The squirrel on Malcolm’s deck

Malcolm stared down his enemy – steely eyed versus beady eyed. Squirrel remained the essence of defiance. He held his six inch long body (not including tail) in the stance of an ancient warrior. Proud. Defiant. Victorious.

Malcolm’s quest for the last six weeks: rid his garden, his haven of peace, of this vermin. Not only was his presence a constant irritant, but this creature had managed to eat every ounce of premium bird food that was supposed to attract rare and unusual species to the feeder. Now only the starlings and mourning doves were willing to co-exist with the squirrel. Even the cat was annoyed but she wasn’t willing to get involved.

His main opposition in this task was his five year old daughter, Beth, who inexplicably loved the beast. Instead she insisted on calling him Mr. Fuzzers and was ready to adopt him as a little brother. “Oh! Mr. Fuzzers. I love him. He’s funny. He hangs upside down.” She looked at Malcolm. “Are you going to build a home for Mr. Fuzzers?”

Given her affection, Beth’s reaction was not good when Malcolm answered, “No honey, that animal is just a rat with a good haircut and better PR.” She hadn’t understood what he meant, but she was deeply offended.

To date Malcolm’s attempts at extermination were less than successful. The cayenne pepper recommended by his mother simply seemed to serve as seasoning. The bonemeal invited the neighbour dogs to roll around on the ground under the feeder. The slingshot only managed to anger his wife, Maureen, and injure his crusty old neighbour. After that particular incident Maureen had ordered him to “Make peace with the damn squirrel.” That directive fell on deaf ears. Maureen had resigned herself to the fact she was married to an idiot and hoped he wouldn’t cause any permanent damage or be arrested.

Malcolm’s battle scars included 27 distinct mosquito bites (earned while stalking Mr. Fuzzers with the sling shot) and a wasp sting on each ankle. Squirrel was not going anywhere. Malcolm felt mocked but was not willing to give up either.

Something drastic was needed. Poison was illegal – and he wasn’t willing sacrifice Beth in the name of squirrel eradication. Malcolm turned to the internet for advice. It was during a late night of research online when Malcolm was convinced he had discovered the ultimate defense. The “Deluxe Squirrel Guard” would protect the feeder. No food and Squirrel would move out.

One tiny engineering issue stood in Malcolm’s way. The guard was actually designed to attach to the bottom of a feeder mounted on a pole. Malcolm’s feeder hung from the tree. Logic was not going to stand in Malcolm’s way. There had to be work around. He placed the order.

In the week that followed the arrival of the “Deluxe Squirrel Guard”, Malcolm spent hours tinkering in his garage forcing his jerry-rigged contraption to balance. In the end it still teetered like a drunken freshman, but Malcolm was satisfied.

He carefully hung the feeder with the guard on the tree. It looked like a pagoda shaded by a crooked Frisbee. Malcolm decided his hammock with a glass of ice tea would be the perfect place to take in his expected mass arrival of song birds.

No sooner had Malcolm departed the yard and Squirrel arrived for his afternoon feast. Squirrel contemplated the situation for just a moment and immediately scrambled up the tree, positioned himself upside down from a nearby branch and swung himself forward with the stealth and grace of a season trapeze artist. On his first try he grabbed the feeder by the “Deluxe Squirrel Guard” and brought the entire thing closer to his hungry mouth.

Squirrel was in this position of pure gastronomical delight when Malcolm re-entered the yard. Malcolm let out a high pitch shriek a little in the way Beth did each time she saw a spider. Malcolm’s reaction was swift and stupid. He dropped his perfectly chilled glass of ice tea and lunged towards Squirrel, arms extended. He fully intended to grab Squirrel by the neck and strangle every last breath out of him.

Thankfully for Mr. Fuzzers – and probably Malcolm as well – squirrels are faster than humans (unless humans are in cars). Sensing the end of his days, Squirrel made a jump for it. He let go of the feeder and twisted his body in mid air to safely escape up the tree.

The bird feeder, with the circular “Deluxe Squirrel Guard”, also twisted in air and was catapulted forward at maximum speed in the opposite direction from Squirrel. It took the exact trajectory necessary to smack Malcolm square in the forehead.

The force knocked Malcolm backwards, lifted him slightly in the air and landed him firmly on his ass. With the wind completely knocked out of him, he didn’t immediately feel the pain or the trickle of blood down his face. It was his dazed state and not a conscious attempt to terrify his family that led him inside in his current condition.

Unfortunately, Beth was the first one to see Malcolm, and it was her blood curdling scream that alerted Malcolm that something was wrong. Maureen immediately came running and stopped dead in her tracks.

“Good God, what happened?”
Malcolm finally noticed the blood all over his hands and gingerly touched the cut on his forehead from whence a steady stream was causing blood to streak down his face.

“That squirrel literally tried to kill me,” he calmly answered.

After assuring Beth that her father was not going to die, Maureen gently led Malcolm to sit down and allow her to clean him up. Once she was able to determine that he would neither bleed to death nor need stitches, she moved on to trying to mend his spirit.

Maureen turned to Beth. “Sweetie, it’s time to give daddy his surprise.”

Beth ran out of the room and when she returned she approached her father cautiously, still wary of his previous appearance. She dropped a large shopping bag marked “Julian’s Garden’s” at Malcolm’s feet.

Malcolm was afraid to look in the bag but he reached in and pulled out a large rectangular wooden box and a bag of peanuts. Confused covered his face.

“It’s a feeder for Mr. Fuzzers,” Beth explained before Malcolm could ask.

The confusion left Malcolm’s face. This was just cruel.

“If we feed the squirrel on the ground, he won’t bother with the bird feeder,” Maureen explained. “I found it on the internet on the same site where you found that stupid squirrel guard.”

Malcolm was about to protest, but he we too tired to fight it. Too defeated. “Ok,” he turned to Beth. “Ok, you pick the spot for it.”

It was 2 weeks later when Malcolm was enjoying the peace of lying in his hammock. Beth was cuddled in to him. Together they watched for their visitors and recorded them. Three sparrows were picking their way in the feeder. The occasional gold finch stopped by for a feed. Squirrel was reluctantly sharing his peanuts with a chipmunk. Malcolm had no idea chipmunks even lived in his neighbourhood.

2gether, 4ever

Marvin knew how to plead with his big brown eyes. Christine couldn't ignore him. She didn’t want to. Everyone else in the house in the house did a spectacular job of that.

When she had agreed to the dog, Christine had foolishly believed the children would keep their word and "love him and walk him and pick up his poo." She had romanticized the idea of taking him for long walks and brisk hikes. Most days it was all she had in her to walk him along the trails behind her house.

Christine choked down the resentment and put on her coat to brace herself against the March evening’s chill. The cat gave her a sarcastic look as if to say “I warned you against that mutt.”

Christine kept a strong hand on Marvin’s leash as they set out. After 6 years the big black lab still liked to push Christine’s limits – and her buttons. Despite his best attempts, she was able to get him to heel. After a few minutes of battling over who was in charge, Marvin surrendered until he found the tree on which he wished to pee. Christine was just thankful she wouldn’t need the plastic bag in her pocket – yet.

She rolled her neck to ease some tension and ward of exhaustion. She caught sight of a carving on Marvin’s tree. Her own initials connected “4ever” to two other letters she didn’t recognize.

It brought back to her a tree in a park 600 miles away that linked her initials with those of Tommy Devon.

She hadn’t thought of him in years. The memory made her sigh out loud. He was 16, she was 15. He was dreamy in man boy way. Deep brown eyes. Long dark eyelashes. Football player handsome and 6’ tall at 16. She had loved the way he had towered over her 5’3’ frame.

It had started as a flirty walk home from school and bloomed into glorious summer love. So much hand holding. So much kissing. They spent the summer in a park full of trees with wonderful crooks made for kissing and perfect for carving romantic vandalism. She didn’t think she had ever been kissed as much as she had that summer.

But when they returned to school Leslie Cuch quickly caught Tommy’s eye and he drifted off in her direction. Christine mourned the loss hard for at least a week. Until John Lambert sat next to her in history class. John, she remembered, had the most fabulous….

Marvin tugged impatiently on his leash. They exchanged looks of “hurry up” and “I’m sorry” before carrying on. Christine loosened the grip on her leash and let Marvin take her the long way home.

Sometimes Marco Polo can go all wrong

“Marco?”
“Polo!”

“Marco?”
“Polo!”

Melissa contemplated the dangers of playing pool games with Sarah, the neighbour’s daughter. Was this a good idea? Should you allow a child to move willy nilly around a pool with her eyes closed? There was no point. She was trapped. There was an audience. They had all managed to escape.

She glared at the other adults lounging on the deck with their drinks and their laughter and their chatter. “Bunch of hens,” she thought. Melissa’s eyes lingered on Mark or, as she had referred to him earlier that day “Fresh meat in the neighbourhood”. She was distracted just long enough to miss that Sarah had managed to make her way close to her. Her fantasy was disturbed by a very loud “Marco” yelled in her ear.

Melissa was prepared – actually thrilled - to embrace her defeat. Melissa’s bikini top wasn’t equipped or prepared to deal with Sarah’s exuberance, Sarah’s excitement, Sarah’s grasping hands.

All the friendly chit chat ceased. Time stood still.

Melissa’s considered shielding herself with Sarah’s body and diving under water. But it would be wrong to drown the child. And it was too late. Everyone had already gotten a really good look.

With a faked casualness, Melissa tried to cover herself with her arm. She noted Mark was frozen in time. “Could you maybe… you know… toss me that towel?” Mark closed his mouth and obliged.

Melissa attempted a breezy stroll into the house. “I’ll just get changed.” Really she intended to go drink herself to death in the kitchen.

Alone in her mortification, she considered her options. Suicide. Moving from her home. Killing everyone at the party. Never leaving her house. Her plans were interrupted by the door opening.

“Tom asked me to get the buns,” Mark sheepishly explained his presence.

Melissa took his sheepishness as a good sign that he was going to be a gentleman and pretend it never happened. Mark reached behind her, his arm brushed across her shoulders. He leaned in a little closer. His lips were so excruciatingly close to her ear lobe she could feel his breath. “If you were trying to get my attention,” he whispered. “It worked.”

The key to Orion's belt

My first tale is inspired by the Significant Object Project (http://significantobjects.com), where writers were given small objects to compose short stories around. Unlike those stories, this one isn't fictional. Enjoy

The old key sits in a clear box in the spare bedroom closet. It has travelled with me through high school, to university and the 4 homes I've shared with my husband. It belonged to my 3 sisters and my brother before it became mine. I have no idea how old it is.

Most times I'm oblivious to its presence. Other times I look at the key and then at my hand.

The scar on my hand - actually, I guess it really counts as three scars formed at the exact same moment - they remind me of Orion's belt.

They came as a result of an ill timed connection between my roller skate and the sidewalk. Perhaps it wasn't so much the timing as it was the placement of my roller skated foot just at the point where frost had heaved up the sidewalk. The true dangers of Canadian winters.

My hand was the only casualty. I was 8 years old. I didn't cry. Fairly amazing considering I'm still someone who can cry if looked at sideways.

I've always found it odd that that the scars grew with my hand yet have faded to the point where only I can really see them. Shouldn't they have stayed the pea size appropriate for a slight 8 year old's hand?

Ah but the skates are the true star of this story. They were a marvel. Metal wheels fastened to an adjustable metal plate and held in place by medieval inspired metal clamps that squeezed into your toes when tightened by that metal key. Without that key, the skates were little more than a household hazard that could take down an adult in a simultaneously hilarious and horrifying fashion.

The whole concoction was strapped to your ankle with a piece of crumbling ancient leather. Ankle support was not a concern in the 70s.

The metal wheels barely rolled along the sidewalk. I'm surprised the friction against the concrete didn't cause a wake of sparks. Now that would have been cool despite the potential for grass fires.

The skates, naturally, were hand me downs. In 1976 roller skating was possibly the coolest activity going. Those metals antiques? Not so much. What I craved were those magnificent disco era white leather boots with the smooth rubber wheels and a rubber break at the front.

Hence came my foray into a career as a failed engineer. I spent hours trying to convert an old pair of figure skates (another hand me down) by replacing the blade with the wheels from my brother's skateboard. I never figured out how to take off the blades. Luckily I was afraid of both power tools and my father. As with most times in my life, fear likely saved me from permanent disfigurement. I gave up.

It still astonishes me that I eventually managed to convince my parents to buy me those real roller skates for Christmas. Unfortunately I was not successful in getting them to buy me satin pants and a satin jacket to go with them. Though I mourned the loss of that outfit, I was saved from the horrors of 70s fashion.

Those old skates are long gone, although I'm fairly sure my mom waited until I moved away for university to get rid of them. Then again, if I was to search the spider infested cold cellar in their house I might find an ancient pair. If there were more than one, I'd challenge my sisters to a race - something we never did as children because our childhoods didn't intersect.

For more than 30 years and for the rest of my life, I have and will continue to think of those skates when I look at my hand. And that key, well it will come with me where ever I go.

An introduction

I've been writing for 15 years - or more - but rarely for art. It's been to sell someone else's stuff, for a while it was to sell my own stuff. It was always about stuff. And a lot of it has involved insurance. Just typing that is slightly depressing.

So this blog is a new indulgence. An exercise in creativity. A place where I'll share my short stories, photography and travel experiences.

I promise that I'll resist the urge to share obvious musings and rants. I say obvious because my stories may contain subliminal musings and rants.

First short story to come later this week.

Peace and Laughter.