Draggin The Lake

Spinner

2009-08-01T22:31:00.001-07:00

The day was unusually dry and sunny for a winter in the Pacific Northwest. Naturally, we'd had the typical rain and more rain, but a cold front from the north had moved down the coast, and brought with it a short respite from the usual precipitation. All the same, it was plenty nippy. And as I drove the old Chevy pickup over the dirt road leading to the Mexican wolf enclosures, I was glad for the three layers of clothing I'd worn.

It was actually the end of another day of caring for the wolves, and the last stop was always the two enclosures at the very back of the compound which contained the Mexican wolves. The two mated pairs we currently housed were kept deliberately separate from the rest of the wolf population. And separate from any exposure to humans, the exception being the animal keepers, who made the visit to feed them at the end of every day.

As a part of a special captive breeding program, they differed from the rest of the population at Wolf Haven. The other wolves were simply not allowed to breed. There was no sense in bringing pups into the world for a life in captivity. Most of the animals had already suffered that fate, coming to the facility from other zoos and sanctuaries, or having been raised illegally as pets. Less than a handful had actually been captured in the wild. But all had been offered a life at Wolf Haven as an alternative to euthanasia.

The Mexican wolves, on the other hand, were on loan from the U.S. Department of Fish and Wildlife. They were to be bred and then raised, along with their pups, as packs with the prospect of a future release back into the wild. Their traditional range was, of course, throughout parts of Mexico, but also in the southwest of the United States. Ranchers had nearly erased the species from existence when the Mexican and American governments agreed to begin a program of recovery. That is, if any wolves actually remained.

It was already feared that their good intentions had possibly come too late, when a small number were found and captured, most of them roaming separately. And from this initial seven animals was begun a breeding program in order to build a viable population in captivity so that some might eventually be released. As it so happened, one of the direct descendants of the original seven, this one a female, was among the breeding pairs being housed at Wolf Haven.

As I pulled the truck up to the main gate of the compound, I scanned the enclosures, hoping to get a glimpse of the wolves. Although a sighting wasn't rare, it didn't happen all that often. The animals usually stayed well hidden. And with the heavy foliage we allowed to grow inside the enclosures, they found easy cover. Days would sometimes pass without a single confirmation the wolves were still in their pens. On those occasions, we were forced to literally sneak up to the enclosures on foot, watching sometimes for hours before we might actually see an animal, and relieve our own anxieties.

Then there was the issue of pups, which we remained forever on the alert for. I mean, that was the whole point of what we were doing. And the sighting of pups was cause for celebration and great excitement, within our own organization and throughout the program as a whole. For a species which had been on the very precipice of extinction, there was ample reason to be cheering the birth of every new pup.

After pulling the truck through, I closed the main gate. Driving along the first enclosure I continued scanning the bush for movement. Somewhere inside were a young male and female. They'd been matched up at our facility for less than a year, and there was every expectation they would soon be producing pups. The idea was to build a pack containing the adults, a set of yearlings, and a group of newborn pups. Once that happened, they would be observed and given strong consideration for future release. It was a process, all controlled under the supervision of U.S. Fish and Wildlife.

The breeding program itself had been under way for many years now, and involved zoos and wildlife facilities across the United States, with a number also in Mexico. All of the work, the mixing and matching of DNAs in the breeding process, the untold dedication of thousands, was leading up to the day the Mexican wolves would be released back into the wild. Plans were formalized, agreements were made, and dates were set. Those dates were quickly approaching.

I moved the truck to the area where the two enclosures met, and where the access gates happened to be, moving my gaze from left to right, and back again. Still nothing stirred. If they were in there, I couldn't see them. But they could surely see me.

The second enclosure, like the first, contained two animals. Although in this case, an older female was paired with a younger male. Sadly, she would never know a life outside of captivity. She was the direct descendant I've spoken of. And with a DNA that was rare within the program, she was simply much too valuable to ever be released. And it was this sad distinction she shared with the rest of the animals at Wolf Haven. They would never know an existence beyond the chain link fences which had become their homes. Even worse for this Mexican wolf female, she would likely be moved many times, as the program and her DNA required. Highly stressful for a wolf. And she had already become well traveled.

Parking the truck and killing the engine, I hurriedly gathered the buckets containing their feed. I was in a rush, not because I was anxious to end my day, but for the purpose of limiting the wolves' exposure to me as much as possible. In fact, the rarity of any sightings was a good sign. So long as they maintained a healthy mistrust of all humans, their chances of survival would be better should they ever be released.

Carrying one of the stainless steel buckets of feed, I moved to the first enclosure. The bucket was full and heavy. (And if pups should eventually arrive, I'd soon be carrying not one bucket, but two.)

The enclosures were large and well constructed with chain link fencing, thirteen feet high, and with an apron at the base on the inside, attached and buried at an angle so as to keep them from digging out underneath. The height made it extremely difficult for the wolves to escape over the top. Although, admittedly, I'd seen wolves perform some amazing feats of agility before. And I had little doubt that if an animal truly wanted out, even the high fencing might not be enough to prevent it. The sheer physical dexterity of the wolves, which more closely resembled a cat than their nearer dog relatives, together with their incredible intelligence, made it difficult to anticipate and prepare for every eventuality.

For instance, we were routinely on the lookout for the digging of dens, which was common for the wolves. I had seen some of the larger animals dig cavernous dens. When they moved to extend beneath the fences which enclosed them, we were forced to collapse and fill them in. It's why a portion of our daily rounds required a complete walkaround of every enclosure. It was amazing how much could change from one day to the next.

To give some idea of wolf intelligence, a university had completed a study in which it compared the thought processes of wolves and dogs. It involved giving the animals a number of different scenarios in which they were required to perform some physical action which resulted in a mechanized opening of a door, etc., and the access to food. They concluded that, while the dogs most often stumbled upon the desired action and then simply remembered, the wolves tended to actually reason out what they needed to do. In much the same way you or I would look at the door, see the chord attached, follow the chord and determine we needed to pull on it to lift the door.

Very impressive. But likely a good explanation for why a wolf will not typically try to bring down an elk in the snow, preferring instead to keep a steady pursuit until the elk is exhausted and collapses. Or why wolf packs have been known to have a few wolves initially spook a herd and chase them towards the rest of the pack, who will then pick out the weakest of the herd and continue the pursuit. Very intelligent animals.

And it's why, as I entered the first enclosure, I knew I was being watched. Somewhere, among the scrub and bushes and foliage, a young male and female were watching my every movement. And they wouldn't emerge, even to eat, until the truck was well out of sight.

I closed the gate quickly behind me, watchful and listening for any sounds within. Particularly for the squeaks of newborn pups. But nothing stirred. So I emptied the contents of the bucket onto a concrete slab installed for the purpose, and after a moment of silent observation, left as I had come, keeping my eyes on the brush around me lest one of the animals should suddenly appear.

After padlocking the gate I moved to pick up the hose nearby and emptied and filled the water buckets of each enclosure. It occurred to me that should pups be discovered we would have to move the buckets lower on the fence. But for now, that would wait.

As I walked to the second enclosure, I was hopeful for a glimpse of one of the wolves. The pair had increasingly begun to appear at the far corner, watching as I emptied the feed bucket. But a quick glance as I unlocked the gate revealed nothing. I averted my eyes long enough to close and latch the gate. But as I turned and began to walk towards the concrete slab, I saw them standing at the far corner, watching.

It was going to be just one more reason this female could never be released. She had lost any fear of humans. She'd been subjected to so many moves and overhandling that she'd become far too comfortable around humans to survive long in the wild. Especially with ranchers throughout the Southwest adamant that they would shoot any wolves released on sight. Not that she was a worry. She would never be released, as I've explained. But she appeared to be affecting the young male.

Still, on a personal level, it was a rare opportunity to observe the most colorful of all of the wolf species. Although much smaller than the Timber or Alaskan wolves, the Mexican wolf more than made up for any shortcomings with its beauty. With colorings of red and orange, brown and white, they resembled a calico cat in coloring. And with a mix of blends and streaks that move down their legs, up their chests, and throughout the mask which adorns their faces, they are something to behold.

I continued towards them, and towards the slab, never averting my gaze (partly from the unique opportunity, and partly from a general wariness whenever I was inside, in their domain). There was usually little to worry about. Even among the general population of wolves, an entry into an enclosure typically meant the animals would watch and keep their distance, and so would the keepers. Some animals, of course, had to be watched closer than others. And some enclosures we would rarely enter at all. But normal upkeep and maintenance required us to make routine visits within.

The Wolf Haven policy was that under no condition was anyone to enter an enclosure without another keeper nearby, should the unpredictable occur. But with the Mexican wolves, the policy did not apply. We performed our duties with a planned urgency to limit our exposure as much as possible. They tended to be aloof and there was little danger that someone alone would encounter any kind of trouble. We also kept radios on our belts at all times. Just in case.

On this particular day, however, there would be no one to call. I was handling the animal care duties alone. It was a weekly occurrence when "days off" would result in only one keeper on site. So, although my radio was on, only the office staff would be monitoring any calls. And the most they could do would be to call someone off site, which occurred on occasion when a wolf was down. But for any human emergency within an enclosure, a keeper was simply out of luck. On the days when a keeper was alone, this fact was kept firmly in mind. And you would be crazy to enter an enclosure with no one around . But, the Mexican wolves posed no threat. You hardly knew they were there.

It was with this in mind that I was surprised to see the older female and her mate begin moving in my direction. And not with a hesitant curiosity, but at a brisk trot. I stopped in my tracks, unsure of their intent or my next move. But it was becoming crystal clear that they were headed right for me.

The mind of a wildlife biologist in such a circumstance is an interesting study. Although I had no such degree, my thought processes were little different. Even as I began backing my way quickly towards the gate, I was observing with wonder that as they grew closer the male was splitting off to the right, so as to divide my attention. And in the brief moment that I glanced in his direction, I marveled at the quickness with which the female lunged in, making for my left knee joint. And suddenly, here I was, experiencing what it was like to be wolf prey.

I felt her before I saw her. Her first attack had been to hamper my mobility by going for the joint. Thankfully my peripheral vision and reflexes were keen enough that she didn't get a solid bite. The three layers of clothing helped, too. As soon as she lunged for me I swung the stainless steel bucket to ward her off. Lucky for me the male proved to be less aggressive, and likely he was just following her lead. Whatever the case, once the female attacked, he took off. Had he not, I would have been completely at their mercy.

As it was, the female was already proving to be more than I could handle. Backing ever closer to the gate, I was focused intensely on keeping the bucket between my leg and her teeth. A task made all the more difficult by the fact the bucket had never been emptied as planned. But, still five or six feet from the gate, I was left to parry her lunges with the bucket in hand, while quickly anticipating what I was to do once I reached the gate. I couldn't simply throw it open, allowing her to exit right along with me. But, unfortunately for the moment, my main concern was reaching the gate at all.

Her attacks were relentless and incredibly quick as she attempted to get around the bucket to my leg. Somehow I kept blocking her lunges and moved ever closer to the gate. I think we humans never fully realize the role our brains have played in our survival. Or how quickly even the largest of animals in the wild can move. Much faster than we can. Especially in close quarters. But it was with instincts rather than brains that I was able to fend her off as I reached for the latch on the gate.

Grabbing and lifting the latch, I quickly swung open the gate just wide enough to slip through. As I did, she made an attempt at the hand holding the bucket. Seeing her a split second before, I dropped the heavy bucket and jerked my hand out of harm's way. It fell between us with a thud and a clang, and is likely what allowed me the time and space to get through the gate.

That solved one problem. The other, of course, was keeping her in. And although the gate was closed, it wasn't latched. As I stood on one side, trying to lift the latch and then drop it closed, she was making repeated lunges for the same latch, and for my hand.

Two, three tries I had to abort as she just missed my hand. But on the fourth try I managed to flip the latch up and then back down, securing the gate. In the same instant, the female decided to make a lunge for my arm, through the chain links. With my arm pressed against the gate to push it closed, she easily clamped onto it, pinching the clothing in her teeth through the openings in the fencing.

I was understandably relieved that I'd managed to exit the enclosure without major tragedy or injury, and secured the gate, keeping her inside. But now I was becoming quite irritated with her. She had three layers of my clothing firmly in her jaws and, as much as I tried to pull loose, I couldn't so much as pull my arm from the fence.

But even my irritation was to be short lived, as it began to dawn on me that she was slowly and forcefully beginning to pull my sleeve through the fence. And that if I didn't do something really quick, she would likely snap my arm as she pulled the entire sleeve through.

It was then, with a combination of fear, desperation, and outright anger that I placed both feet high on the fence, and with all of my strength put into one push, was able to rip all three layers of clothing from her teeth. The force catapulted me through the air and onto my back, and the frozen ground. Raising myself slowly to my elbows, I could see her prancing back and forth at the gate, looking directly into my eyes, and still clutching bits of cloth in her teeth.

Between the adrenaline of fear and anger, I was so enraged by what had just occurred (and what might have) that I jumped up and began cursing her and picked up the empty bucket from the other enclosure and threw it at her against the fence. She didn't even flinch. "Goddam you, you stupid fucking bitch! What the fuck's your problem?!!"

We both stood at the gate, face-to-face, glaring at each other, until she decided she'd made her point and trotted off into the brush. I remained a few moments more, waiting for the pounding in my chest to subside. Then I began the process of inventorying any damage. She hadn't broken skin, but my left knee-joint was already beginning to stiffen and swell. Other than that, by some miracle I'd escaped unharmed. With the exception of the large rip through three layers of clothing.

Acknowledging that I was none the worse for the experience, considering what could have happened, I allowed myself the opportunity to marvel at this wolf, this female, who was so quick and determined and strong. And I respected her. My love for these animals was why I was their keeper. And even an attack wouldn't diminish those feelings. So, it was with a smile on my face that I locked the padlock onto the gate and climbed stiffly back into the truck.

There was no need to call anyone on the radio. It was over. And there was time enough for reliving it for others. For a few special moments I wanted it to be just between her and me.

Later that year I was Wolf Haven's representative at USF&W's annual conference on the captive breeding program. Feeling that the female's actions were highly unusual, I related the incident to some of the other representatives.

"Oh, you must be the one that Spinner attacked."

"Spinner? I don't understand."

They went on to explain that this particular wolf was "not quite right". She had acquired the moniker "Spinner" because she was in the habit of chasing her tail. I asked if Jack, Wolf Haven's curator, had known about this. They replied they weren't sure, but said that she was well known throughout the breeding program. "And no one thought it was important to warn me?" , I asked. Everyone had a good laugh and I became the reluctant celebrity of that year's conference.

My contact with "Spinner" was to be the only one of its kind I ever experienced during my years as an animal keeper, working with wolves. That wasn't surprising. As I've said, wolves mostly prefer to keep their distance and, even in the wild, a wolf has to be under extreme duress (starvation, rabies, or mental instability) before they will attack a human. Regardless of the old folk tales or the cinema's depictions of them.

As an afterward, the young pair of wolves in the first enclosure went on to breed and produce pups in successive seasons, and tended to remain so aloof that I recommended them as ideal candidates for release. Fish and Wildlife evidently agreed, and the pack from Wolf Haven was among the first ever to be released back into the wild. Unfortunately that taste of freedom wouldn't last. Shortly after release, hunters and ranchers began killing the wolves illegally. The few who survived were recaptured and brought back into the breeding program.

The re-establishment of the Mexican wolf is a program that continues to struggle. With a myriad of problems from the start (not the least of which was that their release areas were also being leased by livestock owners), the future of the Mexican wolf remains in limbo. And with just as many animals succumbing to the stresses of recaptures and relocations as those who are actually shot and killed, I feel for them.

It is the tragedy of our planet that animals as beautiful as these are often caught between those who wish to help them and those who wish to harm them. And they suffer at the hands of both. And very few species are as fortunate as the Yellowstone wolves, who were released into an area where we could just let them be, and allowed to thrive.

When I look back on my encounter with "Spinner", I rejoice in her show of determination and rebellion towards her captors. And knowing the intelligence of these remarkable animals, and all that they have been through, I have to wonder if she was really so crazy after all.

Grand Is the Word

2009-07-06T23:22:00.000-07:00

I believe that grandparents are a gift to the children. At least, most of them are. They are like Santa and Mrs. Claus, in the flesh. (And it's probably no accident that Santa was conceived in the image of an elderly grandpa.) They are often so cherished that children will rarely pass up an opportunity to visit their grandpa and grandma. Maybe it's the lax discipline, the pampering, and the every day's my birthday atmosphere that we as children have always adored.

Of course, if one has two sets of grandparents (as most of us do), it can often be double the pleasure, resulting in a veritable treasure trove if they try to outdo each other. But, more likely, there are one grandpa and grandma that are the favorite. Whether because they are more doting, or simply freer with their money, a child is more apt to drop whatever they are doing and come running when the "favorites" come to pay a visit.

Like most, I had my favorites, too. My Grandpa and Grandma Wyatt, my father's parents, were everything that made being a child a wonderland. They were Mother Goose, the yummy house in Hansel and Gretel, the Gingerbread Man, Christmas and the Easter Bunny, and the Wizard of Oz, all rolled up into one big cinnamon roll. In essence, everything that was wonderful and good and bigger than life itself. And when it came to anything which might threaten, they were at once protectors, defenders, and salvation.

I remember when my father once used a yardstick on me that Grandpa kept in a corner in the kitchen. The next time we paid a visit, the yardstick was back in the same corner, broken in half. Nothing was ever said. But the message was clear.

I think one of the traits I always loved and admired in Grandpa and Grandma Wyatt was their temperament. A perfect example was an incident involving my brother and I that has become family folklore. It was a beautiful summer day and we were dropped off early to be with Grandpa while Mom and Dad were at work. Being out of school for the summer, we often spent time with him and my grandmother. On this particular day, however, Grandma was at work and so it was just the three of us.

To make a long story shorter, it was early afternoon when my brother and I happened to be in the kitchen. My grandfather had just stepped outside to tend to something when we boys suddenly decided we were going to make a cake for Grandma. Likely this was my brother's idea. He was the brains of the outfit and usually came up with one scheme or another. After which he would either enlist my help, or send me to do the dirty work myself and take the heat. And being in the adolescent, approval seeking stage, I rarely said no.

On the surface it would appear to be a very innocent and endearing idea of the grandkids, to want to make a cake for their grandmother. But the very fact that we immediately locked my grandfather out of the house shows a sinister and premeditated forethought. Which was also likely my brother's idea.

With all supervision eliminated for the moment, we quickly set about constructing our cake. It was an easy task. After all, we'd watched Grandma many times while we were waiting to lick the bowl. First you put in the flour, although perhaps more should be in the bowl than on the floor. Then baking powder. What else? Milk! She always puts in milk. Oops. More spilled on the floor. And eggs! Gotta' have eggs. We'd forgotten you have to separate the egg from the shell, and so the whole thing went into the bowl ... as well as a couple dropped on the floor which suddenly was becoming quite slick.

Meanwhile, we could see my grandfather passing by the windows as he moved from one end of the house to the other, looking for a way in. My brother and I paid little mind, as we were focused on getting our cake mixed and into the oven for Grandma. Unfortunately, we'd forgotten what else goes into a cake. So, just to be sure, we began adding whatever we could find in the cabinets that was within our reach. As I recall, this included bird seed and who knows what else. But, as we moved about across the kitchen, we quickly became more interested in the slick quality of the floor than in our cake. And we were joyously sliding from one wall to the other when the kitchen door opened, and standing in the doorway was my grandfather.

Grandpa was not by any measurement a small man. Everyone in the family always referred to him as "Big Jim" for good reason. He could be most intimidating, though rarely was. And there stood this big man, my Grandpa, hands on his hips and surveying the wall-to-wall damage before him. It must have been a sight with the eggs and flour and milk spread across the floor, and the large mixing bowl containing a concoction never before conceived by any baker.

There was a momentary stillness in the room before my brother quickly offered, "We were making a cake!", which I reinforced with, "We were making a cake!". The perplexed look and knotted brow on my grandfather's face began to smooth and change to a smile which grew until he suddenly let out a deep, leaning back, aimed at the ceiling guffaw. And as he laughed, so did we. The mess we'd made, the sheer waste, was dwarfed by how endearing Grandpa had found it all to be.

At Grandpa's suggestion, we all pitched in and cleaned up the kitchen "for Grandma", and then cleaned ourselves. His smile never faded, breaking often into his deep, guttural chuckle. And when my grandmother returned from work, he couldn't even wait for her to get into the house. He met her halfway down the front walkway and it's an image I still hold in my memory today. Grandpa is standing and explaining something to my grandmother, who is listening intently as he speaks. Within moments I see my grandfather throwing back his head in laughter, and Grandma is doubled over with laughter, too.

It was much the same with everything else we did. They adored their grandkids, and were adored in return. And nothing could hold more value for them. Especially nothing of any material value.

Grandma, for instance, had a collection of salt shakers. She'd spent years collecting them from all over the country. It was an impressive collection that was probably very valuable. I remember when she died how her relatives laid claim and quickly carted away every last one. But next to her grandkids, the collection was worthless. She gave us complete access to the shakers and would sit with us for hours at the kitchen table, pretending to be a customer in a restaurant or any number of fantasies we came up with. It was as if there were nothing else in the whole wide world which demanded more attention.

I often wonder what changes take place when people become grandparents. As I grew older I heard stories which made me believe they were not nearly so tolerant of their children. So, what is it about grandchildren that tends to bring out the best in adults? Perhaps they've simply become older and wiser. Or maybe it's just that the race is nearly over and there's no longer any need for the hustle-and-bustle. Or is it merely the comfort of old age? A comfort of economics. Or the preciousness of time and a life nearly lived.

Whatever the reason, it doesn't necessarily affect all grandparents the same. My father's parents were clearly the exact opposites of my mother's parents. For Grandpa and Grandma Rorabaugh I held nothing in my heart but dread. He, in particular, was a mean and bitter man for as long as I knew him. And as I grew older I came to despise him, avoiding any contact whatsoever. In speaking to my Mother recently, she recalled the last time we saw him, when he was so hateful that we all got up and walked out. He died, only days later. In Grandma's defense, she became sweet as pie once he was gone. So perhaps I couldn't blame her. But my Grandpa Rorabaugh invokes not a single moment of compassion in my entire memory.

Still, for most children, grandparents seem to represent everything that is good, and tolerant, and wonderful in the world. For those of a christian faith, grandparents can seem as near to heavenly beings as we may possibly encounter. But the same would go for any religion, as they seem to embody the purest loving intents of all faiths. Of course my judgements are based on my childhood memories. But isn't that when we are most impressionable? And I can trace many of my best qualities directly to my grandparents.

My Grandma Wyatt died of a heart attack on an early morning. It was George Washington's Birthday and I answered the phone when my grandfather called. Dad was at work and Grandpa simply said, "Mikey, let me talk to your mother." I was eight years old.

Grandpa Wyatt went on to live for some years after, succumbing to a heart attack as well when I was a teenager. I miss every day they've been gone, only as much as every day they were here. And when I search my soul, which is often , for some guiding light to lead me through the difficulties of life, it is always they whom I will recall. And even though I often can't help but feel as though I've disappointed them, I recall that in life they saw only the best in me. Because they were, and still are, bigger than life itself.

Tanning Hides II

2009-06-20T16:04:00.001-07:00

I must have been no more than six or seven. Still a little guy. I was with my dad and my brother, making a trip to the grocery store. I think Mom was working evenings then and Dad was in charge of dinner. He was never all that keen on the idea of my mother working, and more than once made her give up her job and stay at home with the kids. But knowing my father, it was likely just because he wanted dinner waiting when he got home from work. Cooking for himself and watching the boys was a bit more, I'm sure, than he was willing to give.

Dad was the kind of man who viewed himself as the breadwinner (with the emphasis on winner), and thought he should be celebrated as such. My mother working not only inconvenienced him, it gave the appearance he could not support his own family. At least in his mind. So I can rightly imagine that Dad was already none too happy as we walked through the store.

We'd finished our shopping quickly. Get in, get out. Two cans of spaghetti don't take long. And as we stood in the checkout line, I was completely overwhelmed by all of the candy, sweets and gum that are always strategically placed there to entice. I think they are aimed at the children, whom we have all heard before, whining and pleading at the checkout just at the moment that parents are rushed and most distracted. And more likely to buy a piece of candy if it will end the child's relentless pleas. It's either that or making a scene in front of one's fellow shoppers. I think the proprietors know this.

But they didn't know my father. There was absolutely no hope of my brother and I ever using this tactic. In all likelihood, even asking more than once would mean a reckoning once we reached the car. So there was no thought of asking. Still, I really wanted something .... anything. So many candy bars, and redhot candy, and banana taffy, and bubble gum. And it was all right there. I knew that stealing was wrong. Or at least I'd been told it was wrong. But I wasn't altogether clear on the whole money thing, and my grasp of the inner workings of capitalism were extremely lacking. So the why of "it's wrong" still eluded me. I mean, what would it really hurt if I just took some bubble gum? They're small. That means it would just be a little wrong.

The advantage of being two-and-a-half feet tall is you are often hidden in plain sight in the land of the giants. You are lucky if you're noticed at all, let alone seen by a cashier as you shove a handful of bubble gum into the pocket of your little jacket. The heist came off without a hitch and as I climbed back into the front seat of the car, between Dad and my brother, I felt so pleased with the gum I could feel in my pocket that if I didn't tell somebody soon I'd explode.

There have been many occasions growing up when I've made the mistake of treating my brother as my confidante. I say mistake because I know he never cherished the role, and would just as soon rat me out at the first opportunity. So don't ask me why I felt the need to tell him what I had just done. Except that maybe I thought the opportunity to share in the booty would be enough to assure his loyalty. And so, leaning close so that my father couldn't hear, I spilled my triumph in one short sentence: "I took some gum."

No sooner had the words left my lips, my brother betrayed me. "Dad, Mike stole some gum!" My heart sank. My own brother.

My memory from there grows a little fuzzy. Although I imagine probably being asked if I stole gum and having no choice but to admit it. I know my father was more than a little angry. At that time he was "a good Christian", and our family made the regular Sunday services at the Baptist church. So, needless to say, there was more retribution at work here than simply Dad's anger. The fact that I had committed a sin was undoubtedly more shame than he could bear. We're talking old-testament-style wrath-of-God-type punishment that was needed here.

Suffer Unto Me

Once we arrived home my father took me into the house, stripped off my pants, unbuckled and removed his belt, and grabbing my wrist and holding it above my head, he began to whip me. With a leather strap, across my behind and around my legs, he whipped me. He whipped me so thoroughly that it left blisters on my legs. Then he sent me to bed, without supper, where I lay crying until my mother returned home,late in the evening. I remember her putting some kind of medicine on the blisters, and the pain was so acute I couldn't stop my legs from shaking.

The next evening, after my father came home from work, he loaded my brother and I into the car and we drove to the grocery. He took me to the checkout and made me tell the lady at the register what I had done as I returned the bubble gum. I did not tell her what my punishment had been for stealing.

There is little else I can remember. I cannot tell you how long it took for the blisters to heal. And I don't remember my father apologizing to me, though I'm sure he must have.

It's very hard to look back to childhood and view my father in any objective manner. It's not the same as looking at him, as seeing him, with adult eyes. Seems as though with the coming of age and life's experiences, also come answers to many lifelong questions concerning our parents. And understanding often will come at the same time as responsibility and obligation, and a wallet which seems forever thin.

Dad As Father

As is often the case, my father also happened to be my hero. And the love he was capable of showing could make one forget the anger which lied beneath. There were times during a long drive somewhere that he would entertain us with a stuffed animal held outside and against the front windshield. And he could keep us giggling until we reached our destination. He would also fire our imaginations by making up stories such as telling us he used to be a pirate when we questioned him about his machete. Machete, sword? We didn't know the difference. But we knew our dad used to be a pirate!

And then there was baseball. I became a good ballplayer because of the many hours my dad spent with me in the back yard. He drilled a hole through a baseball when I was very small so that he could attach a rope and teach me how to hit the ball. I was just big enough to hold a bat. But he would spend time with me swinging the ball around in a circle so that I could learn to keep my eye on the ball. I loved baseball, and Dad loved to watch me play, rarely missing a game. I always knew when he was there. I knew when he wasn't.

He could be a good father. But there was also something within him, some uncontrollable anger that, though it may have had little to do with my brother and I, still found its expression in the disciplinary punishments he inflicted on us. One of which was to make us stand for hours with our noses planted firmly in a corner of the living room. We were to stand until he told us, without talking, and without fidgeting. When he decided we'd been punished enough (or when he suddenly remembered we were there) he would then send us to our room. But this was a punishment which became so routine that I devised a game to pass the time whereby I'd watch to see how far my tears would roll down the wall.

To Everything ...

It was a sunny summer day I will always remember when the worst finally reached its end. I had just committed another spanking offense and my father had instructed me to go outside and bring him a switch. My task was to pick out my own switch, bring it to him, and then suffer through another whipping. Although I was relieved the belt had somehow been left out of the equation, the prospect of the switch was only slightly better than the leather strap. But to be forced to choose the implement of my punishment was disturbing to me in ways I was too young to understand.

I cried and bawled across the front yard until I came upon a small stick, next to a tree, which I carried back for my father's approval. But seeing its size only angered him more, and he instructed me to get him "a real switch". His reaction and the anticipation of the whipping to come made me cry harder as I searched for something bigger ..... but not too big.

I returned shortly to the front door and for a second time my father rejected my switch, telling me to get him something bigger, adding an "or else" and the threat of the dreaded belt. I literally wailed as I searched the yard, knowing that all was lost and there could be no escape. And I think I must have decided that if he was going to beat me, he might just as well beat the living hell out of me. If I could have uprooted a tree and brought it to the door, I would have. But instead I found a huge limb that had fallen during a storm and decided to drag it to the door. Still crying, I jerked the limb, one foot at a time, until I had gotten it partially onto the front porch, just as my father reached the door.

At first, the look on his face was one of confusion. He knew the next step was supposed to be more anger followed by a whipping. But the scene before him was just so absurd, so comical, and so .... funny. He covered his mouth for an instant, before showing me a scowl and telling me to forget it and to go play. And I don't think I ever received a serious whipping again after that day. Or at least nothing close to the painful abuse of before.

Seats of Lower Learning

As I've said, it was a different time. Strict discipline was not uncommon and often the seats of learning for kids became synonymous with the seats of our pants. And whether at home or at school, it was the same.

Even as early as kindergarten I was introduced to the pain-as-educator methodology of discipline. A little girl and I had become fast friends and we always used to sit close to each other at the big tables. We would often sit and hold hands beneath the table, out of sight. But not out of the sight of Mrs. Mayhew. She began by scolding us in front of the class, and then made us hold out the hands that only moments before had been locked in our own secret, innocent joy. She gave each of those little hands a good swat with a ruler and then moved us apart. Love. Even as a child, inseparable from guilt.

I've seen a fifth grade teacher break a clipboard over a boy's head out of frustration. And personally experienced the overzealous punishments of a school principal who relished his role so much that he had holes drilled through his paddle because it was more effective, and named it "judgement". It was written right on the paddle. And though I never heard of him carving notches on the handle, it wouldn't have surprised me.

It all seemed so normal then, and was certainly acceptable throughout society. Every kid was in need of a little discipline. Some more than others. And some really really needed it goddammit!

That's not to say that it's all in the past, either. It still goes on. In some places even to the point of grotesque and unforgivable abuses of childhoods. We merely see it in a different light now. I suppose that is at least something.

And yet, we still tend to suffer from the same failings, the same root causes. We still grow angry and intolerant of children who do not unquestioningly do as they are told. We see signs of independence and rebellion in our kids and we move quickly to squash it and rid them of every trace. Just as we were eventually squashed, meekly accepting whatever we are told to do. And when they seek the reasons for why things are as they are, we have no answers for them. "Because I said so." We have no answers for them because we have no answers for ourselves. We stopped questioning and began accepting a long time ago.

But though we may have learned to accept our fates without question, our children have not. At least, not yet. Not until they have become as ourselves. And the cycle is repeated. For those who resist, there are only ropes made to bind. And for those who fight, there is only pain. And these are the gifts that we give to our children. That we give to ourselves.

Tanning Hides

2009-06-05T20:59:00.000-07:00

Spare the rod, spoil the child. Back when I was growing up, this wasn't meant as a "how-to". It was a warning. I think my father took it to heart and I'm convinced he was a firm believer. When it came to discipline, he spared nothing. Switches, belts, or his bare hands, the little legs and butts of my brother and I received a regular tanning.

I suppose to be fair, it was a different time. The term child abuse had never even been born. Hell, disciplining your kids every now and again was a perfectly normal and acceptable practice. And if you had to use a little seat-of-the-pants instruction ..... well ..... it sure didn't raise any eyebrows. Anything short of actual physical harm was just a part of raisin' kids. And, unfortunately for my brother and I, that pretty much left our little legs and butts outside the realm of protections.

Now, if you happen to be thinkin' it was just dad doling out all the punishments, think again. Mom was never one to shy away from a much needed spanking, either. Although, she did tend to be more creative than Dad. For one, she didn't have my father's big leather belt. (He tended to use this as his ultimate persuader, and just the snap and pop of it as it ripped out of his pants was enough to make us quiver with terror and our legs tremble.)

But, lacking said belt or anything else nearly as convenient, my mother was forced to improvise. She might on occasion, of course, simply resort to her bare hands. But with daintier bones than my father, she often received as much punishment as she was giving and soon gave up the practice. (I used to think it was because she just found no inspiration in it.) Still, maybe that's why more often than not she would just tell us to "wait 'til your father gets home". But on those rare occasions when the boys would just do something so dastardly to each other that it could not wait for Dad, she would not hesitate to take matters into her own hands ..... along with anything else that was within reach.

My mother was a true innovator. It didn't matter where we all happened to be, inside the house, outside ..... Just when we thought we were safe because none of the usual instruments of pain appeared to be within her reach, she would surprise and dazzle us with something completely new and unique. I was spanked with everything from a wooden spoon to a yardstick, from a flyswatter to a hair brush. I still remember the day she caught us outside lighting up a book of matches and finding nothing within reach that was butt-worthy she yanked off her shoe and used that. It hurt, too. She had on a pair of those "flats" that were popular at the time and when she held it by the heal she could get a nice snap out of it.

But I think her ultimate triumph came on a particular day when my brother and I had been playing with our little "hot wheels" cars. Actually, we were probably arguing more than playing. That seems to be what brothers do, just to pass the time. We'd recently gotten the newest hot wheels stunt car track that came in these three-foot sections you could assemble to make any kind of track you wanted. No electronics involved. Just these bright orange, plastic sections that were fairly pliable so that you could make loop-de-loops for the cars. As was the usual course of things for my brother and I, the argument quickly escalated into a fight and we started tearing up each other's tracks, yelling and screaming, and tossing sections and cars and whatever else might add insult to injury.

It's important to understand that the house we lived in at the time was a fairly modest one and, since this was before we could afford carpet, it was all bare wood floors. And it just so happened that it provided my brother and I with an early warning system. Depending on where Mom or Dad happened to be in the house, we'd have three to five seconds from the initial footfall which said, "I ... have ... had ... e-NOUGH of this ...... (whatever)" until their sudden appearance in the doorway. About enough time to freeze and look into each other's terror-stricken eyes. (As well as trying to determine how best to present our separate cases to the judge/jury/executioner whose arrival was imminent.)

The countdown was started with the thud of the first heal coming down, followed by a staccato rythm that only quickened as it grew closer. BOOM-boom-boom-BoomBoomBOOMBOOM ... Whenever Mom reached the all-I-can-stand phase, it sounded like she was trying to drive her heals right through the floor. Then she would pause in the doorway for a moment, just to see our faces as we took in the full effect of her appearance. But this time she flew right on through the doorway and was amongst us before we could even offer our opening statements, and we knew that now we'd done it.

"I've had just about enough of ....", she began screaming. She was reaching for us and looking around for anything handy and all the while she's keeping this monologue going with, "How many times have I told you ...." and "You two are gonna' learn to ....." and with hardly a breath in between. Then she spies the bright orange, pliable sections of our new hot wheels stunt car track. Oh no. NO! The ultimate irony!

You have never been spanked until you've had a section of bright-orange-pliable-hotwheels-stuntcar-track used on your bare legs. A whipping was what it was. It's not the kind of thing you soon forget..... obviously.

But, Mom was never able to top that one. And as the years passed and we boys grew, she began to rely more on "Wait 'til your father gets home". Until finally she gave up on spanking us altogether, leaving to my father the role of ultimate enforcer. She would eventually begin to accept her new role as mediator, between dad and the boys, making us wait with anxiety for him to come home, while offering to lobby on our behalf if we were "truly sorry".

But, as I said, it was a different time. The disciplinarians were everywhere. And not just at home. And not just your parents. NEXT: Part Two

Eating Paste

2009-05-29T18:27:00.000-07:00

Laying in bed last night, I couldn't get to sleep. No it wasn't any anxieties or worries or weight-of-the-world stuff keeping me awake. I was just thinking. Thinking back. Thinking about home.

Home is a long way from where I am now. Seems like it always is. But at least the place where I grew up and spent most of my life is, indeed, far away.

Many of the memories remain far away, as well. Not that there were so many bad moments. I think the memories just fade over time. Like a film negative you've had stashed away in a shoebox for umpteen years. The pictures eventually lose their color, the images lose their sharpness. Some of the film becomes useless, the moments irretrievable. Memories are like that.

This night I was thinking about my childhood. School days. What started it all was a recent plunge I'd taken, albeit reluctantly, into Facebook. And it didn't take long after joining before ghosts from the past began appearing in the form of 'friend invitations'. Some of the ghosts had photos of the way they looked now, and I remember thinking, "That must be so-and-so's dad". Except that it wasn't so-and-so's dad ..... it was so-and-so. Others had actually converted old prints to digital and posted pictures of their childhood. Our childhood. It was some of those images which took me back. And which were keeping me laying awake in bed ..... thinking.

I found I could remember all the way back to kindergarten, but not a whole lot beyond that, not until about the fourth grade. Grades one through three, I couldn't even give you my teachers' names. That's the odd thing about the memory, it's just so splotchy at times. It seems like so often the things you do remember are little, insignificant bits and pieces, and you wonder why you can remember some things and yet totally forget so many others.

For instance, in my kindergarten class there was a girl who sat across the table from me, (we'll call her Peggy), and I remember she loved to eat paste. It was the solid, white paste that came in a little container and smelled like cheap peppermint. It wasn't made to be poured like Elmer's, you had to use a little stick to spread it on the paper. And in kindergarten, we used a lot. Especially if a holiday was coming up. Mrs. Mayhew would always have us cutting out pieces of colored construction paper to make turkeys, snowmen, or Santas, and we'd put it all together with this paste.

Peggy loved this paste. I mean she used to love that paste so much she could hardly spare any for the construction paper. Mrs. Mayhew would catch her from time to time and scold her, saying "You are gonna' glue your innards right together, and then what will you do?". But Peggy just kept on munchin' that paste like it was creamy peppermint filling.

She was an odd girl. I remember thinking that at the time. Those times when she could be made to put down the paste long enough to start cutting up the paper, she had this funky way of holding her scissors, too. Not with the blades towards the ceiling, like all the rest of us, but with them down, towards the floor. So that instead of cutting away from herself, she would bring the scissors towards her body. And it didn't make any difference she was the only one in the room holding her scissors that way, there she'd be just cuttin' away to beat the band, like it was the only way in the world to hold scissors.

And then, on top of all that, bless her heart ..... as if that wasn't enough ..... she had these teeth. With my child's mind I thought either she'd been given the wrong size, or maybe it was like a pup with huge paws and she would eventually grow into 'em. Whatever it was, they were simply too big for her mouth to hold 'em.

Maybe that was when I began to realize that people were actually different from one another. At that age I really don't think I'd given it much thought before. But boy oh boy ... here was the whole package staring me right in the face, with the scissors and the paste and the teeth. I must have struggled with that for a time. But, that's the earliest memory I have of discovering that we are all unique. And yet, I remember discovering something else, too. Though she held her scissors funny, it didn't seem to slow her down one bit. And though she loved to eat paste, with the exception of her breath she seemed just fine. Her teeth? Well, big as they were, I remember liking her because she was always smiling. So I not only learned, early on, that we were all different, but that it was okay that way.

Of course, that was before we kids began to mature and take on more of the characteristics of the adults we would someday be. Three or four years later, when cruelty would begin to hit full stride, I'm sure we would have been merciless. We were merciless. Only ..... not to Peggy. Within a year or two, she and her family had moved to another town. Another life. And here I was laying awake in bed so many years later ..... thinking about Peggy, and wondering how many more memories were in there. And how many are just lost forever in the murky deep.