Throwback (Wednes)day: This Squirrely World

Have I mentioned that I was a troublemaker throughout my school years?  One day in 11th grade, our teacher left us with a substitute and a writing assignment.  I really didn't feel like doing the writing assignment.  Everyone in the class secretly agreed that we'd somehow add in squirrels into our essays.  The rest of the class wrote the proper essay and snuck in a squirrel reference, and I wrote...this.

This Squirrely World

I was going to write on a different topic, but it was really depressing and I hate being depressed.  I therefore decided to disregard that idea, even though I had an excellent opening sentence.  Bright and cheery things are much better to write about.  So here is the brightest and the cheeriest incident that actually occurred about which I am willing to write.

When I was in fourth grade, I used to wait outside my apartment building every morning for the school van to pick me up.  I studied the grass and the trees for lack of anything better to do.  One morning a squirrel caught my attention.  At first it was just running around the base of a tall tree, but then it stopped.  I watched in fascination as the squirrel stood up on its hind legs and supported itself with one of its forelegs against the tree.  It looked just like a human causally leaning against a wall.  I half expected the squirrel to cross its legs.

When I reached seventh grade, I had a teacher who was afraid of squirrels.  Directly outside her classroom window was a tree that was home to an entire family of squirrels.  Every time she caught sight of one of the creatures, she would shudder and turn away.  If a window was open, she would get very antsy and tense until it was closed, barring all squirrels from entering her safe haven.  She was definitely terrified of squirrels.  Oh well.  That's what you get from growing up in New York. J

Squirrels are actually not terribly smart, and they never learned the basics of safety: only cross streets in the crosswalks and when the light is green.  Squirrels just don't get it.  That's why so many of them wind up as road decorations.  Even so, they are really cute.

If everyone in the world was like squirrels, few technological advancements would occur, people would keep dying off from their own stupidity, and disease would quickly spread through the rotting carcasses.  Thankfully, humans have more sense than squirrels.

Squirrels can actually be quite useful.  A parent can point at a squirrel and say to her child, "See that squirrel, Katie?  Never do what that squirrel is doing.  We only cross streets at the crosswalk when the light is green."  And then the children will learn.  "Look at that dead squirrel in the street, Katie.  He wasn't following the basic rules of safety."

Okay, so maybe this isn't as bright and happy as I had predicted.  Oops.

My various experiences with squirrels have taught me not to model my behavior after that of animals.  Even though they sometimes show human like characteristics, they are not humans.  Personally, I think that I'm better at not getting myself killed than the animals are.

So, about this contraction thing.  Oh, yeah, and this 'thing' thing.  I agree that contractions are not appropriate in formal writing.  But come on, who would actually consider this piece to be formal?  I certainly don't.  And I will agree that the word 'thing' is about as non-specific as you can get, but sometimes it just fits really well.

Back to squirrels.  As cute as they are, they aren't very smart/  And they can be a real nuisance if they get into your attic or your walls and wake people up in the middle of the night.

There are many people in this world who are just like squirrels.  I think that the human race would be better off without them.  Unfortunately, to search out such people and kill them would be too hard and unethical.  Also, it is impossible to insure that none of them reproduce.  And then how can we decide how squirrely is too squirrely?  It is completely impossible.

 
Squirrels shall live on in the human race until the end of time.

Some Secrets Shouldn't be Kept

I remembered this story today and wanted to share it, because there's an important parenting lesson in here.

In 7th grade, a new girl joined our school. She didn't quite fit in - and I'm assuming she hadn't at her previous school either, hence the move - but it was a small school and we were all friendly, and although we weren't "besties" we did become pretty good friends. One day in art class she told me she wanted to hurt herself or kill herself (I can't remember exactly). Somehow I was able to keep my composure and tell her she really didn't want to do that, but without freaking out at her the way I was freaking out inside. First chance I could slip away, I went and told my teacher privately. The girl did wind up in a psychiatric hospital for treatment, I believe, and she actually didn't finish out the year at our school. She for sure wasn't back for 8th grade.

As a 13-year-old I could have easily brushed it off as a joke, not taken her seriously, or been too scared to tell anyone else. And who knows if she would have gone through with anything? But something in my upbringing told me better safe than sorry, I must take her seriously and get help ASAP. I seem to remember she got angry with me for breaking her confidence.  

It's important that our kids know that even if someone gets angry with us for doing the right thing, that doesn't excuse us from doing the right thing.

It took me hours today to remember her name, and now that I have I can't find her on FB or Google. I sincerely hope that's simply a matter of little internet presence or a name change due to marriage, but it also haunts me that I'd almost forgotten about her entirely and I don't know what the end of her story was. Did I listen in time? Was she so depressed by the time she said anything to me that she could never quite dig herself out of that hole? Or did she find a light in her life, the light that was already shining bright inside of her but that she couldn't see?

T.A., there's no way you're reading this, but I'm thinking of you today...

It's the Little Things that Count

Life is busy and everyone is entrenched in their own little worlds with their own little worries.  In this era of electronic over-connectedness and personal under-connectedness, it is a simple matter for someone to fall into the background and...disappear.

Sometimes these disappearing people are fine and busy and living their own lives.  And sometimes they are hurting inside, seething, broken, scared, lonely.  The funny thing is that it is such a simple matter to give someone a feeling of being cared for, and yet how many of us think of these people regularly and reach out for a simple "Hello" or "How are you doing"?

Case in point, a coworker from my online workplace hadn't spoken with me for a while.  We don't work closely together, but we had some nice life discussions and I got the feeling from her emails and backstory that she needed a lot of support, and typically received little to none.  One day I was thinking back and couldn't remember the last time we had spoken, so I just jotted off a quick email to ask how she's doing and say I was thinking of her.

Time to write three-sentence email:  under a minute.

Feeling it gave her to know someone remembered she existed:  priceless.

Everyone needs to feel loved.  We all show love and feel love in different ways, but all we really want in life is warmth and love and security.  It's the little things that count, in this hectic world of over-connectedness which is really the epitome of loneliness.

Haven't seen a friend lately on Facebook?  Give them a call.  Coworker feeling down lately?  A short email saying you appreciate their hard work can go a long way.  Acknowledgement that a person exists and is not forgotten can literally save that person's life.

You never know when by reaching out you can change their life...or yours.

Scarlet Fever

Born in the US in the late 20th century, there are many things about life that I take for granted.  Vaccinations, for example.  Antibiotics.  Health.  And a distinct lack of the illnesses that people die of in some of my favorite 19th century novels.

All of which is why I was utterly floored when my daughter was diagnosed with scarlet fever at the beginning of this week.

To me, it seemed like such an outdated illness to contract, though of course as soon as you open your mouth about it you find a dozen people saying their child had it, they had it, their first cousin's second wife's rabbi's son had it, etcetera.  But my daughter?  Now, in 2015?  She hadn't even seemed so ill, just a very slight fever of 37.5C and then a rash on her chest and back.  It's really the rash that made me take her to the doctor.

I try to imagine what would have happened to her had she contracted it a century ago.  Today it seems very minor; within 24 hours of the rash first appearing she was on antiobiotics, and 24 hours after that she was more or less her usual self.  How would it have progressed had antibiotics not been discovered yet?  What would happen if we were in an area with limited access to healthcare - or none at all?

Reading through the literature you find that the potential side effects and outcomes of untreated scarlet fever are actually quite scary.  With our family's easy and cheap access to healthcare, aside from the "scary" name of the illness, it just seemed like one of the run-of-the-mill things that kids catch and get over just as quickly.  There was never any fear for her survival or the potential future side effects for her.

Then I wonder about the large parts of the world where such health and access to doctors and medicines are not something that can be taken for granted.  When their child develops scarlet fever, what do they do?  What do they think?  How do they get through it?  The fatality rates of scarlet fever are around 1% nowadays, down from 15-20% pre-antibiotics.  But I can't help but wonder if the 99% / 1% split is 99 children in first-world countries who survive and 1 child in a third-world country who dies.

A century ago, scarlet fever would have spelled death for 1 in 5 children.  Such a diagnosis could strike fear into a parent's heart.  Now we're so cocky with our medical advancements that my daughter was diagnosed with it and I got home and laughed for an hour and the sheer absurdity.

I'm the parent of one of the 99, so I can laugh and be relaxed about it.  But who's the parent of the 1?

Throwback Thursday: A Gyro's Tale

Sometimes when you go back to read old things, you realize you were probably the bane of your English teacher's existence.  The following story was what I submitted when my 9th grade teacher gave us an assignment to write a story about a hero.  Of course I had to be cheeky, so not only did I write about a gyro (okay, I know it's not exactly the same pronunciation but close enough), I also utilized a book of obscure words that we had lying around the house.

Enjoy this strange and awkward story of 14-year-old me!

A Gyro's Tale

I have a problem with dromomania. It seems as if I haven’t stopped traveling since the day that I started. Well, not until now, that is. Someone found me and stuck me on this cold shelf along with some others like me. Except, they aren’t really like me at all. Sure, we all look the same (well, I do look a little travel-worn), but I am the only dromomaniac among us. I have tried speaking with the others, but they just do not seem to understand. After trying my best to explain myself to them numerous times, they ceased speaking with me. I feel so lonely….

My problems all started when I was banned from ever returning to my birthplace, Gyroshima. You see, I had a little too much zwetschenwasser one night and I got a little rowdy. I am ashamed to say that I turned cannibal; one of my fellow gyros was gone within minutes. He never even had a chance. Thankfully, my memory of this incident is rather sketchy, at least partially due to the fact that I was intoxicated. Unfortunately, however, no one else’s memory was sketchy at all.

My friends and family expelled me from my own home. They spit their sauce at me and made me all soggy. I left with my few belongings tucked into my pouch, and wandered from city to city. Word of my awful deed preceded me, and I found myself shunned by gyros that I had never even met. I grew more depressed by the day, even by the hour.

I soon found myself in the coastal city of Osaka. The docks attracted me, and I soon found myself among the hustle and bustle along them. I looked longingly at the water – it was just out of my reach – and contemplated getting someone to toss me in. The water would ruin me in a moment, completely destroy me in two. It seemed the quickest way to be out of my misery, but I decided against it. Even now, I have my regrets over that.

I managed to get passage on a ship headed for the United States of America, a far off place of which I had heard. I had to sell nearly all of my belongings in order to collect enough money for the passage fee, but I managed. I lost track of time on the ship; it could have taken me days or months to reach my destination.

We landed in the city of San Francisco. As I disembarked, I marveled at how different it was from Gyroshima and all the other cities I had seen. Everything was built in a completely different manner; nothing looked the same.

I remained in San Francisco for several days before moving on. I traveled from place to place for several months, unable to stay in one place for longer than a day. I began to suffer from halitosis, and I noticed that everyone started avoiding me. This greatly distressed me, so I decided to keep moving.

After many months of traveling, I came to a city called Chicago. It seemed even stranger to me than did San Francisco. I said it did; it no longer does. I have long since gotten used to it. But I get ahead of myself.

As I wandered around the city, I marveled at how many gyros I saw, and envied them when I saw them being eaten. Oh, how I longed for a life like theirs! A cool place to rest and an appreciative mouth waiting! I passed by places that had signs in the windows announcing that you could buy a gyro inside. After a few hours of aimlessly wandering the streets, I finally stepped into one of these shops. Tables and chairs were scattered about, and towards the back I saw a glass case full of gyros. Perhaps here I would find better luck.

I climbed up onto one of the many tables and settled down to wait. I hoped that eventually someone would come and eat me. As I waited, and waited, and waited, I observed the other gyros. They were in much better shape than I, and as I watched, people came into the shop and bought them. Not a single person even glanced in my direction.

I would have jumped off the table and ended everything right then and there, but an old man came over and picked me up. I recognized this man; he was the one that stood behind the glass case and handed people gyros. He handled me gently and probed my entire body. The man grimaced and carried me back behind the glass case. To my horror, he opened me up and removed my innards. I started trembling with fear as he threw them into a large, foul-smelling can. When he returned, he was holding a new set of innards. He carefully arranged everything inside my shell and closed me up again.

That is the story of how I ended up in this cold glass case, off to the side all by myself. The old man takes good care of me; he changes my innards twice a week, and always makes sure that I am comfortably placed in the case. But customers come and go, and my companions disappear and are replaced by new. I am never given a second glance.

Ah, here comes another customer. I have given up hope that anyone will ever want me. I am convinced that I will die here, rotting away with no one to mourn me when I am gone. I wonder which gyro this customer will choose. Maybe he’ll choose Fred, he’s nice and healthy. Wait…he’s looking right at me! This can’t be happening. Oh, the old man is picking me up! At last, someone wants me.

The customer is carrying me over to his table and setting me down. He is unwrapping me, being very careful not to spill out any of my innards. He is lifting me to his mouth.

See, the vanquishing gyro comes!
Stomach acid, beat your drums!

Babywearing in Danger

The times we live in, the times we live in...

What has the world come to when the local babywearing group discussion is about what's the best way to protect your baby if you're wearing them during a terrorist attack - front carry or back carry?  Back carry you can run faster, front carry you can use your arms to protect the baby.  Back carry and the child is protected from a frontal assault; front carry and the child isn't stabbed when the attacker comes from behind.  But what if it's not a knife attack, and instead it's a car attack?  Is a stroller better for that?  Are we putting the kids in danger by wearing them, or are we protecting them as best as possible?

My own children are beyond the stage of being worn, but now I walk around town pushing the heavy double stroller loaded with 35kg of children, plus the weight of the stroller itself.  I'm not going to lie, the two-and-a-half hours I spend pushing the stroller every day definitely has me worried.  Could I get the kids out of harm's way quickly enough?  Am I strong enough and fast enough to push them to safety?  Would I have the presence of mind to make the right decision about how to react and to where to run?

Have I gotten my life in order?

It's sad and distressing and pathetic that as I walk Child #1 to school in the morning I worry that I haven't written a will.  And while walking Child #2 to daycare I debate if we can fit life insurance into our tight monthly budget.  And then when I return home to work for my few precious morning hours without the kids, I suddenly feel guilty that my mind was preoccupied with those things and I wasn't being aware of my surroundings.

I'm scared to check the news.  Every time I check there was this successful attack, this thwarted attempt; this road closed or that company of reservists called to duty.  Parents demanding extra security around the schools, while other parents say a security guard would just be an extra person who could be stabbed and killed.

Ad matai?  Until when?

Throwback Thursday: Short Story

With the wave of terror attacks that has hit Israel over the past week-plus, I find it difficult to concentrate on writing for myself or writing anything remotely happy (not that my usual work is happy, I actually have incredible difficulty writing happy stories).  So for this Throwback Thursday post, here is a short piece I wrote right when I turned 19.  I don't remember what exactly precipitated this story but I have two distinctly different versions of it and I like this one better.  It seems fitting, for current events.  May we know sorrow no more.

In a Puff of Smoke

A never-ending column of concentration camp inmates, all ages and sizes, shuffling five-abreast down a road flanked by two barbed-wire fences.  There is no color; even the sun is cold and grey.  The column moves very slowly.  All sway side to side as a single unit, in rhythm with their footfalls, which sound as one.  The guards in the watchtowers are motionless.

Slowly, starting with a single inmate, there arises a low moan and wailing.  With each additional voice, into the hundreds and thousands and millions, a funeral dirge begins to make itself heard with uniquely intertwining harmonies.  All play some part in the dreadful song, down to the smallest Jewess dragging her feet at the edge of the group.  There is a beauty in the sound, and great, great sadness.  Such sadness and despair the world has seen too many times before, and shall revisit countless more times.

              

The road, like the column, seems to be never-ending.  But always in the distance can be seen a great smokestack, towering over the squat building at its base.  A steady black stream of smoke pours forth and separates into smaller puffs.  Upon closer inspection, each puff forms a name.  One says Freida; another reads Menachem.  But in the end, they all dissipate and disappear forever.  There are no exceptions.

          

Although each individual’s eyes are fixed ahead or on the ground, their hearts, as one, reach out to our Father in Heaven.

        

Some color begins to appear in the sky.  First one man sees, then two, then ten, then one hundred.  As more faces are upturned, the color begins to brighten and solidify into the shape of a city.  Mouths that have forgotten how to smile hesitatingly remember, and voices that have forgotten the sounds of joy are suddenly gleeful as all recognize the city to be Jerusalem.  Her radiance warms the hungry faces and brightens the dulled eyes.  The myriad footfalls become lighter and lighter until the column is dancing, newfound strength injected into spindly legs.

Jerusalem! they shout.  Here is our salvation at last!

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

Our Father has heard our prayers and answered us! they sing.

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

We shall finally be free! they cry.

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

The group surges forward, conscious only of the brilliant Jerusalem hanging in the ash-laden sky.  Their bodies, abused for so many years, yearn only to rest.  But their souls – their souls are yet strong.

              

And still they stream forward.

        

The first rows reach the crematorium, eyes still skyward.  It is but the work of a moment and their bodies come out the smokestack as nothing but a puff of smoke and a name.

               

But they don’t dissipate.

               

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed and intensity, the puffs of smoke stream towards the still-evident Jerusalem in the sky.  They see other puffs, other names, other souls approaching the city from all directions.

               
We’re going home, they say to each other in ecstasy.  Finally, we’re going home.