My house is a haven for animals. Mice, raccoons, squirrels, birds, stray cats, loose dogs and even a two-foot lizard have all made it into my home. My neighbor insists this particular house has always been a draw for God's creatures, but I don't believe him for a minute. It's me. And it's Miss Pine's fault.
Miss Pine was my babysitter when I was four years old. A lovely and kind woman, she was also a Jehovah's Witness, and that is where the trouble started. No, no, no... her religion didn't factor into the equation per se, after all at the age of four I wasn't really included in the discussion of the differences between Methodists and Jehovah's Witnesses. All I knew was that she didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas, and as a matter of fact, that is all I really know about that faith today. That fact and the one about the missionaries knocking on the door at the most inopportune times, but hey! worse could be said about others.
Miss Pine always carried around a small book, which since I couldn't read I instead obsessed with the pictures. One picture in particular showed an idyllic drawing of the Chosen Saved entering into Heaven surrounded by a bunch of very tame, happy animals. You know, the lion nuzzling the lamb type of thing. The people in the picture did not have fluffy white robes or wings, they were all dressed in poodle skirts and suits and I think this is why I have always identified the 50s as the most angelic time in Earth's history.
Anyway, back to those animals: Doctor Doolittle and the Beastmaster can talk with animals, pure virgin spirits can attract unicorns and the people in Miss Pine's Watchtower can pet lions and tigers...of course I would dream about achieving the perfect point of meditation wherein all the wild animals would lay by my side and live in peace. Even when I sun in my backyard today I still drift away into this fantasy, so I have no doubt God gets a giggle by sending a few whiskery friends my way from time to time.
Is it ironic I try to think of new and tasty ways to eat the animals? No, it is not. Those animals come from farms, and we all know the animals on farms are not real. Only the wild ones are invited to my love fest. (As if a bear is going to wander into Norfolk and stop by my backyard to say Hi. Or a Bengal tiger. Ah, a boy can dream...)
The raccoons in my attic have certainly said Hi a few times. At least I think that was what the hissing was about. But for now those raccoons have been removed and their nest cleaned out. This story is about another raccoon, my friend Ricky.
Leo and I rented a second-story apartment in which the kitchen window faced a parking lot, dumpster and thin strip of woodland. At some point while washing dishes, one of us noticed a raccoon making a dive from a nearby tree into the dumpster, and emerging with dinner in hand. As you can tell, I am an animal lover (not always as food) and I was taken aback by this very cute, silly bandit.
Standing by the window for an hour watching him eat was a lot of fun, but taking eggs and nuts and berries was even more fun. After a time, I nicknamed him Ricky Raccoon, and other than Zeus, he was my furriest friend. Again, with all the hissing and baring of teeth, the love may have been one-sided, but my heart beat fast and true every time I saw his darkened eyes over the top of a half-eaten corn cob.
One evening, arriving home late and tired from work, I pulled the car into the parking lot. The passing headlights revealed Ricky to be sitting in the window of the left side of the dumpster, eating something delicious. I parked the car, gathered my belongings and stepped out quietly. This was the closest I had ever been to Ricky. He eyed me, distrusting me...I guess he didn't really realize I was the one who was leaving all the snacks.
"Hi there, " I said, hoping to calm his nerves. "Hi there, you cute little thing. Don't you know I won't hurt you? Don't you know I think you are adorable? If you would let me come closer, I would kiss your little ears. YES! I would kiss your nose, I would kiss those sweet lips of yours. YES I WOULD! If I could just touch you, we would be friends..."
Ricky stopped staring at me and suddenly looked to his right, through the dumpster and out to the other side. My eyes followed to see what had caught his attention, and there stood a lovely teenage girl, trash in hand, who unable to see Ricky Raccoon thought all my devotions were intended for her. About that time she dropped her trash bag and ran. So did Ricky. And I was left with a lot of explaining for her parents, which I don't think they bought for a moment.
You see, these animals are always getting me in trouble. When I get to Heaven in my Fifties style suit and can finally talk to the animals, I am going to have so much to say.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Queen!
It has to be scary when a gay man begins a blog posting with the title The Queen! You expect the story to be about a seven-foot tall black man with a blond wig and a tight little dress, but alas, that is another (and yet very true) story. But that rather fun tidbit happened years before the story I am about to relate to you.
This queen is not a male (as far as I know) and is not gay...well... as far as I know. She is just a fair young maiden with the annoying habit-from-the-North of saying "Eh?" She of tall stature and blond hair, from the land of black bears, bison and caribou.
Of course you have guessed by now that I am writing about the daughter of hockey great Wayne Gretzky, her royal majesty Paulina Gretzky. No? You didn't make that leap? Let me explain things in more detail.
The city of Norfolk, Virginia has hosted a special event since the early 1950s titled The Azalea Festival. It is a big hoop-de-doo involving military ambassadors from all of the NATO member countries, which includes a fantastic Tattoo presentation, a Parade of Nations and of course, pretty girls from all the countries. Each year one of those pretty girls is named The Azalea Queen, and all the runners-up are delegated to be her court. Not that there is any process of voting. That would be too trendy-petty-biased-DANGEROUS for the delicate balances within the NATO alliance. Naw, they just rotate the honor so that each country gets to have a queen every 20 years. Except for the United States. We get to have a queen more often. We host the festival. So there.
The queen and her court are usually selected from the gene pool of major players in a country's history. Usually the young ladies have a military father or actual ties to the royal family of whatever country she represents. When it came time for Canada to produce an Azalea Queen, that country had really very little of either to choose from, so they picked a daughter from the GREATEST OF ALL CANADIAN HEROES: WAYNE GRETZKY. And thus in 2006, Paulina Gretzky was named the Azalea Queen.
This story is not really about her.
Early one morning in late April, as is the time for the Azalea Festival to begin, I took a stroll through the lobby of the Marriott, which happened to be the host hotel for the NATO delegates and of course the queen and her court. The young Marriott employees, each one more delicate and sweet than the international beauties before them, were in a total frenzy of excitement.
I approached and asked why they were so nervous and giggly...
To which one of the girls burst forth in both pride and joy, "I just checked in The Queen of Canada! (gasp) And she touched me! (gasp)"
?
And to my own credit, I smiled and told her how amazing that must feel. I honestly hope she is able to carry that memory for quite awhile before the truth makes its way into her life. I hope she can remain innocent for many years to come. And whoever explains to her that Paulina may be the daughter of a famous man, but certainly not the monarch of Canada, well I hope he or she does it nicely. A little quote from "Tea and Sympathy" comes to mind: "Years from now, when you speak of this, be kind...be kind".
As a sidenote, which has no humor at all and certainly shouldn't be added as the finale of a humorous story, within a few weeks or possibly months, Queen Noor checked into the Marriott without any fanfare at all. I thought that was a little sad and if I had ever been tempted to go down and tell the girls how wrong-they-were, it would have been then.
But we will save the world another day, right?
This queen is not a male (as far as I know) and is not gay...well... as far as I know. She is just a fair young maiden with the annoying habit-from-the-North of saying "Eh?" She of tall stature and blond hair, from the land of black bears, bison and caribou.
Of course you have guessed by now that I am writing about the daughter of hockey great Wayne Gretzky, her royal majesty Paulina Gretzky. No? You didn't make that leap? Let me explain things in more detail.
The city of Norfolk, Virginia has hosted a special event since the early 1950s titled The Azalea Festival. It is a big hoop-de-doo involving military ambassadors from all of the NATO member countries, which includes a fantastic Tattoo presentation, a Parade of Nations and of course, pretty girls from all the countries. Each year one of those pretty girls is named The Azalea Queen, and all the runners-up are delegated to be her court. Not that there is any process of voting. That would be too trendy-petty-biased-DANGEROUS for the delicate balances within the NATO alliance. Naw, they just rotate the honor so that each country gets to have a queen every 20 years. Except for the United States. We get to have a queen more often. We host the festival. So there.
The queen and her court are usually selected from the gene pool of major players in a country's history. Usually the young ladies have a military father or actual ties to the royal family of whatever country she represents. When it came time for Canada to produce an Azalea Queen, that country had really very little of either to choose from, so they picked a daughter from the GREATEST OF ALL CANADIAN HEROES: WAYNE GRETZKY. And thus in 2006, Paulina Gretzky was named the Azalea Queen.
This story is not really about her.
Early one morning in late April, as is the time for the Azalea Festival to begin, I took a stroll through the lobby of the Marriott, which happened to be the host hotel for the NATO delegates and of course the queen and her court. The young Marriott employees, each one more delicate and sweet than the international beauties before them, were in a total frenzy of excitement.
I approached and asked why they were so nervous and giggly...
To which one of the girls burst forth in both pride and joy, "I just checked in The Queen of Canada! (gasp) And she touched me! (gasp)"
?
And to my own credit, I smiled and told her how amazing that must feel. I honestly hope she is able to carry that memory for quite awhile before the truth makes its way into her life. I hope she can remain innocent for many years to come. And whoever explains to her that Paulina may be the daughter of a famous man, but certainly not the monarch of Canada, well I hope he or she does it nicely. A little quote from "Tea and Sympathy" comes to mind: "Years from now, when you speak of this, be kind...be kind".
As a sidenote, which has no humor at all and certainly shouldn't be added as the finale of a humorous story, within a few weeks or possibly months, Queen Noor checked into the Marriott without any fanfare at all. I thought that was a little sad and if I had ever been tempted to go down and tell the girls how wrong-they-were, it would have been then.
But we will save the world another day, right?
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