Lies, Damned Lies, etc.

I was enrolled in a Statistics class once. I didn't want to be, but it was required for graduation. Some things in life are like that, and if you've got to do it, you've got to do it.

The teacher, a Ph.D., was so cool. He was tall, quite handsome, and had an air of command. He really loved statistics, you could tell. As he made his logical points, he would sometimes confess that it made the goosebumps activate on his arms, and he would ask, Could we feel it? Well, for myself, numbers and logic never actually gave rise to any goosebumps, but I was there to learn, and I did try to feel them. Without much success.

Early on, to get us involved, he lectured about the bell curve. The bell curve is a concept that I had gone 68 years knowing absolutely nothing about, and furthermore I felt I could probably go at least another decade (or two) without knowing any more, but as I mentioned, it was a required course. Well. He decided to use Age for a demonstration of the bell curve. Oh oh! Right away, I sensed I was going to be outstanding in this class.

I looked around. I was surrounded by young, educated, beautiful people: a couple of physical therapists, two physicians who did stuff like bring sanitation and medicine to aborigines, a sweetheart of a physician's assistant, several dietitians, quite a few registered nurses... all of these folks were either babies or baby boomers, as far as I was concerned. Nice company, though.

"How many of you are in the 20 to 29 year old age group?" the professor asked. I sat quietly in my chair. Some hands went up. "How many 30 to 39?" That took care of one of the doctors, the dietitians, and all but one of the nurses. I fidgeted a little. "40 to 49?" He wrote the numbers on the blackboard. That got the rest of them, by golly. Maybe he will stop there. I scotched down a little. He looked directly at me. This guy does pay attention.

"50 to 59?" It was a direct question. I couldn't talk. I shook my head. "Well, how old are you?" Apparently, there is no need to be tactful in a situation involving science; there was a bit of impatience in his voice.

"68," I grudgingly admitted. A few giggles arose from the class. I had spoiled the symmetry of the beautiful curvy line up there on the blackboard. Instead of being outstanding, I was clearly an outlier, one of those results in Statistics that they tend to throw out when they don't want to deal with them. I had increased the range (wasn't that good?). I was an aberrant score (that had to be bad); I had skewed the results (and that didn't sound promising). But I had paid the tuition and we all had to get on with our lives. I wasn't asked any more questions that day.

The next session, bless him, he looked kindly at me, and said, in the middle of the lecture and in front of everybody, "My colleagues back in Greeley send you their warmest best regards and are very happy, though surprised, that you are in this class." It was my chance.

"Go back, then, and watch their faces when you tell them I am pregnant!" I said.

There was a moment of silence. Then the class howled. The professor stood there, playing with his chalk, with a look of disbelief that was worth the entire 70 mile drive back and forth to Grand Junction. He allowed himself the luxury of a tiny smile, and continued with the business at hand.

What I learned in that class was that I should not pursue a career in mathematics. The probability of success for me was very slim, like beyond several standard deviations worth, unless I could feel the goosebumps or could shed 40 years. Neither option has presented itself.

Molly's Lament

It was time to get up, early morning. The brain sent a warning signal to lower back, where the bad, bad, bad osteoarthritis thrived -- get ready, she is stirring and will be struggling to arise in a few moments. Lower back replied -- we are doing all we can down here; we are as ready as we can be, under the circumstances.


I got to my feet with the help of a handhold on the bookshelf. The foot with the ripe gout reminded me -- cradle me, I can't make it by myself. Clinging to the wall, the floor lamp, the door (something substantial at last), all three of us -- me, my back, and my throbbing appendage -- made it to the bathroom. I hobbled into the dining room my husband Dick already occupied. He began a litany of complaints: his sinus was killing him, he got very little sleep or no sleep at all during the night, the paper had not been delivered when he got up, and it was cold, really cold this morning, raining to boot, and...


The dog Molly, too, had risen with the man. She listened, laid back her head, and with eyes raised to the ceiling began a low rumble deep in her throat. It gargled up into a howlish moan, with a crescendo approaching climax, adjusting the wale of the pitch ever so mournfully...


when suddenly it all became clear to me: the emptiness of the ages past, the burden of humanity, the risk taken when the first wolf-dog ventured into the cave from the forest, lured by the warmth of the fire and the smell of cooked meat, thousands of years ago, with no promise of forever or gratitude in return for the devotion, the warnings of approaching dangers, the task of carrying loads both physical and emotional for the man, the work and thrill of cooperating in the hunt -- all for a few bones and the privilege of sleeping near the warmth --


I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. The spell was broken.


The dog, interrupted in full swing, stopped her lament, and walked over to a corner in the living room where she pawed the carpet, turned around three times, and with a deep sigh, plopped herself down onto the floor and curled into a ball. With a last baleful look at me, she closed her eyes and buried her head into her tail. She retreated into her instincts.


I had been dismissed.


To his credit, Dick, quieted now, turned back to his soggy newspaper with a smile.


I limped into the kitchen for the coffee pot and the pain pill.


Another day had begun at the hearth of the descendants of that first family that banded together eons ago to ward off the perils and pitfalls of living.

The Return of The Frog and the Duck, or GERTRUDE'S TALE

Actually, Gertrude had lost her tail some time ago when she grew out of being a tadpole. One day, it was just gone. Back there, kind of where the tail had been, were two beautiful legs (a highly prized delicacy in some quarters). Luckily, Gertrude knew nothing about having delicious legs, as her preference ran to bugs and slugs.

One day, as she was hiding in the bulrushes, she heard a CROAK. She turned around, and there she spied a really nice looking bullfrog spying right back at her. After a significant pause, he said "Do you come here often?" and she replied, "Well, I am new to the neighborhood." One thing led to another, and then Gertrude found herself kissing the bullfrog and .... ZAP! He turned into a handsome prince (though he had a few warts scattered over his body). Nevertheless, he was very good looking, and of Irish background, besides. He picked her up tenderly, placed her in his pocket, and away they went through the swamp.

The only trouble was: there was a chameleon in the pocket with her. Gertrude called up to the prince, "Hey, it's pretty crowded in here." That came out a little muffled, and we'll never know exactly how the prince interpreted that protest, but although he did not reply he did reach in and pick her up and throw her out.

Ah, the pain of a broken heart. Poor Gertrude. However, the thought "Easy come, easy go" did eventually penetrate through the noise of her self-pity, as well as "Handsome is as handsome does." After a while, she felt a little better ("Good riddance?"). (Gertrude subscribed to a marvelous blog by the name of apleasantpeasant that had all of this wisdom in it, and more, and sometimes it came in handy, like just then.)

Some time later, she met and settled down with a REAL frog who had nothing to do with chameleons. They were very happy, and managed to avoid all restaurant providers, but unfortunately not all of their offspring were as lucky. Altogether, it was a good life, even if a little wet at times.

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Now, I know you're wondering about Splash (remember our Duck?). Don't let anyone tell you that females are the weaker gender, but they do have a few peculiarities. For instance, many girls surviving puberty like to change their names into another fancier one. I thought, during that time of my life, that I would be happier if my name was Madeline, but somehow my Mom and Dad never took to it, and I remain Adelma Lucille. Go figure.

So when Splash met Mr. Drake that day on the lake, she introduced herself as Shasta. (Frugal and wise beyond her years, she didn't want to have to accumulate a new set of monogrammed linens for her hope chest.) Mr. Drake didn't really care what her name was; he thought she was beautiful, with all those colors she wore. Mr. Drake was a Peking duck, white all over, and he always thought of himself as rather dull, but Shasta, seeing a duck wearing a different suit, thought "Gosh, this duck is really different" and that appealed to her in a strange way.

Like Gertrude and her mate, Splash and Mr. Drake settled in to start a family. Splash made her nest in a tree that overlooked the lake, in spite of the fact that Mr. Drake could fly but didn't do it often. He took up guardianship of the home by pacing back and forth underneath the tree, trying to act nonchalant, and waiting for the eggs to be laid and for the fun of raising his clutch to begin.

Splash/Shasta brought forth seven beautiful eggs: one white duckling and six multicolored ducklings hatched out in due time. Shasta waited until their feathers were dry, and the next day, she quacked "Moving day," and she pushed all of her colored babies into the water. "Don't worry!" she told them. "You can swim!"

Now the white duckling didn't really want to hear that. He peeked over the nest into the water far below (well, it looked far, far below), and he tried to avoid the shove when it came. But he, too, entered the water like an old pro and Yes! he could swim, after all. Then Shasta swooped down out of the nest in front of the babies, and they all hopped up onto her back. Joined by Daddy Drake, they swam all around the lake and had a nice dinner of whatever they could get from the bottom of the water. Finally, they pulled up onto the shore for a little nap. Whew! that was some experience.

A duck and a frog, a duck and a frog,

So many things happened when they left the bog.

Their hearts went agog, their hearts went agog,

But they didn't give up like a bump on a log.

The end, with love, from Grandma.

Caught in the act

When I was enrolled in the third grade, Daddy and Mama found a larger, new, rental house, and we moved into it. It was only four blocks from school, and I loved the independence of walking back and forth by myself. The rental had a large living room opening onto a front porch, a large dining room, a kitchen big enough for a kitchen table, and a back screened porch that Daddy made by rolling up canvas curtains to protect from rain and winter. On the other side of the house were two large bedrooms, a bathroom and a sunroom.

Like most South Texas houses built in 1933, it was built up on piers–stacked bricks–about two feet above ground. I was cautioned not to ever explore under the house as that space was home to snakes and spiders and scorpions, and no telling what else, lions maybe. I watched my cat Kiki drag out snakes with their heads bitten clean off, and that was enough to convince me about the other occupants. Thus dismissed, the space under the house did not exist for me excepting to give it a clear berth.

The house was bounded by the Southern Pacific railroad tracks, and a tall board fence on the other side. Which side of the tracks you lived on didn’t seem to matter; there were houses all around because it was a new rail line that cut directly through the neighborhood. People got used to it, I suppose, and I loved waiting for the train to come after supper and feel the vibrations in the ground and the overpowering noise with the train being so close. The other side of the yard that had the high board fence proved to be of even more interest. It sheltered the neighbor’s chicken yard. A chinaberry tree had grown up right beside the fence and I claimed it for my very own playhouse.

The tree grew straight up out of the ground with a sturdy trunk about 8 inches thick, and branches in all directions –- the branches to the north made a seat just right for surveying our yard as well as the chicken yard on the other side. The chickens scratched around for worms, and there were a few roosters who claimed the hens’ attention, and probably because of the richness of the soil, the fencing around the henyard was covered with bleeding heart vines, flush with little pink flowers. The yard itself, save where the hens dug it up, had periwinkles a foot and a half tall, white ones with red eyes, and purple ones–altogether it was a lovely place.

Each time I struggled up the tree I would drape Kiki over my shoulder and deposit her unceremoniously in the south branches of the chinaberry tree. Kiki would rather have made the trip in one bound without assistance, but she was patient, knowing that she would be left free after her release to watch the hens strut around. Kiki rarely stayed in the tree, however. She most often jumped over to the top of the fence, and defying gravity, would take up her watch from that vantage point. When something caught her fancy with the hens’ antics, Kiki would make little “marwrow, marwrow” calls, softly, and her tail would twitch. I admired the way Kiki could walk that fence top without falling off, but I knew better than to try it myself.

If you have ever seen a chinaberry tree, you know that in the spring they are covered with delicate, lavender, scented flowers, which turn into horrid stinking berries when they are overripe. But the spring time ecstacy is enough to make one forget about the fruit to come. I wished the berries were good to eat, but they were not. One time I tried to stop a fight amongst the hens by
throwing the chinaberries at them, but the berries were light, did not travel very far, could not be aimed with any accuracy, and made no impression at all on the hens’ attitudes.

Perhaps, I thought, if I coat the berries with mud, they will be heavier, easier to aim, and they may travel farther; the hens would feel it when they were hit, and they would stop fighting. Mud was easy enough to get; once a layer of mud had been added to the berry, and it was set out overnight to dry, the berry-and-mud bullets would travel farther, with greater accuracy, and indeed, it was great fun to see the hens’ reaction when one of them landed on her back. The hen would jump into the air, look around, squawk loudly, shed a few feathers, and run off clucking to herself and anyone else who might be listening about how difficult it was becoming to be a proper hen anymore.

Now those hens knew that I was there! Kiki liked it too, but prudence kept her from jumping down into the chicken yard. She never overlooked the fact that the chickens were much bigger than she was, and that she was outnumbered. But her tail would switch and she smiled her pleasure and voiced her agreement. We had made a difference in the chicken yard, all right.

One evening Daddy came home from work and I was still up in my tree. He came over to me and said, “Come on down, Pigsy, let’s talk a little bit before supper.”

Pigsy was not my real name, but I had earned it earlier in life by my table manners at the time. Daddy called me Pigsy until I was in high school. I didn’t mind; whatever Daddy did was all right by me. We sat down on the back steps together, and Daddy got right to the point. “I got a telephone call today from Mrs. McMullen”, he began. Oh oh! Mrs. McMullen owned the chicken yard beside our house. “Her hens have stopped laying eggs,” Daddy continued.

I had never made the connection between hens laying eggs and the eggs Mama bought in the store. Still, the conversation was decidedly not going well.

“Have you been throwing rocks at Mrs. McMullen’s chickens?” Daddy asked.

“No Sir!” And the forcefulness of truth in my response brought a pause in the conversation.

“Well, have you been throwing anything at Mrs. McMullen’s chickens?” Daddy continued.

“Yes sir, chinaberries, sir.” There was no doubt that I had been pinned down.

“But how could a chinaberry bother a chicken?” Daddy asked.

“You see, I coat them with mud to make them heavier because I couldn’t make them go straight, they were too light, and then I dry them overnight to use them the next day...” Although I hurried through the explanation, my voice trailed off... The silence deepened. I glanced at Daddy’s stern face -– he looked away.

“I see,” he remarked, and his eyes took in the perch in the tree, the mudhole, the small store of bullets drying on the fence. He cleared his throat. “Well, Pigsy, I have promised Mrs. McMullen that her hens will no longer be under attack by us. You do understand why the chickens were upset, don’t you? Why, I’ll bet they must have thought...they must have thought...the sky was falling in, when those chinaberries came raining down on them... it gave them a frightful scare. You are not going to scare the chickens anymore, are you?”

“No Daddy.”

Daddy stood up, took my hand, and said, “Let’s go see what Mama has made us for supper.” We walked up the steps into the kitchen, and Mama said, “Chicken and dumplings for supper tonight.”

Daddy squeezed my hand. “I’m sure Mama bought the chicken at the store,” he said, almost to himself, and he winked at me.

Mrs. McMullen’s chickens got the respite. I had been caught red-handed but not punished. Except for the talking-to. Kiki at least was out of trouble. I had to find another reason to climb up into the chinaberry tree.