On the Way Home from the Vet

Dr. Wallace speaks quietly as he examines Fuzz. He turns the gray tiger cat’s head back, lifting a lip to check the teeth for plaque. Raven - my sleek, black, beauty - waits calmly beneath my stroking hand for her turn. As always on these visits to the vet, I am proud of them both. Not many cats would endure so peaceably this probing on a cold steel table.

I glance out the lilac-framed window at the gravel drive bordered by a split rail fence, an overgrown swamp beyond. It is lovely here; if I were a cat, I’d join Fuzz and Raven in purring. “They’ll do that when they’re nervous as well,” says the doctor. Really? Contentment and anxiety expressed via the same soothing rumble?

After their examinations, the cats slide into their carriers without fuss. I pick up some free samples of cat food, then head out the door and crunch over the gravel to the car. “We’re going on a little field trip before we go home,” I say to the cats. Unmoved, they gaze through the bars of their cages with green, unblinking, eyes.

I take a detour down Orchard Lane, so narrow as to grant only one car passage. Lavender lilacs brush the car as I pass with windows open, breathing in the scent. The rocking chairs on the porch of a roadside farmhouse call for a sit, but no one is home. Slowly I drive past barns and orchards, enjoying this drive through a vestige of the town’s farming history. The dairy industry has collapsed and developers lust over these flat fields where cows used to graze.

As I round the corner and head down Sport Hill Road, horses browse on hay in a muddy pasture. Just down the way, spiked black staves encircle the ancient gravestones of Union Cemetery across the road from a pond encircled by woodlands. A subdivision of twenty ten-bedroom houses is planned for that wooded property. What will the White Lady, the legendary ghost known to drift about the cemetery, make of trundling yellow bulldozers growling and tearing at the earth near her domain?

The cats are quiet as I drive and ruminate.

The town is characterized by stonewalls, spring gardens, colonial homes and woods re-established since the clearing of Connecticut ended, since the water company purchased thousands of acres of land to protect their reservoirs. I turn left on North Park and pass through Maple Row Farm. Rows of balsam and Douglas fir roll away to either side, left to peaceful growth until the Christmas shoppers descend.

I backtrack in order to pick up some eggs. Joe is in the yard, pulling up weeds, serenaded by the gentle clucks of his hens and the occasional crow of a bossy rooster.

“Your daughter was here yesterday,” he tells me, straightening up, weeds hanging limp from his hand. He peers through his spectacles from under a hat worn low on his brow. Mutton chop sideburns cup a face browned by outdoor work.

“She did? We’ll have a good supply then. I saw the empty carton on the counter and Dave had a half dozen eggs boiled and cooling in the sink, so I figured we were out.”

“She bought two dozen.”

“Well, I’ll get a dozen anyway. We’ll eat ‘em.”

The door to Joe’s basement is unlocked. Assorted tools, paint cans, and stacks of newspaper share space with empty egg cartons and a refrigerator. I open the refrigerator door and select a carton marked “$2.00 – Please Return” in red magic marker. I leave the money in a cigar box that holds some change and a few singles. I love this honor system. It makes me sad to remember that, once, someone stole Joe’s egg money.

Joe goes back to his weeding as I turn the car around. I call endearments to the chickens as I pass their cages: the white furry hen that looks more like an animal than fowl, the full-breasted henna brown nester, the soft-cooing quail, the banty roosters. On some days, they are free to peck about, but when I spot a man walking by, straining to control two German shepherds, I’m glad the birds are caged this afternoon.

I drive past the police station, town hall, and library, and then up the hill, where farm fields border the road. The new elementary school, completed less than a year ago, is set back to the left. I’d worried about the effect of the construction on this old road lined with maple-shaded stone walls, but sometimes things work out right. Gambrel barn roofs and a silo house classrooms and an auditorium and, but for the parking lots, it would not be surprising to see cows munching grass in the playing fields.

Fuzz and Raven are silent in their plastic caves on the floor of the car as we draw closer to our house. The two cages are face-to-face so the cats can see each other, and perhaps they are calm because they know the pattern of these rare trips: into the vehicle, onto a cold shiny surface, pricks and prods, the hum of the engine and then, home again.

Feeder Frolic

A little girl in a white frock and oversized bow leapt at a fawn, shrieking, “Come play with me!” With a kick of slender legs and good sense in his choice of playmates, the fawn beat it into the woods. As I sat in my mother’s lap listening to the story, even I could see, though I was no more than six, that this child was doing things all wrong. On every page of the book, the grabby sprite showed no social skills whatsoever: jumping at the frog who jumped away, flying at the bird who wisely flew. By the end of the tale, the child had slumped to a log in lonely despair. Emboldened by her immobility, the forgiving forest creatures crept to her side, the bird perching on her shoulder, the frog harrumphing companionably at her feet. A happy ending of species co-existence.

Such a lovely, simple book for a fifties child like myself. No dying pets, ailing grandparents, or moral quandries - just a happy story about the futility of aggression and the rewards of quiet acceptance. Well, surely that was implied. I think of that little girl often as I sit here on the back porch. As long as I stay still, the bird feeder at the edge of the lawn draws customers looking for a bite.

I am witness, daily, to the reality of pecking order. Titmice and chickadees alight without fanfare on the feeder platform, while bluejays swoop in with self-important squawks; they prefer ground droppings, but seem to enjoy the satisfaction of scaring the little guys away. Doves browse in droves, but give way to just about everyone. In an audible whir of wings and soft coo-chidings, they disperse to surrounding limbs, resigned to waiting for leftovers. Gentle and unassuming, it appears that doves, as innocents often do, occupy the lowest rung.

Squirrels are annoying but entertaining visitors - the clowns of the feeder set. To my near-sighted eyes, they are sinuous grace in silver-gray, twining their way up the pole to hang upside down or sideways. They scold one another, darting in squirrely menace, then play chase in a dizzy circle. The squirrels defer to me, to the turkeys and to today’s formidable guest, but even the crows concede to these goofy gamesters.

From my post as serene spectator, I am ever-learning about feeder sounds and etiquette. A low-throated, melodic cluck and purposeful scuffling of leaves signals the turkeys’ approach. Tiny heads jerk on ungainly necks as they stop in to decide, on a routine basis, that they don’t much like seeds, then strut off, back to the woods. A new sound, a swoosh and thrum, jolts me to attention. A red-tailed hawk, unsuccessful in his salvo, settles his wings as he swings momentarily on a hastily selected, ill-suited twig of a branch, then takes to the sky in a thrust of powerful wings.

During the spare winter months, four deer joined the gang at the feeders. Dave would whistle as he left the house carrying his heavy white seed bucket and the animals would appear, cautiously, at woods’ edge. As soon as he retreated, they strode into the yard, nosing the feeders to release showers of seeds, sometimes rising on hind legs for a better angle. As much as we never tired of seeing them, it was sad that they were so desperate.

The chickadees, too, were made bold by hunger. Dave and I would stand by the feeders with arms outstretched, palms cupped around mounds of seeds. We could hear the flutter of wings through the trees and the echoed call – chickadee-dee-dee-dee. The black-capped birds flew in from every side and perched in the branches about us, trembling as they drummed up nerve. Eventually, one brave soul would start the rush, and they would zip to our fingers, land with a tickling touch of tiny claws, grab a seed and go.

It’s a whole new scene now that it’s May. Doves, cowbirds, jays and cardinals check each other out with flirtatious pursuits and awkward grapplings. If I were a bird, seeking a mate from those assembled, I’d flip a feather at that lusty gray mockingbird. Man, that boy can croon!

Unlike the befrocked, bow-tied waif in Come Play with Me, I seek to remain invisible up here on the porch. I doubt I’ll be nuzzled by a fawn or win a frog’s bulge-eyed admiration, but the animals seem to trust me enough to come close, and that is blessing enough.

Not So Clever After All

“Where do babies come from?” All parents dread that question. Dave and I, however, had thought we’d been oh-so-clever in avoiding it by conveying the essentials to our son Tucker with the help of a cooperative guinea pig (a real one) and appropriate TV viewing.

From the time Tucker was two, Sunday night was “bug night,” our family’s name for channel Thirteen’s show “Nature.” Through the talents of PBS videographers, Tuck had witnessed any number of mating rituals and births. Calmly and honestly, Dave and I answered every question our little boy asked. It was easy when the subject matter was zebras and elk. While he developed an irrational fear about deer shedding their antlers and could not even look at a picture of a deer without tears, Tucker was relaxed regarding reproduction.

A brief confusion arose when we acquired a pregnant guinea pig. At the time of purchase, we had no idea that Scratchy was female, much less pregnant. We thought she was simply putting on weight until we began to feel the babies moving inside her.

It was a wonderful, small miracle, actually, affording an unexpected experience in animal families as well as an opportunity for further sex education. Tucker wondered, wisely, “How can she have babies without a daddy?”

Dave explained that Scratchy must have mated while she was still living at the pet store. He re-visited the facts of anatomy and process and Tucker was satisfied, comfortable with his knowledge.

What good parents! We congratulated ourselves on brilliantly sparing ourselves and our son embarrassing pre-teen discussions about sex. Initiation to the topic did not go as smoothly for our daughter, Casey.

She was only five when she returned from a playdate, tearful and anxious.

“What is it, sweetie? What’s wrong?“ I asked.

“I. Can’t. Talk. About. It,” she managed to blurt, shaking, between sobs.

She fled to her room and closed the door. I could hear her weeping piteously.

I knew the friends with whom she’d spent the day and so had no major concerns about my daughter’s well-being, but what might have caused such distress?

I entered her room and found her prone on the bed. Her long brown hair clung in sodden wisps to her flushed, tear-wet cheeks. I rubbed her back and murmured soothing words. Finally she wailed, “Courtney told me how babies are made! I’d finally decided that I wanted a baby even though it would hurt, but I’m not going to do what she said!”

Oh dear. What could I say? It’s not too bad once you get used to it? Someday you’ll like it? No. Clearly that was the wrong tack. I stuck to hugs and a vague “It’s okay, precious” kind of approach.

Over the next three days, Casey’s crying bouts lessened, but her concerns did not. “I don’t want to think of my pretty mommy doing that. What if I decide I do want a baby, but no one loves me enough to do that?” It was heart-wrenching to witness her loss of innocence, to see her struggle for acceptance of this, to her, gruesome fact of life.

Tucker, meanwhile, was neither moved nor curious about Casey’s tears. She was a bit of a crybaby in those days and for a time, he didn’t notice anything all that unusual. Eventually though, days had passed and still his little sister was morose.

“What’s the matter with Casey?” he said, finally.

I felt no qualms in responding. Tucker already had all the answers.

“One of Casey’s friends told her about mating,” I said.

“Oh.” He nodded, satisfied. But only briefly. He looked at me, his brow furrowed, eyes puzzled. “But why’s she so upset?”

“She doesn’t like to think about Mommy and Daddy doing it.”

His eyes grew wide. I did not see it coming. He said, “You mean humans do it too?!”

The U-Haul Is Running

June, 2004

Mom says good-bye with three kisses. It is continental. It is a talisman. It is a loving, but strict rule. A kiss on one cheek, then the other, then back to the first. An audible smack: Mwah, mwah, mwah. If there is some postponement of departure, she gives a hug, but no more kisses. She would never say it would be bad luck, but that’s the unspoken truth.

Last weekend, Dave and I joined Mom, Dad, my sister Francie, and her husband Matt in Vermont to close down the house that had been my parents’ Green Mountain State getaway for over thirty years. The disbursement of furniture and collectibles had been a gradual process since December, and now the U-Haul stood waiting in the drive for the last load.

I hadn’t thought this would be particularly painful. In recent years, due to busy schedules, we hadn’t come north very often. Just in case, though, on the way up on Friday, I ran through a mental slide show of memories: sledding with little Tucker and Casey on the hill behind the house as our malamute Kody danced about nipping our boots, snow-shoeing with Dave to Magic Mountain for a glass of hot mulled wine, post-Christmas gatherings around a tiny tree, and late night woods walks by the light of a nineteenth century lantern.

The seven-hour drive from Pennsylvania had come to be too much for my parents. In addition, almost every visit to their eighteenth century house was distinguished by furnace failure, plumbing glitches or leaks. The mouse infestation didn’t help, but it wasn’t ranked high among the negatives either. Brushing pillows, pot holders and beds clear of mouse leavings were simply customary rituals upon arrival for a stay. The occasional unseen scurry across the old floorboards while drifting off to sleep was expected. In fact, we had reason to admire the industry of those mice, as they demonstrated a perseverance and ingenuity that astonished even my two mouse-phobic sisters.

When Kody was young, her food of choice was Purina Dog Chow nuggets. One morning, Mom was up first as usual, making coffee and eggs, and caring for the visiting grand-kids and grand-dog. She fetched the Purina, surprised that the bag was so light - and even more surprised to find it empty. A search of the kitchen revealed a waist-high drawer by the sink full of nuggets. The mind reels at the image of a mouse bucket-brigade stretching the length of the kitchen, passing nuggets down the line and somehow maneuvering each chunk into that closed drawer. For all their ability to startle unnervingly, those mice were mini-miracles. As I said, the mice were part of life in the house, not part of the problem.

In all likelihood, Mom and Dad would have continued to battle the rebellious furnace and unreliable plumbing if it hadn’t been for the long drive up. Last winter’s trip was the final straw. Mom was at the wheel as they approached Manchester when she “tried to kill me,” according to my father. The road was slick with ice and the car went into a 360 spin. Mom has said she prayed to to her parents, my Byeo and Poppy, to hold any oncoming cars at the crest of the hill. Had other vehicles been involved, it would have been a fatal accident. My heavenly grandparents were vigilant, however, and Mom and Dad emerged terrified, but safe.

That scare solidified my parents’ thoughts about selling and the house was placed on the market.

As we hauled the remaining chairs and bureaus from the upstairs bedrooms, we closed the door of each empty room behind us. Tucker and Casey’s room with its red and blue plaid bedspreads and ever-so-sixties jungle print quilts. Now empty. Door closed. Done. Our room overlooking the sweep of the yard graced by gray-lichened prows of glacial drop. Empty. Door closed. Done. The bathroom with its impossibly tiny shower and Mom’s pencilled note above the toilet: “Nothing goes down this john but toilet paper! No Kleenex, paper towels or Tampax.. This is a country plumbing situation!” Empty. Door closed. Done.

Dad was having a hard time. Red-eyed and drawn, he went from task to task stopping periodically in each beloved room where fresh tears would flow. To our sympathetic pats and clucks, he would grouse, “Humph! I look around and there’s nothing but work to be done! The house needs painting, there’s two dead trees... I’m only relieved.” With a dismissive wave, he’d lumber off to another pile awaiting sifting.

When Dave and I bought our house in Connecticut, Mom had warned, “A house is not a life. It’s the shell of a life.” But just as the snail would not last long without its portable shelter, our lives are inextricably connected to the roof and walls around us. As Matt and Dave rolled up the fraying braided rug in the Florida room, they uncovered five gold foil letters stuck crookedly to the floor. “C-A-S-E-Y.” How old had my little girl been when she left her mark? Now she is twenty-one, a college student, living in Massachusetts.

Mom deliberately chose Johnny Seesaw’s Restaurant for dinner Friday night as we’d never been there so it held no memories for us. Both Mom and Francie took me aside as we walked into the restaurant to whisper, “No toasts!” Dad and I are the family toastmeisters, but it is rare that we make it through our sentimental tirades without getting teary.

“But I’ll just raise my glass...”

“No - It would be too hard and Dad would dissolve.”

Dinner was jolly and the food delicious, but I felt the absence of that toast. It seemed a disservice to the house and I worried that Dad would think me remiss. Later, once Mom and Dad were snug in bed, I leaned in to give Dad a goodnight kiss, explaining my forced silence in the toast department. He burst into tears.

I guess Mom and Francie were right.

There were no weepy skies for Saturday’s departure; the house beamed in a sunshine bath. Purple irises and fragrant day lilies nodded beneath the windows overlooking the yard. Dave and I dug some up and wrapped them in damp newspaper, hoping they’d take in our garden. We have hostas from Aunty Cam’s house at #3 Stratfield in Worcester and we’d love to have a living memory of Thompsonberg Road as well.

The lawn ressembled a tag sale as chairs, rugs, tables and benches were parcelled out near the cars and truck. Gradually, those items dwindled as we stowed them away for the drive south.

Matt grimaced as he hauled an over-sized glass cask encased in basket weave to my car. “Whoa, I think you’ll be taking some of those mice with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take a whiff...”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. A few must have crawled in and died.”

“Ugh - Can you shake them out?”

No luck.

Of course, Dave wanted to commemorate the occasion with photographs. Mom and Dad posed gamely before the house, each holding a broom or shovel, “American Gothic” - Ingersoll style. Dad’s smile was a grimace, just holding on.

The U-Haul was running. It was time to go.

We did a final walk-through, patting the walls, wishing the house well, wishing happiness for the new owners. They’d told Mom and Dad of their plans for a renovated kitchen and new master bath, but other than that, they love the house and respect its antiquity. My parents are pleased: they’ve done their job in furnishing the house with caring stewards. It helps.

We went outside and Mom locked the door. Empty. Closed. Done.

Mom’s cheery bustle had carried her through the packing, but her face crumpled as we gave the house our final tribute. There were hugs all round as we were heading in different directions. Mom gave her three kisses - Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! The U-Haul pulled out first with Dad red-faced and weepy at the wheel. One by one, the rest of us followed, a subdued four-car caravan.

“Good bye house!”

Good bye...

Lady Bugs, Inch Worms and Mice, Oh My!

For the most part, you could not pay me enough to live in a brand new house. Those level-straight floors, counters that fit snug-tight and Anderson windows, thick as an astigmatic’s glasses, don’t appeal to me. Where is the character? Where is the history?

In our house, the massive beams that form the sills are splinter-rough and bear the slashes of the axes that hewed them. After two hundred and twenty years, they continue to do yeoman duty. It doesn’t require even close inspection, however, to detect the dusty residue left by hungry borers or the rot caused by centuries of rain. One would think this a concern, and perhaps it should be, but a builder friend checked out the house for us. He tested the sills by jabbing a key deep into the unnervingly pliant wood. After he withdrew it, he wiped the key clean of saw dust on his jeans and said, “Look at that. I can drive my key its full length into this beam, but you’ve still got more solid wood at the core than the width of the timbers they use in new construction. Those old builders knew what they were doing.”

I keep reminding myself of those comforting words, particularly when the yawning fissures and holes in this old house grant passage to an assemblage of creatures I’d just as soon stay outdoors.

This has been an exceptionally cold winter and I don’t begrudge anyone shelter. Even the mice that laugh at our cats would be welcome if only they’d refrain from leaving turds in the utensil drawer. As unnerving as it is to pull out the garbage pail under the sink and have a doe-eyed, Disney-eared, little guy leap at me, I could live with that. Seriously. Not so long ago, a mouse pursued by our cats around the edges of the den as Dave and I watched TV would have prompted me to shriek like a lunatic. Now, I lift my feet and urge Dave to do something, but there is no hysteria in my voice.

While mystified as to how the mice attain such a lofty and seemingly uninviting destination, I have even tolerated their leavings in the potholder drawer which is next to the stove, four feet off the kitchen floor. But when I took placemats from the sideboard in the dining room in February and discovered nibblings and turds even there, I was creeped out. Visions of running, tumbling hordes, reminiscent of those pictured in documentaries of the bubonic plague era, sent shivers pimpling my skin. It was “eewww” territory, definitely.

That’s not all. I love this house, but what is it with all the lady bugs? I have always thought lady bugs charming and highly desirable visitors. Some people import them to populate their yards - they must prey on bad bugs or something. They are the subject of cartoons, quaint watercolors, and painted handbags - always cheery in their rotund redness and perky spots. But in winter, they materialize, in prodigious numbers, on the walls and windows of our house. They crawl over one another, falling in showers from window shades and curtains. I would never have imagined recoiling from the ever- friendly lady bug, but ewww!

Sadly, anyone who reads this will give our house wide berth from now on, but there is yet another unwanted pest that has made free to join us. Gleefully tormenting us in two incarnations, sort of a chicken and egg kind of thing, we are beset by moths in the summer time. (Please note, pretty much every season is covered.) In different circumstances, I have been known to capture a moth in gently cupped hands to release it outdoors to freedom. That has changed in recent years as these dusty butterfly cousins erupt from cupboards and even from the guaranteed air-tight (moth-tight!) Tupperware flour cannisters. What is the deal? Luckily they seem more interested in the kitchen cupboards than the closets upstairs, so our woolens have been spared so far.

I am knocking on wood as I write that.

The moths are mildly annoying, but it is their delightful offspring that trigger the ew-meter. Dave calls them “maggots;” I insist on the far less repulsive “inchworm.” I picture Danny Kaye singing, “Inchworm, inchworm, measuring the marigold...” But I’m not kidding myself, it’s unnerving to see them on the ceiling, making their way along the shelves, curled under the lip of those Tupperware containers. I swear, we are not disgusting people - why the invasion?

I have, in fact, discovered that most of these intruders seem to have arrived in sealed bags of rice or beans. It’s small comfort because now every boxed product is suspect, the contents scrutinized for movement or dried carcasses while being poured into boiling water.

I guess these are just part of country living and I believe the trade-offs are worth it, but I can’t help a shudder as I scan the kitchen ceiling, tissue in hand, performing a maggot-purging ceremony.

EW!

Tell Me a Story

“Tell me a story,” I wheedle, snuggling closer in bed to my husband, Dave.

“I’m tired,” he says with a yawn for effect.

“C’mon, Honey. I want to hear a story.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“I’ll give you three animals…”

He groans.

I smile in the dark, hearing echoes of the voices of my little ones, Tucker and Casey, twenty-five years ago, saying, “Dad! Dad! Tell us a bedtime story!”

“Hmmm,” Dave would say. “Give me three animals…”

And that’s all it took. No matter how obscure or unrelated, Dave could spin a yarn from those three threads. I don’t know what sparked memories of those cozy evenings, but that’s what I want to hear now. I know from Dave’s groan that he is weakening, so I think back over the past few days...

We’re on vacation in Florida, staying at the Holiday Inn. Yesterday, Dave summoned me from the bathroom, saying, “Your services are required… and bring a tissue.”

I’m not in the mood, I’d thought.

But when I entered the bedroom, Dave was on the floor doing his back stretches and he was pointing at the ceiling. An insect – a centi-pede? – was motionless on the swirl of white stucco.

Dave does not like bugs.

I climbed on the couch and reached, but the insect had wings and took flight. It was not a centipede, something more like a…

“Dragonfly…” I nudge Dave. “That’s my first choice - a dragonfly.”

Dave is silent. Has he fallen asleep? Maybe he won’t tell me a story tonight, but I’ll be ready for tomorrow. I think some more...

On the beach this morning, I spotted a large, gelatinous green mass, rolling in the lazy surf. I thought it was seaweed until I noticed a quiver and the tremble of a pointy protuberance. “It looks like a huge snail without its shell,” I’d said...

I whisper into the dark, “My second animal is a sea slug. Dave? Do you hear me? My animals so far are a dragonfly and a sea slug.”

“I hear you,” says the weary voice at my side.

Number three, number three. What will it be? I hear the surf beyond the window and I picture the expanse of blue water in daylight, the wink of sun flecks dancing on ripples. Since our arrival, we’d scanned that vista, hoping for a glimpse, but never seeing a …

“Dolphin. Those are my three – a dragonfly, sea slug and dolphin. Tell me a story, Honey," I beg.

There is silence and I think I’ve lost him, when…

“I’m sorry, but I don’t breathe fire,” says Dave.

“What?” I say, confused.

Dave’s voice is annoyed, a little high-pitched. He says, “I said, ‘I don’t breathe fire.’”

I smile and pull the sheets closer to my chin. He’s already started the story!

“But you’re a dragonfly,” Dave continues in the whiny voice of the sea slug. “You must be able to breathe fire.”

“Well, I don’t. I understand your confusion, but I’m telling the truth. I do not, I repeat, I do not breathe fire.”

“Please,” said the sea slug, “I need your help. None of the other sea creatures likes me because I’m so slimy. I need your fire to dry me off a bit.”

“Even if I had fire, I doubt that’s a good idea,” responded the dragonfly.

“Oh, I don’t care if I wither like a vanilla bean or a raisin, it would be better than the way I am now.”

“I’d like to help you. Really, I would, but like I said, I don’t breathe fire. Let me think though. What’s the smartest animal in the sea?”

Again, I smile, wiggling my toes in anticipation, inching still closer to Dave’s chest. It’s my dolphin! I think.

“A dolphin,” said the slug.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the dragonfly.

He winged his way out over the waves and spotted a fin. A triangular fin, moving very fast. He flew in close and fluttered on the fin. “Excuse me,” he said politely.

The fin tipped backwards and slipped beneath the water’s surface, revealing in its place a great mouth, bristling with sharp teeth.

“I’m sunk,” thought the dragonfly. Then he felt a strong thump.

The jaws of the shark, for that’s what this many-toothed creature was, snapped shut. He turned with a thrust of his tail and was gone, scared off by the one thing, the dragonfly knew, that sharks fear.

A dolphin! I feel like crowing, but instead I grin.

“A dolphin,” says Dave.

I knew it!

The dragonfly thanked the dolphin for his timely appearance and explained the sea slug’s dilemma. “The poor thing really is quite repulsive, so if there’s anything you can do…”

“Hmmm,” said the dolphin, only it came out a whistling squeak. He slapped the water with his tail and swam to the beach, scanning the sand in search of the sea slug.

The slug was lolling, in and out with each tug of the waves, waiting for the dragonfly’s report. Suddenly, the water whished and wavered and wrenched at the slug, tossing him up on the shore. The slug glimpsed the curve of a smile as the dolphin flipped something high into the air with a cheerful squeak.

What is it? I wonder.

“What is it?” wondered the slug.

Whatever is was, it landed smack on the slug. He felt the tapping and tickling of tiny tentacles, touching him, holding him close. Very close.

It was a starfish and it enfolded the slug, tucked him in and rolled him up. Together, they looked just like a ball. With his round gray nose, the dolphin pushed them beyond the surf line, onto the hot white sand.

“Now, I’ll dry up!” thought the sea slug. But soon he realized, “This doesn’t feel very good.”

The sun beat down. The sand was scorching and grainy. The tendrils of the starfish were still, growing tight; the starfish was shrinking as it dried. The slug thought, “I could go for some nice, wet, ooze.”

Overhead, the dragonfly hovered, concerned.

But the dolphin was wise. It was just a matter of time. He knew who would happen along.

A small boy appeared, as curious as the dolphin knew all little boys to be. He trotted over to the slug-starfish, poked at the odd-looking ball and picked it up.

“What is it, Tuck? What did you find?” called a voice.

“Don’t know,” said the child. “Something weird.”

The slug was not dry yet. He was wet. And sticky. Quite frankly, he was still pretty gross.

“Yuck!” said the boy and tossed the ball into the sea, where it sank through the rippling salt water.

“Ahhhhh!” said the starfish.

“Ahhhhh!” said the sea slug.

They stretched and separated and gratefully sucked in that water.

With a swish and tail-pump, the dolphin appeared. To the slug he squeaked, “Did you get what you wanted?”

The slug swelled and twisted, content in the water. The dragonfly zoomed overhead and tipped a wing. The starfish floated, flexing his five fingers; softly, he touched the slug.

The dolphin waited with a knowing smile.

“No,” said the slug, “But maybe I have what I need. I’m slimy and green, repulsive perhaps. That is not going to change.”

“And?” said the dolphin.

“And?” repeated the slug. What did the dolphin want him to say? He thought about the dragonfly who’d sought out the dolphin. He thought about the starfish who’d been willing to dry for him.

He smiled, as slugs do, a gross, slimy smile, and said, “And still, I have friends willing to help me.”

Just as my kids had, two decades ago, I feel cozy and safe at this happy ending. “I loved my story, Hon, I might want one every night.”

Dave groans, but he gives me a hug and a kiss.

“Let me think,” I murmur. “What will my three animals be?”

Searching for Sand Dollars

I stride the beach, pausing every so often to bend and pick up a shell. Curling and whispering on the sand about my feet, slow swells of green water roll, a rhythmic pulse.

A gathering of gulls shriek and complain, no doubt wishing for an ocean stir to rough things up and slap a few fish onshore for supper.

In pink sundresses and floppy hats, two little girls crouch on their haunches, tiny fingers reaching for black ridged scallops and yellow jingle shells. An Amish woman, her hair covered in a white gauze cap, gathers the long skirts of her modest rose dress. She stops, leans closer for a better look, and selects a brown-striped turkey-wing.

Whether a leathery gent with an imposing paunch, a lithe blond in a turquoise bikini, or a well-browned matron, gold bracelets jangling, we walk the shore, hands cupped around shells, entranced by the variety of nature’s designs. We pluck them up, spiraled and curved, pottery-thick, ice-brittle, in shades from gray to vivid orange with squiggles.

Sand dollars are best. Bleached clay-white, etched with a star, they are fragile, so easily broken. It is rare to find one intact on the beach. And so, we hunters head for the water. Wading thigh-deep, the beer-bellied, bikini-clad, and sun-hatted hunch, peering through rippling water.

As I toe the sand, sifting, sending out smoky plumes, braids of gold sunlight waver. A school of silver fish flash around my feet. And I notice the absence of thought. Searching for sand dollars seems purpose enough to clear my head of its usual spin.

Squinting, I scan for the elusive disks. There? No, it’s a shell. There? No, it’s another shell. So it goes. Purpose enough.

I slosh back to the beach empty-handed, but grateful for the warm sun and wide blue sky feathered with light-hearted streaks of jet trails.

A tall man, tan, perhaps European, with dark hair and white teeth strides purposefully toward me. He holds out his hand and says, “For you. A gift. I found it in the sea.”

A sand dollar.

I beam my thanks. He smiles and walks away.

Sand dollars. A kind gesture. Purpose enough.