winter he would sleep with all five dogs.  The daughter thought this proved that he was of unsound mind. In 1967, maybe because of this news story, a rock band, still recording today, named itself the Three Dog Night.

Catherine chose and named Wag when she was in first grade.  He was a black terrier puppy, one of five black or white litter-mates who’d just arrived at the SPCA.  In my opinion the pups had been taken from their mother too soon.  Wag wagged and licked; he was appealing.  The older dogs had little chance of adoption.  I tried to convince Catherine that an old dog would make a better pet – “Oh look at this beautiful dog!”  It was no use, Catherine and Wag had fallen for each other.

Wag whined the incessant, rhythmic, almost supersonic cry of the distressed puppy his entire first night with us .  We had prepared quilts on the floor beside Catherine’s bed for him.  The next night we put a mattress on the floor in the living room and the two young animals slept peacefully together all night long.  When flea and tick season rolled around we put Catherine back on her own bed.  It made no difference – Wag leapt up to join her with vulpine grace.

Catherine now has two Yorkshire terriers.  They sleep with her – peacefully.  She was at a conference in California last week.  We kept her dogs.

When Sammy was Catherine’s only dog she drove to the Midwest to get Cricket, the younger dog.  We kept Sammy for a weekend.  At bedtime the first night Sammy threw himself through the upstairs bedroom door, climbed the stairs, jumped onto the bed, and snuggled at my feet.  I liked having this foot warmer that cold fall night.

This dog visit I moved to the downstairs bed so that the dogs could sleep with me; Ox doesn’t enjoy sharing his bed with dogs.

The first, peaceful, night I slept between the two dogs – I under the covers, they on top.  I didn’t have much room to move.  When I got up during the night, Sammy, who was on the downhill side leapt off and had difficulty getting back up on the bed.

The next night I tried to persuade both dogs to sleep on the same side.  This did not work; the dogs snapped at each other.  The third night repeated the second.

The fourth night Sammy slept on the uphill side and Cricket on the downhill.  This worked well.  We continued in this configuration until Catherine returned to retrieve her dogs.  My two dog nights are over.

I sleep with Ox again.  Getting up in the night is much easier.  Though I miss the friendly warmth of the dogs, Ox beats the dogs all hollow as a bed companion on these hot spring nights.

Mandy (bowlderized)

 “Oh f*!, f*!, f*ity-f*!, f*!, f*! ”  I growl as I pull my new white leather skirt halfway up my thighs – way too many carbs last week. I throw the skirt on the bed’s huge pile of discarded dance clothes; their colors clash under the bright overhead light.

“Honey, Sweetie Pie, that’s five ‘f*s’ too many,” says Grannie, dad’s mom.  You need to ration your ‘f*s’ to make an impact. - like one a week.”

“Oh Gran, I don’t give a sh* about impact - language just makes me feel better.  What can I wear?”

The stuffed animals on the shelf look at us with beady eyes. My toes dig into the soft teal rug Mom bought me before she ran off to San Francisco with Eddie.

“How about the purple skirt with the long sweater?”

I hug her, “Oh yuck, Grannie, don’t help.  I just want to look drop dead gawgeous!  I’ll wear the red."  I pull the red over my head and stick my tongue out at the mirror.

Gran says, “I’ll set the alarm for midnight¸ O.K.?”

The deal is that I turn off the alarm if I get home before midnight so Grannie only has to worry about me after I miss my curfew.

I run out to Bird’s car before the first honk.  Bird’s an older man – a junior.  Grannie doesn’t like Bird and she HATES boys honking to ‘summon’ me.

Mom used to be friends with Bird’s mom.   Mom doesn’t even call home any more, maybe because I won’t talk to her.

 Grannie is dad’s mom; she’s no great clothing expert.  When I ask her for clothing advice she says, “Go to Goodwill – that way you aren’t responsible for sweatshops, and you come home a lot richer!"

I want a mother like everybody else.  I want my Mom to go shopping with me and show me how to put on make-up and to tell me the secrets of life.  Gran’s forgotten it all.  As for Icy Irene, dad’s new wife, I might as well be Cinderella – The ice queen picks up a fork from the dishwasher; she gasps. “You left food on the fork.  How disgusting!”  She doesn’t ever take me to Ann Taylor’s with her – the horror! I’m a size 12!

Bird says he loves me.  I slide over the car seat next to Bird.  He takes advantage of the red mini-dress and rests his hand on my thigh.  I take his hand off my thigh.  He says “You look awesome in red.”  He drives to lower Main Street by the Greyhound station and parks the car in front of the Blue Moon Diner.  He says, “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He goes up to a man wearing an orange hoodie.  They have their backs to me.  He hands the man something.  The man goes into the ABC store.  The man comes out with a small paper bag.  He hands the bag to Bird.  I think, “Oh sh* Bird thinks he’ll get lucky if he gets me drunk.  Oh sh* Bird thinks he’ll get lucky if he gets drunk.”

Bird climbs into the car with a big smirk on his face.  I say “Bird, you said we were going to the school dance.  I want to go there now.”

Bird says, “Sheesh.”  He drives in the direction of school, saying nothing about the paper bag.

We go into the gym.  They stamp our hands at the door.  The decorating committee has strung twisted pink and yellow crepe paper streamers over the ceiling to come to a peak in the middle of the gym; it’s supposed to look romantic, like a desert tent.  A turning mirrored ball hangs from the peak.  The basketball hoops aren’t well disguised and the gym smells like centuries of old socks.

The music starts.  Old bands from ten years ago play on the sound system.

Mr. Elliott and Ms. Jones stand by the punch bowl making eyes at each other.  Cafeteria food tables, draped with paper table cloths; hold the food.  The other teachers and parents who are supposed to police this event cluster around them.  They ignore us kids.

Bird asks me to dance a slow dance.  He tries to unhook my bra through the red dress.  I say I have to go to the bathroom.  When I come back out, he’s coming in the side door that’s supposed to be locked.  He grabs my head and tries to force a kiss.  He sticks his tongue in my mouth.  He stinks of cheap whiskey. I slap him. I wish I’d bit off his tongue. 

 He goes out the ‘locked’ door again.  I go over to talk to Janie.  Janie goes into a long riff about how her bitchy mother is going through menopause and how bad things are at home.  I go to the bathroom again.

I go to the food table to get some fritos and fruit punch.  Fifteen minutes later Bird comes in again.  This time he staggers and falls down.  I go over to Ms. Walker and ask if she has her phone with her.  She hands her phone to me and I call Gran, waking her up.  I try not to cry when I ask her to come pick me up.

Gran comes in to get me just as the hired policeman grabs Bird by the collar and marches him away.  We walk to the car in silence.  In the car I start to cry.  I say to Gran, “Oh Grannie, I love you so much, but I want Mom.  I want her to show me how to dress and how to act with boys and how to put on makeup and how to think.”

Grannie hugs me and thinks a while.  “Aunt Kim could help. Also, would it help to go to Charlottesville Image Consultants for a semester?”

I don’t answer until we get home. I think ‘Oh sh*, Grannie, are you kidding?  Image Consultants?’  But - maybe it would help with the dressing and makeup problems and they couldn’t make me wear stuff I didn’t like. Maybe I already know how to dress a little.  Aunt Kim is kind of dumpy, but she has good sense and with all those daughters she could advise me on how to act with boys.  I realize I’m mostly pissed with Mom for leaving.  I realize what a good person Grannie is in my life and how maybe what I’ve got is what I need.

“Oh yes, Grannie, that would be wonderful!  Thank you!”