RIP Survivor

The Field Mouse Named Survivor

Jacob’s cat, Licorice, brought home her first field mouse today. She promptly placed it in his palm, looking up at him, as if to say “Look at what I brought you, Dad!” I will never forget his response. “Noooo! Lickey! That’s mean!” He cried it out as he wrestled the half-mangled mouse from her jaw. She looked at him, with a cross between irritation and confusion. He swatted her away and he ran toward me, holding up the mouse, and telling me it was still alive.

“We can save it, Mom! I know we can!”

I didn’t know whether to jump out of my skin or hide behind the couch. One thing I have always feared is mice. And seeing it in his palms, with tears rolling down his eight year old cheeks, didn’t totally make the fear dissipate. There was, after all, a wild mouse about three feet from my kitchen island.

It wasn’t long that Jacob’s baby brown eyes had me convinced it was time to get over my fear of rodents and help him to save this little creature. I quickly salvaged an plastic cake box from the garbage can and began poking breathing holes in its top. He ran down to his room, grabbing one of his favorite stuffed animals in one hand and still clutching the field mouse in his other hand. He emerged with scissors and cut the head right off that stuffed animal. He made bedding and packed that cake box about as cozy as any outside mouse could ever hope to have. I don’t think he noticed it was twitching.

Tonight, he’s sleeping upstairs. He’s locked his cat in his brother’s room and is laying vigilant by the mouse he’s determined to name Survivor. I’m quite sure Survivor is missing one eye. I’m more than sure the cat managed to break one of his legs. But he’s breathing. And sleeping.

Part of me is tempted to kill survivor while Jacob is sleeping, to put the mouse out of its misery. But another part of me wants to believe just what he does – that the little bugger – who is actually starting to look sort of cute in a scary sort of way – will actually be ok.

I’ve promised Jacob that if the mouse makes it the night and appears that he will live, we will make a trip to Pet Co to buy him a little cage and food and other treats. I don’t know if I will have to make good on that promise. I hope so. For Jacob’s sake. And for Survivors.

He went to sleep tonight saying, “He’s going to be ok, Mom. I know he is!”

I told him how proud I was of him for trying to save the mouse. He looked at me, rolled his eyes, and gave me his bravest, most grown-up smile. “Mom! If I’m really going to be a veterinarian, I have to be able to deal with things like little dying mice!” Could someone tell me when God decided that if I was going to be a Mom, that I’d have to too?

Goodnight, Jacob. Goodnight, Survivor. …Fingers crossed.

Plum Blood

Plum Blood
By Erin L. George

I am an angel
but my blood races
black
and red.

I’ll steal
cloudy covers
from your cloudy
perceptions
of my ashen wings
head ring of gold
running
eternally round
your misplaced kisses.

Lock down
your harp
for I’ll seduce you
with mocking charm
between Jupiter
and the man on the moon
dancing
frenzied past
your trusty cries.

I am a demon
Blood-melted snow
white
and turquoise.

Hand me
your Stratus
(make it Cumulus)
to cover
my bare breasts
in a starry sheath
soaring
curiously past
your hardened lips.


Give me
your violin
for I’ve written a song
sweetened
in sugar swiped
from my heart
after Sunday mass
in the courtyard.

I am a cherub
muffled peccadillo -
blood running
purple gray.

Kissing Tony

Krazy, koo-koo goes my mind, as I spin on the taste of his tongue -
Intercoursed with the call of a chick-o-dee (minus Springtime dew and daffidols)
Someone, stop this madness! I’d be remiss to know the comings and goings -
So irrelevant to the krazy, koo-koo clucking that sprays my senses blind.
I close my eyes. Caramel! La! I bite at my tongue, frustrated that his is not
Near for more intercoursing. For a sword fight built on lust, drive
Greed. Swollen on koo-koo callings (I hear them now and close my ears).

Tony likes his nibbled on. I could purr to him in night dreams -
Or, stay awake, and fuck him with my mind. Undressing him; one by one
No! Two by two! (that’s better!) My scrambled mind runs blissful -
You’ve made me krazy koo-koo! “Kiss me, you fool!”

Bad Girls

Bad Girls
(For my girl)
B ad girls sleep with pillows, tucked between their thighs
A ngry with the boys they love, tired of the lies
D on't expect a picket fence, built up in their dreams
G ood girls sleep with husbands, stitching tight the seams
I d rather sleep in downy fur, damp in salty tears
R ather build a six foot fence, shielding of their leers
L eave the blush to nicer girls, sold on better things
S o I can ride with not so nice, peaches, dirty flings.

Animal Poop & Soccer Balls

I asked MJ to give me a list of good times we’ve had together as a family. His first, 12 year old response, was a drab, uninterested one – “I don’t know any.” He didn’t even bother to look up from his computer video game to hand me this. I pressed him. He still didn’t bite. I guess I’ll ask him again when it’s not well past midnight. In the meantime, I can list a few right off of my head – whale watching on Rye Harbor, tonight’s haunted hayride in downtown Troy, soccer tournaments, particularly the 2008 Winchester tournament, playing car trivia, and our visit to the Bronx Zoo together back in 2002.
When I look at what all these events have in common, I realize they all included the four of us being there, together, and focused only on the task or activity at hand. None of these things included cell phones, work, responsibility, or alcohol. We were all very sober and present for these events and each of us genuinely wanted to be there. Another thing that made these events special is that we put our own special twist on each of them.
During our Bronx visit, we made things extra fun by trying to spot animals who were in the midst of taking a shit. While this may sound odd, it was particularly funny at the time, especially with our energies focused on potty training Jacob. When we’d spot an animal – such as a lion – squatting down to defecate, we’d laugh and I’d snap a picture. This game went on for hours and I was able to come away with a full slide show of various animals doing their thing. If you ask the boys about the Bronx Zoo today, the won’t be able to tell about their trip without mentioning animal poop.
We made the whale watching trip our own by spontaneously calling the entire family in for a mental health day. We ditched both school and work and just headed up to Rye one day to do something new and different. Favorite memories from that trip include Matt hanging onto the ceiling beams on the tiny sailboat for dear life – wanting desperately to throw up his Quiznos lunch sub. Eventually, he found his sea legs and we learned he had a great knack for taking pictures of hump back and sperm whales as they were rising to the surface to feed. Hours aboard the boat together were filled with laughs and funny moments, such as MJ pointing out a guy wearing a pot tee shirt with an M like the golden arches. The tee shirt read: Marijuana, over 1 billion stoned instead of McDonalds, over 1 billion served.
The 2008 soccer tournament was another spur of the moment decision. We were able to put together a team of local kids in less than three days and wound up placing second in the tournament. Of course, Matt felt obligated to get all the kids trophies and wound up spending over $100 to do so, but it was definitely worth it. We came in second place at that tournament after a double overtime situation that came down to penalty shots. With one less goal than the other team on penalty shots, we reluctantly walked away runner up champs. But every member of that team felt like a champion that day. Between round robin games the kids were able to jump in leaves, get their faces painted, and pig out on hotdogs and a variety of other foods. The end of the night brought medals and cake and ice cream. I will never forget the way Matt’s face beamed with pride that day. This was his team and they’d done him proud. It was then that Matt finally found something he was passionate about – coaching. What a job it is to find a passion, any passion. It’s something he’s stuck with ever since that tournament.

How would you like your soup? (Or should I just throw it in your face?)

About once a month, we’d get a visit from my father’s parents. Grandpa and Mimi had a very unique relationship. He ignored her. And the more he did, the more she persisted with him, anxious for any – even negative – attention from him. Of course, the more she did this, the more he ignored her.
Before they arrived, Mom would brew up a delicious batch of clam chowder or sausage and peppers. Her soup made the house smell like a friendly pub and I took great joy in spicing it up with salt and pepper as I’d walk by to check on her progress. Frantically, we’d clean, the bitter taste of Windex mixing in the stale air, to make sure things were perfect for the visit. Leaving the kitchen floors for last, Mom would always be sure to cut up cheese and pepperoni or make shrimp cocktail for stow-away snacks for their impending tag-team Canasta games.
When Mimi, with her purple nose, would peak her head in the door, I always smiled and was glad to see her. But when Grandpa followed behind, my throat would get dry and something inside of me would grow very quiet and angry. I knew what Grandpa would do before he did it. He’d order me to get him a bowl of soup and poor him a drink. He would never ask any of my brothers, who may be closer by or not in the middle of something. No, he was insistent, my mother should relax and I, being the only other female hostess in the house, should dedicate the rest of my night to being at his becking call and serving him. I felt like someone should be giving this man a bell and letting me go chew on grass in the backyard while I waited for his next command. I wasn’t so fond of Grandpa.
Fortunately, Dad didn’t inherite all of this sexist thinking and genuinely liked my being his “little girl.” While he often used my mother as a translator to explain hormones or tears out of the blue, he generally tried to take an interest in me and my activities. But when he couldn’t, he found other things we could do together.
One such big project was installing a handmade stone water fountain in the pool area when I was about 12 years old. Being the only one long and skinny enough to scale under the pool to tighten pipes, Dad and I spent days with his strong hands on my ankles as I held my breath and finagled the piping for him. The pride on his face was apparent to a blind person and I was not above squinting to get an even better look. For months, he bragged my brothers about how a girl had done that. How a girl had been the one to fix the plumbing situation in the pool area. I was overjoyed. It was then that I became convinced I could do anything. It was a feeling I took with me into my adulthood. I’ve often wondered if Dad knows how he played a role in developing this part of me – both the negative and positives.
I know Dad is hardly even close to a feminist. He doesn’t have a left wing bone in his body and certainly does not have room for women who’d be suffrages by the likes of Alice Paul. I, however, admire these woman to the core and have made a concerted effort to fill my heart with their stories and histories. I minored in Women’s Studies at Keene State, enthralled by my first Woman’s Studies professor – a lesbian from the University of New Hampshire summer school program. I vowed to have a daughter one day, a strong daughter, and to teach her to have a mind of her own and to never serve soup on command! Likewise, I promised myself that if I ever had sons, I would not allow them to believe it was okay to treat a woman that way. I have found that the promises I seem to keep throughout my life are the ones I’ve made in reference to the boys. And this is a promise I’ve been able to keep quite easily.

Ode to Teachers - Good, Bad & Ugly

Like with most things in life, I had my share of ups and downs when it came to the teacher grab bag. I had some amazing teachers, who inspired me to be more and do more. I also had some unforgettables and teachers who did nothing to help my self esteem or love for learning.
First grade started with Miss. Carol Lavalle. I was in awe of this woman. She was petite and well put together. She was the stereotypical first grade teacher, the kind who wore homemade crocheted sweaters and vests the color of each holiday season. She spoke with a candy-laced voice, always sweet and affirmative in tone. It didn’t matter what a child’s potential, Miss. Lavalle made us feel like we were all special and could someday rise to becoming the president of the United States. x
Each day, Miss. Lavalle would drive in to school with her mother, Jean. I didn’t find this odd at the time, because, after all, first graders always bring their mothers with them wherever they can. Jean served as a sort-of teacher’s aide. From yarn octopuses to pompom magnets, she was always there to help us with extra doses of Elmer’s glue during craft projects or even to tie our shoes. Carol Lavalle never married, it turns out, and lived with her mother in Merrimack for as long as I kept track of them.
Second grade brought Miss. Hubbard. Miss. Hubbard quickly turned Mrs. May after her stomach began to brim with her love child. Mrs. May was a gentle teacher, soft on skin and demeanor. But something about her didn’t fit me as well as the old shoe Miss. Lavalle had felt like to me. Maybe it was the lines of tension that seemed to frame her late twenty-something face that made me nervous.
Because her pregnancy was clearly a surprise, Mrs. May wasn’t able to plan her typical teacher maternity leave beginning in early June. So much of my second grade year was filled by a handful of substitute teachers – none of them very memorable.
Third grade brought with it the most evil witch I had ever known and have ever known since. Mrs. Doupont was a hideous red head. Not the kind of charming and mysterious auburn that some Irish beauties boast of. And her red headedness didn’t come from her sense of adventure or passion for anything other than making the lives of innocent eight year old girls miserable.
From calling Mom to “tattle” on me on a weekly basis for talking too much in class, to claiming I shot her daily “looks to kill,” Mrs. Dupont had it out for me since the day I stepped into her classroom. School started on Sept. 7 that year. My birthday, being Sept. 8th, didn’t leave much time for cupcakes and a planned party – something customary to most of the third graders at Mastricola Elementary school. Instead, my big birthday surprise that year was learning that not only did Mrs. Dupont and I share an instant distaste for one another, but we also shared a birthday. Even now, in my mid thirties, I always think of that evil woman on my birthday and wonder what little girl she has made her target of manipulation and hate now.
Fourth grade brought a happy change with teachers. While I’d have settled for an elephant with horns to be out of Mrs. Dupont’s class, I was happy to land in the chubby, merry, capable and fair hands of Mrs. Dorin. Mrs. Dorin had older daughters, high school daughters. She’d been there, seen it, and wasn’t in the least intimidated for little girls with big mouths and an interest in passing notes in class. Mrs. Dorin had a robust laugh and a special place in her heart for April Fools Day and practical jokes. And it was more than one Whoopie cushion from the Zyla’s discount store that I placed under her chair.
For as “cool” as Mrs. Dorin appeared, I was surprised to learn that she’d requested special placement for me in the fifth grade. It was her intention to separate me from my then-best friend, Debbie McHugh. Apparently, she hadn’t found our jokes and chatter as endearing as I might have thought. So while Debbie was shipped off to one fifth grade class, I found myself in the homeroom of Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton.
Women who hyphenate their names make me instantly nervous. I am never sure whether they are trying to prove something or feel that I’ve somehow sold myself and my gender out by not hyphenating. Or maybe it’s just that women who hyphenate remind me of Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton. An unremarkable, plain teacher, I often wondered what made her get into teaching in the first place. She certainly didn’t seem to have any joy with teaching. Even Mrs. Dupont’s reason for teaching – to watch us squirm – made more sense to me than Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton’s. Her monotone voice ringed so much older than her 20-something years. I never could figure her out. Or, why she insisted I sit next to the class retard – otherwise now known in politically correct circles as “developmentally delayed” – Jason Osburn. And while this placement with the retainer-fiddling, spit-yielding, smelly class outcast may not have seemed like any big deal to Mrs. Plain Jane, it spurred off the beginnings of my social decline. Well, that and my budding pimples and greasy hair. For all that she didn’t impress upon me, Mrs. Sheldon-Amiton certainly left an impression via my peers when it came to the development of my self esteem...Something I wish I could have popped. I wonder, sometimes, how this effects my inner fat, skinny and in between girls...