Never Marry A Tall Man

 Never Marry A Tall Man

 

My father, Paul Arthur Winer (nee Vinitsky), was born July 25, 1908 in Duluth, Minnesota.  He was the sixth of eight children born to Abraham and Jenny (nee Ostrov) and the only boy.  As a result he had 5 older sisters who, according to him, behaved as additional mothers and who treated him like gold.  On the other hand, again according to him, his father treated him severely.  Maybe Abraham thought that the attention of all these females would make him weak.  Abraham, as a great number of Jews, was a tailor, but I also have a faint memory of my father telling me that Abraham’s family had something to do with horses and wagons in Odessa.  Until very recently, I considered myself of Russian heritage  Guess what?  Ukraine!

The middle name Arthur was purely an affectation.  In reality, he wasn’t given a middle name, but my guess is that he was the sort of boy who would have found the tales of Arthur and the Round Table much to his liking and, at that time, if you said your middle name was Arthur, who would have asked for proof?  I also think he was probably a kid who liked sports.  The reason he wasn’t accepted into the military is a chest injury suffered at college during a football game.  His voluntary military service during WWII, was to look out for submarines.  This would have taken place conveniently at home, as his parent’s Duluth house looked out over the not very sub-infested waters of Lake Superior. 

 

He attended the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis where his goal was to become a doctor, but that turned out to be much too expensive and so he became a pharmacist. Don’t get the idea that his family had enough money to send him to school.  In order to pay for his education, he spent every summer as a laborer in the wheat fields of Nebraska.  He said it was incredibly hot, dirty and hard work.  When he graduated, the Great Depression would just be starting but as a professional he was in demand and worked behind the pharmacy counter at Snyder’s Pharmacy on Lake Avenue in Duluth for many years.   By the time I showed up in 1949, he and my mother owned their own pharmacy, Paul’s Reliable Drugs, on 1st Street.  The name makes me chuckle.  In my mind, I see him telling a lineup of drug addicts that his drugs are by far the most reliable.

 

Anyway, by a certain age, maybe I was 11 or 12, my mother decided that a new responsibility, should be added to my, truthfully not very many chores, ironing.   In those days permanent press didn’t exist in our house or maybe at all,  but cotton sheets and pillowcases certainly did.  There was no such thing yet as fitted sheets.  It seems likely I would have started there.  But at some point, added to my part of the laundry basket, were my father’s clothes, specifically his cotton pajamas.   And here’s where I decided that - never would I ever - marry a tall man.  You see, my dad, who I called Pop, was 6 feet 5 inches tall.  I’m sure he was a handsome youth,  but now he would have been in his 50’s and bald.  He may still have been handsome but I was standing at the ironing board with his pajamas and – to make matters even more difficult – his cotton boxer shorts.  The boxers were impossible.  There were so many seams and it would take forever to try to avoid wrinkles.  Yet, the torture to me were those pajama legs.  They went on and on and on and just when I thought I must be close to the hem, there was still more.   I truly vowed that I would never marry a tall man! 

 

So the end of the story is that I fell in love with and married a wonderful 5 foot 10 inch man.  In the intervening years, permanent press became a household staple, people slept in t-shirts, and tidy whities were knit.  You might think that I hate ironing to this day.  Many people do.  Not me.  I much prefer woven fabric to knit and love to sit on the edge of the bed, with the ironing board that can now conveniently be positioned to a number of heights, watch something of interest on the iPad and iron to my heart’s content.

Let's Move To The Dominican Republic

 Let’s Move To The Dominican Republic

 

One Sunday in the winter of 1978, I was getting ready to go to work as the manager of a Kellwood outlet store.  Kellwood was the lead store in the new outlet mall on Highway 65 in Murfreesboro, TN outside Nashville.  This was almost the very beginning of the concept of outlet stores and malls.  Previously, I had managed and stocked the company stores owned by the company my husband worked for, Colonial Corporation, a clothing manufacturer based in Woodbury, TN with sewing facilities across the south, cutting operations in the Dominican Republic and fabric sourcing and testing in Taipei, Taiwan.  He had worked his way up while attending college at the University of Miami, from office assistant at the Miami shipping office to employee in one of the departments at the Woodbury, TN office, to head of several departments.  We were married in 1973.  The 6-8 company stores I managed for Colonial were the “real deal”.  They were located in the sewing plants, open only to employees and their families, and carrying merchandise from not only Colonial’s operations (which were primarily clothing made for Sears, Penney, K-Mart and Target) but I could also get merchandise from other Gulf and Western subsidiaries (Vanity Fair and Catalina are the two I remember).  If you ever owned a flannel shirt from one of those stores or bought any of the Cheryl Teigs clothing line, Colonial was the manufacturer.

 

Eventually, Colonial sold their store inventory to a new Gulf and Western retail subsidiary, Rolane.  But, being a woman – perhaps – I wasn’t offered the job of manager of the new Murfreesboro store, but assistant manager.  My degree in secondary education as a high school history teacher turned out to be a bust as I was one of bazillions of those Baby Boomers who chose that career.  So, I’d been a secretary at City Finance, and a cafeteria manager at Middle Tennessee State University (until they changed food service companies and once again, women weren’t welcome in management).  When I was approached by Kellwood to be the manager of the large anchor store, I jumped at the opportunity.

 

But back to that snowy Sunday.  As I was getting ready to go, Jan (my husband) said, “I think we’ve had enough of working this much”.  We have my parent’s double-wide in Wildwood, Florida (they’d passed away), we both have educations.  You can be a check out girl at Publix and I’ll work at a gas station.  Obviously, he was kidding, but the point was . . . we won’t starve.  I agreed and left to open the store.

 

Jan’s next task was to inform the Vice-President, Bill Little, that it was time for us to move on to warmer pastures.  Bill’s response was to get up, open the door to the President, Howard Stringers’ office and be the bearer of the news.  Howard’s response was to enter Bill’s office, do a hand to forehead swoon on the black leather couch, while Jan was sitting in surprise in the chair, and say he can’t believe Jan would want to leave.  “But if you want warmer, how about taking over the facilities in the Dominican Republic” or words to that effect.  So, instead of becoming a Publix check out girl, I found myself driving a U-Haul truck to Wildwood where I distinctly remember moving my spinet piano inside.  Did you know there’s a tool specifically made for that?  Now you know.

 

Our first trip to the Dominican before we actually moved, was to see the “company apartment”.  Oh dear.  This was fine for a single man, but this dark and dreary place did not spark joy – I can assure you!  I still see myself, behind Jan, whispering negatively in his ear.  “Johnny”, the Dominican man who was the local in charge, noticed my distress and mentioned that he knew of a little house under construction in the area that might be available.  We got to see it, I loved it, and I have no idea how much later, we moved in to the little, white plaster walls, red tile roof, 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom house with windows that were wooden louvred with screens but no glass except in one bedroom.  It had rusty red Mexican style tile floors, which was great because if the wind was blowing from the south and it was raining, those wooden louvres let in a lot of rain.  There was a rather noisy generator outside that came on when the power failed, which was very frequently.  I remember buying the used, green refrigerator in Miami.  Shipping was no problem as there was a Miami shipping office.  The sewing operation was in the “free zone” in La Romana, which is a small town located on the southeastern coast about an hour and half away from the capital, Santo Domingo.  The house was located in a neighborhood close by and turned out to be the area where the majority of expat families lived.  There was and still is a lovely resort just a few minutes down the coast, Casa de Campo (or country house) designed by the famous Dominican Oscar de la Renta.  It had riding stables and an artist colony built at the top of a nearby hill, Altos de Chavon.  This place had been built as a replica of a 16^th century Mediterranean village.  It was open to locals at no cost if they wanted to learn pottery (as a possible career) and to me.  I don’t remember if I paid anything, but I did learn how to clean the clay that was dug, prepare it for throwing and to actually make pots on the wheels that were operated by foot power, no electricity.  It also had an artist in residence program.  While I was there, I met and bought art from two of them, Mr. Prats-Ventos who sculpted in wood and from whom I have one of his Las Maninas pieces, and a Mr. Moro whose portraits of Bahamian children in chalk, and pen and ink hang in a bedroom.  For transportation I had a little blue and white Honda scooter with a basket on the front. 

 

The strangest ongoing chapter at that house is something we called “frog alert”.  One night in bed, just after we’d turned off the lights, something cool and damp landed on my forehead and then on the blanket.  I shrieked and Jan turned on the light.  It was a little green tree frog.  My reaction was to go to the kitchen, get an empty plastic margarine container and a thin piece of cardboard.  We corralled the frog and were able to escort him outside where he could live his best life.  And we were done, we thought.  I think possibly a frogless evening or two went by until several night later when we were getting ready for bed there was another frog on the wall.  We repeated the catch and release exercise, but when another frog was spotted later on, we realized we had to make this a nightly thing.  If we found one, we called out “frog alert” and the spotter would stay and watch the frog, while the other got the catching apparatus.  Of course we searched and searched for the source of the frogs to no avail, until one morning while I was bending over making the bed, I happened to look underneath the window mounted air conditioner.  There they were, clustered under the little water outlet opening, three little frogs with six blinking eyes looking so innocently up at me.  So that particular source of nightly “amusement” ended. 

 

At some point after frog alert, I became pregnant, which was something we’d hoped for but thought wasn’t going to happen.   Casa de Campo became a place that Jan visited several times a week because while I’d become sick enough to be hospitalized for a night because of all day morning sickness, when that got better I got a food craving for candy bars.  American candy bars.  Only available at the Casa de Campo gift shop.  I don’t even like chocolate.  I sure did then.  Fifty pounds worth.

 

Another place we visited at that time was the country adjoining the Dominican Republic, Haiti.  It wasn’t as terrifying and destroyed a place then.  It was poor, of course, and the disparity of rich and poor was blatantly obvious, but the markets were functioning.  My most distinct memory is when we went to a casino in Port Au Prince.  It must have been my first time ever as I was amazed.  Adding to that amazement was the man standing next to me at the roulette wheel.  Roulette was totally my speed.  Red or black.  Small risk, small reward.  Not this very black skinned gentleman who stood next to me.  He was dressed all in white or cream with heavy gold jewelry and his bets were hundred dollar bills.  I tried to be nonchalant, but I was shocked.  I don’t think he won, because I’m sure I’d remember.  All I remember is that he left.

 

And at a little over 8 months pregnant I left too.  By myself.  The people who were renting our townhouse in Davie had ample notice to move out so I moved back in.  This must have been late June or early July 1982 because our son Jordan was born in August.  Happily, Jan was able to get a flight out the day I called.  I remember him walking into the room.  I’d already had an epidural so was in no pain and said, “Hi honey, we’re having a baby”. 

 

Jan stayed with me for about a week but returned to the Dominican for a month to oversee the transfer of operations.  When he returned, he was in charge of the Miami warehouse and shipping operation.  And so ended our life in the Caribbean. 

 

My Life As A Chinese Opera Star

 In 1982 my husband Jan and I were back in South Florida after spending the previous three years in the Dominican Republic, where he was head of Caribbean operations for Colonial Corporation, a garment manufacturing firm, and I was an expat wife, playing bridge, driving a Honda motorbike, learning pottery and trying to get pregnant.  When I got tired of taking my temperature, we decided we weren't going to have any children (we'd been married 8 years at that point) and I threw out the thermometer and graph paper.  As you might expect, several months later I felt "odd" and sure enough, I was pregnant.  But morning sickness turned into all day sickness, which turned into very low blood pressure and I found myself in the local hospital in La Romana, where the only scientific words I could use to describe my condition in Spanish were "pee-pee and poo-poo".  Nope.  Not going to have a baby in this circumstance.

Jan was a valued employee and was transferred to head the Miami shipping operation and we bought a townhouse in Davie, a suburb of Ft. Lauderdale.  So our happy little family enjoyed the South Florida sunshine for about two and half years with our little boy until one day . . . 

"Mac Howard in Taipei is having heart issues and wants to come back." "Oh?"  "So what do you think?"  "No."  The look on his face was crestfallen.  "You really want to go, huh?"  No answer  

So, in October of 1985, all our possessions were either packed up or put in storage, the townhouse was rented and we stayed in the Taipei Sheraton until the Howards returned to the States.  One evening in that room there was a strange noise as if the building itself was talking.  And then things started shaking.  "What's that", Jan said.  "That" I replied "is an earthquake".  I never got used to earthquakes.  As a matter of fact, sometimes I'd have that kind of rolling floor feeling, like being on a ship and have to check the chandelier in the dining room to see if it was swinging.  Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't.

My mother decided to pay us a visit  Luckily, were were due to leave the country for Hong Kong.  At that time neither myself nor Jordan were able to obtain residency visas, so we had to leave for at least 24 hours every three months.  While we were gone, there was a 4.6 earthquake and we returned to an apartment where all the doors were shut, the heavy glass chandelier was smashed on the sides where it had hit the ceiling, there were cracks in the walls and scratches where hanging pictures had swung from side to side.  My friend, Emmie Lui, who had a little boy Jonathan, just Jordan's age, moved out not long after.  She said it was too terrifying.

Our son Jordan, who was 3 years old, was ready for preschool, but Montessori required children be potty trained.  He got to visit the school and that's all it took for him to immediatelt be willing and able to consistently use the toilet.  The little bus picked him and Jonathan up every morning.

Jan was frequently gone as his job required travel over the whole region and especially China to source fabric.  Samples would be sent to the Taipei office where they were washed and analyzed to see if they met U.S. standards.  

So what was I to do?  I was completely illiterate, so language lessons were begun.  Happily, Jordan picked up the language much faster than me, and I could occasionally use him to translate.  

The American military had had a large presence in Taiwan after WWII and when they left, their officers club became the Taipei-American Club and within that was organized the Taipei-American Women's Club.  You had to speak English to join and their mission was to provide social welfare.  At that time, the government didn't have the ability to do much for the poor, so this group of women, many of whom were locals, raised money to buy and donate ambulances.  Thus, this group charged dues and put on events to attract other people of means who would buy tables, etc. and so funds were raised.  After about a year, I became the membership chair.  I had so many experiences: rolling bandages at a local hospital, finding my way around the city (with help) to get the membership booklet printed, making friends and getting help from other Taiwanese women. 

I found I had more in common with the local women than the expats who, in my opinion, thought rather a lot of themselves because of their husbands positions.  I never forgot that back home I'd never be able to afford to live on the 18th floor of a building that was modeled on 5th Avenue, or have a houseman, a laundress 

 or a nanny for Jordan.  

The company paid for everything.  The only expenses we had were food, and gas for the car.  It was quite the privileged life. 

My time as an opera "star" was for one of our fund raisers.  How and why I agreed to this is beyond me as I was quite shy, but perhaps also a good sport.  We did a piece from what I learned is a famous Taiwanese movie based on an opera.  I played the role of an unscrupulous emperor (aren't they all?) who sees a young maiden in the countryside and decides he wants to have her.  Opposed to this idea is her brother.

I remember the stage fright I felt immediately before going on, but strode confidently on stage, toes pointed out, removed the large red fan from my belt and opened it with a flourish.  And the crowd went wild.  Really.  The laughing and clapping are still in my memory.  They had to quiet down as the music was taped and just kept playing as we lip-synced our parts.  After we finished there was more laughing and clapping and we stayed on stage to have our pictures taken.

What I learned somewhat later is how accomplished in their own right many of these women were.  The woman who took me to the costumer for the outfit and taught me the movements and words? A famous local choreographer.  The woman who organized a flag-bearing official motorcade trip to local hospitals where our ambulances were in use?  The wife of the secretary to the vice-president of the country.  The woman who invited me to the bandage rolling group and who whisked me and Jordan into a clinic to see a doctor when Jordan decided he should shove several salted peanuts up his nose and couldn't get the out?  The wife of the owner of the clinic.

And Pony Hsu (so glad I wrote down her name) who was so sweet and adorable?  Her family owned the largest canned food company in Taiwan.  These were rich, powerful and accomplished women.  

I had no idea, so I was simply myself.  

You may or may not know that the U.S. does not have formal governmental ties with Taiwan - so no ambassador, because of China's One China policy and our desire not to instigate WWIII.  But we do have the American Institute in Taiwan, which opened in 1979 and is wholly owned by the U.S. Government.  When we were there, the Counsel was Mr. Dean.  I was privileged to have dinner with him and his wife - although I have no memory of why, and his wife was in the audience for my performance.  I have tremendous affection for this country and sincerely hope any war with China will be avoided.

Mother of the Groom

You, Jordan Lee Roher, are the apple of my eye, as you know quite well.  You are my only child, and a boy - the name and genetic heritage continues.  In Judaism, boys take pride of place.  Not as much as in previous generations, but still ...  Along with this antiquated thinking, I'm also a subscriber to the saying, "A son's a son till he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter the rest of her life".  I heard that often enough from my own mother and came to believe in the truth of it.  So, when you went off to college, I prepared myself for your eventual emotional leave-taking.

Another thing you know as well as anything, is how much I wanted a grandchild.  Marriage?  Yes, that's nice, but really anything will do as long as a child comes of it.  This horrifies you.  I'm joking, joking ... maybe. 

Fast forward four years of college.  Girlfriends?  I know of none.  I was heartened to learn that one purpose of your computer gaming club renting out the university movie theater and sponsoring a "Dance, Dance Revolution" competition was to meet girls. Progress?  Then you went to work in Tallahassee for a number of years.  Then you up and move to Seattle.  Relationships?  I hear of none.  My own mother might scoff at my angst, as what I did to her was perhaps worse.  I married soon after college graduation and then we waited 10 years, on purpose, before getting pregnant.  Poor mom.

In any event, one day while I was at work you called.  "Hi Mom."  "Is everything okay?"  "Yes.  I wanted to let you know that I met someone."  My heart leaps into my throat.  "Really?  And how do you feel?"  "I'm head over heels!"  This is, I hope, the beginning of exactly what I want, and a mere 11 years after you left college.  Patience is a virtue, but now both you and Lily are well into your 30's.  Not much time to lose.  Clock's ticking.  You take a year to get to know each other and then propose on the Seattle ferris wheel with a plastic ring in the shape of a cat in honor of her cat Tater, to which you are violently allergic, and start a series of weekly allergy shots - I knew it was love then. 

 

I had all my and my mother's diamonds but rarely wear jewelry, so it gave me great pleasure to give them to you, which enabled Lily to have some of them reworked into an engagement ring - almost the same thing I got from my mother.

Now it's time to prepare for the wedding.  My favorite story is Lily's mother, Laura's, reaction to one of the possible wedding venues.  As I recall it was a palace of black lacquer, red velvet and leopard print.  A genuine bordello in appearance.  Laura is taken aback and horrified.  Lily is none too happy and quite aware of her mother's reaction, while you, oblivious, have a number of nice things to say about the place.  I see this in my mind and it brings quite the smile.  

As mother of the groom and a widow, I have some specific duties: offer to pay for whatever you want (within my budget), provide the rehearsal dinner and make a speech at that dinner.  Oh dear.  A speech.  That speech takes up a good deal of my time, attention and preparation.  While I'm satisfied with it once it's completed, I find that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, say it without bursting into tears.  This will not do.  It'll make everyone uncomfortable including me.  But I come up with a solution that worked like a charm!  Before each paragraph, I penciled in something very inappropriate from the cartoon show South Park.  I would look at that, laugh to myself and then was able to say my speech without blubbering.  

I wasn't as prepared the next day however, when I saw Lily in her beautiful wedding gown.  Instant tears.  I know this about myself and am not too bothered when it happens.

                                                           What I remember from the wedding itself: your future nephew Henry (age 3?), crying and refusing to walk down the aisle, and Dan, his father, picking him up and carrying him while distributing the flower petals, the officiant (a woman whose name I don't remember) having the rings tied with a red ribbon passed around the room for everyone to bless and doing a lovely ceremony, eating the salmon and thinking how delicious it was and watching you and Lily dance.                                          

I also remember a moment when your tie needed straightening.  I stepped forward, but then caught myself, stepped back and let Lily take over.  She is now the person attending to your needs.  The son has taken a wife.

The place itself provided bragging rights for me for quite some time.  You're married in The Explorer's Club in Seattle in the most impressive room I've ever seen.  Everyone I showed it to - and that would be pretty much everyone I know - was in awe.  It was super gorgeous.  I still love the picture!

Your story goes forward, but it doesn't involve your wedding and it deserves more than one entry.  So ... to be continued.

Meeting Daddy

 

By some amazing quirk of fate, I got to attend the University of Miami.  What a revelation in warmth for a girl who had grown up freezing in Duluth, Minnesota.  My parents always vacationed on Miami beach and when I was old enough to take several weeks of schoolwork with me, I was taken along - otherwise I had to stay home and Grandma looked after me.  As a point of reference, their motel of choice was the Waikiki, where we had a small dark room, which is only memorable because when I got a horrible sunburn I had to spend a good bit of time inside. 

In 1967 I graduated high school, my parents sold their pharmacy to the assistant pharmacist, Don Pasek, and we moved to Hollywood, Florida.  I have no memory of the actual move, but I can clearly see my dorm room and roommate - Arden Hetson from Teaneck, NJ.  No idea what became of her.  

In retrospect, the room, in a boys and girls tower, was similar in some ways to a double prison cell.  A brand new prison cell.  The cinderblock walls were painted brownish-grey with heavy duty grey vinyl accordion closet doors on each side as you entered, built in four drawer dressers, and built in desks with shelves, all covered in dark brown formica.  Fitting neatly beyond were two extra-long grey vinyl mattresses on metal platforms.  The only outside light came from a single window between the beds with horizontal metal shutters that closed completely with a lever making the place an impenetrable hurricane fortress.  Today I would be horrified.  Then, I was enchanted.  Freedom.  Adulthood.  The height of luxury!

Because I was six months older than your father, I was a year ahead of him in school.  My freshman year was quite the learning experience: learning about pantie raids, learning that you should actually pay close attention in class or you'll be quite surprised when you walk into Intro to Religion to a test, that you fail and, the one I wanted to learn most, learning to smoke cigarettes.  I was the height of sophistication - in my own mind.  

For some reason, when it came time to register for classes - at the library - with paper slips, some of the classes I needed were filled.  I wound up taking some sophomore level classes my first year and then taking the freshman classes the following year.  So Daddy and I wound up in Econ 102 (macro-economics  I think) together.   As this was a required course, it was given in one of the larger amphitheater rooms.  Blue plush chairs with pull down seats and desks that folded up and over.  Nice.  Turns out I really enjoy the "dismal science," which makes some sense as I was studying to be a high school history teacher.  As I enjoyed the class, I paid little to no attention to my classmates, even the guy who sat behind me to my right and asked to borrow my notes on at least two occasions.  What he looked like and his name were a mystery I didn't feel the need to solve.

He, on the other hand as he told it, was smitten; although the time I decided to put my hair in pig-tails was quite a personal challenge for him.  Nevertheless, he persevered.  The days and weeks passed and his courage failed him.  I didn't seem interested in his academic to personal attempts at contact.  Finally, it was the day of the final exam.  It was now or never.  His plan was to finish and wait for me outside.  Unaware, I finished, handed in my paper and went immediately to the bookstore to quit lugging around this three pound tome and get some money back.  The sell back book window always had a line a mile long.  Not today.  I was the only one.  I should have been out of there in less than 5 minutes, but that's not how fate planned it.  Because there was no one outside, whoever should have been inside was busy with other things.  I waited and waited and waited.

Eventually, I noticed this guy very purposefully walking  toward me.  "He's going to ask me out" I said to myself "how flattering".  Sure enough, that's exactly what happened.  

The date was for dinner that night .  He had a friend he could visit who lived in the boy's tower, so he walked me back to the lobby and we went our segregated ways.  At the appointed time, I met him downstairs and now we had to walk to the parking lot.  He lived off campus so parking wasn't convenient to the dorm.  Being as shallow as I was and perhaps still am - hopefully not THAT much - I asked which car, in a fairly empty lot, was his.  "The green one".  "Yikes", said my brain.  The broken down green thing with peeling paint was not what I envisioned for Miss Princess.  "Oh, that one?" I asked in as nonchalant a voice as I could muster.  "No, the one on the other side."  And what to my wondering eye should appear, but an extremely snazzy, late model green Corvette.  Wowsers!

Turned out his father ( of course ) was something of a Corvette enthusiast who sometimes had one more car than people who drove, and Jan, probably having this date in mind some days before, had borrowed it  hoping to impress me I assume.  Worked like a charm.

I remember that night pretty clearly.  Dinner at Shoney's Bar-B-Q, which burned down some years later, a Corvette Club meeting, which I found quite boring and may have been the only one he ever went to, and a kiss.  I also learned he was Jewish, quite the plus if things got serious.  I knew I liked this guy.  I learned later that after walking me back he went to see his friend confessing he thought he'd found the one.

And 5 years later we were married.  And nine years after that you made your appearance.  And that's another story for another time.

Oh no, the bunny!

 Oh no, the bunny!

Originally written June 13, 2021.

Much time has passed.  Now I’m retired to a little house on a pond close to Mt. Dora.  Even though this spot isn’t rural, it is very quiet and there’s lots of wildlife.  As a matter of fact, last night at dusk as I sat on the couch looking over the pond, the little brown bunny who lives perhaps under the shed, sniffled its way carefully under the bushes toward Jerry’s house.  Roman, one of my twin almost two-year old grandsons, is a big fan of bunnies. 

The next morning I did my new morning routine of taking coffee and a book to the front porch to enjoy the air and the sights and sounds.  But what’s that in the bend in the road, right where my property touches Richard’s?   A bunch of black vultures are clustered around what I assume must be a dead animal.  Oh no!  The little bunny.  It must be the little brown bunny.  I can’t tell but there’s definitely a lump of something there.  Then I see Richard looking at this group and taking pictures or a video.  

What should I do?  What can I do?  This is nature after all and vultures are supposed to scavenge dead animals.  I feel so sad but vultures have a right to exist even if they are, well, you know. 

But then as the vultures peck at the carcass, I see it has a long skinny tail.  Wait a minute!  That can’t be the bunny. What is it?  As I keep watching I realize it’s an armadillo.  In a flash all my heartbreak over the poor dead bunny is gone completely.  Armadillos dig under foundations and are a royal pain.  Now I’m rooting for the vultures.  

But this is not the end of the story.  The next morning the vultures, during their pecking and fighting have moved the dead armadillo from the road into the grass directly opposite the spot where I read and have coffee every morning.  Well this is pretty uncomfortable while also being rather interesting.  I now know that the sounds vultures make is rather like the light woofing you hear from dogs when they’re curiously investigating something.   I also know that a vulture on the roof sounds like a person walking around up there.  That was momentarily rather scary until I figured the cause.  

Later that day I made a trip to the drugstore but on my return realized that those vultures have now moved the carcass onto my lawn.  No no, now there’s a problem.  It was interesting when it was over there.  It’s gotta go now that it’s over here.  What to do?

My first thought is to get a sturdy rake and a garbage bag, but while it’s my first thought, it’s my least appealing option.   Can I get someone else to handle this?  Do my tax dollars pay for armadillo removal?  Who might handle this?  My first call is to animal control.  They’d be happy to come and pick up a dead pet so they can scan it for a chip.  But a wild animal?  ‘Fraid not.  They suggest calling the city utility department.  That’s a thought.  Sanitation workers?  Maybe.  Another, “sorry no” but they recommend Florida Fish and Wildlife.  Okay, make the call, another no.  Dead end.

Coincidentally, just as I hang up there’s a knock at the door.  It’s the monthly lawn pest control guy here to introduce himself as he’s new and we’ve never met.  I walk outside with him and mention the armadillo/vulture issue continuing “over there”.  He launches into a speech about the importance of buzzards.  While I’m quite aware of and appreciate these sanitation workers of the wild, I’m much less enamored when they’re doing the work up close and personal. 

“Would I like him to move the armadillo?”   Yes please.  Yes I have a shovel.  He puts on a mask, takes the shovel, picks up the very stiff creature, walks it across the street up the embankment and heaves it a good way over the bushes onto the former sod farm.  Then he even graciously uses the water spigot on his truck to wash off the shovel.  My hero!

So it’s an “all’s well that ends well” episode.  But it brings to mind my skeptical thought on coincidences.  I think they’re just that.  Coincidence.  This one sure was lucky for me.  I’m still a skeptic but maybe just a little more open to alternate ways the universe might be working.  Maybe.  

But wait, there's more to be learned from this story.  A word that's come to the fore in the past year is "woke".  I looked up its meaning and it harkens me back to the 1970's when, as a women, I got involved in the women's movement.  In those days learning to look at the way things are with a different mindset was called consciousness raising.   Now, as I think about my feelings about the bunny (pure, innocent, Peter, the white rabbit who was late for an important date), my obvious antipathy toward the armadillo which has generally a poor reputation here in Florida, sticks out as a prejudice.   I accepted that as normal and okay when I originally wrote this piece.  Now, I have the same prejudice - but I'm at least aware and I could soften my heart just a little bit towards this armadillo.  I guess that's progress.

Library Books

I'm sure just about everyone has been to the library and taken out books.  Me too.  But I seem to have a little problem; not with taking out the books, but with bringing them back.  Yes, I know, all I have to do is call the library and renew the books.  Sounds easy, doesn't it?  And it is, unless you don't.  And I don't. Then there are fines to be paid, and of course the guilt.  

Luckily, the library also sells books.  And they sell them at a price that even I think is too low.  That's a shocker, huh?  How would you feel about buying 4 wonderful books for $1.  Yes, that's the going rate at the Davie/Cooper City Branch.  So, I buy as many books as I can find and when I'm done I simply bring them back and buy more.  It's much cheaper than the fines and I can take as much time as I wish with each one.  Plus, I'm supporting the library instead of being charged for my crime.

The other good thing about buying them is that I can choose only the size I want.  I don't care for hardcovers, too difficult to hold.  You certainly can't hold a large one with one hand while you sip coffee with the other.  Plus, people who bring in these books tend to fall into several categories, one of which is perfect for me; good books.  Good - as opposed to romance novels, which have their own cart, there are so many of them.  Then there are the self-help and spiritual books, also not my cup of tea.  But right on the top, within easiest reach are the Pulitzer Prize and other award winners.  Then there are English translations of Latin American authors.  I always find those worthwhile.

So, two days ago I brought back 10 books and bought 7 at the astounding price of $1.75.  I'm reading and enjoying "Drinking the Rain" now.  School begins again on January 4th and some of the above will have found their way to the lower shelf, indicating they can be returned.  Here's a secret.  I write my first name and my last initial in each book.  In one respect it's a way of reaching out to the future reader.  In another way, it's a reminder that I've already read the book.

One additional perc to this library, which was a surprise to me, is that it's right next to a horse pasture.  I never noticed them before but here are couple of pictures I took, having brought my camera just by chance.

I love the library!