Weather or not

 

 “I can’t wait for snow!” 

Jay’s comment, made a few weeks ago while we were stealing a day of partial August sunshine at Chena Lakes, was made with the greatest of goodwill and enthusiasm. 

My response, I am ashamed to say, was not.

After my initial outburst left my husband looking shell-shocked and rightfully annoyed, I stumbled to explain.  “Some of us,” I said, “mourn the end of summer.”

Every year, I fight a mental battle against the fading fireweed and yellowing leaves.  This doesn’t exactly qualify as a unique idiosyncrasy. Fairbanks in August is full of people desperately trying to insulate partially-built houses, persuade tomatoes to ripen before they freeze, and split eight gazillion cords of firewood.  Railing against the onset of fall is so common that it didn’t occur to me that I needed to justify it – until Jay challenged my view of reality.

Winter, my husband maintained – honestly perplexed in the face of my vehement melancholy -- has a lot to offer. There’s so much cross-country skiing and snow-biking to be done!  There are miles of perfect trails right outside our doors.  There are winter races, and trips to remote cabins! 

He’s right, of course.  I enjoy all these things too.  I cast my mind forward to sometime around Valentine’s Day, when rapidly returning sunshine glitters on the snow, the ice park offers small children exhilarating ways to injure themselves, and Jay and I entertain ourselves with hundred-mile ski races and other light frivolity. March in Fairbanks may be one of Alaska’s best kept secrets.  Don’t let anyone know how nice it is, or we’ll be mobbed by tourists.

Other seasons are pretty high on the awesomeness scale, too.  The fantastic March fun lasts well into April.  Hard on its heels, May is like a can of sweetened condensed spring: in the space of 31 days, we go from slush puddles and bare branches to a lush green wonderland liberally splashed with the red-pink of wild roses.  Little reindeer calves stagger about on wobbly legs.  Everyone finds all the possessions they lost under the snow seven months previously.  By the end of the month, it’s summer.

Summers are great here – hot enough for all the hallmarks of the warmest season – sand castles, drippy ice cream cones, free Vitamin D -- but almost never sweaty enough to make me long for air conditioning, ice packs, or a ticket to Antarctica.  Between June and August we get everything we should – shorts, bike rides, lakeshores, butterflies, berry picking – with a few mosquitoes thrown in to remind us that life isn’t perfect. 

So what’s my problem?  What DO I want, climate-wise?   Not, I hasten to add, for the good of the planet.  My official opinion there is that we should stop screwing with the system, pronto, before all the SUV-exhaust and cattle-flatulence turns Earth into Venus’s sorry step-child.  But in the fantasy world inside my own head, in which I have the power to crown myself Grand High Weather Deity (aka Earl), what would the weather look like?

“Look!  The leaves are falling!  That’s why it’s fall!”  The kids are thrilled not only by the fluttering leaves, which they spectacularly fail to catch, but also by their attempt at a pun. I don’t break it to them that this in fact why Americans call the season by that name in the first place.  Fall, autumn – whichever it is, it’s at the height of its splendor.  Yellow birch leaves adorn every hillside, and the willows have turned every Crayola shade between burnt umber, tangerine, and crimson.  The mornings are lightly frosted, but by nine a.m. the sun has burnt away the chill and is promising an afternoon of playgrounds and bike riding.  Perversely, this season whose coming I fought against last month is one of my favorites.  September in Fairbanks is beyond reproach. 

Autumnal grouchiness notwithstanding, I know I don’t really want perpetual July.  Plenty of people yearn for a climate in which halter tops are year-round garb, but I’ve never been one of them.  I spent more than two years living in sunny Jamaica, and I know from experience that unrelenting heat makes me wilt with sweat and boredom.  I missed the sensation of sleeping snuggled under a blanket.  I wanted to eat steaming bowls of soup and drink mugs of cocoa.  I wanted to welcome -- rather than resent -- having a cat curl up in my lap.  I was in a Grinchy mood when I hung baubles on palm trees.  I was perpetually damp and sticky, my skin burned right through the congealing layers of ultra-sunblock, and I longed for a vicious cold snap to kill every creeping, buzzing cockroach and mosquito. 

Cockroaches aren’t a problem in Fairbanks. Winter here starts in October, when the muddy trails freeze firm and the first flying flakes bring back memories of being a kid, Back then, at the first sign of dark gray winter clouds, I’d rush to tap the barometer and comb through the meteorological predictions.  “It’s snowing, it’s snowing!”  Radiators draped with sodden mittens were signs of great joy and contentment.  Even if the grownups felt otherwise, I hated the fact that in the greater New York area, snow turns to brown sludge and disappears within days.  

Fairbanks snow doesn’t disappear.  Here, November and December offer the sort of non-denominational picture-book holiday season that always seemed frustratingly elusive to me as a child.  Sleigh bells?  Sure, just hang some on the dog sled.  Jack Frost?   Yup.  Chestnuts roasting on an open fire?  Maybe a wood stove, but close enough.  White Yuletides are guaranteed.  The winter solstice is imbued with deep meaning to everyone, not just meteorologists and Wiccans.  Our property is almost entirely vegetated by Christmas trees.  My daily commute takes me past enough reindeer for Santa to field a full team, plus substitutes. 

Then the New Year arrives with a thud.  The holidays are over.  It is still woefully cold and dark, and the end is not in sight. In the depths of January, the weather is not just harsh, it’s downright mean.  There’s cold, and there’s nose-hair-crackling cold, and then there’s the sort of cold that makes any inch of exposed flesh try to turn itself inside out.  Last winter, a little boy at the twins’ preschool lost a substantial amount of tongue to the iron railing next to the playground steps.  I always thought this was something that occurred only in fiction, but a long-suffering preschool teacher assured me that in Fairbanks, this sort of thing passes for normal.  She’s thawed dozens of tongues.  Part of my brain, the not-very-nice part, was thinking, “At least it wasn’t my kid.”  Another part, the Eeyore part, was thinking, “See?  This place just isn’t fit for warm-blooded life-forms.”

The problem, I now realize, is not that I don’t appreciate fall, or that I don’t like winter.  The problem is that winter – cozy, snowy, enjoyable season that it is -- is interrupted by another season.  A season of blackness and numbness, of gelling fuel oil, cracking fingertips, and creeping torpor.  A season that steals away time from the other four fabulous quadrants of the year, leaving me with not quite enough beach time, too little photogenic foliage, inadequate bud-bursting springtime, and curtailed sledding.  What I’m dreading is a season called January. 

That day at the beach last month, I told Jay that I mourn the loss of summer because it’s too short, and winter is too long.  I claimed that although I like them both, I wish they were more evenly distributed around the calendar.  Under closer scrutiny, however, I have to admit that this argument is flawed. Winter is not too long.  It’s that other season.  Because, truth be told, January is much too long.  It’s at least thirty-one days too long – and generally more.  The groundhog doesn’t even bother to check for his shadow around here, because he leaves our entire ecosystem to his hardier marmot cousins.  Thus, belying math and logic, January is sometimes up to sixty days too long.

Knowing this doesn’t really change anything, of course, but it does perk me up enough to prevent me from further irritating my spouse. It solves half my problem in a single slice of logic. It’s not January now!  It’s only September, and I love September!  If I behave the way dogs and kids do, living in the moment, I can enjoy all the terrific seasons while they’re happening, without having to mope about what I’m losing or what comes next. 

And when January does arrive, I’m developing a multi-pronged strategy to deal with it, based on well-tested Fairbanks traditions.  The first option involves bundling up myself and my kids in so many clothes that we can be rolled around like beach balls, and pretending that we’re enjoying long jaunts by headlamp.  The second approach is creating an alternate reality in which we hang out in over-heated fluorescent-lit buildings wearing t-shirts and eating ice cream.  The third coping mechanism is boasting.  This involves posting weather reports to Facebook in order to prove that we are suffering more than anyone in Maine or Idaho or Saskatchewan, and are therefore superior, albeit in a fraternity-hazing-ritual kind of way.

I’ve also got a fourth strategy lined up for January.  Jay still doesn’t agree with my perspective, but he’s nice enough to play along.  This leaves me free to employ a tried-and-true method for dealing with at least one week of the unwanted month. That's right -- we’ve got plane tickets.

All I Really Need to Know

 

Last week, I loaded up my twins with crayons, pencils, glue-sticks, and good-bye kisses, and sent them off to start thirteen or more years of formal education.  I tried, of course, to emphasize how much fun they were going to have: Songs!  Puzzles! Elmer’s Glue! But even as I elaborated on the joys of this brave new world, I had to edit my own childhood tales. 

For some reason, my memory (which is like Swiss cheese now) was remarkably good back when I still had all twenty baby teeth.  As a parent, being able to see things from a three-foot-tall perspective seems like it ought to be an advantage -- but I’m not always sure this is the case.  It sometimes messes with my sense of authority.  It often forces me to look at my grownup self as if in a warped fun-house mirror.  And although I do love being able to recall the magic and wonder of being a kid, remembering everything tends to rip the rose-colored glasses right off.

I was pretty sure I shouldn’t tell my kids about Tammy, the bully who bit anyone who tried to use the slide, and Colin, who spent the entire first day of kindergarten sobbing inconsolably.  (Names have been altered on the off-chance anyone actually reads this blog.)  It seemed best not to relate my weird paranoia about the over-large boy with sweaty hands who I never wanted to stand next to at circle time, or the child whose baby teeth were all black with rot.  I did mention Lily, who copied my every movement and threw a fit if she couldn’t hang her jacket next to mine, but I didn’t say anything about Jacob, who had accidents of the odoriferous variety.  I also did not mention Chester.

I was in eighth grade when I first realized that not everyone remembers everything they learned in kindergarten.  My friends and I were rushing through the crowded hallways between classes, but when I saw the flyer advertising candidates for student government, I stopped in my tracks and snorted with mirth. 

“Chester’s running?” I giggled. 

My friends stared at me blankly.

“You don’t remember?” I asked.  “Back when we were five?”

Chester was a five-year-old flasher.  For no remuneration or other obvious gain, this little boy was willing to show everything he’d got to anyone who would look, on the playground of Huntington Elementary School.  Given his age, the show was minimal.  Still, pretty much everyone seemed willing to ogle. 

No one remembered.

If I don’t know how much to tell my kids, I also don’t know how much to ask.  It’s hard not to quiz them as they emerge each afternoon, smiling, with the remnants of their lunches and their carefully crayoned worksheets with titles like Which Mice are Behaving Politely?  I wonder, but don’t inquire, whether they’ve met their own Tammy yet?  Their own Lily?  Their own Chester?  Occasionally, because parents like to worry, I wonder if they actually are any of these characters.

My memories also give me too clear an idea of what kinds of calamities may constitute real drama in the life of a kid. 

“This banana has a BRUISE on it!” The accusation is as vehement as if I’d handed my child fruit covered in mold, salmonella, and mad-cow prions. 

I want to snap back, “It’s fine, just eat it already!” except…

The year was circa 1977.  My mother, who doesn’t even like bananas, had committed the crime of giving me one with a brown squishy spot.  “Cut it off!” I moaned dramatically. “Ewww, cut it OFF!”

She rolled her eyes and snatched the fruit from my hands.  After performing the necessary butter-knife surgery, she remarked, “When you were a baby, you ate the squishiest bananas, all mashed up, and you loved them.”

I stared at her as if she were an alien from the planet Ogg.  I could not for the life of me fathom what this fact had to do with anything.  Babies eat gross stuff, sure, but I hadn’t been a baby for three years!  Grownups, I decided, just don’t make any sense.

Now I’m the grownup.  I don’t make sense.  My memory has stolen from me the satisfaction of being annoyed. I bite off the brown part myself, without a word. 

A surfeit of recollections makes it hard to be an impartial observer, judge, and mentor of little kids, because I feel as if part of me still is a little kid.   I’m adrift between worlds, unable to comply with the ludicrous childish desires that drive adults bonkers, and yet also unable to get righteously vexed over them.  I feel like an ogre when I lay down Necessary Grownup Laws, because I remember too clearly the tyranny of mandated bedtimes, the appeal of picking at scabs, and the tantalizing allure of Pixie Stix.  A few weeks ago, when the twins declared that they were going to start a beer cap collection, I had an immediate flashback to the blue bucket of bent, slightly smelly little treasures bearing mysterious emblems and logos – “Colt 45” sounded particularly interesting -- that my parents insisted I had to keep in the garage, not in my bedroom.  When one of my offspring has a huge meltdown because she can’t find a particular three-inch long plastic truck, I long to shout, “It doesn’t matter!” – except that I know that it does.

Sometimes it’s good to be needed – but sometimes it would be a relief to pretend that I’m not.  The problem is, I can’t pretend, because my reminiscences nag at me. I remember wanting my mother to watch me do a cool trick on the monkey bars -- not just once, but fifteen times in a row.  I remember the terror of the thudding footsteps that I heard in the dark of my own bedroom, which I didn’t recognize until years later were merely the sound of my own frantic heartbeat.  I remember the deep sadness of being told that at forty pounds I was too big to be picked up and lugged around.  Of course, my grown-up mommy-self is bored to catatonia by the monkey-bar trick, doesn’t possess infinite strength, and abhors being woken at miserable-o’clock-in-the-morning, but my memory betrays me, forcing me to at least try to be nice about it.

If I didn’t recall so much of my childhood, I also wouldn’t be forced to face the truth about how utterly dull I am these days.  When I was four, and everyone rattled on and on about the presidential election, I thought, “Hasn’t Ford been President forever?”  Why did anyone want a new one, and moreover, why did anyone care?  Back then, the idea that I would ever spend a birthday party sitting around on a playground bench talking about politics rather than getting nauseous on the merry-go-round would have been unthinkable.  Remembering this, I occasionally swing across the monkey bars, legs doubled up to accommodate my five feet eight inches. 

At this summer’s fair, I plunked my thirty-nine-year-old self onto half a dozen cheesy, creaking carnival rides.  As the Ferris wheel lit up in ten shades of neon, and as the kettle corn and ice cream were effectively swirled in my stomach by the motion of the Dragon Ship, the experience blended in my mind with happy pieces of the past: the sugar-rush thrill of cotton candy at the Bethpage Fair, the adrenaline of Six Flags Great Adventure, and the breathless awe of believing that the magician is for real.  I knew that without those flavors from my childhood, the ride just wouldn’t be the same.  But behind that thought I found a larger truth: without all my crazy, ecstatic, paranoid, tooth-fairy-believing, ant-loving, five-year-old-exhibitionist-viewing memories, my life would not be the same.

I decided that it doesn’t really matter whether or not my memories improve my parenting skills or detract from them, because either way, I wouldn’t give them up.  That 1970’s five-year-old is still part of who I am.  Sure, it’s a little humiliating to realize that Kindergarten Nancy was afraid of dogs, tree fungus, and miniature slide-hogging bullies, but I’m nonetheless deeply thankful that I didn’t lose her somewhere along the way.   

There are a few clear benefits of remembering kindergarten.  I know that nose-picking and Play-Doh-eating do not cause permanent damage. I can rest assured that questions such as, “Why does your eye look funny?” if asked with genuine interest, are not necessarily offensive to the kid with the funny eye (namely myself).  And if one of my kids turns out to be the Lily, the Tammy, the Colin, or even the Chester of the playground, I will know that I don’t really need to worry.  By the time high school rolled around, every one of those kids was more popular than I was. 

If I juggle my personae correctly, I think I can reap the benefits while avoiding the pitfalls.  I can be a properly boring grownup who pays bills, vacuums (occasionally), and worries about the financial crisis and the ramifications of global climate change.  But in the spare moments, the moments stolen from adulthood, I can pump the swing high enough that I almost believe it really can carry me full circle.

Meow. Woof.

 

“Don’t let her in,” I warn.

            “Why not, Mommy?”

            “Because five minutes ago she was chewing the head off a squirrel.”

            The kid looks at the cat.  The cat, all innocence and shedding fur, looks at me.  If she is about to puke rodent brains onto the rug, she shows no sign of it.

            “Well,” says the kid philosophically, “Sometimes the dogs eat poop.”

Oddly enough, I do not find this to be a convincing argument.  The cat stays out.

I am frequently mistaken for a Pet Person.  This is perhaps a not unreasonable misconception, given that I have three canines and 1.3 felines (the fractional cat is seasonal, not dismembered).  I enjoy the company of all of them, although not necessarily all at once.  I appreciate Remus’s slobbery, high-impact, 60-pound-projectile style of affection just as much as Pippin’s snuggle-up-to-the-warm-laptop purring. I converse with all five animals, regardless of species and poor comprehension skills.  I do have pets, and I do love them.  Doesn’t that make me, you know, an animal-lover?  Why do I fight the label?

Maybe it’s just that I wasn’t raised to think of pets as integral members of the American family.  I can remember when I was first learning to read, I marched up to my mother with one of my favorite picture books, A Hole is to Dig. “You’ve been reading this wrong,” I accused, pointing to the offending page.  I’d been erroneously led to believe the words said ‘A dog is to play with’.  My mother did not apologize for her blatant falsification.  “Well, ‘A dog is to kiss’ is disgusting,” she told me.  I nodded.  She was right.  What the heck was this book talking about, anyhow?

Neither of my parents likes dogs much, and as a small child I was petrified of all dogs, large and small.  In part, I was channeling my parents’ feelings, but I also didn’t know any nice canines.  There was a particularly vicious little creature that we had to walk past to get to Main Street; one day it took a bite out of Mom’s leg.  The kids up the street had two dogs, but both seemed to be brain-damaged.  The small one skittered around spasmodically on the linoleum, and the big one barked and growled on a heavy chain, as if it might eat any child who strayed too close.  There were also some large, menacing strays that skulked around the colonial-era cemetery up the street.

However, the two retired ladies next door had a collection of cats, a few of which were neither neurotic nor megalomaniac. My sister and I begged and begged for a cat.  My mother told us our house was too small.  We moved to a new house when I was nine, and soon afterward, my dad took us to the animal shelter and let us pick out a kitten.  In retrospect, this was a pretty sneaky move, because in fact my mother’s primary concern had never really been the size of the house.  She just didn’t want a pet.  In her view, cats were unsanitary creatures that walked with litterbox-sullied paws on counters and tables, and added chores and complications to already busy lives.  She was, of course, perfectly correct.

Our cat was a gray shorthair named Smudge, with a squat physique and a permanently broken tail.  I loved her with unconditional dedication, and she rewarded me by obsessively chewing and kneading all my bathrobes.  I accepted as a given that she would never eat fancy food from a can, reign over us from an elaborate carpet-covered “cat tree,” or drink from a monogrammed bowl.  We trained her (using the shouting and throwing method) to stay off the tables and counters, disproving the notion that cats are untrainable.  Smudge used the great outdoors as her litterbox, and stayed outside or in the cellar at night, except – very occasionally – on nights when I was feeling miserable, vulnerable, or tragic, as only pubescent people can feel tragic.  Then, under cover of darkness and parental snoring, she was smuggled into my bed.  Smudge thrived on cheap Cat Chow, and survived long after I left home, went to college for four years, and joined the Peace Corps.  Although Mom may deny it, I caught her talking to the cat on multiple occasions.  Even in my absence, Smudge was loved – but she was never the cat of a Pet Person.

I warmed toward dogs because the new house that won us Smudge also yielded a neighborhood patrolled by the doggy version of the Welcome Wagon.  Misty and Deacon, both golden retrievers, loved kids.  They loved all kids, including the kids who chased them or pulled their tails.  They even loved pathetic fourth-graders who were, initially, morbidly afraid of them.  Misty and Deacon had a buddy, Bacchus, so named because he’d been found abandoned in a bar.  Bacchus was an elderly three-legged mangy-looking little white dog of indeterminate breed but enormous good will.  He had more self-respect and intelligence than the goldens, but he nonetheless felt it was part of his job description to wait with them at the school bus stop in the morning for the elementary, junior high, and high school buses, and to meet each of these on their return in the afternoon. 

“Now can I let Pippin in?  She really wants to come inside.”  My daughter is still pleading the case of the squirrel-slayer. 

“Um, in a few minutes,” I temporize. Mentally, I add guilt to the list of reasons for my pet-ambivalence.  That squirrel is my fault.  I know cats and dogs are not part of the natural ecosystem in which we live – or any natural ecosystem, given how they’ve been altered by domestication.  Cats kill songbirds.  I know, I know.  Since I could no more keep an indoor cat than I could keep an indoor husband, I know I shouldn’t have a cat at all.  But in my own defense, we didn’t really get a cat on purpose.

The kids love the story of how we got Pippin.  Whenever they ask, I feel like the traditional keeper of an important piece of oral history.  I try to add different details each time I tell it.  “I wheeled my bike into the garage at work, just like I did every day… but on this day, I heard a little noise… a mewing noise…” I tell them how we put up signs, how we asked at the nearby vets’ offices, how we used the chip implanted in Pippin to trace her to a shelter in Anchorage and a former owner in Tok who left no forwarding address and no clues except for third-hand rumors of an allergic boyfriend.

If you are a hungry stray cat, an environmental non-profit is not a bad place to show up when the halcyon days of summer wane and the prospect of a Fairbanks winter chills your whiskers. 

“So you brought her home and adopted her!”  I am always beaten to the punch line. 

“Well, yeah.”  I might as well have “SUCKER” in Sharpie on my forehead.

Our other pets have similarly unpromising histories.  Togiak was an accident puppy in a mushing yard.  She was passed on to a teenage musher, a friend of Jay’s sister, but flunked out even there as a weakling.  Jay adopted her in 1999, when she was a submissive, shoe-chewing two-year-old – or was she three?  We’re not sure, and it’s not as if any of our animals have anything as lofty as licenses, breeding histories, or papers.  It turns out Togiak wasn’t really a wimp.  She just had a bit of a thyroid problem.  Twelve years and approximately 4,000 Soloxine tablets later, she’s pretty chipper for a crone in her dotage.

Polar was also born to mush.  There was never anything wrong with him physically.  He’s a lean, leggy athlete, and he can pull a sled like nobody’s business.  However, to the dismay of his original owners, he would much rather chase a tennis ball than win a race.  The entire concept of competition is lost on him.  But at thirteen, he’s still pathetically eager to please, and happy to help haul the kids’ miniature mushing sled.

Then there’s Remus, our pound dog.  We got him because we needed a little extra pulling power.  Remus is eight now but thinks he’s eight months.  He’s got a nice thick coat that gets him through Fairbanks winters with ease, and he’s tough as they come and oh-so-enthusiastic, but he’s built like a wombat.  His short legs churn through the snow and his tongue hangs several miles out of his mouth as he chases after Jay on snow bike adventures.  A forty-mile day is nothing to this guy, but you have to wait for him on the downhills.

And that brings us to Wingnut, who isn’t even ours, but who is so remarkably tolerant, by feline standards, that she doesn’t mind being shuffled from one house to another twice annually, and actually seems to enjoy being adored as only two five-year-olds can adore a cat.  This involves a lot of cat treats, but also a large amount of awkward lugging and some odd situations. 

“Maaa-maaaa!”  It was three o’clock in the morning.  My eyelids weighed fifteen pounds each.  I staggered into the twins’ room.  “Whuh?” I said, in the most comforting mumble I could muster.

“Mama, Wingnut is being too loud.”

“Too loud?”  If I haven’t already mentioned it, I was not at my sharpest.

“She’s purring too loud!”

I’m not sure how a child who can sleep through thunderstorms and coffee grinders could be woken by purring.  The cat was looking particularly adorable, hogging the Thomas the Tank Engine blanket in the toddler-sized bunkbed.  However, in this court of law, I was prosecutor, judge, and jury.  Out Wingnut went, because Mommy Wanted Sleep. 

Sleep trumps cuteness any day, in my book – and this may be another good argument as to why I am not a Pet Person.  I have an unreasonable knee-jerk reaction against over-romanticizing.  When I say that, I mean in myself.  Sentimentality seems like a perfectly understandable trait in other people, at least in moderation (I draw the line at non-ironic velvet Elvises and Hummel figurines).  If Facebook is anything to judge by, I have a fair number of sentimental feline and canine aficionados among my friends.  I appreciate this – and in the case of Matt, who raises guide puppies for the blind, I humbly kowtow.  My friends’ dogs do genuinely cute stuff.  Their cats do genuinely cute stuff.  Their YouTube video-link-animals do cute stuff, which in moments of extreme procrastination I have been known to actually watch.  I’ll admit, my pets do cute stuff too -- usually right before they vomit squirrel parts.

Giving up on the idea that I will relent and let in the Pippin, the kids are attempting to shower affection on Wingnut.  Unfortunately, Wingnut is feeling about as playful as I would if roused at 3 a.m.

“The cat doesn’t want love right now,” I tell the girls.  “See, her eyes are closed.  She wants to nap.”

“How come cats take so many naps?”

“Because they’re different from people.”  I remind them of the vast and fascinating array of behaviors in the animal kingdom. Some animals hibernate.  Some live in packs.  Some have dozens of babies at a time, and don’t bother to take care of any of them.  Some eat nectar. Some eat road kill.  “Remember all the true books about animals we’ve read?”  Such books triggered our first forays into the nonfiction section of the library.  The twins wanted to know what real animals did – how they lived, what they ate, and what their poop looked like.

 “Yeah.”  The kids are thrilled to know that every species, including our own, is gloriously unique. “But…” they return to an old complaint, “how come there are so many kids’ books with animals that aren’t real -- only amfomorphic?”  I teach them words like “anthropomorphic” so that they will be branded as hopeless geeks in kindergarten, and will have no hope of ever achieving a normal social life.

“I don’t know,” I say.  To me, it seems boring and pointless to write a story with bears or rabbits as protagonists if they talk, wear clothes, and do nothing that is even remotely bearish or rabbit-like.  If the story is about kids playing at the beach, why can’t the kids be kids, rather than badly drawn aardvarks?  I’ve always preferred stories like Watership Down, which attempt the much more interesting and challenging task of writing about animals from a perspective that is distinctly non-human and includes details such as eating their own droppings.

And there, finally, I get to the crux of the issue.  In my mind, stereotypical Pet People are those who have forgotten that part of the joy of relating to animals is embracing their other-ness.  I don’t want my pets to be human.  I don’t want to cook meals for them, dress them in coordinated outfits, give them haircuts, or take them to psychotherapists.  I also do not want to argue about whether dogs are smarter or cats are smarter.  For one thing, this question is akin to asking whether one prefers Team A or Team B (comprised of very rich athletes none of whom are actually from City A or City B).  In both cases, the wrong response will get you in trouble, and a flippant comeback will offend those who feel Very Strongly about the issue.  But even more importantly, I think the question is utterly irrelevant, because “smart” always seems to be defined in human terms. 

I can’t locate half a cookie in a pile of rotting leaves by smell alone.  I can’t catch shrews with my bare hands, sleep naked in a pile of straw at forty below, leap onto shelves at three times head-height, run sixty miles in a day, or find my way home through the forest on a moonless January night.  I also have trouble providing companionship, comfort, and hours-long hugs to those I love without excessive analysis, judgment, conversation, and expectations.  Cats are good at being cats. Dogs are good at being dogs.  I, on a good day, am semi-adequate at being a human.

Of course, there is a price that comes with that other-ness.

“Mommy?  Can we let Pippin in now?”

She is a cat.  She chews on squirrels.  Sometimes, the dogs eat poop.

Mentally, I relax my woefully narrow definitions.  I understand the value of this furry little carnivore in my own life and the lives of my family, so I guess that on my own terms, I am a Cat Person.  And ok, fine, I’m a Dog Person, too -- even if “a dog is to kiss” still doesn’t quite float my boat.

“Go ahead,” I say.  “Let her in.”

           

Jedi Dentistry

[Disclaimer:  This essay contains allusions that will be obtuse and irritating to members of the reading public who have not seen the original Star Wars, including Mom, Dad, and several residents of Tuvalu and Djibouti.]

“Have you been flossing their teeth?”

Dr. Pendegrast’s face was furrowed with kindly concern as she looked at the diminutive x-rays.

“Umm…” I felt parental guilt crashing around me like a tsunami. I help them brush, I mentally protested. Molly and Lizzy don’t eat Cocoa Puffs with Coke for breakfast and Gummy Bear sandwiches for lunch.  Ok, so there’s often blueberry cobbler or Heavenly Hash after dinner, but such items are an important part of the Sinful Food Group.  We brush right afterward.  But flossing?  I’m pretty sure I never flossed my own teeth until I was twenty. 

 “Well… um… no.”

I never got cavities in my baby teeth.  My kids, it seemed, were not so lucky. Dr. Pendergrast told me that not one, but BOTH twins need not one, but MORE than one filling.  My stomach knotted with worry.  Would the kids behave themselves?  Would they dread each visit?  Would they have nightmares about those huge robotic dental chairs? 

It all depended on whether my Jedi mind tricks were good enough to earn me a light saber. 

Even while I was wallowing in self-recrimination, I knew what I had to do.  I made the appointments, and I limbered up my acting muscles.  If I wanted to save my kids’ teeth from the Dark Side while maintaining sanity, harmony, and tranquility in our corner of the galaxy, I had one week to create a self-fulfilling prophesy of happy dentistry. 

As a novice parent, it took me a while to realize that small children resemble Imperial Storm Troopers – not just because they run around a lot, have extremely poor aim, and like silly costumes, but also because they may actually believe you when you tell them, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”   It took me even longer to appreciate the full possibilities of approaching tricky situations with a combination of utter conviction and feigned disinterest. 

I don’t have the advantage of resembling Obi-Wan Kenobi – at least, not last time I checked.  (Mom and Dad, even my spell checker recognizes Obi-Wan).  Still, the utter conviction part is not too difficult when I actually am convinced.  This in known is non-parenting circles as “being truthful.”  I’m pretty sure this helped with a few useful traits the kids have picked up.  Like their parents, Molly and Lizzy enjoy hiking, running, biking, libraries, cool bugs, scruffy dogs, and weird scientific questions.  They are avid consumers of cucumbers, spinach, tofu, oat bran, and beets.

I’ve tried not to even imagine that my kids won’t love these things, because truthfulness alone is not enough.  Avoiding over-eagerness is important too.  Even toddlers are remarkably savvy to when they are being given a hard sell.  The “yummy, yummy, yummy” peas are likely to come flying back in Daddy or Mommy’s face, and the “awesome fabulous big-kid potty” may be shunned.  Thus, this can be tricky. Not thinking negative thoughts is like not looking at the elephant in the corner.  It’s like pretending you don’t notice that the AT-AT bearing down on you is four hundred times larger than you are.  I try to avoid saying things like “Come on, try this, it’s so fun/delicious/educational.”  Even if it is.

It’s even tougher when acting skills are required.  When it comes to the “cleaning up messes is fun” mind-trick, Jay and I have not made Yoda proud.  In fact, a few days ago I knew I’d failed dismally when a simple request to pick up a few toys caused Lizzy to start sobbing.  It was then that I noted that a) I hate cleaning up; b) I’m completely inconsistent about it and c) I present it to the kids as if it were a punishment akin to being locked out at night on the ice-planet Hoth.  Clearly I’m a moron, because at preschool, Lizzy happily dances around picking up toys and singing the cleanup song with all the other little people.

And now I was facing a new test.  This particular case seemed like a tall order for a novice Jedi knight.  Unfortunately, I do not associate dentistry with rainbows, sunsets, ocean breezes, and the wafting notes of dulcimers. But I didn’t have any choice about it.  The key to pulling off the mind trick, I reasoned, isn’t to hope for success, but to ASSUME it. “Do.  Or do not. There is no try.”  Ok, fine.  I don’t know if Yoda ever had a root canal, but if he did, I’m sure he approached it with muppetty stoicism. 

With one week to obsess over the subject, I realized that I needed to work on my conviction.  In order to do so, it would help to draw from the truth.  What’s comforting, fun, and charming about fillings?  Luckily, I had a lot to work with.  The dental office that our family visits is elegant, graceful, and welcoming, with lots of sunlight streaming through arched windows, state-of-the-art equipment, and such comfortable chairs that napping during a cleaning seems like a realistic possibility.  Dr. Pendergrast is about as gentle, competent, and grandmotherly as anyone could possibly wish.  Her hygienists are all cheerful, friendly, and solicitous. The receptionist treats me like a friend. And to top it off, there’s a box of toys at the end of the hall for pint-sized patients. But… it’s still a dentist’s office. 

Gathering the Force around me, I set out to convince Molly and Lizzy that dental hygienists are as charming as Elmo and Dora, that Novocain is an exciting adventure in numbness, and that Dr. Pendergrast’s box of plastic trinket-prizes is as exciting as Fort Knox – all without seeming to care too much. 

I stayed attuned for every sneaky opportunity. “You’re right, I think those are baby twins in that stroller!”  Molly and Lizzy are always on the lookout for other litters of siblings.  “Hey, you know who else has twins?  One of Dr. Pendergrast’s hygienists!  Her twins are big kids, almost seven.” To five-year-olds, kids aged six through eight are the gold standard of coolness.

“Alex told you the dentist gives shots?”  Uh-oh.  Beware of the peer group.  “He probably didn’t understand about Novocain.  I bet you’ll understand.”  The kids like the idea that they are scientists with Nobel Laureate potential. “See, feelings in your body are communicated by cells called nerves. Novocain blocks the nerves, so you can’t feel anything, kind of like when your foot falls asleep.  Can you imagine your tongue falling asleep?  It’s pretty funny.  It thort of makth you talk like thith for a while.” This last part was deemed so hilarious that I had to elaborate on it for five minutes, like an inebriated cartoon duck.

And speaking of ducks…“Hmmm…. I don’t think we have any more toys to float in the rain barrel, but did you see all those rubber duckies in the dentist’s prize box?  We could collect a whole family of them!”

“I think we’re all out of chapstick.  Darn.” Luckily, Molly and Lizzy don’t yet have any idea about the relative costs of items such as duckies, chapstick, and diamond tiaras.  Either that, or they are resigned to the fact that Mommy is too cheap to buy them anything. “Oh, but remember that little tube of special chapstick Daddy got last time he visited Dr. Pendergrast?”  Daddy’s chapstick is so flabbergastingly awesome it almost caused a riot a month or so ago.  “If we’re really lucky, she might have some for you, too.”

On the fateful day, thirty minutes before the Hour of Reckoning, Lizzy bounded up to me at the preschool gate. “We get to go to the dentist today!” she chirped.

The kids’ preschool teacher gave me a bemused look as I hustled Molly and Lizzy out the gate, each trailing the inevitable fragile-yet-sticky art projects behind her.  “I wish I were that enthusiastic about the dentist,” she murmured.

Given my kids’ excitement, I had obviously already passed the first hurdle.  Now I would find out whether the mind trick held, when tested. 

When we were called in from the waiting room, I perched on a stool between two partitioned-off cubes, while the twins were each dwarfed by a massive examining chair. I feigned cheery calm.  I feigned fascination as the shiny little dental tools were introduced.

The staff knew what they were doing.  They kept the giant needles out of the kids’ line of sight like conjurers. They maintained cheerful patter, and slathered on the praise.  They were, in short, as charming to small children as Elmo and Dora – and infinitely less irritating to adults.  Novocain was kind of cool – as all new sensations are, when you’re five.  The drill was never actually called a drill.  The chapstick materialized, in appealingly miniature tubes and exotic flavors.  And the prizes?  Well, who WOULDN’T be thrilled by a rubber duckie wearing a bowler hat? 

Slowly, very slowly, I released my pent-up breath.

The receptionist heaped congratulatory words on all three of us on our way out the door.  The kids, still slurring their words through numb lips, were excitedly discussing which prizes they’d choose on our next visit, the following week.  And although I was still harboring guilt about the inadequacy of my previous cavity-prevention techniques, I felt like I’d blown up an enemy battle station. 

I’d succeeded.  On the other hand, success in one venue makes me question everything else, and bemoan lost opportunities.  Why can’t I – using my newfound powers and my imaginary light-saber -- convince my kids to put away their stuffed animals, pipe cleaners, and special rocks?  Why can’t I cure myself of my addiction to chocolate?  Why doesn’t everyone rush to save the planet when I blather on about renewable energy, organic produce, and waste reduction?

And what about my future as a parent?  Sure, I can pull of a Jedi mind trick on a couple of five-year-olds, but I suspect the twins’ credulity will have diminished sharply a decade from now. Obviously I need a lot of work honing my skills – because the Empire always strikes back.

In the Spirit

Lizzy and Molly on the Granite Tors trail, 2009

 

Adventure:

1. an exciting or very unusual experience.

2. a bold, usually risky undertaking; hazardous action of uncertain outcome.

“This week, instead of writing down the titles of the books you’ve read, we want you to tell us about adventures you’ve had.”

The librarian in the Berry Room is smiling beatifically at Molly and Lizzy.  I look at them expectantly, too.  Adventure!  The connotations are irresistible.  I know I love adventure.  I know I seek it out.  And yet, dictionary definition notwithstanding, I’m not sure I know precisely what the word means.  What counts?  What qualifies?  I can’t help but wonder about the quantity of fractured, ungrammatical sagas this friendly lady is likely to hear between Monday and Friday from eager young participants in the “One World -- Many Stories” summer reading program. I also can’t help but wonder how many of these thousand recitations will truly fulfill the promise of “adventure”. 

Molly is half-clinging to my leg, but she’s enticed by both the appeal of the question and the charisma of the questioner.   She ventures an answer: “There was a big big storm and we had to hide under the picnic table roof thing.”

Heavy rain?  I mentally scoff that the thunderstorm last weekend at the Manley Hot Springs campground was not in any way a real adventure.  I have to work to restrain myself from editorializing.  However, the librarian gives every indication of genuine interest. Thankfully, given the nature of her job, she seems to like little kids – not just in a cute-at-a-safe-distance way, but in the sense of enjoying long circuitous conversations with people who start in the middle of a story and leave out 83% of the salient details.  Her enthusiasm encourages my shy children to wax loquacious, in a non-linear manner.

“We ran a real race,” Lizzy offers.  “The big kids winned.  They were almost teenagers.”

If the nice book lady wants to listen, Molly and Lizzy have lots more to relate.  While they do so, I ruminate.

“We went to Seattle.  Steve and Manish have a dog called Billy.”

Adventure.  A few years ago, pre-kids, I debated the nuances of this single word with Jay and my friends Tom and Justin for the entire course of a hike around the Granite Tors trail.  The route is a 15-mile loop with steep ascents, dramatic vistas, impressive rock formations, and sucking bogs, so we had plenty of time to talk.  Besides, for me it felt like the perfect locale to discuss the subject. 

“Daddy’s bike had two flat tires, but we didn’t mind because we played with the tickle grass.”

The trail and I already had a bit of history.  Jay lured me to the Tors as our first real date, telling me he knew a “nice afternoon hike”.  On that occasion, the loop took us from noon to six p.m., so he maintains that his description was precisely accurate.  I didn’t argue the point at the time.  I like long hikes, and I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of this sweet blue-eyed boy I’d recently met.  As I sweated and squelched my way over rocks, tussocks, and logs, trying not to suck air as I chatted with my date, I savored the feeling of adventure.

“The long-ago miners were litterbugs!  They left cans.  And a stove, right up at the top!”

Several years later, strolling along with Jay, Tom, and Justin, with a well-practiced knowledge of the trail and nothing to prove, the hike didn’t feel particularly adventuresome.  But when I said this, Justin disagreed.  For one thing, he’d never been to the Tors before, and didn’t hike nearly as frequently as I did.  For another, he’d been brainwashed by his own propaganda.  That summer, he was earning extra cash by working for the Northern Alaska Tour Company.  Justin’s job entailed driving a bus full of vacationers up to the Arctic Circle, stopping at the few available snack stops and gift shops along the long gravel road that wends its way toward the oil fields of the North Slope.  He was expected to narrate local lore to keep his customers engaged and amused.  He was also expected to persuade his passengers that the trip was thrilling, and even a bit risky.  Every one of the pre-packaged trips offered by NATC was billed as an “adventure.” 

“On the way down the mountain, we were a mushing team, but only walking, because Anna didn’t want to run.”

Jay and Tom pooh-poohed Justin’s perspective.  Retired bankers from Cleveland, little old ladies from Wichita, and sock-and-sandal-wearing empty-nesters from Jersey City, each toting a camera and plunking down a credit card for a Coldfoot T-shirt, cannot claim to be having an adventure.  True adventure, they argued, requires novelty.  It implies a visceral thrill, a flutter of excitement, and a sense of risk.

“I liked Ireland.  There were snails.”

In the debate between Jay and Tom and Justin, I wavered.  I had to admit that being hauled up the Haul Road didn’t sound terribly stimulating or jeopardy-filled, but maybe for people who had never seen the Alaska pipeline, Arctic tundra, or the Yukon River, the trip qualified.  My friend the bus driver had a point about context mattering.  I knew the Tors could be an adventure.  I felt peeved when Tom and Jay mocked meager exploits, but I wasn’t sure what was making me so defensive, and I never entirely took Justin’s side in the argument, either. 

“We have our own sled.  Togiak and Polar are old, but Remus is bouncy.” 

If the Tors were novel and thrilling on my first visit because I’d found a date who shared my proclivity for muddy hiking boots, they were novel and thrilling on my second trip there for slightly different reasons.  In October of 1999, several months into our relationship, Jay and I hiked the trail again.  We were hit by an unexpected white-out, with snow heavy enough to obscure our tracks within minutes of our making them.  We tried to short-cut off the ridge by hugging the side of the hill slope.  We failed.  In the darkness of an early-winter afternoon, we peered at our compass and soggy map and realized we had dropped into a valley – the wrong valley.  We were a daunting distance from the car.  We weren’t lost, precisely, but the slog out through the rapidly piling white stuff was long.  Very long.  By the time we staggered back to the parking lot, dug out the vehicle, and inched our way back to town on snow-clogged roads, it was 5 a.m.  We scarfed down spaghetti for breakfast.  Despite my exhaustion and my shame at having made such a silly wrong turn, I was buoyed by the feeling of adventure.

“Daddy and I raced the butterflies.  One of them beated us.”

After that hike with Tom and Justin, Jay and I didn’t hike the Tors for four years.  During that time, our universe shifted.  When we hit the trail again in 2009, it took us not one afternoon, but two days to complete the 15 miles.  For about five of those miles, two three-year-olds hopped and meandered around our feet.  For the other ten miles, our packs were heavy.  It was our first attempt at real backpacking with the kids.  We were trying out our ultra-light gear, which under the circumstances didn’t feel all that light.  We had to be prepared to protect our precious progeny against voracious mosquitoes, hot sun, and wind-driven 40-degree rain.  We had to bring bedtime stories, stuffed animals, sippy cups, and footie pajamas.  We were trusting the kids not to whine, not to rebel, and not to wet their pants.  We were seeing the trail through their eyes, as they exclaimed over tree fungus and stopped to worship puddles, ladybugs, and cloudberries.  For them, life is still full of challenge, risk, and excitement. 

“The boat loop is six miles!”

Now, standing in the Berry Room, listening with embarrassed amusement to a breathless recitation of mundane events, I finally realize why I am so ungenerous in my willingness to grant the title of “adventure” to the kids’ latest bike ride, or a bus trip taken by tourists, or Justin’s ascent of the Tors.  It’s not that I can’t accept that these experiences should be judged subjectively.  It’s simply that I’m worried, and perversely jealous.  I’ve already seen lots of thunderstorms.  I didn’t wait until the age of sixty-seven to first glimpse a black bear, a caribou, or a photogenic “Arctic Circle” sign.  I love adventure – I thrive on adventure -- and I’m secretly afraid that a lot of my adventures have already been trumped by experience, and therefore “used up.” 

“We’re digging a big hole, for treasure, or maybe dinosaur bones.”

But of course, that’s completely ridiculous.  Merely identifying my own hang-up is a relief, because as soon as the thought forms, I can logically – laughingly, self-mockingly -- quash it.  Who do I think I am, anyhow?  Sacagawea? Sir Francis Drake?  I haven’t even used up all the easy-to-reach adventures, let alone the ones that require a bit more planning, expensive plane tickets, and new outfits.  I haven’t bicycled to the Arctic Ocean and taken a bracing dip amidst the sea ice.  I haven’t gone sea kayaking in Prince William Sound.  I haven’t ridden in a hot air balloon.  I haven’t even seen the Grand Canyon, for heaven’s sake. The world is a large and fabulously complex place, with billions of inhabitants, thousands of ecosystems, and entire continents I have yet to visit.  I can no more use up all the possible adventures than I can speak Yoruba.  Haven’t I been paying attention to the theme of the summer reading program?  One World – Many Stories.  Or many adventures, as the case may be. 

“We biked all the way to Pioneer Park.”

Mollified and cheered, I try to rescue the Berry Room librarian.  I smile at her apologetically as I redirect Molly and Lizzy toward the picture books.  “We go biking and hiking kind of a lot,” I say, in an attempt to excuse all the unnecessary detail still being over-shared.

“Mommy and Daddy don’t have to carry us any more.  Not like when we were little.”

The librarian still seems interested.  She tells me she’s been doing a bit of hiking recently, too.  Where are we planning on going this summer?

“We get to have juice when we go hiking.  And pudding every day!”

“Well, we want to see how far the kids can manage completely under their own steam this year,” I say. “We were thinking of doing Pinnell, and maybe Kesugi, but we’ll probably start with the Tors.”

The librarian looks surprised, but she’s all smiles.  “Wow…well, good luck!  I hiked the Granite Tors last weekend.  It’s a beautiful trail, but I’m still sore.”  She laughs.  “It was a real adventure.”

She’s right, of course.  I know that now.  Every story she hears this week – even if involves mini-golf or feeding ducks – will be a genuine adventure.  So was her two-day version of that “nice afternoon hike”.  And this time, I don’t begrudge her.  I’m pretty sure hiking the Tors with two five-year-olds will offer up some novelty, and some excitement.  But even if it doesn’t, it will still be fun – and we will still have plenty to look forward to.  There are, after all, an almost infinite number and flavor of adventures still beckoning.

Buzz!

“How come it’s okay to kill mosquitoes, Mommy?”

 

“Because I enjoy it.” 

That was not the answer I actually gave to my five-year-old interrogator; I pleaded self-defense.  But it was, I hate to admit, the first reply that sprang to mind.  I like to think I am reasonably compassionate.  At the very least, I’ve always assumed that I’m not a degenerate reprobate who gets a thrill from slaughter.  But when it comes to members of the Aedes genus, my self-image is on shaky ground.  Sure, I may be able to justify all my swatting with the popular “I don’t like being eaten alive” plea – especially given my immense personal magnetism to small creatures who think of me as dinner.  What I can’t justify is the gratification that accompanies each crushed corpse.  

But they’re just insects you protest. Where’s the dilemma?  Granted, my little “hobby” doesn’t place me in the league of The Silence of the Lambs.  But as my kids like to remind me -- with the kind of moral authority that only the Christopher Robin age group can muster -- it’s not ok to mistreat any creature, regardless of its humble phylum, class, or order.  Molly and Lizzy’s preschool has a terrarium full of stick-insects carefully fed on lettuce leaves. A child caught tearing the wings off butterflies or crushing ladybugs is likely to be given a stern lecture, or even professional counseling.  

“Mosquitoes are important because they pollinate the blueberries,” Lizzy tells me, “and they’re food for dragonflies and spiders.”  

Maybe I shouldn’t have read them Charlotte’s Web.  Nonetheless, I abet the educational experience, and tell the kids that only the girl mosquitoes bite.  (The boys sip nectar, presumably while singing kumbaya). A quick Google search reveals that those hungry Aedes ladies can find us by following our CO₂ upstream from 100 feet away.  Once they get close, they are also attracted to body heat and body scent.  My scent in particular, apparently. Since I doubt that I am a particularly heavy breather, I have to assume that I excel in the other two categories. I am indeed a very warm person.  This is handy in Alaska in January, but not so handy in June.  All that hot blood rushing around in my surface capillaries, coupled with my apparently irremovable Nancy-human-stink, makes me irresistible.  While they are the insect world’s forsaken, I am their goddess.  The biting-insect handbook has my scent-print on the cover. While others are idly chatting at barbecues, I am swatting.

Still, shouldn’t I be able to employ a mode of defense other than killing? 

I’ve tried.  I really have.  Raw cloves of garlic didn’t help me much, but gave me a fascinating coating on my tongue.  What about limiting how much carbon dioxide I release?  For brief stops such as shoe-tying or peeing, waiting to exhale really does seem to help – or maybe it’s just that the lack of oxygen makes me delusional. Have you ever tried to change a bike tire while holding your breath and trying not to sweat?  Desperate people do desperate things.  I’ve used every possible type of repellant, including DEET, even though it’s a neurotoxin that eats holes in clothes.  The relatively new Picaridin earned a somewhat better toxicity rating from the EPA.  It doesn’t smell, and seems to work pretty well, so I squirt it with a liberal hand, but I’m still not exactly thrilled. How does “Toxicity Category III for acute oral, acute dermal and primary eye irritation” translate to my own personal equation: two kids who like to be outside as much as possible, and who have a 110% likelihood of touching their treated skin and then picking up a sandwich?  But the only other option seems to be kids covered in red welts.  My children, alas, seem to have inherited my tastiness.  This afternoon, at the dentist, Lizzy cheerfully told two hygienists, “You know, I have really a lot of mosquito bites on my buttocks.” 

One of my preferred ways of avoiding mosquitoes and black flies is movement.  In mid-summer in the Arctic, tiny, whining, swarming creatures can drive whole herds of caribou to galloping, thundering, near-insanity. The caribou are right: run!  Run like hell! 

“How fast can mosquitoes, fly, exactly?” I mused to a friend a few days ago.  We were idling at a playground, leaning on the primary-colored tubes and bars. 

“One and a half miles per hour.”  The answer came, instantaneously and unexpectedly, not from my fellow-adult, but from a snub-nosed child who had just popped his head out of a plastic tunnel.  He looked about eight.  He didn’t wait for confirmation or thanks before disappearing down the slide, his face earnest, his hair sticking up from static electricity.  I liked his answer.  It set the bar easily within reach.  Even preschoolers ought to be able to move that fast.

Not that I was able to keep up the pace when I was the age the twins are now.  One of my first memories of back-woods hiking was climbing a mountain called Ampersand, a nice rocky little peak whose only drawback was a rather boggy stretch near the trailhead.  Given that it was 1977, I believe I was wearing plaid bell-bottoms, meaning that my legs, thankfully, were covered.  However, my hair was pulled up into two crooked pigtails.  By that evening, the welts were so thick on my neck that I looked as if I had a combination of mumps and goiter.  I couldn’t move my head in any direction.  My mother, consumed by parental guilt that I only now understand, insisted that on subsequent hikes that summer I wear a peculiar headdress made from an old t-shirt soaked in citronella.  In retrospect, I think it was then -- perhaps befuddled by the intense, pseudo-lemony fumes, perhaps slightly derailed by the unfairness of seeing the rest of the family breeze along with only a few nibbles – that my mosquito-squashing began to take on a darker edge. 

Weirdly, though, I decided that I liked hiking.  I was thrilled by hiking.  It was just the biting insects I despised.  Over the next dozen years, I begged to hike more peaks, in Maine, Vermont, upstate New York, and other vermin-infested locales.  By the time I reached college, I was well seasoned in the woods.  I was also already a bit too avid in my “self-defense.”  On a hike with my friend Steve, an idealistic 18-year-old vegetarian and pacifist like myself, the inevitable whining buzz surrounded me within minutes.  “Gotcha!” I crowed, grabbing the air one-handed and opening my palm to reveal the millimeter-wide carnage.  Steve stared at me in consternation.  

“What do you mean, you don’t kill mosquitoes?”  My rant was defensive and slightly hysterical. “Everybody does it,” I argued.  Mosquitoes whine in your ears, swarm your exposed flesh, and sink their greedy proboscises deep into your skin in order to drink your blood.  

Steve shrugged.  “They don’t really bite me,” he said.

I watched him, eagle-eyed and incredulous.  It was true.  While there was a dense swarm of hungry blood-suckers around me at all times, the only ones around him seemed to be strays from my clan.  They didn’t bother to land on him. Such people exist.  They really do.  And they make me somewhat wild-eyed and twitchy, even if they happen to me among my bestest friends.

For reasons that seem to defy logic, that summer I eagerly signed up to earn minimum wage hauling rocks and logs around in the swamps of the Adirondacks. These splendid old Eastern mountains boast bumper crops of not just one genus of biting insects, but several. The Simulium -- also known as black flies or white socks – have the charming habit of amassing by the thousands and going for eyes, ears, and nostrils.  Horse flies, the Tabanidae, sound like little jets around your ears and bite like actual horses.  Ceratopogonidae, a.k.a. no-see-ums… well, the name says it all.  Every single species in each genus loves me. 

By definition, trail crew involved spending long hours in some of the muddiest sections of swamp.  We wore head nets, long sleeves, and long pants.  Black flies crept in around the neck-cinches.  They swarmed as at lunch time, to the point where we’d duck back under our nets between bites.  We were all roughly 17-22 years old, and prone to bravado and basic idiocy.  It was with this crowd that insect-killing crept beyond the realm of satisfying necessity and became a cross between an episode of Survivor and a team sport.  Can’t make a peanut butter sandwich without accidentally including flies?  Why not embrace it by waving the sticky bread in the air a few times, to garner a more generous layer of little black dots?  Is a horsefly driving you over the brink?  Try lassoing it to keep as a pet.  This latter task was done by a guy called Jim, using strands of my very long hair, carefully tied into a tiny slipknot at the end.  I want to say I wasn’t amused by the results -- but I’d be lying.

One of the most memorable nights of my life – because my perverse brain clings more tightly to the abhorrent than to the merely pleasant – was spent with six or eight trail crew friends.  We were young, we were stupidish, and we thought it would be a fine idea to go camping on a hot clear night without a tent.  It wasn’t just a bad idea – it was a Very Bad Idea.  In this case, although I might have been the most popular target, I was certainly not the only one to suffer.  We were besieged. We were mobbed.  We were reduced to swollen, pestilent, sniveling insomnia in the unforgiving dark of 3 a.m.  It was much too warm to zip our sleeping bags over our heads, and it was much too buggy to do anything else.  We sweated, we scratched, we swore, and some point in the predawn hours, rising above the constant buzzing whine in my ears, I heard a 19-year-old man, completely without irony or sarcasm, sobbing for his mother.

It occurs to me that all these memories may explain a lot.  Mosquitoes drive caribou mad… and they drive humans to infantile blubbering… and they have been waging a personal vendetta against me in a variety of scenic, damp locales for the better part of four decades.  When an insect-magnet such as myself lives in a cabin nestled in an idyllic 80 acres of festering bog in the heart of Alaska, is it so surprising that something might end up a little off-kilter, psychologically?  Something like taking visceral pleasure from crushing the tiny defenseless bodies of mosquitoes?

“How come it’s okay to kill mosquitoes, Mommy?”

Sure, I can fall back on self-defense as my plea before the jury.  This excuse seems to pass muster with most people.  But just in case, maybe I should also give an insanity plea a try. I’ll plea-bargain, too:  If I can retain my less-than-savory proclivities toward joyful mosquito carnage, I promise I will never fry ants with a magnifying glass.  I won’t revive the horsefly lassoing tradition. I’ll be willing and even eager to let caterpillars crawl up my arms while my offspring admire their fuzziness.  And I will never, ever eat any more peanut-butter-and-black-fly sandwiches.  Not even one.