Baby Making Machine

   

Our 5 year old granddaughter can't get the idea of a baby sister out of her mind. She talked to her mommy about having one for her but that didn’t work out. Then she decided to grow a baby sister herself. The problem with that was she had to marry Nick first and she hadn’t told Nick about it yet. So that didn’t work out either.

Yesterday she proudly announced that she had an invention for making babies. She said, “Hey Grandma, I could even make a baby for you!” I told her that sounded wonderful but only if I got a baby girl. No problem. Her machine only made baby girls. Then she asked me what color I would like my baby to be. An opportune teaching moment if ever there was one.  I told her it didn’t matter what color my baby girl would be.

“I can make you a pink one or a purple one. Which would you like best?” 🤣 I chose purple, of course.

I was still giggling when her dad came to pick her up. I told him our little darling had a new invention for making babies. He grinned and nodded his head. He told me that he and she had worked together in the garage to make her invention a reality. They got a cardboard box, some wire, some twine, a couple of pieces of wood, duct tape and a battery. And somehow they put it together and now they have a baby making machine in the garage! Is he the best dad in the world or what?

But as for my own purple bundle of joy, I'm not holding my breath.

 

 

 

The Great Shoe Conundrum

 

    All my life, there has been a special place in my heart for shoes. I think this is true of many people, some more than others.   
       Perhaps it is because of my obsession with shoes that I have noticed a phenomenon over the course of my lifetime. It is something I wonder about, fantasize about and worry about. And strangely, although it is a common occurrence and surely everyone has noticed, not one person has ever mentioned it to me in any conversation unless I bring it up, nor are they concerned or curious about it. I am talking about the single shoes lying along the roads of America.
    Have you ever wondered about those shoes? Always just one shoe, never a pair tied together by shoelaces, never one here and it's mate a few yards away. Just one lonely shoe. These shoes are of every variety and size: a baby shoe, a flip-flop, a tired old boot, a stylish new boot, a Mary Jane,  etc.
    Most people assume the shoes have fallen out of vehicles. Really? On 70 mph interstates? On hair-pin curves along mountain roads, Midwest blacktops, backwoods dirt roads in the Appalachians, and streets of downtown Seattle? I have seen one poor shoe on forest service roads, in state parks and even an entrance to McDonald's.  One can imagine a bored toddler hurling things out the backseat window (maybe) but what is mother's flip flop doing back there anyway?
    I have been noticing these poor shoes my entire life. Often I have wished that I could have pulled over to rescue them and take them home with me. What a collection I would have by now! Hundreds of mateless shoes shelved along the walls of my garage.
    What is the story behind these abandoned shoes? I have a theory. 
    It is entirely possible these shoes don't lie on the highways and roadways for long. I believe they are not abandoned or lost at all, but in fact the person who wore each of those shoes is still wearing the other shoe and will soon return for it.
    Imagine this scenario: Most of us are not so naïve in this day and age to believe we are the only intelligent life in the universe and, perhaps, time is not always measured as we measure it. What if the baby, toddler, the man or woman who has lost that shoe has been abducted by aliens? (Stay with me here - I might be on to something.) Perhaps where we see a shoe lying on the shoulder of the road is the place from which the individual was taken. That shoe marks the spot for the aliens to return them. Those people don't talk all over town about this experience because...because they can't remember it. and their fellow travelers who were missing somebody from their vehicle don't talk all over town about it either, because...because time stood still for them between the time the aliens took their loved one and left a shoe on the road and the moment the shoe and the victim are reunited.
    I think this is the perfectly logical explanation to this whole Shoe-on-the-Road  bewilderment. As far as what happens to the earthlings in the spaceship during that flick of time, I have no way of knowing. But if this is the proper conclusion to the mystery, I should be quite glad that I have not collected all those shoes I've witnessed lying along the road. Otherwise the aliens would not have known where to return their human specimens and instead of abandoned shoes along the highways, we could have hundreds of lost people wandering along the shoulders,  one shoe on and one shoe off. Oh dear. And of course, people would be talking about that all over town.

 

Herman's Demise

        

    Herman wasn't a very interesting fellow, as you already know. For most of the several weeks that he lived in the guest room, he stayed hunched into his shell, sucked up so tight I had no idea what he looked like. Only at night was there any sign of life in the Crab Shack, during which time he dug around in the superfine sand, sometimes burying himself completely, other times mounding it up like a volcano. He also liked to push his food dish to the opposite side of the shack. He crashed around in there enough to keep me awake many nights, but I never was able to catch him in action. If he detected I was near, he disappeared into his shell. In the early days, he liked to climb the mesh wall and hang on at the top for hours at a time.

 

        Less than a week ago, I noticed he was unusually quiet, even for him. That's when the lady at the pet store told me to put him into a little bit of water each night. Surprisingly enough, the first morning after using this technique I found him outside of his shell and less intimidated - I got to see his claws and legs at least. A few nights of this water treatment made Hermann act almost drunk. I wondered about that.

 

        And then yesterday morning he was dead. Just like that. He was hanging out of his shell like starched laundry. I was saddened, of course. I have put a great deal of effort into the happiness and well-being of Herman the Hermit Crab.

 

        Last night, we took our boat out on the Columbia River. I asked for everyone to be quiet while I said a few words. Most of our passengers didn't pay much attention to me, but I did notice their voices were slightly hushed. I held Herman up by his shell, legs and claws dangling for all the world to see, in case anybody wanted to. Even his little red eyes were visible. "You were a good crab, Herman," I said. "Well, actually you weren't that great." And with that, I tossed Herman into the river. He sank immediately.

 

        I was suddenly made aware that people WERE paying attention to all this falderal. Everyone on board has recently learned that absolutely nothing is to be thrown from a boat, not even potato chip crumbs. There was a unanimous chorus of "Oh, No! You are going to get a big fine for that!" Doug summed it up when he muttered, "Great. I'm going to end up paying $2,000.00 for the funeral of a hermit crab."

 

        I like to think the current will carry Hermann's shell to the Pacific Ocean. And you never know, one day another little crab may take up lodging in that very fine abode.

Herman's Crab Shack

 

    Herman, my pet hermit crab, has been absolutely the most boring creature on earth. He does bang around and rearrange the furniture in the middle of the night, but as soon as I turn on the light to see what all the commotion is about, pfffft! he sucks himself back into his shell and holds his breath until I leave.

    I have wondered if Herman might be sick. Lately, he isn't climbing the wall of his shack, hardly moving around at all. To tell the truth, I wondered last night if he was dead. :-(

    Yesterday I went to Petco for the first time. They built a new store in a nearby town. They had terrific helpers, all dressed in safari-wear and looking very official.  As it turns out, they are also knowledgeable and friendly people.  The store was lots of fun to visit. There were about a dozen or more darling puppies of all kinds, and play areas for them, and people to play with them, too. They have birds of all kinds. The parrots and cockatiels were perched outside of cages throughout the store. My clerk had a parrot sitting on her shoulder.

    

    I went to the hermit crab section of the store and found all kinds of nice amenities for keeping the crab shack clean. I also picked up a calcium shell, similar to what parakeets have in their cages. I was told that it is imperative for the crabs to have this in their diet, and it also works to smooth the sharpness off their crabby claws to make them easier to handle. (That was rather a moot point - Herman never crawls or shows his claws when he is handled.) I was told that every single night crabs need to be put in a tub with about 1/2 inch of water with a lid (holes in the top for breathing) so they can't get out. And human food should be added. They will eat ANYTHING and need the variety. However, no fresh fruit, only dried fruit. I didn't know that, and had fed him fresh watermelon bits on Friday. 

     I have to tell you, Herman is happier. This morning when I went to get him out of the water, he was completely out of his shell! Of course, he crawled right back in when he saw me coming.

    The other thing I was told is that he definitely needs a friend. G.ma told me that too. He will be more active and much happier with one or two companions.

    My husband noticed that I had purchased some new "furniture" or decorations for the crab shack and said I hadn't left enough room for Herman to get exercise. I told him yes, I know that. I am going to buy him a bigger shack. And he said, "What kind of thinking is that? You buy too much furniture so you need to buy a bigger house? Sounds like female logic to me!"

    Herman will soon get into his nightly bath and next week he will have a new friend. Life is good, isn't it?

Blood Pressure Giggles

    I am taking my blood pressure twice a day for my doctor. I haven't been on BP medication for several years because my exercise keeps it under control. I have been bucking up against the boundaries recently, so I have to record it for the doctor for a month. I don't want to take medication, so I am very careful when I take my blood pressure. I sit with my legs uncrossed, arms open wide, palms of my hands open to heaven, and take a few deep breaths before starting. 

    This morning I also thought to take advantage of pleasant thoughts, and tried to imagine myself in beautiful places that I had seen on email. The first place was a jungled waterfall scene. But then I realized snakes are there! Thank goodness the BP machine gave me an error message instead of a reading. So I relaxed again and imagined myself with Doug having a nice kiss. My heart got to racing so bad I had to quickly erase that thought and try to imagine petting a tiny kitten. Too late, but thank God again, I got an error message. The third time I managed to keep my thoughts on the task at hand and got 112/82. Not great, but within the boundaries.

Ant Farm Saga

Image courtesy of http://clipart-library.com

Tue, Feb 9
After Xmas when everything was on super-sale, I picked up a little Uncle Milton's Ant Farm for $9.99, thinking it would be a fun project for my grandson to share with me. My kids had a Giant Ant Farm when they were young and the whole family loved it. We would gather around the kitchen table to watch the busy little buggers several times a day.

As soon as I got my 6" x 9" ant farm home, I sent away for the ants. That was 6 weeks ago or more. I got the "farm" ready by pouring the sand into it. But we still had no ants. I checked the mailbox everyday for weeks, as close to delivery time as possible so the live animals wouldn't freeze to death by sitting in the cold mailbox too long. As it happened, though, they arrived on a moderate day, about 32 degrees.

The ants arrived in a tiny little plastic tube with an instruction card that said READ THIS BEFORE ATTEMPTING TO RELEASE ANTS. It told me to place the ants in the refrigerator for 15 minutes so they could go a little dormant to make the transfer into their new home safer and easier. It also warned "Do not touch the ants. They bite and sting!"

I thought the 32 degrees in the mailbox had surely been cold enough to do the job and so decided to skip the refrigerator process. I was sorry Jared wasn't here, but the poor creatures had been in that tiny tube (smaller than a blood-draw vial) for a long trip and needed to get out. So I opened the tube and started shaking them into the ant farm. Have you ever had an ant farm? The narrow slit between the two plastic sides of the thing is about the same width as a puny ant body. Getting them in there was not easy. In fact, every single one of those ants got loose all over my kitchen table. All of a sudden I was in danger of getting stung or losing them between the cracks of the table leaves or down onto the floor. It was a bonafide ant rodeo as I struggled to round up those ants! Our German Shepherd was sitting beside the table watching all of this going on, her head cocking from side to side in wonder. Eventually, I managed to recapture 11 ants. Three were dead on arrival, but I do think I got the rest of them. I put the dead ones in the farm too, because from past experience I know they have their own customs for dealing with that sort of thing.

Whew! So once they were in, I thought, "Where's the food?" None was included in the ant farm or with the ants. What do red ants eat? I went to Uncle Milton's website and found nothing there except one poor site where I could order ant food along with more ants and an encyclopedia, etc. etc. I didn't want all that. So I put a cooked kernel of rice in and hoped that was a good choice.

Doug came home and decided the little guys needed more food. He put a chunk of sourdough bread in the ant farm, smooshing it down with a table knife. I was sure that the fermentation would kill them and wanted him to take it back out. In doing so, he smashed an ant to death. I had had two glasses of wine by that time and got really upset. Doug just looked at me and said matter-of-factly "Deb, that's not the first ant I ever killed, and it won't be the last." That was the wrong thing to say! These were not just "ants" by now, don't you know. These were pets. We had a tearful exchange (tears on my part, not Doug's) and agreed to leave the ants alone for the rest of the evening.

Thankfully, the next morning they were all doing well. They are working all the time, some on swing shift and some on graveyard, digging tunnels and building mounds. Sometimes one will take a little nap, and some fighting breaks out from time to time. They bathe themselves "kitty cat" style several times a day, have buried their dismembered dead in Doug's sourdough bread (As I said, they have their own customs. I try not to judge), and seem to be very happy in their new home on my kitchen table. Yes, the ant farm is our centerpiece and conversation piece at dinner. :-) Our grandson hasn't been over to see the ant farm yet, but is anxious to do so.

And that's Debbie's Ant Farm report. You are now up to date. :-D

Fri, Feb 13  

I put a tiny bit of orange in the ant farm. They are all over that! About five of the workforce found it and are clinging to it like life, gorging for all they are worth. The two men in the lowest underground don't know about it yet. I have a feeling my little buddies were sorely in need in nourishment.

Fri, Mar 20
It has been interesting to watch and learn from my ants.

At this point, only two or three are still alive. And they are moving very slowly. My grandson wanted a job the other day. I set him to watching the ant farm to try and detect any survivors. He found four. I hadn't seen activity in several days so was glad to hear we still had life in there.

They have dug so many tunnels, quite an elaborate system, actually, that there is more sand on the top half of the farm, in the "barnyard," than there is below ground level. The cemetery is above ground. Their Tower of Babel is apparently the designated tomb.

It is intriguing to me that as the work gets closer to being finished (where else can they dig a tunnel?) they are dying off, in spite of the wonderful sunshine they receive, the delicious cookie crumbs, and regular droplets of water I give them. Like old men whose work is done, they just give up. They see no sense in idle retirement. I say old "men" because, of course, they are all males. This is quite appropriate to my way of thinking. All the heavy work is done by the men folk.

Also appropriate, in my humble opinion, every newborn female is rightly a potential "Queen." Of course, girls being girls, there is a great deal of jealousy genetically inherent, and these nasty sisters kill one another off until there is only one left. But oh, la! what a life. No big rocks to move, no dead bodies to haul away, no food to scavenge. They lay abed all day long, eating, drinking, having sex. And when they have babies, somebody else takes care of them. And the best part? It's perfectly normal, in fact desirable, to be fat.

Unfortunately, queens are not included in the vial of ants that are sent out for the ant farms. It is illegal. I imagine if I had a queen my hard-working males would live quite a bit longer and with a bit more enthusiasm. Don't you?

My next update will no doubt be the obituary, but I wanted to keep your abreast of the latest news.


Thu, Apr 9 

Obituary:

I am sorry to report that all the ants have died. Mo and Curly were the last. The two of them survived for over two weeks by themselves. They moved so slowly of late that I had to actually sit and watch for several minutes to detect any movement in the Ant Farm. During their last days I gave them Snickerdoodle crumbs, Ruby Red Grapefruit morsels, and freshwater. I think they died with full tummies.

I would like to tell you that they died wrapped in each others many arms and legs, but that is not the way of ants. Although I wasn't actually present to witness their deaths, it appears that either Mo or Curly died first and was lovingly dismembered and buried by his friend, a last tribute performed according to age-old ant ways. Whomever was the survivor, Mo or Curly, he died alone in one of the tunnels. His body lies there intact. What a brave little soldier he was!

These valiant and hard working creatures managed in their short time here to dig ten tunnels below ground, and a couple above as well. They took turns napping, working, bathing and eating. They were most excellent ant farm citizens and I shall miss them.

Partner

We had just moved into our little home in Crystal River, Florida. My computer was set up next to the window in our tiny office so I could look outside at the Jurassic Park-like environment while I worked. Florida was so very different from our home state of Washington!

I had only been at my computer a few minutes on that first day when I noticed a little gecko lizard sitting on the outside windowsill, right at my elbow. He sat quietly the entire hour I was there, appearing to be watching my computer screen.

I was surprised to see him there the next time I went into the office, and then the next time, and the next, but soon I realized he was there every time. I named him Partner, because that is what he became to me. Always there at my elbow, keeping me company, watching my computer screen. I was never certain what he saw there, but I pretended he was scholarly. He would occasionally bob his head up and down, which I took to mean "Well done. I approve." This "partnership" went on for months and I was getting a kick out of it.

And then the mating season descended upon the Floridian reptiles. My husband and I witnessed dozens of geckos mating, and two snakes in the grass out back. We had a resident alligator in the canal that ran past our house, and had been warned by the locals to be extra wary of him during the mating season.

One day, I looked out the window at Partner and noticed that he was watching, not my computer screen, but a smaller gecko on the sidewalk. He began bobbing his head up and down, not like he did for me, but violently. And his throat became engorged and turned bright red, just like the other male geckos we had seen. He was trying to attract that little female lizard, who, in my humble opinion, was too young for such nonsense. Partner leapt from the windowsill and scurried to her. Out of nowhere a big, fat gecko pounced on her and took her as his own. Partner hurried back to the windowsill, defeated.

That big lizard hung around for weeks, patrolling our sidewalk by clinging to the stucco walls of our house. Several little lady lizards appeared, and Partner bobbed his head off, swelling his little neck as big as he could, only to be outdone by the greedy, over-sexed big guy. I felt sorry for Partner. 

On a particularly muggy morning, I went into my office expecting to see my faithful little friend on the windowsill, as always.  For the first time since I had moved into that house, he was not there. In his place was a gigantic green grasshopper, four or five inches in length. I imagined the worst, that the grasshopper had eaten my Partner. I have always known grasshoppers eat grass, not meat, but Florida was a different world. I ran to the kitchen and got a Tupperware dish and caught that thing, securing him with the lid, which I poked holes into. I wanted to show it to my husband, knowing he would not believe the size of this insect unless he saw it himself.

Partner did not reappear that day, which only fed my horrified imagination. That night, my husband took the grasshopper far away from the house and released him, while I fretted about my tiny friend. But I needn't have. The next morning, Partner was at his post, waiting for me to return to my computer.

The time came for us to move back to Washington. I really hated to leave Partner behind. I thought of bringing him with us, but knew he would be miserable. There are no geckos here, and he would be lonely. I like to think that he eventually matured into a great big guy like that big bully gecko, and has found a lady (or two) who appreciates him for his great mind. I miss him, but won't ever forget him.

And he doesn't even know.

Neighborly Chickens

    A new family moved into our rural neighborhood this past year, and in fact we share a fence with them. During the summer we began hearing a very poor version of a cock-a-doodle-do, but loud and extremely effective at waking us up.  The man of the house told me he was a turken rooster (don't ask me, I have no idea...) and not to be confused with a turducken. That explains a lot. The poor turken was trying to work a gobble-gobble into his cock-a-doodle.  The neighbor said he hoped we weren't bothered by the early morning disturbance, which we are not. One of the wonderful perks of living in the county is the ability to have a few farm animals in the back yard if you want.

    Turken is very enthusiastic and has gotten quite a bit better at crowing. Sometimes he even crows perfectly. But he hasn't figured out the timing yet. We dare not set our clock by Turken. He might croak  out his wake-up call at 4:30 a.m., 6:45 or at 10:30. Often we hear him during nap time, and he never knows when to shut up. He will probably learn to pay attention to the rising of the sun one of these days, but I am surprised this talent didn't come to him naturally. Even so, I find him endearing because of his persistence.

    Turken has a few lady-friends.  One morning last summer, we awoke to find a lovely and plump little red hen on our side of the fence. She was so intent on pecking in the lawn for tidbits, she paid no attention to us. We kept our cockapoo inside for Henrietta's protection, since both cockers and poodles are bird hunters. Eventually my husband visited the neighbor lady and she took the little hen home. 

   Henrietta flew over the fence to harvest our bugs and worms every morning for over a week. We just let her be, and eventually she would fly back into her own yard. I guess the bugs are always better on the other side of the fence. On the evening of the third day, our  Zoey followed a scent trail and came back to us with a little brown chicken egg in her mouth and laid it at my feet. She went out into the yard again, and came back with another egg. And then a third. She didn't eat them, she didn't even break them. Everyday when Henrietta came calling she left us a perfect little brown present, delivered by Zoey.

    I began to feel a little guilty that we had not turned the eggs over to the family next door, but they assured me they had plenty of fresh eggs everyday. Henrietta stopped flying over the fence when they clipped her wings, but we thoroughly enjoyed the fun experience while it lasted. And we continue to smile as Turken keeps practicing his art of  cockle-gobble-doodle-doing.