Finding the Perpetrator

I just love initiative. The mom in this story could probably change the world with her ingenuity, determination and creativity. But maybe she has to be really ticked off, first. Maybe her sprinklers have to be jammed with flour before she'll act?

Vacation bliss is fading and real-life sets in. I have to make phone calls, finish some projects, run errands. So much for long hikes along mossy paths, kayaking in a bay off Lake Huron, and meals made by someone else. We love the family camp that feeds us so well and provides relaxing recreation in a gorgeous setting. It's hard to come back to real life.

But real life is easy to return to here in our American suburb--tame and calm compared to what so many parts of the world contend with. We read some news while we were gone, but now I'm catching up. Sojourners eekly email-zine included an editorial by Jim Wallis (under Now in Sojo Mail, "The Body of Christ in Lebanon") that pointed me to this Christianity Today article with a great roundup from several perspectives.

How long is "long ago"?

My 19-year-old neighbor is helping my girls fill up their MP3 players with music. She's letting them sample all kinds of music she's collected. I heard her singing along to Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69."

"That was one of my first two concerts!" I called down to them from upstairs. They couldn't hear me with Bryan cranked up so loud. I trotted down the stairs and poked my head into the room. "You know what? One of my first two concerts ever was Bryan Adams."

"Really?"

"Yep, I had the layered and permed '80s hair, the clothes, screaming for Bryan. Must have been '83 or '84."

"Wow."

"I think my very first concert was Rick Springfield. He passed right by. We leaned over the railing and called out, 'Hi, Rick!' He looked up and waved. I'm sure he looked right at me and smiled. I just know it."

She laughed. "Wow."

"Not that anyone even knows who he is today."

"I know who he is, and that's neat." Then she added, "I just didn't know Bryan Adams was around that long ago."

That long ago? That long ago?

Why, that was just a couple of weeks ago, wasn't it? Tonya? Angie? Was it a month or so ago?

A Parent's Worth

My kids persist in writing skits and stories where the parents are dead. The stories begin with the child suffering in an orphanage, living with a grandparent, or maybe even stuck with some mean people they aren't even related to.

Is this because they fear that this might happen to them, so they work it out through the main character, who acts brave and cunning to solve her problems?

Or is it because so many fairy tales, books and movies start out in a similar way?

Or do they want us dead?

One daughter began a story with her main character excited at having been awarded $1000 for figuring out who poisoned her parents. That was just background information; the story actually began with the main character dreaming up how to spend that money and her jealous friends that she had such a large sum. No one felt sorry that her two parents were dead--poisoned, at that! After she read a portion of the first chapter, I suggested that at least she should get a little more money for solving such a big case and finding out the criminal who poisoned her parents.

"Maybe I could change the 1 to a 5 and make it 5,000?" she proposed.

"Well," I said, "solving such a dramatic case might be worth even more, don't you think? I mean, it was her own parents! So maybe even $10,000."

Her eyes widened. "Wow, ten thousand dollars! I think I can squeeze a zero after the one."

I should think so.

Some friends of mine have experienced a great deal of physical suffering. When I hear their stories, I consider how fragile the human body is.

Then I read this story, eyeballs bugged out, wondering how the human body can be this resilient and creative?

It's a mystery.

What Shamu Taught Me about a Happy Marriage

I hope you can get to this link to the New York Times online. If not, try searching for it. You may have to sign up (it's free).

This made me laugh. I also started to imagine how to use it with my kids. I think approximations and L.R.S. would work really well for children and I guess I have done it in some instances. Otherwise, I revert to the worst possible training: nagging.

Are You My Mother? has been playing itself out over the past two days in my back yard. After the duck tragedy, this has seemed almost redemptive.

Two days ago, we heard birds making a racket in the back corner of our yard. The dog was staring intently at something on the ground.

"Oh, I'll bet the dog's cornered a baby bird."

Two kids leaped from their chairs at the kitchen table and raced out, crying, "Leave it! Leave it!" This is a command we taught our puppy in his training class. When he learns to leave alone one of his yummy treats when it's tossed not far from his nose, he gets an equivalent or better treat--a pretty good deal. He took to it. So now the training had a purpose to it--would he leave that bird alone?

The dog backed up a step, his ears still raised and curious. I grabbed a cardboard box and a big towel and followed the kids. They crowded around to protect the young bird whose wings were outstretched. He seemed frozen.

"I think he's injured," one of the kids observed. "He's not moving."

"I think Tucker bit the bird," offered another.

"I don't know," I said, "maybe the poor little thing's just scared." I scooped up the bird with the towel, and he started chirping like a squeaky toy. The dog came out of his sit, assuming, I'm sure, that anything squeaky is generally his to play with. The girls grabbed Tucker by the collar and held him back. "Keep him back until I get on the other side of the fence" I said as I popped the bird in the box and went through the gate to the other side. My guess was that it fell from a large fir tree in the neighbor's yard that stretches over our fence. The adult birds were still chirping away, furious or upset.

Feeling something like the "Snort" in the well-known children's book, I released the baby bird near the tree. He flapped a few feet away.

"He can fly!" the kids shouted, relieved.

"He'll be fine," I said. "His parents will take care of him now. Give your dog a big biscuit and tell him 'Good leave it!'"

Whew.

Next day: another baby bird drops into the yard, younger than the one from the day before. I heard the adults again warning in chorus and rushed to the open window to witness my dog staring into the weeds. "Leave it!" I commanded through the screen from inside. The dog inched back two or three steps and sat. I grabbed another towel and rushed outside, scooped up the bird and ran it outside the fence and released it. She scampered under some bushes.

Good "leave it." Good dog.

Many biscuits. Many, many biscuits.