My Biggest Fear Part 3

Back before my pregnancy with Critter, I was busy discovering the joys of bicycling. I worked a 38 hour work week, and the scheduling of my hours actually gave me every Friday afternoon off. With Smooch in already paid for daycare and Critter barely a thought on the horizon, I could be a bit selfish and use Friday afternoons for me time. Naps, shopping, the occasional mid afternoon rendezvous with the hubby, time was mine to waste as my whimsy saw fit. Occasionally, Bonehead would take the afternoon off with me and we would venture out for bike rides together.

This was an opportune time for a bike date with Bonehead because the child sitting was already taken care of. One Friday morning I rode my bike to work, and he met me there on his bike when I was able to leave. We set off for our ride together, pedaling along and enjoying a beautiful summer day.

I love riding with Bonehead. He’s always sweet and lets me take the lead at my pace and never complains about the fact that my pace is usually 5-10mph slower than his. He’s never impatient with me, even though he could leave me behind in a nanosecond. And he is usually the event moderator, making wise crack comments every now and then, just enough to help me forget that my ass is killing me, my legs are screaming with burn, or my lungs are about to seize up from the last mole hill I had to climb.

We set off for the trail head of a trail I had not ridden before. The trail its self is nestled under a canopy of trees with breaks periodically, leading you through the perimeter of farmer’s fields here and there. As we rode further and further down the trail I took in the beauty of the quiet forest around us, noticing the occasional furry creature or two scamper or hop across the trail in front of me. It was beautiful, and breathing in the freshly tree filtered air filled me to the brim with a love of summer rides.

We hit a clearing and I happened to notice a bird or two swooping down toward us. But before I could get too worked up over it, we hit another canopy of trees and it was all too soon forgotten.

On the way back through, Bonehead, who knows my fear of birds, warned me.

“Chas, we’re coming up on where the birds swooped at us before, so you might want to pick up your pace a bit.”

I completely agreed, so I picked the pace up from about 7mph to around 10mph and felt I was doing a pretty good clip when I hit that clearing. And I saw it, a black bird with red wings, and it looked like it just might be chasing me. So I picked up the pace a little more. And I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was just maybe chasing me faster, so I picked up the pace even more.

From out of nowhere, the bird swooped down and pecked my helmet. I didn’t see it, but I felt the whack as it hit the plastic at the back of the helmet. I let out a scream and from that point on, I only had room in my head for visions of Alfred Hitchcock’s Birds followed immediately by vivid images of Crows eating carrion, followed by the image of this particular black bird missing my helmet and pecking through my neck and coming back out with a piece or two of brainstem.

That clicking sound of beak against my bike helmet was all I needed to locate the rocket propulsion in my legs. They moved at a speed I was not previously aware I was capable of, and I couldn’t stop even once I reached the next crop of trees. I was deathly afraid the bird was still chasing me, and I wasn’t sure where hubby was because I just knew if I turned around I would give it all inclusive access to my eyeballs.

My rush of adrenaline finally left and I stopped and collapsed like a bowl of warm Jell-o. And found Bonehead laughing himself silly at my trail side shenanigans. It was then I noticed the sign “Beware of Redwing Blackbirds protecting their nests”.

Fine time to notice the darned sign.

But at least Bonehead got a good laugh, because I’m pretty sure I resembled a clown on a tricycle- knees and elbows at 100mph must be a sight to see. And I learned I could exceed 18mph without going downhill.

However, I haven’t been back on that trail since.

Disclaimer: The picture above was in no way, shape or form taken by me.

To learn more about my fear of birds, check out My Biggest Fear Part 1 and Part 2.

Groceries of Impending Doom

WeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeee was a sound I was not accustomed to hearing at Wal-Mart. I tried denial. I continued pushing my cart through the soup aisle, answering Smoochie’s barrage of questions, telling myself in my head that I was just hearing one of the lift thingies the employees are always joy riding around on. WeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee came again. Yes, it’s a lift thing. It’s not a tornado siren. Take a deep breath. It’s a lift thing it’s a lift thing it’s a lift thing. Grab your soup, answer your son, he’s talking to you.

To reinforce the fact that denial was completely not working on my inner psyche, the announcement came reverberating over the blaring horns making themselves apparent. “Can we have your attention please. There has been a code black issued, and at this time we need all cashiers and shoppers to proceed to the center of the store. I repeat, code black, please go immediately to the center of the store.”

At that point I’m pretty sure I had to squash the urge to run and flail yelling “We’re going to die!!! It’s useless to fight it! The ceiling is going to blow off the building and we’re going to get pummeled to death by florescent light bulb glass bits!! Prepare for your death people!” I squashed it, but just barely, by reminding myself I had a 6 year old and a 5 month old and I had to keep it together just long enough to throw myself on top of the two of them if the need should arise.

I reassured Smooch that it was just a bad storm (I could see the panic rising in his eyes) and put on a calm exterior for his sake. We found our way to the center of the store and I attempted to squeeze us next to a wall of men’s jeans, because, well, if we have to get pelted by blowing debris, men’s jeans are preferable to 50 pound sacks of dog kibble. In my book, anyway. It’s kind of funny, really, the things that go through your head when you’re facing certain death.

I have to step forward here and tell you that one of my greatest fears is tornadoes. It can thunderstorm until the cows come home, or in my area of the country till the corn drowns, and I’m fine. But the second the word tornado comes into the warning system, my lungs start seizing and pushing my heart up out of my chest into my eyeballs. If I have a nightmare, 9 times out of 10 it involves a tornado chasing me. We HAD to have a basement for the tornado refuge- I never wanted to be stuck in a ranch home with no basement again. I could go on and on here, but I’ll just sum it all up in one sentence. I would rather face down a giant uber hungry python than live through a tornado.

My thoughts included the irony that I was actually going to die at Wal-Mart. I hate Wal-Mart, but not for any political reasons. They’re always out of something I need (like iceberg lettuce for Pete’s sake), and they have their aisles so crowded, two carts can’t fit down them at the same time. Whenever possible I shop elsewhere, but they do have the cheapest diapers in town and we’re now a one income family, so I bit the bullet and headed to the big W. And now I was going to die there. Doom and Damnation, Death Death Death.

I can’t believe I was able to think all of these things while reassuring Smooch. I hid the fact that I was shaking with a pasty white knuckled death grip on the shopping cart, and the other set of knuckles made busywork of rubbing Smoochie’s back. Then, much to my relief, the all clear came over the speakers and instantaneously we were meandering our way back to the veggies for our final few purchases.

We ran into Smoochie’s old daycare teacher and her oldest daughter (who is such a cutie I’m hoping Smooch eventually takes her to prom or homecoming or something but that’s another story for another time) and I remember trying to sound more chipper than I was and saying something about being able to think of better times to shop. I think I got 2 or 3 more items in my cart before the whole ordeal began again. Sirens, the code black announcement, the whole shebang.

This time I was an old hat at the process. We wound our way back to the men’s jeans, this time for the comfort of familiarity and because If I was going to die, at least I’d be next to something manly. If I couldn’t be next to MY man, just the thought of a man would do in a pinch. This time the store was mostly empty because there was a mass exit after the first all clear. A nice lady stood next to us talking, and explained she picked us because she saw I had two kids and she could offer help if the need arose. After the second all-clear when we finally paid and made a run for the safety of command central (my minivan), I had a few other offers for help as well.

Once I got home, the kids safely inside the house, and dodged the lightning bolts to get the groceries inside, I was able to relax. And I realized that there are truly nice people in this world. People nice enough to offer assistance in the face of “certain death”.

My Biggest Fear Part 2

Before I begin part 2 of my story, my mother has informed me I need to correct one of my facts. Apparently Polly was a gift from my grandmother to my great-grandmother. All this time I thought it was an aunt’s bird. I guess that’s what I get for reaching down into the memory of a 10 year old, but now it’s all straightened out.

I was correct about a couple of things. Polly was a very smart bird, and he hated children due to my uncles’ actions during their childhood.

I left off when my mother took Polly in for a while. I truly think Polly was onto me. He knew how scared I was, and he spent a considerable amount of time in his cage planning his method of attack.

I remember a couple of pot pie nights in our house when Polly was allowed out of his cage to roam. My sister and I would sit at our dining room table with our feet tucked up as far under our behinds as we absolutely positively could get them so we wouldn’t lose our toes to Polly’s wrath. Our little girl ears could hear him walking toward us through the kitchen. To us, there was no mistaking the tap tap tap of little Polly feet on our linoleum floor.

As he would reach the doorway of the dining room, we would look at each other in panic and fear. Usually there would be a chorus of “MOOOOOM!! Polly is in the dining roooooooom!!” To which we’d hear the answer “He’s fine, girls, eat your dinner.”

And then Polly would get closer to us little step by little step. I forget which one of us it was, but either my sister or I got the brilliant idea of tossing pot pie crust pieces towards him in order to keep him busy eating and avoid his being close enough to chew our toes off. Eventually he would get enough to eat and leave us alone. Inside him was a little extortionist, I think. We lost large portions of more than one pot pie that way.

Polly had this giant iron cage that he lived in. Now because I remember these activities from my childhood, the cage could actually be a bit smaller than I remember it. I remember this cage being about 3 foot in diameter and about 5 feet tall. It took up a whole corner of our den when he stayed with us. His cage had a bar that happened to be bent just so, and this meant that Polly could occasionally become an escape artist. My parents would attempt to fix it, and within days the bar would be bent again somehow and he could squeeze through to freedom.

One afternoon, my sister and I were hanging out in the bathroom together (as siblings of the female persuasion are known to do) doing girl stuff- braiding our hair or something equally girly. As we went to leave the bathroom and opened the door, we stumbled into a world of terror we were totally unprepared for.

There in the door frame was Polly, who had stealthily snuck out of his cage 4 feet away, and waited silently outside our door in his little stalker mode. He knew I was in that room and he’d waited all these many years to carry out his plan of attack.

My sister and I both shrieked as loud as we could. Polly let out a loud squawk and came charging towards us, and there was instantaneously mayhem everywhere. I forget which one of us went where- it all happened so fast and all I really remember is the ultimate feeling of terror that everything I had spent my whole childhood fearing was finally coming to fruition.

All I know is that when all of the feathers stopped flying and the shrieking stopped, one of us was inside our claw foot bath tub shaking like a cold Chihuahua, and the other was completely horizontal on the top shelf of our walk in closet trying to blend in with the linens.

My mom showed up at this point with a broom handle, and Polly gave up his pursuit to hop onto it. She placed him back in his cage where he watched us, waiting for his next opportunity...

My Biggest Fear Part 1

I mentioned that my mom has 4 older brothers. They’re crazy. They’re often insane. People have been known to shake their heads and walk away. Others stick around for the entertainment value. I grew up with my wacky zany uncles and their antics were just a way of life for me. The rule of thumb was to never take what they said seriously, even if it was something as simple as, “Ah-choo!”

Back in their childhood days, they had an aunt with an Amazon parrot named Polly. According to the folklore my uncles put forth, one of them wasn’t particularly nice to Polly. That is to say, he teased him fervently. Unmercifully. The way young boys can be known to do.

Not surprisingly, Polly learned to dislike children. I’m not sure if it was strictly one uncle’s fault or not, but what I do know is that parrots live a very long time and this particular one was very intelligent. After his aunt passed away, my now adult uncle inherited Polly.

I’m absolutely sure that Polly was a very good bird. My mom loved him. My grown uncles loved him, although I think Polly may have carried a grudge toward the uncle who teased him.

Polly did some really neat things. He could mimic the cry of a baby. He would use this cry if he felt he was in trouble or being treated unfairly. Whenever it was dinner time in my uncle’s house, you could often hear him say, “Polly want a crack-crack-craaaacker.”

Here’s the part where I have difficulty distinguishing between truth and non-truth. When it came to Polly, I had the fear of God put into me by my uncles. “Don’t go near his cage. He’ll bite your finger off. He killed a small dog once. His beak is razor sharp – it will cut you real good.”

I don’t know if the dog part is true, but I do know he really disliked children. And so between the combination of a grouchy bird and the things my uncles told me, I cultivated an unhealthy fear of birds. On the rare occasion I was around when Polly was out of his cage, I would experience anxiety like no other known to man. Especially when he would look at me with his little eyes and his feathers would fluff and he’d emit a low growl that sounded sort of like, “bruuuk.” At those moments I knew his little mind was wrapping itself around the fact that he was free and I was little and there was nothing between us.

I love my uncles (and my mom) with all my heart. But I’ll have to admit even as a child I was skeptical when they would tell me that all I had to do if Polly came after me was put down a broom handle and he would get on it so I could put him back in his cage.

Are you freaking kidding me? There wasn’t enough candy in town to bribe me into getting a broom’s length away from that bird. He was out to get me and chew my fingers off and that was that. So I did my very best to stay away from Polly.

Now that I’m all grown up I realize what a neat bird he really was. He was absolutely beautiful- this lime green and yellow combination that was really neat. I was fascinated how he could sound so much like a baby. And the way he would sit around and say “Polly. Polly. Polly” when he knew you were eating and not sharing with him. Even so, no matter how neat he was, I think I would still have a major panic attack if I ran into him today.

At one point in my late childhood my uncle and aunt couldn’t bring Polly with them to the current residence they were renting. I’m not sure if she volunteered or was asked to, but my mom said Polly could come and stay with us for a while. I firmly believe this is when he realized how massive my fear of him was and began to mess with me……..