The Taleswappers’ Porch

I was expecting a visit from a dear friend in August. He’s from Ontario, where butter tarts are a favorite treat, and I live in Virginia, where nobody has ever heard the words butter and tart put together that way before. I wanted to surprise him by having butter tarts for him when he arrived, a taste of home, and something I know he could very well eat at (if not for) every meal in the day. But I didn’t know what kind he liked best. Raisins? Nuts or no nuts? If nuts, what kind - pecans, walnuts?

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Once, long ago, there was a Yard Art Bear.
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My son first cussed when he was about two-and-a-half. He didn’t realize that cussing was a bad thing, or that he was saying something he shouldn’t. He was just mimicking his (naughty) parents. He toddled into our bedroom from his room and announced, “Oh s**t, there’s monsters in the hallway!”

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January 1997

The room is dark, except for the pale glow behind my windowshades. The clock beside me winks into a new time: 12:33. All is quiet now; no sounds filter up from the street below.

*Click* I hear. It is the refrigerator, and the soothing whir of its motor calms me.

*Whoosh* The heater has come on, and warm air now blows through the vents.

*Tick tick* The clock in the hallway counts out the time, dependably measuring the seconds for me in its mechanical perfection.

*Cree-eak*

What was that? I don’t recognize that noise. Where did it come from? I lie still in my warm bed, hands clenching the covers beneath my chin, and listen hard for the sound.

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I remember Mom measuring me on growth charts when I was young. She would step me up to the wall where the chart hung, tell me to stand up straight, and make the mark at the top of my head. I would be so excited to see that I’d grown half an inch in the previous year, and Mom would dutifully note the date next to my new mark. At some point, the growth charts disappeared. I’m not sure when, and I don’t know what happened to them. I suspect Mom has them hidden away with my baby clothes and those teeny baby shoes, but she won’t admit to it.

I know I’m a rotten mother because I don’t have growth charts for my kids.

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September, 1997

Robbie likes to play pretend. Pretending is very serious business for a three-year-old boy. When he becomes Darth Vader or Freakazoid or Daddy, Robbie becomes that character one hundred percent. You much call him by his correct name when he is pretending, and woe to you if you don’t know who it is that he is pretending to be! You must act as he tells you to act in your role. If Darth Vader tells you that you are Luke Skywalker and you have to cross light sabers with him, then by golly you’d better.

A few weeks ago, Robbie became God.

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Corny was a corn snake. He was about four feet long, and very proud of his beautiful orange and gold and brown skin. He lived in Mr. H’s classroom at Old Donation Center, where he got to meet all kinds of children, who loved him and took care of him. But sometimes, the children would all go away. Most of the time it was only for a day or two, but at other times, it would be for a week or more. At those times, Corny would get very lonely and sad.

One year, Corny met a class of children that he loved.

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Some quick little stories for this Sunday morning for you…

When I was in fifth grade, I was preparing for First Communion. The parish did this by sending home a series of letters that were to be discussed in the family. We were discussing the last one at the dinner table, and my mother observed, “In some churches, they don’t use wine at Communion.” My five-year-old sister gasped and said, “You mean they use real blood?”

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I have been fortunate through my life. For, yea, I am a klutz. Despite that fact, serious injury has not befallen me.

I don’t recall how old I would have been, but I was probably in the 8- to 11-year-old range, when one day I was over at the house of a friend who lived just around the corner from me. And we decided to play baseball. And, we had fun (especially because her yard was bigger than ours, though home runs would be hit into the forest instead of over a fence). But it was often hard to retrieve balls, so we’d try to keep them on their lawn instead of ruining the fun by losing the ball.

So, I remember her pitching to me. I remember getting a great hit, and excitedly thinking I had a sure home run. And I started to run. I touched first base, which was probably somebody’s jacket. I ran and kept running as I circled second base, which may have been a patch of sand in the lawn.

Then, as I kept running, something felt wrong.
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When I was growing up, I had a retarded parakeet.

Isn’t that a great opening line? It’s funny, it’s unexpected, it’s politically incorrect, and now you’re thinking how on earth can a parakeet be retarded? Well, she was. But as in all stories, this one has a beginning, and the retarded parakeet comes in somewhere in the middle.

When I was in second grade, living in New Orleans, my parents gave me a parakeet for Christmas. (And to be completely nitpicky, it was actually a budgierigar or budgie, because that’s the proper name for what we usually call parakeets in the States.) He was a fun little thing, blue and white. Because he was too young to know his sex yet, I named him Hobbie, after Holly Hobbie, which gives you an idea of my age. He was quite smart, and in the time I had him, he learned to whistle, mimic the telephone, and say a handful of phrases. I loved to play with him, to let him ride around on my shoulder, to watch him play with his toys.

Hobbie, however, turned out to be like a Greek tragic hero.
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