Tragedy

I was innocently sitting here at the table working away on a paper. Aimee was beside me and Jack was chattering away nearby. Trevor came up behind me, commandeered my computer and pulled up notepad. He typed,

aimee hamham bit the dust


Oh, dear. The hamster I thought might actually live a while. I looked at him with eyebrows raised. He nodded. "I poked it," he said quietly. "It's not moving."

By now the kids caught the scent of something happening.

"What?" Aimee said.

We looked at each other. My policy is not to lie to them, or sugarcoat things. I nodded at Trevor.

"I think your hamster's dead," he said.

"Hamham?" she asked, the requisite pout starting.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so," he said.

So we all dutifully trooped down to her room where, sure enough, he was lying stiffly on his side in his little bed of Kleenex. No blood or gore, lots of food and water. He had been running on his little wheel just this morning. So it was natural, anyway. I pointed these facts out to Aimee, who looked far less sad than I expected.

There was a brief discussion of what to do with him. The kids want to bury him. Of course, it is almost 9:00 at night and pitch dark. I suggested a funeral tomorrow and in the meantime we would put him in a ziploc and into the freezer. Thus ensued a discussion of why he would decompose out in the air but not in the freezer (and also why he was stiff - Jack's asutue observation from poking at him - come to think of it, that boy never washed his hands after. Gross.). At one point, when we were prodding the hammy and rustling around trying to get him into the bag, Trevor speculated that it was just a ploy to escape, that he wasn't really dead and was about to spring up and make a break for it. Needless to say, he didn't.

Now the debate is whether to replace him with a second dog - Aimee's friend has 11 puppies to adopt out - husky-shepherd-bullmastiff crossed with rottweiler. Apparently at 6 weeks old they are bigger than Jinx - but extremely cute. I am resisting. I like small poop. And the fur tumbleweeds on a dog like that? They would be bigger than Jinx in a few months. "But they're so cute!!" he says. No, thanks. I think he did tell them to call us in a few weeks if they couldn't get rid of all the dogs. Jack already has it named. Code Red. I'm not kidding.

So, for the moment, we are short one more pet. Not terribly tragic, all things considered. No tears, very little sadness.

He had a good life, Aloysius (or "Allawishis", as Aimee spelled it). Rest in peace. Or at least in the freezer until we get around to burying you - hopefully before winter hits, or our basement will start to resemble Notre Dame Cathedral.


Ew. Must go Google hamster epitaphs and hymns suitably solemn for the funeral.

And let me know if you're in the market for a very large dog. Free to a good home... already named. Here, Code Red! Come here, boy! Do you want a treat? I've got a half a cow for your dinner! There, that'll do you a few hours....

Twilight

There might be nothing more pleasant than walking the dog on a warm fall evening. The last few walks, we have gone extra far, because I keep thinking that after the frost that marked the start of school, we may not have many nice nights left this season.

I love the fall. It's my favourite time of year. My friend recently said that spring is the details, but fall is all about the big picture. This time of year is the twilight of summer, the dregs of the fun-filled, sun-filled freedom from oppressive darkness and layers of clothing, and the knowledge that we're well on our way back there. It's incredible - clockwork, even, how the weather gets chilly as soon as Labour Day has passed and the kids go back to school. I always feel like fall is more the new year than January. It's at least as much a time for resolutions as January. This year, I swear I will make lunches the night before. And get to work on time every day. And make them do their homework before 8:00 Sunday night. And...

But tonight, there was no chill in the air. Maybe this is our Indian Summer, I don't know, but the only clue that it was past Labour Day was the early dusk, the geese overhead, and the leaves starting to accumulate at the edges of the road.

I love the geese. They chatter away up there, huge great flocks, sixty or seventy in a vee, forming and reforming fluidly. They natter constantly; I always wonder if they are like one big Irish family in the kitchen at Christmas, all good-natured and affectionate argument about the best way to get South. I want them to be in symmetrical vees - there is always one arm longer than the other, but I love how they are always moving back and forth, rearranging the ranks, and yet always in those straight tight lines. I feel sorry for the lone one, following a few seconds behind the big group, honking away to wait up. I imagine he is the surly adolescent who wanted five more minutes of sleep, or who was busy chatting up the hot chick from the flock next door, who missed the big departure and now has to spend all his energy flying solo, trying desperately to catch up to his family, the raucous brood it turns out he really wants to be with after all, who will of course welcome him back, the prodigal son who just needs to draft for a few minutes to catch his breath. I like the smaller groups, the pairs, trying out new family arrangements, or the mini flocks of four or five, little cliques cruising along, gossiping along the way.

And then in ten or fifteen, minutes, the hundreds of geese are gone (where do they go, anyway?) and night is here, the gunmetal sky shifted imperceptibly to black. Tonight, there are no stars. The wind is picking up - the clouds that block the stars and make the sky a velvety ink that seems to absorb light will soon spill and when we wake up, the world will smell like wet leaves. Tomorrow will be a casserole day, where today was a barbecue day, maybe the last of the year. At this time of the year, the days are short enough that it is getting dark as I go out to walk the dog, but it is still close enough to summer that denial is still alive and well, and people leave their blinds open so I can peek at their tacky taste in wallpaper. It's a voyeur's time of day, dusk, maybe why I love it.

As fall is my favourite time of year, nightfall is my favourite time of day. That suspension, that time between day and night feels like accomplishment, like anticipating the oblivion, the responsibility-lessness of sleeping which is the reward for a long productive day. It feels like being on the cusp of a new, crisp set of possibilities. Night leads into the bright, clean slate of dawn, like fall moves us to the blankness of winter, the days to be filled with activity and busy-ness, so as to maximize the token daylight and absent warmth. Time to be filled with the resolutions of the true new year, the new day. Uncertainties can be put to rest at night, and the light of morning gives them a renaissance, a new perspective to make them possible again.

And so, on to the new year. Time to change over the wardrobe from capris and sandals to cordurouy and sweaters. And on to the new day - what was it that dear Scarlett said? "...tomorrow is another day..." - no matter what you regret about today, the night represents a clean break and a new opportunity to do it differently.

So now, I am going to lie in my bed and listen to the wind in the trees, which in the next while will bring the rain on the roof of the metal shed outside my window, and if I'm lucky, the lonely honk of one last goose calling to his family as he fights the rain to get to the next checkpoint. I'll bet he won't oversleep tomorrow. He'll tuck the day's regrets under his wing and lose them over the landscape, so that when he leaves tomorrow, he's back on whatever track he wants to be on.

I can do that too - melt all my doubts and insecurities away as I fall asleep, and in the new light of morning, they will be magically changed to options and opportunities. Which is by no means to say that they won't be back to doubts by this time tomorrow - but that's the magic. I'll have the same chance tomorrow, and next year.

Maturity

At this moment, on the eve of the first day of school, my nine-year-old is talking on the phone, to a friend, and playing a computer game over the internet. Leaving aside all your critical comments about supervision and perverts, all of which I assure you I have considered and hopefully covered, I ask you this.

WHERE DID MY BABY GO? How did she get to be almost 10 and talking on the phone and caring what she wears? Listening to Hilary Duff on an iPod that she knows how to work? Next, she'll be shaving her legs and requesting a particular kind of deodorant! Honestly, she was little, I'm sure it was just last week. Don't I still have the scars from her birth? Surely those would have faded by now if she was really going into Grade Four.

And as if to prove that I am truly heading for middle age at breakneck speed, I also need to acknowledge the fact that for the first time in my life today, I wore knee-high nylons. You know, new fancy job, new fancy wardrobe, the good old socks just wouldn't cut it anymore. You can't wear dress shoes with cotton socks, and as it is after Labour Day, sandal season is definitely over. I had to break down. Of course, first I had to buy them, because heaven knows I'd never have had them in my wardrobe prior to the onset of middle age.

Ah, the sacrifices we make to climb the corporate ladder - some compromise their ethics, others their marriage vows. Me, I just recant my age-old wardrobe vows. (Well, at least the underwear thing is covered - I've found thongs that work for me, so I can avoid unsightly panty lines, and mitigate some of the frump from the knee-highs). Hopefully it will be worth it - aren't you supposed to emulate what you want? I'm sure all executives wear knee-highs. Maybe I should get some fishnet knee-highs. That might make them more palatable.

Maybe it's time to go back to the hairdresser and reaffirm my not-quite-lost youth. I'm thinking of something from the purple family, maybe. They hired me when my hair was royal blue, after all.

Okay, Aimee's been on the phone and the internet for 45 minutes now. Do I go start nagging, because that seems to be the thing that parents of pre-teens do, or do I let it go and see how long she talks? Maybe she'll self-regulate and hang up soon.

I think I'll take the high road, and go eavesdrop outside her door. Maybe while I'm listening in, I'll get some brilliant brainstorm about how I'm going to pay for her university education on such short notice.

As a post script, she just came up to make her lunch for school tomorrow. She asked where Carrie was. I asked who Carrie was. She reminded me that Carrie is the carrot she chose last night when we were shopping. She picked out five and named them all. I told her she shouldn't make friends with things she was going to eat. "I won't eat them then," she said.

Ok, maybe the childhood is not compltely gone. There's hope. Kind of puts the brakes on the maturing, doesn't it?

Water

So we spent the night at a friend's cabin on a lake. I have never really been to "the lake" before. It was a good time. Pure hedonism (at a family level) - no worries about nutrition, hydration, sobriety... overall, as much fun as you can have with your children, less than two hours from home.

The highlight was definitely tubing behind the boat. I wasn't going to do it, it being a lake, which is cold, and icky, and deep, and full of living creatures, but I decided that I couldn't let the rest of my family have adventures I wasn't willing to parktake in, so I climbed on. It was terrifying and exhilirating, and I think Jack (who was on with me) and I bonded a little. Of course, I went in the drink trying to get back in the boat, and am still trying to warm up. Seriously as much fun as I've ever had in water (easily tying with the water slides at the hotel in last weekend which were also Big Fun).

The lowlight was definitely the time alone with the kids - one of them in particular - especially on the way there. He knows exactly how to push everyone's buttons and is capable of showing the most base and vile kinds of disrespect that a seven-year-old could possibly imagine. Blatant and purposeful disregard for the rules and limitations we set, with shameless and ostentatious celebration when he gets caught. Consequences don't seem to mean anything, and I think we're pretty good at enforcing them, but telling your mother to shut up? It should earn you life in Azkaban! Anyway, I tried hard to reinforce the good stuff, because when we were with the other family it was fine, he was normal and polite and friendly (it's why no one else believes he has rage issues), but he ended up ruining it again when we got home by using language that he's been specifically told is unacceptable on many occasions. Maybe we expect too much, and need to remember to remind him constantly what is acceptable and what is not, or maybe we are not firm or consistent enough in meting out the punishment. In any case, the only thing that hasn't really been tried is spanking, and I think it may be next. I am at a loss. I am about to give up and let him run with the wolves, focus my attention on the salvageable child. Talk me out of it, please.

So the upshot of the weekend is that Trevor wants to buy a boat. We have never been interested in being cabin people; we have too much trouble maintaining one house, let alone two, and considerimg the cost of anything we might want to own, a small sleeping boat would be as much fun as a cabin plus a speedboat, at a fraction of the cost (if not the same amount of work). In my usualy pragmatic-but-conservative style, I suggested we get ourselves a 5-year plan then, to have education funds, retirement funds and boat funds all started. Trevor, in his usual thorough-but-potentially impulsive style, checked e-Bay.

Maybe someday. Maybe we'll rent one first, see how it goes.

*************************

So another story came up, from Jack's Friend Who Knows Everything. Apparently, you can actually die from eating too much sour stuff at one time. And also it seems that nipple-twisters (also affectionately known as purple nurples) give you cancer.

Who knew?