tybee tales [take 2]

May 31, 2006

I tripped over a shell and it squirted water on me. That was kind of nice.
This was Cassie’s report to me upon a query as to whether she had found anything of interest on her morning run.
My own report, from a slightly earlier run [we have a bit of a running joke about how her schedule tends to run about an hour behind my own], involved an oddly poised severed snake–missing the rear portion of its body. Initially I assumed it to be dead, but my curious poke promptly proved otherwise.
And that is about the extent of our Island excitement 3 days into the vacation.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you–boating and beach-bumming could scarcely be considered a hardship:
One could do worse than be a . . . bummer of beaches?

May 24, 2006


you asked for it . . . my already-grown-out new do

today [take 2]

May 21, 2006

Thanks to another Church day accompanied by my 7-year-old friend, I got to take home a most delightful note after giving her doodling paper for the service . . .

Today is Sunday
20, first 2006.
Dear Anna,
You aer a good naber.
I wish you have a
grat day! Love chloe

p.s. I am assuming the “first” came after she asked me if today was the 20th
p.p.s. Below the note was a drawing of a hung “hang man,” with the word “chloe,” perhaps hinting as to the fact that this week, for the first time, I did not play hang man with her, telling her I was going to listen to the service this week :-)

just call me frida

May 20, 2006

spiderman and i, we’re tight–yes, as of tonight, me and the man in . . . crimson and indigo . . . we are one

being bob

May 19, 2006

“sky blue” or “baby blue” overalls? round or oblong ear lobes?
Yes, folks, I admit it: I have spent the evening agonizing over the finer artistic details of Bob the Builder. Who knew such decisions could be so crucial? . . .
Having been commissioned to paint wall hangings for 2 child’s bedrooms has proven to be an intriguing adventure for me over the past few days. More specifically, I am to paint 1 Bob the Builder, 1 Spiderman, 1 Angel, and 1 Princess. So I may never be the next Picasso; but I bet you I could give him a few pointers at the moment as to Bob’s acrylic-on-canvas creative characteristics.

mom’s day mix-up

May 14, 2006

There was an old lady who lived in a shoe. Had so many kids she didn’t know what to do.
Well maybe she shoulda given my Mama a call—said “Hey, Ms. Jan, how d’you handle your clan?”
But then again, maybe Mom’s not the best. Maybe she shouldn’t answer such an open request.
I know my Mama—she’s not one to tell: she’d say somethin’ silly like “I didn’t do well!”
When we all know the truth is she’s some sort of saint—who can say how she does it all? Lord knows, I cain’t!

Why all the world over, who could ever compare?
Oratin’ like Oprah: when Mama’s a-speakin’, the whole world’s a-listenin’. . .
Judgin’ like Judy: when Mom’s made the decision, none dare dispute . . .
Gardenin’ like Gertrude: when Mother’s been digging the whole earth’s a-bloom . . .
Managin’ like Martha: when Mom cleans house . . .oops [so maybe some analogies don’t work so well].

Well anyhow, you get the picture:
Suffice it to say, on this Mother’s Day,
That I love my Mama more than words can tell.
More than brown paper packages tied up with string. . .
more than warm woolen mittens . . .
even more than ice cream!

You know, it is really quite easy–surprisingly so–to rid oneself of excess, to shed societal trappings and to, in the process, significantly simplify the process of morning get-readiness. Are you inspired and ready yet? Alright, go to it:
Buzz the hair.
I definitely recommend it ;-)

Yes folks there is in fact a real live Bunny Lady. And I happen to know where she lives, a mere 45-minute drive from me. She has an official “Bunny Lady” business card. And she lives in a fairy tale sort of tucked-away house on a winding road on the mountain. Her yard is brimming with rabbit habitats and small animal statues, and the sign on her door proclaims it to be a Rabbit-Safe Zone.
It all began when 2 high school boys surreptitiously snuck through the halls carrying a large white bucket—not the normal sight in our suburban private school. As the past the lounge, one of the teachers summoned them back, where we discovered them to be carting around a tiny baby huddled in, and dwarfed by, the large bucket. They explained that they had been instructed by their drama teacher to bring the bucket from her car to her desk. [They had missed, however, her instructions to sneak it in through the back door].
Peering down at the little thing, June loudly proclaimed it doomed and then walked back to her lunch. I interrupted myself in the middle of cuteness-gushing, interfering with her attempt to return to her soup and salad—
What do you mean?!? How do you know?
“Oh, we tried dropper-feeding one once. They just don’t last more than a day. And now that he’s been handled, and Mom’s long gone . . . he’s as good as dead.”
At that point I knew this little bunny’s life was my mission.
First step was tracking down the teacher he “belonged” to. She first looked up and said, “Oh no, you’re mad at me too, aren’t you?” Once I had assured her I was not, I got permission to take it off her hands if I wanted to try raising it. She had brought it in to show her students and intended to release it back into her yard later that evening [her husband had almost mowed over it the previous night, so they had just decided to bring it inside for the night, for lack of any other ideas].
Permission gained, my next step was to call the Wildlife Center. There I was redirected to a Lost Animal Center somewhere in the tri-state region [a long distance number]. They immediately referred me back to my own area, informing me that the Regional Rabbit Expert lived in my own town. She, they assured me, would know what to do.
A phone call to this lady informed me that the little one was too young to survive on its own [less than 4 inches, ears not yet upright, rounded tips, not pointed]. She was amazed that it was still alive, explaining that little ones are so prone to stress that they tend to die of heart attacks if taken out of their habitat. And she then advised me to bring it to her immediately.
I did. I quickly grabbed my car keys, made sure I had the hour and a half necessary for the trip before my next group of students in the library, and stuck a “Out to deliver a bunny” note on my desk. A mere 45 minutes and 1 wrong turn later, I was in Bunny Land itself. She welcomed me in and quickly ushered me to the weighing station. “I thought so . . .” she quietly proclaimed as she wrote down his vital stats in her notebook. “11 or 12 days old. Probably been separated from his family for 2 days already—see how scrawny he is for his length?” I nodded knowingly, unable to think of any intelligent response. “Well hello little one,” she cooed as she cupped him in her palm and held his face up to her own. “My other babies already had their lunch, so you’ll get a late one. I think you’ll get along just fine with the other youngsters.”
I agree. I left there happily contemplating the future of the little guy. Soon I was back in my normal workplace, surrounded by my usual “youngsters,” but left lighthearted over the whole experience.

So hey, be kind to your cotton-tailed friends: the life you save may be . . . Peter Rabbit’s?

I stole a rose. Ok, so maybe I stole 2 roses. On a slightly different running route, I passed a yard that I hadn’t seen up close before. The house itself was tucked back almost out of view, and when I looked more closely I saw a house that appeared to be at best run-down, at worst condemned. But the roses . . .oh, the glorious roses!—and the same blush-pink brimming sort of bush that had drawn me back in my “there were roses” days, in my old house. And I knew I had to steal a rose . . . There are so many . . . and maybe no one lives here . . . maybe the house is actually condemned . . .
The only problem for my theft was that the rose bush was right next to the road. So as I bent to start picking a rose, I heard an approaching vehicle. I shot back up and began to innocently jog in place. Looking perfectly inconspicuous no doubt: jogging in place, next to a main road, in front of a rose bush . . . You know. The kind of thing folks do all the time.
The car passed. I resumed my theft. And a few thorn-pricks and briar-scratches later, another engine hum reached my ears. This time I thought more quickly and ran forward rather than in place, presumably maintaining a better air of innocence.
The car passed. I jogged backwards [thus primed for innocent forward-running should another car come]. This time I successfully picked a bloom—then a second.
Returning home, I began to feel rather guilt-ridden—until a flash of inspiration showed me the perfect act of penance:
I printed out a copy of my “there were roses” story [see 11/7/2004 post in archives], folded it, and on the outside wrote this note:

Dear Neighbor,
Passing your lovely rose bush for the first time, I was struck by its beauty. It reminded me of this story, so I am offering you the tale now.
Thank you for adding a bit of beauty to the world.

I sort of neglected to mention the fact that I had actually taken 2 blooms. But what I decided was that offering an amusing story to them would be a way of thanking them without potentially angering them [if in fact someone does live there].

And there you have it—my confession to the world, or at least to one little blogging corner of my little world :-)

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