A few years ago, I was hanging out at home. RitaMarie had already gone to bed and Nicole and I were settling in to watch t.v., hoping to watch something that didn't involve any sort of animation or canned sound effects. As Nicole channel surfed, the phone rang and the caller ID announced it was my mom. (As an aside, I consider the caller ID to be like the guy at a royal ball who announces each guest as they arrive. You know, the guy with the fancy outfit and powdered wig who would say, "Presenting Sir Whatshisname and his wench" (women's rights were non-existent then, so yes, she was introduced as a wench, now stop interrupting my story. Ok, so I Googled the name of the guy and found quite a sassy argument going on between people arguing that this announcer is called a Marshal, a Herald, or a Sargent at Arms. I'm going with Marshal, but I like Herald better). Only the voice we have announcing phone visitors into our home is a bit flatter and often mispronounces things. In this case, our female Marshal heralded (see how I did that there? I used both terms. I'm an equal opportunity writer) "Call from Andrade, A". I felt the need to fire her after that as no one in our family has a name that starts with the letter A, but it turns out she's union, so I couldn't. End aside.)) So, as I was saying, the Marshal heralded a call from my mother, so I answered and we began our typical chat. Our chats often go something like this:
Me: Hi, mom
Mom: Hi. Is everything ok? I tried calling your house before and no one answered. I then tried calling your cell (which, if I'm home is in the other room) and no one answered and I started to get worried.
Me: Everything is fine mom. We were out doing some shopping and then we were doing stuff at home before getting RitaMarie to bed and now here we are.
Mom: Oh. Ok. I was getting worried that something happened.
***As a second aside in this post, this is how many of our conversations go. I often come home to frantic phone messages on our phone asking if everything is ok because I didn't answer. At times, she will have left both messages on our house phone, thinking one of them is the cell phone, and this sends her into an even bigger tizzy. I am starting to think my mother's relationship with phones should be it's own post. Second aside over***
Me: Everything is fine. How are you guys?
Mom: We're good. Dad got stuck in the car, so you're brother is out helping him. (Now, I wasn't shocked that there was a problem with my dad's car as this probably happened in 2014 and my dad drives a 1996 Nissan Pathfinder whose "check engine" light had been on for about 6 months with the mechanic telling my dad to, basically, ignore it).
Me: Ok. Where did he get stuck?
Mom: He's in the driveway.
Me: Oh. Would the car not start?
Mom: No. He was coming home and the car died in the driveway. Now he's stuck.
Me: But, mom, he's in the driveway. He can just call a tow truck or something. What is Chris going to do?
Mom: He's stuck inside the car.
Me: Inside the car? What do you mean?
Mom: The battery died and he can't unlock the doors, so he's stuck.
Me: Sitting in stunned silence on the other end of the phone
Mom: Are you still there?
Me: Yes, but I don't understand. What do you mean he can't unlock the doors?
Mom: He called me from the car and told me the battery died and he couldn't unlock the doors, so I was trying to get the cables to hook up the battery when your brother came over.
Me: More stunned silence.... ... ... Ok.
I think the conversation went on from there, but I was desperately trying to figure out what was happening in my parents' driveway, so I was a bit disconnected from the rest of the conversation. About 30 minutes later or so, the Marshal heralded a call from Andrade, C and I promptly answered my brother's call. When I answered, I could tell from the tone of his voice that he had a doozy of a story to tell me, but I jumped in first by saying, "Uh. What the hell is going on down there (meaning Danbury)? Mom said dad got stuck in the car, which I thought meant it broke down, but I'm beginning to think she meant something else." He responds by saying, "Yep" and I can hear the smile on his face as he's chomping at the bit to tell me the story. "Ok", I say. "What happened?" He proceeds to tell me that he had gotten a call from my dad on his cell phone to please come over to the house to help him with the car. My brother drove over (even though he literally lives on the other side of the block) and found our mother, in her housecoat, trying to hook a portable battery up to the Pathfinder that is in the driveway with the hood up. As he gets out of the car, he spots my father in the driver's seat frantically calling out directions to my mother as to how to hook up the battery. My brother immediately ran over and grabbed the battery out of her hand out of pure fear that she could potentially hook this up in a way that would blow up the neighborhood. He then tries to calm the whole situation, by asking my parents what is happening. My mother goes on to tell him that the car battery has died and my father is now stuck in the car. Even though I wasn't there, I am sure he had the same dumbfounded look on his face as I had listening to my mother on the phone. He then turned to my dad, whose window was cracked slightly open, and said, "Dad, what's the matter?" My dad went on to explain that the car battery had died and all the doors were locked, he had the only set of keys with him, so he couldn't get out of the car. I can imagine there was another period of stunned silence before the following conversation took place:
Chris: Dad, just unlock the doors.
Dad: I can't! The battery is dead and the button doesn't work. It doesn't have power (as if to tell my brother he was an idiot who couldn't figure out that a dead battery does nothing for power locks on a car).
Chris: Dad, just move the button (meaning the actual manual lock on the door. You know, the one that goes up and down and allows you to unlock and lock doors at will regardless of an electrical source. Yeah, that one).
Dad: (Growing increasingly frustrated). I can't! I tried it and there's no power! It doesn't work (in demonstration, he hits the electric lock/unlock button). See?!?!
Chris: No, dad. The other lock (now attempting to point to the lock).
Dad: (Now beginning to yell in Portuguese as his anxiety of being locked in his car increases) It doesn't work! Just hook up the battery, so I can get out!
At this point, my brother realized trying to talk him through this was completely unproductive, so he decides to humor him and just hook up the battery. As soon as he does, my father pushes the lock/unlock button and extricates himself from the car. My brother calmly disconnects the battery which has given the car just a little bit of juice, grabs the keys from my dad, and says, "Hey dad" and then quickly leaps in the car, locks it, and shows my dad he is holding the keys. My dad became quite flustered as he started yelling at him for now getting himself into the same situation that he just got out of. My brother pretended to panic, but then looked at my dad and, while not breaking eye contact, unlocked the door with the actual manual locking button, and opened the door. My dad was now the one in stunned silence and, realizing his anxiety had gotten the best of him, he began laughing and told my brother, who is now laughing uncontrollably, to "shut up".
As my brother and I howled about this story and joked about potential newspaper headlines of a man being rescued from being trapped in his car, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell had happened. My parents are not dumb people by any stretch of the imagination. My mother has a master's degree in education and currently works as an interpreter for the courts, which means she does simultaneous interpretation which I find impossible. My father also has a college education and is so incredibly mechanically minded that he is the Portuguese version of MacGyver. How the two of them managed to end up in this situation just boggles the mind, but I'll be damned if it isn't one of the funniest things I have ever heard.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Sunday, June 25, 2017
And now for the hard part
All of my life, there have been many things that have been constant: my breathless beauty, my awesome sense of humor, my modesty, and my family. My family has always been there for me no matter what happened. I had more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I knew what to do with. Many times, I couldn't even tell you how we were related, I just always knew this person was my cousin. I don't know if it's a Portuguese thing, but we don't make many distinctions between a first cousin or an 81st cousin twice removed. If you were related to someone in their family tree at any point in time, then they're your cousin. So, I was related to...well...the Portuguese population in Danbury (Ok, that's an exaggeration. I was related to half of the Portuguese population and my family was friends with the other). While this meant I couldn't make a move anywhere without that information being beamed to my family through an intricate gossip network fashioned over generations that was remarkably efficient, it also meant I was surrounded by people who were looking out for me. Growing up with a big family that lived in the same town always made me feel connected. I knew if I needed anything, all I needed to do was walk down the street and knock on any number of doors and things would be ok. Growing up in such a tight knit community also meant I made friends that became a part of my family. People that would always be there for me through good times and bad. Like everything else, though, things change. People grow up, marry, have children, divorce and move.
Wow. I'm looking at this post now and wondering, "where the hell was I going with this?" I started writing this one in November 2015 and it is now June 2017 that I'm getting back to it and I have no clue what I was going to say next. I know what the original intention was, but I don't have any clue, at this point, where the hell I was going with the above paragraph. Have you ever had the experience of reading something you wrote in the past and thinking to yourself, "Damn. That was pretty good?" Well, I wish I could say I was having that experience right now, but my experience is probably more similar to that of a person with early onset dementia. You know, the "What the hell was I just doing?" thing. Wait...I actually do that a lot. Crap. I don't think that bodes well for me. Oh well. If it doesn't, I'll probably forget about it anyway.
Ok, I guess I should try to write about what I had originally set out to write about here. This post is about the loss of my brother. I know. I know. Some of you are thinking, "Uh...I don't think this is going to be a funny one" and to be honest with you, I'm not sure what the hell I"m going to say in this one as I'm just writing as I go. Oh, who am I kidding? I never know what the hell I'm going to say or write at any point in time, but I'm always pretty confident my language will be colorful (I'm a visual person, so I ask you to please imagine the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie is asking the department store Santa for his Red Rider BB gun with a compass in the stock and this things which tells time as he is hanging on for dear life at the top of the slide. Picture the smile he has on his face right before Santa kicks him down the slide...Got it? Now imagine my face on Ralphie's body. Ok. That's the image I want you to have of me when you think of me and my very colorful language).
Sorry, I realize I was rambling. I'll do my best to stay on topic. My brother. Now that he is gone, I can admit that he was always smarter than me, but I will also stand firmly by the claim that I was always funnier and better looking. And, since he's not here to argue with me, I'll hold that title for a very long time. I admit he was a damn good brother, son, husband, and kick ass father. I will also admit he was a slob who had to have the latest gadgets, even if they were pieces of crap. As an example, let me tell you a slob story. Growing up, his room was always a mess. His car was always a mess. He was like the real life version of Oscar Madison. One day, my family had gotten home after a long day at the store and I went upstairs to find our house had been broken into and the place was TRASHED. The upstairs kitchen (yes, my parents have two kitchens. If you're Portuguese, you're sitting here thinking, "Yeah. No kidding. So what?" because every Portuguese family you've ever known has two kitchens and you think it's weird that none of your American friends do) looked like a scene from The Sixth Sense when the lady had flung open all the kitchen cabinet doors, except all the stuff normally in the cabinets was all over the kitchen. It was a similar scene throughout the dining room, the living room (not the one we used to watch t.v. in and hang out in, but the living room that was decorated by a professional decorator when my parents bought the house in 1972 and, as such, could only be used for visiting dignitaries and maybe the Pope), and the bedrooms. My parents were visibly shaken and called the police as I walked around with my OCD kicking into overdrive thinking, "Holy crap! This is going to take FOREVER to clean up". When the police arrived, they asked to see the damage and walked through the house. My mother showed them the living room, kitchen, and then took them to the bedrooms. In my parents' house, as you go up the stairs to the bedrooms, my brother's room is the first room you come to. So, as my mother walked the police to the bedrooms, they looked at my brother's room and said, "So, they got this room, too?" At this point, my mother's face contorted in a way I had not seen before and her flesh turned colors that I did not think were humanly possible. I'm pretty sure I actually saw a flash of steam rise from her ears, but I have no scientific proof of that. In any case, in response to the officer's question, she fiercely grabbed my brother's bedroom door, slammed it shut, and manged to muster through gritted teeth, "No. His room always looks that way". As the color drained from my brother's face seeing the ire he had triggered in my mother, I laughed and said to him, "I don't know how you did it, but you managed to piss mom off even more than she already was" and I laughed down the hallway to my trashed room. Shortly after this incident, she directed him to clean his room and he gave her some flippant response along the lines of, "I'll clean it when I'm ready" or some other equally stupid thing to say to our mother. He tried to walk past her out of his room and, despite the fact that he was taller than her and weighed more, she still managed to push his butt back into his room and slammed the door with both of them still in there. I heard a lot of yelling, what I assumed to be the sounds of her trashing his room more, and the faint sounds of what I can only describe as him whimpering in submission realizing he would never again leave that room unless it was cleaned. I was so entertained by this that I sat in the hallway immediately outside his door chuckling as I imagined my own movie version of what I believed was going on behind that door. I soon realized I was chuckling too loudly as the door suddenly whipped open and my mother's face was unexpectedly staring at me saying, "If you're room isn't clean, I'm coming to you next" before disappearing back behind Chris' closed door. Now, I knew my room was clean because I was the Felix Unger of the family, but I was also not stupid, so I just got the hell out of there and entertained myself somewhere else.
I have many more stories like this, but I think I will share those sparingly as they bring a sort of bitter joy in recalling them. In any case, many of you know we lost my brother in October 2015 to colon cancer after only having been diagnosed 3 months earlier. I wish I could tell you there were funny stories to share around that time, but I don't remember any if there were. In any case, while those last 3 weeks he spent in the hospital will likely haunt me for years to come, I choose instead to focus on stories like the one I told above. Or the time I attempted to shave half his mustache and the other half of his beard for an April Fool's joke that went awry. Or the time I set all the clocks ahead by one hour the morning of his SATs. Or the time when we were playing wiffle ball at dusk and, what he thought was the ball being tossed to him, was actually a bat flying at him and he ran screaming like a little girl directly into our grandparents' picnic table and ended up on crutches. Or the time...nah. I'll save the rest.
Wow. I'm looking at this post now and wondering, "where the hell was I going with this?" I started writing this one in November 2015 and it is now June 2017 that I'm getting back to it and I have no clue what I was going to say next. I know what the original intention was, but I don't have any clue, at this point, where the hell I was going with the above paragraph. Have you ever had the experience of reading something you wrote in the past and thinking to yourself, "Damn. That was pretty good?" Well, I wish I could say I was having that experience right now, but my experience is probably more similar to that of a person with early onset dementia. You know, the "What the hell was I just doing?" thing. Wait...I actually do that a lot. Crap. I don't think that bodes well for me. Oh well. If it doesn't, I'll probably forget about it anyway.
Ok, I guess I should try to write about what I had originally set out to write about here. This post is about the loss of my brother. I know. I know. Some of you are thinking, "Uh...I don't think this is going to be a funny one" and to be honest with you, I'm not sure what the hell I"m going to say in this one as I'm just writing as I go. Oh, who am I kidding? I never know what the hell I'm going to say or write at any point in time, but I'm always pretty confident my language will be colorful (I'm a visual person, so I ask you to please imagine the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie is asking the department store Santa for his Red Rider BB gun with a compass in the stock and this things which tells time as he is hanging on for dear life at the top of the slide. Picture the smile he has on his face right before Santa kicks him down the slide...Got it? Now imagine my face on Ralphie's body. Ok. That's the image I want you to have of me when you think of me and my very colorful language).
Sorry, I realize I was rambling. I'll do my best to stay on topic. My brother. Now that he is gone, I can admit that he was always smarter than me, but I will also stand firmly by the claim that I was always funnier and better looking. And, since he's not here to argue with me, I'll hold that title for a very long time. I admit he was a damn good brother, son, husband, and kick ass father. I will also admit he was a slob who had to have the latest gadgets, even if they were pieces of crap. As an example, let me tell you a slob story. Growing up, his room was always a mess. His car was always a mess. He was like the real life version of Oscar Madison. One day, my family had gotten home after a long day at the store and I went upstairs to find our house had been broken into and the place was TRASHED. The upstairs kitchen (yes, my parents have two kitchens. If you're Portuguese, you're sitting here thinking, "Yeah. No kidding. So what?" because every Portuguese family you've ever known has two kitchens and you think it's weird that none of your American friends do) looked like a scene from The Sixth Sense when the lady had flung open all the kitchen cabinet doors, except all the stuff normally in the cabinets was all over the kitchen. It was a similar scene throughout the dining room, the living room (not the one we used to watch t.v. in and hang out in, but the living room that was decorated by a professional decorator when my parents bought the house in 1972 and, as such, could only be used for visiting dignitaries and maybe the Pope), and the bedrooms. My parents were visibly shaken and called the police as I walked around with my OCD kicking into overdrive thinking, "Holy crap! This is going to take FOREVER to clean up". When the police arrived, they asked to see the damage and walked through the house. My mother showed them the living room, kitchen, and then took them to the bedrooms. In my parents' house, as you go up the stairs to the bedrooms, my brother's room is the first room you come to. So, as my mother walked the police to the bedrooms, they looked at my brother's room and said, "So, they got this room, too?" At this point, my mother's face contorted in a way I had not seen before and her flesh turned colors that I did not think were humanly possible. I'm pretty sure I actually saw a flash of steam rise from her ears, but I have no scientific proof of that. In any case, in response to the officer's question, she fiercely grabbed my brother's bedroom door, slammed it shut, and manged to muster through gritted teeth, "No. His room always looks that way". As the color drained from my brother's face seeing the ire he had triggered in my mother, I laughed and said to him, "I don't know how you did it, but you managed to piss mom off even more than she already was" and I laughed down the hallway to my trashed room. Shortly after this incident, she directed him to clean his room and he gave her some flippant response along the lines of, "I'll clean it when I'm ready" or some other equally stupid thing to say to our mother. He tried to walk past her out of his room and, despite the fact that he was taller than her and weighed more, she still managed to push his butt back into his room and slammed the door with both of them still in there. I heard a lot of yelling, what I assumed to be the sounds of her trashing his room more, and the faint sounds of what I can only describe as him whimpering in submission realizing he would never again leave that room unless it was cleaned. I was so entertained by this that I sat in the hallway immediately outside his door chuckling as I imagined my own movie version of what I believed was going on behind that door. I soon realized I was chuckling too loudly as the door suddenly whipped open and my mother's face was unexpectedly staring at me saying, "If you're room isn't clean, I'm coming to you next" before disappearing back behind Chris' closed door. Now, I knew my room was clean because I was the Felix Unger of the family, but I was also not stupid, so I just got the hell out of there and entertained myself somewhere else.
I have many more stories like this, but I think I will share those sparingly as they bring a sort of bitter joy in recalling them. In any case, many of you know we lost my brother in October 2015 to colon cancer after only having been diagnosed 3 months earlier. I wish I could tell you there were funny stories to share around that time, but I don't remember any if there were. In any case, while those last 3 weeks he spent in the hospital will likely haunt me for years to come, I choose instead to focus on stories like the one I told above. Or the time I attempted to shave half his mustache and the other half of his beard for an April Fool's joke that went awry. Or the time I set all the clocks ahead by one hour the morning of his SATs. Or the time when we were playing wiffle ball at dusk and, what he thought was the ball being tossed to him, was actually a bat flying at him and he ran screaming like a little girl directly into our grandparents' picnic table and ended up on crutches. Or the time...nah. I'll save the rest.
The Squirrel
I have been relentessly teased about this story for a long time by the people who know it and decided it was time to open myself up to even more teasing by those of you who don't know this story. This is a story about a squirrel that entered our lives in a spring several years ago.
I was still out on maternity leave and was out mowing the lawn in our backyard. As I was going along with my headphones blasting my Portuguese music (yes, I listen to Fado while I mow the lawn. Don't judge me), I noticed a small grey bundle, about the size of a half dollar, sitting in the lawn dangerously close to the mower blades. I turned off the mower, because, well, safety first, and went to see what it was. There, in the grass was a teeny, tiny, newborn, baby squirrel. Now, as I mentioned already, I was still out on maternity leave and, as such, my hormones were not in the their typically well balanced state (hahahahahaha..."well balanced state"...funny) and I may have been slightly more emotional than I otherwise am. In any case, I saw this baby squirrel and realized that I had been dangerously close to committing squirder (the term "squirder" shall henceforth refer to the act of murdering a squirrel. While I may not use this term again in this post, you may feel free to use it and enjoy knowing how it came be a part of the English language). Something in me seemed to cry out, "This poor baby needs to be with his/her (I didn't check to see if it was a boy or girl squirrel because, let's be honest, that would be weird) mama!"
With tears now streaming down my face, I ran inside the house to research how to reunite a baby squirrel with its mommy. Surprisingly, a Google search turned up very little. There wasn't even a TED Talk on the subject. I mean really. In any case, I came up with a solution and quickly went around the house collecting the materials I needed to save this squirrel. As I'm racing around the house, Nicole is looking at me worriedly and asking, "What's the matter? What are you doing?" For the next several minutes, I continued gathering materials and silently weeping while Nicole kept trying to find out what was wrong. Finally, I was able to push past the lump in my throat and explain how I had narrowly averted becoming a squirderer, and was now needing to initiate Operation SOS (Save Our Squirrel). Nicole, perhaps recognizing my fragile state, took a few moments before blankly looking at me and responding, "Uh. What?" I decided I couldn't bear to tell the story again and went about constructing the makeshift shelter that would serve to reunite the Baby Squirrel Doe with its mother. I attached the shelter to the tree where Baby Doe could be off the ground, but still visible to it's mother, and ran back inside to wait and watch the tearful reunion. And I waited. And I waited. It seemed like hours that little Doe was out there, but no mama came. I didn't know what to do. Was this the equivalent of leaving a baby at a fire station? Was the squirrel mother worried about how to feed another mouth and just couldn't take it anymore? Was there a squirrel DCF that I could call about this poor abandoned baby? Would the squirrel authorities come and pick up the baby to put it in squirrel foster care? Would the squirrel one day be adopted and be told the story of the brave stranger that saved his (or her) little life?
By now, it was getting dark with storm clouds rolling in. I decided Baby Doe couldn't be out there all night waiting for his neglectful mother to return. I went outside, picked up the makeshift shelter and brought it inside. At this point, Nicole looked at me, looked down at the box, and looked back at me again. I would like to say she had a look of, "I love how caring you are" in her eyes, but the conversation went more like this:
Nicole: Uh. What are you doing?
Me: I'm saving this squirrel. He can't be out there all night defenseless and in the cold. He needs to be safe in the house.
Nicole: Uh. We have a baby in the house and we are NOT having this wild animal sleep in our house all night.
Me: But, it can't sleep outside! It will die!
Nicole: Fine. Put the box out in the garage.
Me: Ok. (I walk out to the garage and immediately return with Baby Doe). It's too cold out there. It needs to be inside.
Nicole: You're crazy.
Me: The squirrel can sleep in the laundry room. It's warm in there and I can close the door (because apparently I was worried about the squirrel's ninja skills and ability to be able to escape the box).
I am happy to report everyone made it through the night without injury or incident. In the morning, before leaving work, Nicole gave me a kiss and, in no uncertain terms, told me to make sure the squirrel was not in our house when she got home. As soon as she left, I decided I needed to do something. I was developing a squirrel savior complex and was hell bound and determined to not let this little squirrel die on my watch. I contemplated feeding it, but decided breast feeding a baby squirrel was not going to happen. I mean, come on, how was that little baby going to latch on? Geez. So, I started calling animal rescue leagues and humane societies. What I came to find out was that, apparently, many baby squirrels fall out of their nests in the spring and most places had already reached capacity for the number of squirrels they were able to accomodate. I kept calling with my hopes steadily diminishing until, finally, I found a place that was willing to help me complete my SOS mission. Granted, the place was 30 miles away, but whatevs. So, I loaded up the baby (and my kid) and drove the half hour to drop off the squirrel. When I arrived, there was very little fanfair as I heroically and proudly dropped off the squirrel. I said my goodbyes and off I went.
That was several years ago and now, I am confident in the fact that I did save that baby squirrel who, now, has rejoined the squirrel community and has told tales of the savior who rescued him. I know, deep inside, that somewhere in a tiny squirrel village there is a monument erected to me, and maybe even some squirrel currency with my picture on it. I am certain, that on some summer nights when all is quiet, I can hear tiny voices singing my praises in the trees in our backyard. Nicole would argue that there are meds for that, but in my heart, I know it is the squirrel faithful who continue to recognize and praise my bravery and courage on that dark spring night.
I was still out on maternity leave and was out mowing the lawn in our backyard. As I was going along with my headphones blasting my Portuguese music (yes, I listen to Fado while I mow the lawn. Don't judge me), I noticed a small grey bundle, about the size of a half dollar, sitting in the lawn dangerously close to the mower blades. I turned off the mower, because, well, safety first, and went to see what it was. There, in the grass was a teeny, tiny, newborn, baby squirrel. Now, as I mentioned already, I was still out on maternity leave and, as such, my hormones were not in the their typically well balanced state (hahahahahaha..."well balanced state"...funny) and I may have been slightly more emotional than I otherwise am. In any case, I saw this baby squirrel and realized that I had been dangerously close to committing squirder (the term "squirder" shall henceforth refer to the act of murdering a squirrel. While I may not use this term again in this post, you may feel free to use it and enjoy knowing how it came be a part of the English language). Something in me seemed to cry out, "This poor baby needs to be with his/her (I didn't check to see if it was a boy or girl squirrel because, let's be honest, that would be weird) mama!"
With tears now streaming down my face, I ran inside the house to research how to reunite a baby squirrel with its mommy. Surprisingly, a Google search turned up very little. There wasn't even a TED Talk on the subject. I mean really. In any case, I came up with a solution and quickly went around the house collecting the materials I needed to save this squirrel. As I'm racing around the house, Nicole is looking at me worriedly and asking, "What's the matter? What are you doing?" For the next several minutes, I continued gathering materials and silently weeping while Nicole kept trying to find out what was wrong. Finally, I was able to push past the lump in my throat and explain how I had narrowly averted becoming a squirderer, and was now needing to initiate Operation SOS (Save Our Squirrel). Nicole, perhaps recognizing my fragile state, took a few moments before blankly looking at me and responding, "Uh. What?" I decided I couldn't bear to tell the story again and went about constructing the makeshift shelter that would serve to reunite the Baby Squirrel Doe with its mother. I attached the shelter to the tree where Baby Doe could be off the ground, but still visible to it's mother, and ran back inside to wait and watch the tearful reunion. And I waited. And I waited. It seemed like hours that little Doe was out there, but no mama came. I didn't know what to do. Was this the equivalent of leaving a baby at a fire station? Was the squirrel mother worried about how to feed another mouth and just couldn't take it anymore? Was there a squirrel DCF that I could call about this poor abandoned baby? Would the squirrel authorities come and pick up the baby to put it in squirrel foster care? Would the squirrel one day be adopted and be told the story of the brave stranger that saved his (or her) little life?
By now, it was getting dark with storm clouds rolling in. I decided Baby Doe couldn't be out there all night waiting for his neglectful mother to return. I went outside, picked up the makeshift shelter and brought it inside. At this point, Nicole looked at me, looked down at the box, and looked back at me again. I would like to say she had a look of, "I love how caring you are" in her eyes, but the conversation went more like this:
Nicole: Uh. What are you doing?
Me: I'm saving this squirrel. He can't be out there all night defenseless and in the cold. He needs to be safe in the house.
Nicole: Uh. We have a baby in the house and we are NOT having this wild animal sleep in our house all night.
Me: But, it can't sleep outside! It will die!
Nicole: Fine. Put the box out in the garage.
Me: Ok. (I walk out to the garage and immediately return with Baby Doe). It's too cold out there. It needs to be inside.
Nicole: You're crazy.
Me: The squirrel can sleep in the laundry room. It's warm in there and I can close the door (because apparently I was worried about the squirrel's ninja skills and ability to be able to escape the box).
I am happy to report everyone made it through the night without injury or incident. In the morning, before leaving work, Nicole gave me a kiss and, in no uncertain terms, told me to make sure the squirrel was not in our house when she got home. As soon as she left, I decided I needed to do something. I was developing a squirrel savior complex and was hell bound and determined to not let this little squirrel die on my watch. I contemplated feeding it, but decided breast feeding a baby squirrel was not going to happen. I mean, come on, how was that little baby going to latch on? Geez. So, I started calling animal rescue leagues and humane societies. What I came to find out was that, apparently, many baby squirrels fall out of their nests in the spring and most places had already reached capacity for the number of squirrels they were able to accomodate. I kept calling with my hopes steadily diminishing until, finally, I found a place that was willing to help me complete my SOS mission. Granted, the place was 30 miles away, but whatevs. So, I loaded up the baby (and my kid) and drove the half hour to drop off the squirrel. When I arrived, there was very little fanfair as I heroically and proudly dropped off the squirrel. I said my goodbyes and off I went.
That was several years ago and now, I am confident in the fact that I did save that baby squirrel who, now, has rejoined the squirrel community and has told tales of the savior who rescued him. I know, deep inside, that somewhere in a tiny squirrel village there is a monument erected to me, and maybe even some squirrel currency with my picture on it. I am certain, that on some summer nights when all is quiet, I can hear tiny voices singing my praises in the trees in our backyard. Nicole would argue that there are meds for that, but in my heart, I know it is the squirrel faithful who continue to recognize and praise my bravery and courage on that dark spring night.
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