Lucy's Spleen

Happy Birthday-

-to me.

Dispatch from the Department of Daring Animal Rescues

True story, told in the present tense but which actually happened like two hours ago:

So I'm walking on the farm by our house, on my way home from a venture out to try to get a good picture of the mountain Stan is climbing (I failed, the air's too thick and nasty from fires to get a good shot), when I hear a noise from the woodland like a bit of aluminum siding had come loose from one of the trees or something. Bird Nerd that I am, (and knower of the fact that there's no aluminum siding in the woodland, silly!) I naturally assume the noise is, you know, a bird, so I move in closer to investigate. Upon closer auditory inspection I realize that the clatter is actually from the gutter. It is a gutter clatter, if you will. Only this is not really a gutter, per se, but more like an irrigation ditch; they have those all over the farm. (In fact, the whole area behind our house is one, only not a ditch, exactly, more like a bog or a marsh, but anyway...) I look in the gutter expecting to see, like, a wounded chicken or something,* but instead there is a- what? A fish. A trout. Wait, no. A hammerhead! There's a tiny little hammerhead shark flopping around in the barely-still-muddy ditch trying to wiggle enough water over it's gills so that it can breathe. Except this is Utah, so that must be a catfish. A gigantic, slithery catfish that is splashing mud everywhere and looks like it could take your finger off, too boot. I'm a little squeamish, but I figure, "Poor catfish, I know I'd hate to drown," so I gather a couple of my wits together and slide into the ditch, sinking into deep mud and trying not to slip altogether and fall teeth-first onto a collossal catfish. Steadyish at the bottom, I reach for him and- ugh!- with a spray of mud he wriggles and flips over, freaking my hell out completely.

"Whew, that was a close one," I think.

Immediately after which I think, "Close to what? It's a fish. Get a grip."

I grab the catfish by his tail, slip, lose him, grab him again- more firmly this time- and scramble out of the ditch. (Now at this point some of you may be thinking- terrific! Fried catfish supper! At least that's what I thought for a moment, but you folks don't realize how filthy the farm is. That catfish has been sitting on the bottom of some of the most nasty, mingin'-est, god-awful Goose Crap Stew you can imagine. To cook and eat him would be, at best, unsanitary.) So I've got him, and I run toward the river but- whoops! He doesn't like running! He writhes and I lose my grip and drop him on his head- shit! I grab him up again and make for the river at a quick, yet steady, non-lurching pace. He seems to find this soothing; either that or he's dead already. I walk and hold him suspended upside-down and I worry- he's dead, surely by now he's dead- but at last we've reached the creek- hurray! I do hope he's not dead. I'll throw him in here- wait, no- over here, damn indecision, we're talking about life or death here! And then- aha- this spot will do. I drop him in the water.

The catfish swims away (decidedly alive!) to continue his crummy existence as bottom-feeder of the squalid shallows and I head for home, slightly shaken, but joyful and proud.**

Th' End. 

* Believe me, there is good reason on this farm to expect that at any moment you may be confronted by a wounded chicken. Or an out-and-out maimed and eaten one, for that matter.

** Prouder by the moment that I didn't try to eat that loathsome sucker.

The Rules

Stan's nieces and nephew slept over last weekend but we never saw them because we came home in the evening past their bedtime and they left in the morning before we got up, but we knew they were here because of all the damn noise the notes they left on our door in the morning* which consisted of an illustration of- something, and the message, "I WANT TO PLAY HIDE AND SEEK WITH STAN AND EMILY." Also because they had devised, printed and left behind for all to observe the following Rules of conduct:

• ALWAYS KISS THE CHILDREN
• ALWAYS CLEAN UP YOUR MESS
• BE GOOD
• DON'T PLAY IN THE FIRE
• DON'T MAKE LOUD NOISES WHEN PEOPLE ARE SLEEPING [Ahem.]
• TRY NOT TO SPILL
• ALWAYS BE NICE TO GRANDPA, GRANDMA, STAN AND EMILY

I have to say that while the sentiment is lovely, it is clear that what we have here is a case of Early-Onset Alice in Wonderland Complex in these children. They give themselves very good advice, but they seldom ever follow it.


* Yes, we know how fortunate we to have the aunt/uncle privilege of continuing to sleep after the kids are up. But rest assured, karma will catch up to us one of these days...

Fortha Ju-ly

Tonight I hit the state liquor store downtown at the very last, ridiculously crowded, line-around-the-block minute before the holiday tomorrow. After negotiating my way through the impatient masses and out of there (safely, and with alcohol- whew!) all I keep thinking is- I am SO GLAD that I have a full set of teeth. And a bra.

Happy Proud To Be An American Day, everybody. May the gap in your smile be a cradle for the straw in your cocktail.