Family Exploits

By Tracy Gulliver

“You have some good memoir material, but you need more conflict.” I was at the writers’ conference having my manuscript reviewed by the workshop instructor.

“What kind of conflict? My life has been relatively boring.”

“Have you suffered from any debilitating illnesses?”

“I’ve wrestled with a guilt complex because my younger sister blames me for knocking out her two front teeth.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. She got her permanent teeth five years later.”

He scribbled furiously on his notepad. “Have you ever been traumatized?”

“Sure, when I realized my parents had been telling the truth all along: that I wasn’t adopted and my sister and I were blood relatives after all.”

This was beginning to sound like a therapy session. I hadn’t come here to explore my inner child. I came to write.

The instructor flipped through the pages of my manuscript. “This piece about you and your sister in the kitchen reveals hints of tension between you.”

“Well, there are the food fights.”

“You fling food at each other?”

“Of course not. We’re more mature than that. She calls me the organic gourmet. I call her nutritionally challenged. I make my own granola. She won’t eat any cereal that doesn’t have at least three artificial ingredients and Red Dye #5.”

“How do you deal with this difference in nutritional values?”

“She lures me to her house with her chocolate chip cookies. I leave with a stomach ache. I retaliate with whole wheat banana bread – heavy on the bran.”

“You must have more serious squabbles than that.”

He was beginning to annoy me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized he may be right. “Like all those times her dog came into my yard to do his business?” I asked

His eyes lit up. “That has potential. What did she do when you confronted her about this dog doo-doo disagreement?”

“She gave me a pooper scooper.”

He looked down at the desk and tried to camouflage a yawn. “Are there any other points of contention?” He started doodling in the margins of my manuscript.

“There was that time I put my year-and-a-half old nephew on the roof and took his picture.”

He halted his pen half-way through his curlicue. “You what?”

“Kelly wanted me to.”

“Your sister said, ‘Please put my baby on the roof?”

“Not exactly. But she started it. Earlier that month her husband Rick was stringing Christmas lights. Kelly was on the phone. When Rick wasn’t looking, Carter climbed the ladder and crawled to the peak of the roof. After Rick got Carter down unharmed, Kelly said she wished she had taken a picture of the whole thing.

“So, when they went out of town and left us in charge of their three boys, we put Carter on a roof and took his picture.

“You put him up there again?”

“Of course not! We put him on top of my daughter’s play house. It’s only eight feet off the ground.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“My husband held on to Carter’s feet the entire time. I finished the roll before Carter began wailing. I got some great shots. I gave her the picture for Christmas. Of all the gifts I’ve given her, I think that one surprised her the most.”

“I’ll bet it did. Does she ask you to watch your nephews often?” He mumbled something about child protection.

“As a matter of fact, that was the last time I took care of them.”

“Can you think of any other struggles your sister and you have had?”

“I’ve helped her find her car keys numerous times. I could write about the time we found them in the graham cracker box or under their camper, but not the Roto Rooter incident. Some family secrets shouldn’t be dredged up.”

“You might have the beginnings of a story about a twisted relationship.”

“I can’t exploit my sister,” I said. Then I thought about royalties and made-for-TV movies. “If I did decide to go through with this, shouldn’t I get her permission first?”

“Publish first. Ask questions later.”

© 2004 Tracy Gullilver

Something’s Afoul

By Tracy Gulliver

I was researching ways to entice purple martins into our yard when I heard a ‘k-thud, k-thud, k-thud’ coming from the utility room. Thinking the washer was out of balance, I left my computer to correct the offending piece of laundry. When I got to the door, the ‘k-thud’ stopped. I returned to my office. The ‘k-thudding’ started again. I got up to investigate. The noise stopped. Murphy's Law was working efficiently.

It started again, but this time it was accompanied by claws scraping against the woodstove pipe. I realized the laundry might not have anything to do with the disturbing noise.

I like animals, but we’ve had a long-standing agreement. I’ve stayed out of their houses, and they’ve reciprocated. Whatever had come in my house would have to leave. Judging from the frantic clawing, chances of it exiting the same way it had entered seemed slim. I decided a fire was in order. While gathering kindling, I began to feel sympathetic toward the alleged rodent, and put off lighting a match.

I banged on the pipe, letting it know who was in charge; and waited to see if something would scamper down and plaster its face against the woodstove door. Nothing. It was probably sitting at the bottom of the chimney, inhaling creosote. I decided to investigate.

Opening our chimney clean-out door is no simple task. It involves slithering into a tight, L-shaped space, surrounded by a gas furnace and water heater. Once I’m on the cement floor with an optimal view of the chimney's innards, any animal with an adrenaline rush could scamper across my face before I had a chance to cringe.

Armed with cardboard shield and flashlight, I made my descent. I slowly opened the door, ready to slam it shut if a claw appeared too eager. Nothing. Finally the door was wide open. As my eyes adjusted to the black space, I saw what looked like a chickadee perched on a rock. Then I realized that it was a duck. I took pity her, even though she was hissing at me; named her Myrtle; and scratched building a fire from my list of options.

Leaving the trap door open, I waited for Myrtle to waddle out of her ash heap; calmly proceed to the door; return to her environment; and leave mine. Then I remembered how difficult it had been to guide a domesticated bird to its cage after a 10-year-old pet owner had decided to free it. With visions of Alfred Hitchcock's thriller taking place in my house, I closed the door

Ruling out Animal Control, I decided to set a live trap so Myrtle could make the transition from chimney to freedom without traumatizing either of us. Wire mesh and a cardboard box made a suitable duck cage. Once that was in place, I felt safe enough to get my face closer to the door and check on the status of my guest.

She seemed fine. She was still hissing.

I told her that she had come dangerously close to becoming smoked duck; and we’d both be happier if she’d cooperate by getting in the box.

She continued to hiss.

I sprinkled birdseed on the threshold of the clean-out door, explaining that this was her ticket to freedom.

She wasn’t hungry.

I played a "Sounds of Nature" CD to help my uninvited guest feel more comfortable. I put off running the washer to avoid traumatizing her. Whenever I tried to encourage her, she declared that she didn’t appreciate my efforts. I've learned to live with that attitude around teenagers, but I never expected it from a duck.

Hours later, I introduced Myrtle to my husband. He rigged up a device that would encourage her to come out. I now had a better understanding of what wringing a neck meant. Before subjecting her to the neck-wringer, we went outside to give Myrtle a chance to come out on her own.

She took full advantage of the opportunity. Within minutes Myrtle was frantically flapping against the window. She wasn’t content to wait patiently in confinement, so I could release her personally and experience her full gratitude.

After retrieving Myrtle from the basement, we examined her and determined that all navigational apparatus was in working order. In full daylight we saw that she was a wood duck. I learned that these birds can mistake a chimney for a hollow tree and try to nest in it.

I'm no longer looking for purple martin houses. I'm searching for a device that will discourage ducks from nesting on my chimney.

© 2002 Tracy Gulliver

Cabin Pressure

By Tracy Gulliver

The whine inside 737 was interrupted by static and crackling, then a pause. “Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking.”

“He sounds like my doctor just before he told me that I might be delivering twins,” I told my husband.

“There is a slight discrepancy in some paperwork that’s required before takeoff,” the captain announced.

“The last time there was a discrepancy in my paperwork, I got a letter from the IRS.” I said.

“I’m sure it’s nothing major,” said Todd.

“That’s what you said about the audit,” I reminded him.

“We should have this cleared up in a few minutes,” the voice from the speakers assured.

“That’s what our accountant told us,” I said.

“There’s a little girl behind us,” Todd whispered. “You don’t want to upset her, do you? Just relax.”

“Fine.” Inhale: one, two three. Exhale: one, two, three.

After ten minutes of aerobic breathing, I was beginning to relax when the captain’s voice returned.

Inhale. . .

“Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay.

Exhale

“We’re having a disagreement with the fuel company…”

Inhale

“about how much fuel we should have on board. Thank you for your patience.”

Todd nudged me. “Remember to exhale!”

Air sputtered out of my mouth like a deflating party balloon. “How can they argue about how much fuel to put in?” I gasped. “When my car is on empty, I fill it.”

“Try those visualization exercises you learned in your anxiety reduction class. Imagine you’re floating on a feather, drifting among the clouds.”

As I floated to a higher plane of calm, I heard a voice behind me.

“See that box above us?”

“Box,” I thought lazily.

“What’s in it, Daddy?” a little girl asked.

“A present,” I muttered. “A birthday present…”

“An oxygen mask.”

I dug my fingers into the arms of my seat.

“When there isn’t enough air in the plane,” he continued, “a mask drops out of that trap door. You put it over your mouth and breathe. We’ll need it if we lose cabin pressure.”

My feather was losing altitude fast. I turned around and peered through the gap between the seats. “Wouldn’t she rather hear a grim fairy tale about an ogre who eats children?”

“There’s no such thing as ogres,” he said.

“Read this to her,” I said, shoving a National Geographic between the seats. “Check out page 67 – ‘A day in the life of a cannibal.’ Unfortunately, the reporter didn’t live long enough to finish the story.”

He pushed the magazine back through the slot. It ricocheted off the seat in front of me and landed in my lap like wounded bird.

Without missing a beat Daddy Doomsday continued his lecture. “The cushion you’re sitting on is no ordinary cushion.” He sounded like he was describing a designer ski tube.

I peered through the slit again. “Don’t worry dear. We won’t need those silly cushions. We’ll only be over the Atlantic Ocean for a few minutes.”

“But we could run out of fuel over Lake Michigan,” said Daddy Dearest.

“Is this bag for my lunch?” the little girl asked.

“In a manner of speaking…”

“Excuse me sir,” I interrupted. “Can I get your name and address?”

“Why?” He sounded as agitated as I was.

“If we take off and land without needing oxygen masks, life rafts or foamed runways,” I said, “my therapist will be sending you a bill for the additional sessions I’ll need.”

As we taxied down the runway I heard Mr. Gloom-and-doom whispering details of tornados and straight-line winds they might encounter on their drive home from the airport.

“Thank goodness there are no hurricanes in Chicago!” I hissed.

Once we reached the appropriate altitude, the flight attendants wheeled carts down the aisle handing out packets of deluxe mixed nuts. Ten pretzels, four sesame sticks and three cashews spilled out of mine. It’s a good thing we ate before we left.

I turned to the daddy behind me and slipped my fingers through the slot. “I can take those nuts for you. Then you won’t have to enlighten us on the carcinogens lurking inside the foil pouch.”

He ignored me.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain began, “we’ll be experiencing a little turbulence. Please keep your seatbelts fastened.”

“Daddy, what’s turbulence?” the little girl asked.

I hoped I wouldn’t have to demonstrate the proper use of a ‘lunch bag.’

“Daddy, are we running out of gas?”

I put on my headset; turned up the music; and waited for my oxygen mask to drop.

© 2004 Tracy Gulliver