Snake

I have to confess that I’ve lost my snake. And what’s worse, I’ve lost it before I could determine if it was alive or dead.

Let me explain. Last Sunday we took a walk down our lovely Lake Shore Road. On the way home I found a small snake (7 inches long, as thick as a pencil) on the asphalt shoulder of the road. It was not squashed by a car, but it was not moving, either.
Unable to check a snake’s vital signs, I decided to get it out of harm’s way.
When we all arrived home, I put the inert little snake in a Tupperware bowl, sans lid, just in case it was still alive. I put the bowl on a table in the “suitcase” room downstairs.
Then I consulted my “Snakes of Wisconsin” book. Since our state only has 21 kinds of snakes, I quickly identified my little guy as a Northern Redbelly Snake. The book said, “This species is often seen on warm sunny days in September or October basking on back roads.”
Yesterday, when I came home from work, I went downstairs to check on the “dead” snake. The bowl was empty. The cats aren’t talking, and the snake (alive or dead) is nowhere to be seen.

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Upstaged

I was definitely upstaged last week, and I don’t mind one bit. Anyone who would try to compete with a mouse for children’s attention is a fool. Fortunately, I have learned that people charm is trumped every time by animal charisma. 

The mouse in question was spotted scampering around a classroom just minutes before I arrived to do a program. Not one child had anything but mouse on their mind. All I could be was a second tier act. My career has prepared me for such humbling incidents. 
The bookstore cat comes to mind. My program was going smoothly, and the bookstore cat was discreetly hanging out on the fringes of the group of children. Then I brought out my cat marionette. Bookstore cat proceeded to arch its back, make every hair on its body stand on end and hiss like a cobra. No strange feline was going to invade his territory. Nothing I could have done would have topped that act.
The lonely dog episode was another challenging scenario. I was at a very small library, and the program had to be done outside on a grassy lawn. I was facing the library with my back to the brick walled building next door. As soon as I started, a dog appeared in the second story window above my head. And this pup was extremely happy to have 50 kids and a program lady right below him. His owner was obviously not home, and the dog wanted to come out and join the fun. He communicated his desire by barking happily for the entire hour.
But my most challenging program involved 50 girl scouts and an open air park pavilion. As I was doing the program, I spotted the skunk heading out of the woods directly toward us. I told everyone to freeze. By some miracle and the influence of great scout leaders, the girls became statues. The skunk waddled into the pavilion, got into a trash can, had lunch and left. I am happy to report that none of us needed tomato juice baths that night.

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Gibraltar

I am a failure as a consumer of durable goods. I have only bought one stove in my entire life.

For over thirty years I cooked and baked with the Rock of Gibraltar. That was the name we lovingly gave to our free stove. The rock was 30 years old when we inherited it. The woman who sold us her house was moving to Seattle and had no desire to move her ancient behemoth of a range.

In the 30 years I used it, I never figured out all its remarkable features… a deep well burner complete with kettle for soups, a cracker crisper drawer, a warming oven, dish towel drying racks, various timers and automatic starters. The stellar feature was its solidity. If anything rolled under the stove, it was gone. The Rock of Gibraltar did not move.

The Rock was easy to repair. My handy husband would occasionally replace a burner or broken element and the stove would keep on cooking year after year.

When we finally moved to our present home, we couldn’t conceive of moving a 10 ton, 60 year old stove. We reluctantly left it behind and bought a shiny new Maytag range.

I knew I was in trouble when the Maytag arrived with these instructions… “do not use burners at high heat for prolonged periods of time.” I did. The supports that held up the burner coils immediately melted causing the pans and teakettles to slide off. In retrospect, we should have moved the Rock.

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Minnesota

I spend a fair amount of time in places other than my Midwest Wisconsin home. Therefore, I need to lodge a complaint to the rest of America. I am not, repeat not, from Minnesota (or Minn-ah-soda, if pronounced with the regional accent). Nor do I have any desire to be a Golden Gopher.

People in New Mexico are amused that many Americans mistake their state for an entire country, Mexico. We Wisconsinites have no such luck. We are diminished to the status of a gigantic Minneapolis suburb.
My aunt’s eye doctor (in New Mexico which I know is a state) is a prime example. He knows I fly in to accompany my aunt to her appointments. Yet every visit he says to me, “How are things in – um – Minnesota?” “Great, as far as I know,” I reply. And then I tell him for the umpteenth time that I live in Wisconsin. I am seriously considering wearing a large cheesehead to my aunt’s next appointment. A Green Bay Packer sweatshirt will probably be necessary, too.
Wisconsin is desperately in need of a serious branding campaign. Our license plates meekly say “America’s Dairyland”. I suggest we replace this with “Eat Cheese or Die”. That will get us a bit of well-deserved attention. Residents of the Big Mitten, rise up! We’ve got nothing to lose – but Minnesota.

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Treasures

Japan wisely designates certain special citizens as living national treasures. If America ever becomes enlightened enough to emulate this practice, I know exactly who I would nominate. The apple lady would get my vote.

I met this amazing woman by default. Every fall I do a children’s program, “All About Apples”, which combines botany, folklore, nutrition and my own unabashed love for the fruit. I start the program by introducing the apple family – Mac, Milton, Jonathan, Paula Red, Granny Smith, Fuji, Ida Red and more choice specimens from the apple family tree.
In pursuit of as many apple varieties as possible, I head to the West Allis Farmers Market. One memorable year, I stopped at the sprawling stand of one of the biggest orchards and politely asked for one apple of each variety. The owner derisively replied, “Oh, you’re one of those”, meaning, of course, another grade school teacher wasting his time.
I left his display and found a small stand in a far corner of the market. A solitary older woman manned the stall, and her face looked exactly like that of an apple doll; browned, happy and weathered by many seasons in the sun.
She met my request with unparalleled enthusiasm and told me about her family’s orchard which is devoted to saving antique apples. I learned that America loses hundreds of apple varieties each year. I already knew that most kids think an apple is a rock hard, utterly tasteless, corporately grown Red Delicious.
She introduced me to her apple family – apples grown since the time of Thomas Jefferson, apples perfect for pie making, an apple called Alexander which was first cultivated in Russia in the 1700’s. And then she showed me an unassuming smallish Pink Pearl apple which wasn’t very pink at all; that is, until it’s cut open. The entire inside of the fruit is a delicate shade of pink. What kid, especially girls, can resist the charms of a pink apple?
“Come back next month,” the apple lady always says. “Wolf River and Spy will be ready then.” I’ll take her up on that.

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