The Fourth Grade

My fourth grade teacher was a man. It was the first time I had been left in the care of anyone besides an older woman with a motherly bosom to curl into for safety. I was a nervous and sad little elementary student. I never wanted to go to school, and in the first grade, used to bring a picture of Mom with me that I would look at and cry. (I'd like the record to show that I did get past that low point quickly.) The fact was, I didn't want to be anywhere but at home, which is still how I feel about existence to this day. 

Being a student in Mr Dangerfield's class felt like just that, a danger field; risk, exposure, uncertainty. Even his name was scary. Surely this giant man will do nothing to comfort my grief-stricken heart. And he didn't, though he was a nice person who never gave me cause to eye him with the suspicion I carried for him. On two occasions he looked past my unwillingness to speak to him and help me fix my broken glasses and open a fruit cup that had defeated me. Each time I collected my belongings from him and went back to my seat without acknowledging his help. If anything, I was the cause for suspicion. 

I do have to take points away for his impromptu musical performances. He played a guitar and would sing one of about three songs, but most commonly he selected, "Puff The Magic Dragon." He'd put a lot of emphasis on "puff" and then would speed through to get to "dragon." It went like this, "PUFF! themagic DRAgon, lived BYYY thesea." I eventually warmed up to having a man teacher and viewed him as a big fourth grader himself. We all just existed in that room together. I don't remember anyone getting in trouble or getting too excited. The only memory I have about the fourth grade was my curiosity of having a man teacher. 

What made me think of the fourth grade, you ask? Well I'm not sure. It was my scariest year of elementary school because of my aversion to grown men, apparently. I imagine that Mr. Dangerfield, in real life, is a gentle soul, what with teaching small children for a living and playing soft music on such an amiable instrument. He must have a good sense of humor and a lot of patience. It's a shame I was so hard on him. 

I mean look at my outfit. Who was I to judge?

Workin' And Playin'

It's been freezing here. We've had to drag in all of our most beloved plants and spend our lounging time in long-johns and multilayered discomfort. One of the main things I hate about winter is having to wear multiple shirts. Oh the one on the bottom always twists around and bunches up and you can't get it flat again without bunching up the other ones and then the sleeves don't line up, and who knows what else will go wrong. Boy I hate that.

Mops and I had to set up a wedding in harsh icy winds and then the roads froze over so Brett and I didn't have to go back to clean up at midnight like we usually do. Instead it had to be done at 8am. Brett was not planning to help with this particular teardown because it was daylight and there was no cause to worry. Sweet Bubba Brett never sends me off to a teardown in the middle of the night to teardown next to a bunch of muscle-laden hourly laborers, without him there as my backup. Brett has never missed a teardown so I was happy to let him sit this one out... until I slipped on the ice covered porch steps and then I got too nervous.

"Bubba?" I asked softly from the threshold of our bedroom. He was all toasty in bed, enjoying the luxury of a Saturday morning sleep-in. 
"Mmm," he grunted.
"I'm too scared to drive over the bridge." Truth is, I was scared about the icy bridges but I was also suddenly worried about a number of aspects of tearing down such a wedding by myself. All the ladders and glass mixed with icy water made me nervous. I had to lean my ladder on some brick steps to hang some greens. Would that be especially dangerous now? No one would be around if I followed in Papa Don's misplaced footsteps.
"Mmm,"
"The ice. What if I go over the side of the bridge? I don't know how to drive in snow."
"Mmmmm,"
"I know, I know. It's not snowing. But if you come with me, I'll take you out for breakfast after." He got right up out of bed, put on this fleece-lined britches and still made me drive over the bridge, but with him in the passenger seat for mental safety. It was even colder and more rainy than I expected so I was extra glad for the extra hands. Also, he's so tall, we didn't even need the ladder. He just stood in a chair and used his Go Go Gadget arms.

That Eisenhauer is the real deal.

A few weekends ago, we got with Ellie and Caroline and had "Sports Day." We met at a park in West Ashely and we all brought along assorted sports balls. Mostly we played Pickle Ball. I'd never heard of such a silly sounding sport but it was lots of fun. We've all played this together a few times and so far, Ellie is undefeated. We contemplated soccer and tennis before we settled on basketball. I have never played basketball in any capacity other than shooting hoops in the driveway with Pops. I do not know the rules of the game nor do I have any concept of what one should be doing when not in possession of the ball. Ellie, Caroline, and I are all 5 feet, 6 inches tall. Brett is 6'4". Caroline and Brett played basketball as teens so really they were the only two playing, but Ellie and I pretend to help our teammates. I pushed Eisenhauer around, climbed on his back, swung my knees towards his nether-regions, but it was all for nothing. He still won.

For next month's issue of The Mercury, I've interviewed Ellie about her Etsy shop. That may not sound like a thrilling read but when people find out that she was able to quit her real job because of the popularity of her Etsy shop, people really become intrigued. I went over to interview her while she and Caroline painted their new accent wall. She chatted all nonchalantly about big success and when I came home and told Brett about it, he and I became frantic about coming up with some easy thing we could sell enough of to quit our jobs. It's very unlike both of us to get caught up in money making or, as Brett calls it "selling out." Neither of us are money-motivated over happiness-motivated. I chase free time. Brett prioritizes progress. We don't need heaps of money for those things - so we don't focus much on it. Suddenly we were overtaken by the possibilities money can provide. "Why am I busting my butt for beans!?" Brett declared. 

"Yeah!" I added for support.

"This takes up all of my time and for what? And if I mess up, people die!"

"Yeah!"

"We need our own Etsy shop!"

"Yeah!"

We stopped brainstorming to eat dinner and then we forgot all about our brief meltdown chasing fame and fortune. I'm noting this happenings for the entirely new sensation of it. I'm not a jealous person at all and Brett isn't easily thrown off track of his goals, which has never been buckets of money. We've never buckled on these things at the same time. We became an entirely different couple - two lost people. Two bitter little people claiming injustice. I didn't like it at all. After we ate and felt better, we realized that there isn't really anything we want to buy. Isn't that silly. And sure, I'm a little hung-up on having land or marsh-views (or both) someday but other than my "design minded" home, we can afford the things we want... because we're simple bumpkins. 

Speaking of which, Brett stuffed me into the car this afternoon and wouldn't tell me where we were going. This wasn't exciting like the mystery date because I could tell he had done something big without telling me first. We took my car, which was my first clue. He doesn't like to drive my car because it "smells" - this refers to the tiny leaves and flower petals that fall down into the cracks and dry out. My car has an earthy smell that I really like. So there. 

He cleared out the back of my car and put the seats down. Clue Two. We're picking up something large. He stopped by an ATM. Clue Three. He hasn't bought it yet which means we're meeting a strange person somewhere for some kind of illegal transaction. 

We got on the highway and headed north. We got off on Ashley Phosphate and I became nervous. Finally, we pulled into a self storage facility. "Ok seriously Brett, I don't have my phone. Should we go ahead and get the police on the way while you're in there? Does anyone know where we are right now? Need I remind you where Dexter did his best work?"

A skinny man with dark teeth pulled up next to us and then he and my precious husband disappeared into the storage place. I waited in the car with the doors locked, wishing Brett had left his phone with me. Just as I became worried about how long they'd been in there, they came out with a drum kit. 

Brett has purchased drums. 

The Last Three Weeks

Our family Christmas proved to be a super-spreader event. Mom and Dad set out to North Carolina to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary on the same morning that Brett woke up with a head cold. Mom's throat was sore but that's easy to overlook when headed towards adventure. Jordan felt dizzy. David felt crappy. I took on a sympathy headache. Surely it's not...Covid. Once safely checked into their hotel room and guts filled with a big meal, Mom and Dad took a health-based nosedive. Itchy sore throats, watery eyes, hacking cough. That's it, we're going home. They got in the car the next morning, drove back to Charleston, passed their Covid tests with flying colors, and then locked their front door never to come out again...for 10 days. 

When hearing they were positive, Brett got tested and he also passed. Ellen began to panic. Her childcare services would be unavailable until further notice. Jordan tested positive. I went out in search of at-home covid tests but the city was sold out. Appointments for tests were booked up for two weeks. We later named me an honorary Covid patient as my wherewithal withered away and my head went stuffy. Margie followed Jordan down the swirling vortex as we all cancelled our New Years Eve plans.

Mostly it was mild for everyone. It's possible that Ellen did the bulk of the complaining during that time due to being inconvenienced. In addition to free childcare, she also receives Meals on Wheels services twice each week from Papa Union's kitchen. She would call all of us each day, and if we ever felt worse and not better she would tell us how unbearable it was to be so bored and she can't take us being sick much longer. Meanwhile we all quarantined, ate sad pantry-based meals (though Ellen did drop off groceries on occasion), battled cabin-fever, and watched a lot of tv. We're all mostly better now.

During that time, Brett accidentally left one of our gates open and our dogs escaped. This is always troubling, but especially so when you live on a busy road near a big curve. Brett and I arrived home from a bike ride and noticed the dogs did not greet us as usual. Seeing the open gate made our stomachs drop. We ditched the bikes and jumped in the car. I looked as far down the road as I could see, looking for any large blobs laying the road. That I never saw one is what kept me calm. We knew two things for sure. Grace would try to bite anyone who tried to help her - which means she will not be "found" by any well-meaing people, so we would not be receiving a call about Grace. Pippa would likely warm up to a kind stranger urging her out of the road but she would be very distressed about being "kidnapped" and likely make a run for it again - thus we may receive a call about Pippa, but her whereabouts could be fleeting. 

We drove around in the neighborhoods where we walk them while Dad drove around in Ellen's neighboring neighborhood. No luck. Who knew how long they had been out and how far they had gotten in the time. We headed back home and there in the distance, nearly army crawling down the sidewalk, was a nervous, mud-covered Pippa. We sped towards her hoping to catch her before she ran into the road. I rolled down the window and called her but with all the surrounding road noise, she took in no ounce of my soothing tones. We pulled up next to her and she ignored our roaring engine. "Pippa!" I shouted, but still, she crawled on. I opened the door and jumped out of the car and it scared her. She looked at me with terror in her giant puppy eyes. I saw the relief wash over her furry face when she recognized me. She leapt and licked and catapulted her up-and-down tail. I clipped on a leash and then she dragged me straight home. Brett drove on while I put Pip back in the yard. I was wrong about the mud. Pippa was filthy. Her face, her neck, her back. But she also stunk. Upon further inspection, I realized Pip had rubbed and wallowed in a decaying animal carcass. 

I locked her up and set out on foot for Grace. I got as far as the neighbor's house when David stepped off his porch to say hello. "Well hey there! Whatcha doin'?"
"I'm looking for Grace actually. She's gotten loose," I told David, our friendly neighborhood truck driver. We chitchatted a little and then David interrupted me.
"Well there she is," he pointed behind me, "Isn't that her?"

Down the street on the other side of the road, Grace stood watching us from the distance. 

"Grace, what are you doing?" I shouted, "Come here!"

She mulled it over quietly. I began jogging towards her. There were no cars coming so it was a great time for her to run across the road. Grace continued to contemplate my instructions as I closed the gap between us. She waited to hear oncoming traffic to begin her promenade across the street. 

"No. No no. Stay!" I yelled, but she danced an elegant waltz into the road. I waved my arms to flag down the drivers. David stepped into the road to stop cars. Grace chose to cross the street at an extreme diagonal, increasing the amount of time she would spend in the road. 

"Grace, come here!" I yelled, embarrassed. Traffic had stopped. Pleased to finally have an audience, Grace slowly sauntered and tiptoed past the cars and ended her performance with a playful puppy leap as she made it to the sidewalk. The people in the cars laughed but I didn't find it funny until later.

Unlike Pippa, she was sparkling clean, so after I pulled chunks of dead animal off of Pip and gave her bath, both girls sacked out for the rest of the day.

Also in the last three weeks, Brett and I seriously considered purchasing this jaw-dropping beauty of a house...

 

...and Ellen had an early labor scare. 

We're all kind of exhausted lately.

Meaty Thoughts

Unbeknownst to most people in my life, I've just gone a full month without eating any meat. While I hadn't made the conscious decision to become a vegetarian per se, my growing abhorrence for the factory farming industry prompted my curiosity about a meatless existence. It all started two years ago when Brett and I were writing our wills.

We haven't gotten around to any of the things people are "supposed" to do when they get married. I haven't changed my name, we haven't done anything about our bank accounts, Brett hasn't become an unbuttoned recliner-based babyman, and I don't wear circle skirts and a kitten heel while making dinner. I know, are we even married? 
But we did determine that if one of us kicked the bucket, we should have the right paperwork in place to prove that we liked each other. Both of our wills say something along the lines of "If I die, she/he gets it all," but it's written in Shakespearean for no apparent reason. Signed, sealed, filed away in case of emergency. But if we both kick the bucket?

Seeing as we don't want kids and all, we had to think about where our "assets" would go if we were to be smothered out holding hands in a fiery blaze on the Iberian Peninsula. Yeah yeah we have nieces and nephews blah blah. We started researching non-profits and found a neat website with a big ole list of ones that do a good job allocating their finances to the causes rather than the well-meaning pockets that started them. As we scrolled through the C's, Compassion In World Farming caught my eye.
"Wait, go back. Click on that one," I said.
"What one?"
"The compassion one." What on earth could that be? The webpage loaded and my life changed forever. I've always known about the paint-slinging PETA people and the Humane Society's hard work for our pets. I also knew about assorted World Wildlife Fund types that help the endangered critters. I didn't know there were people fighting for farm animals... because I'd never thought anyone would need to. Surely farmers love their critters as much I would if they were in my care. I was shocked to learn that there are actual animal activists. If someone had told me this in high school I may have actually had something to be interested in.

I ditched Brett and went over to my computer to read more about Compassion in World Farming. Boy those folks are neat. I immediately signed up to be a monthly donor and not long after, we had a subscription to a humane-certified meat delivery company. "Were not buying the tortured meat from Harris Teeter anymore," I declared to Brett, as though he'd had the same revelation, "And we're paying triple for those happy farm eggs. Do you know what they do to those factory hens?" 

Our grocery bill expanded, though the volume of product stayed the same. (Possible reason for the separate bank accounts?) Costs a lot of money to care for animals properly.

I carried on this way for about year. I was glad to be chipping in to CIWF as they make legal cases to pass basic animal welfare laws. I thought I'd even like to work for the company if only I had a background in law or politics. But a gal that makes flower arrangements and lives in fear of the outside world is really only of monetary value to such efforts. Brett and I also ate guilt-free from our Butcher Box subscription. Life was good.

The problem with becoming a regular contributor to a cause is that they send you updates and petitions to sign, and their head fundraiser calls you from time to time to make sure you still love them. I've loved all of these things really; I pretend I'm part of the team. The problem is that it becomes difficult to take in the different campaigns, efforts, and laws without learning more and more about the factory farming industry, and there is a definite point of no return where you can't eat any animal products without a having one of the heartbreaking campaign images flash through your mind as you chew.

"I don't want to be a vegan!" I shouted to Brett as he was trying to read a sci-fi novel. 

"You don't have to," he mumbled, not looking up from the page.

"I do though," I wailed, " I may as well start an Instagram page and take pictures of myself in workout clothes. #selfcare #plantbased." Brett ignored me in this moment but we did begin to do Meatless Monday two or three times each week. Brett will eat anything so long as there's enough of it.

Unrelated photo someone took of the bridge on our foggy New Years morning. 

A few months ago, CIWF mentioned partnering with The Humane League for an upcoming campaign so I did a Google search about those folks and found a new home in their volunteer program. I signed right up, attended orientation, and met my regional cat-hearder on a giggle filled zoom call. I sign petitions for the Humane League, but I also get to send sassy seething emails to companies who knowingly support cruel animal practices, and restaurants and grocery stores that committed to doing better but have dropped the ball. You now how I enjoyed reprimanding the tenants that wouldn't pay their rent on time? Who knew I had the audacity to scold strangers whose circumstances I didn't understand. Well this is like that but even better - mostly because I know they won't ever write back. All of us volunteers are in a giant chat database where we plot and scheme. We won a campaign back in December and I really felt like I was part of it. That's an entirely new sensation. Is this that teamwork thing?

One animal I've really fallen for in all of this is the turkey. They are so smart and loving. And then I read about how they "produce" so many turkeys in time for the holidays and I was appalled. I won't tell you about it but I'll simply say its painful and non-consensual. I skipped the turkey this Thanksgiving (sorry Dave), and seeings as its right there at the end of the month I thought, "Let's go the month of December without eating any sweet critters." So I did. Brett did a lot of the meatless meals with me but I'd still cook him a salmon filet or pork loin when he decided he needed more oomph. I took to some very creative vegetarian cookbooks and we ate better this past December than ever before. Almost every night had at least two new veggie creations, every one of which was delicious. Brett acknowledged that he assumed we'd have a month of bland boring meals and he happily conceded that flavor and variety run rampant in the veggie world. 

Anyways, during a recent chat with my CIWF contact, I mentioned off-handedly that I love to write and would be happy to write something for them if they ever needed a blog post or article etc. They've taken me up on that and connected me with their media person who slapped me into a press release right away. I didn't really write anything for it - mostly I was quoted, but it got picked up by the AP Press, Yahoo News, and 99 other online publications. Isn't that a strange thought? Meanwhile at the Humane League, my regional rep recommended me for a writing "internship" run by a media company that focuses on activism content and production. I find out in two weeks if I've been accepted. 

Will I continue to turn down meat dishes? Mostly. I didn't crave any meat that whole month (except one night watching Brett eat fried chicken), nor do I have the desire to eat it. That's the main thing. I just don't want to be part of the problem. But I also don't want people accommodating me. So if we go to a dinner party and they've made spaghetti with meat sauce, I'll just eat it. That said, I did tell Dad about my fried chicken craving and he said he'd do some for Sunday dinner this week...so. 

Will I ever go vegan? Likely no but perhaps to a majority percentage. I love cheese. I love a blop of cream in my tea. The official family birthday cake maker just can't be a vegan. But Lue, this contradicts everything you've just said. 

It does, doesn't it? Thing is, I'm not against eating animals or animal products. God gave us meat-eating teeth. I'm against torturing animals. Anything we can do to lower the demand helps. I'm pro lowering demand and increasing quality.

Ours is actually already an oat milk household. (Milk makes Brett extra pooty.)(The increase in veggies made both of us extra pooty for the month of December.) We buy the insanely expensive dairy products from allegedly small-scale happy farms. (If it costs a ton, they're doing it right ... or scamming us). For now, I feel good enough about that.

I hope I don't turn into a freak.