Happy Birthday, Niles

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat (Weekend Edition) on April 8th, 2011

I was going to continue my rant against school fundraisers, but last week I ran out of time and ended up recycling an old column, and this week, it happens that my middle son Niles is turning thirteen. He missed being an April Fool’s Baby with only minutes to spare. (Wait, if he had been born on April 1st, would that have made me the fool, since he was the baby? Thanks. Like I needed biological confirmation.) I had labored all day before that child was born, and even with the aid of Pitocin to speed the contractions along, it seemed to take forever. By the time you get to your fourth child, according to folklore, that child is supposed to practically deliver himself.


“Ooh! Hurry to the hospital…” or hurry and get your midwife to your home, because that child is going to be as easy to deliver as opening a pop-top can of soup or pineapple chunks. Gone is the need for a can opener – electric or otherwise.


Incidentally, does the term “midwife” sound antiquated to you? Nurse midwives are medical professionals who are highly trained and skilled. Yet, the term midwife conjures a Medieval image of calling in the woman up the street who has numerous surviving children. Furthermore, nurse midwives have all the training of nurses and then some. My nurse midwife in Ohio actually held a Ph.D. as well. Sadly, in the clinical setting she was not referred to as “Dr.” because of the possible confusion between academician and physician.


I know there are a number of male nurses. I’m not going to give you any statistics, because that would require work from me to dig up this information, and you, being a newsprint-reading sort of person, are probably the inquisitive and intellectual sort who is all too eager to look this up for yourself. I would not want to rob you of that simple joy.


All I can say is that during my husband’s twelve days of hospitalization last fall, I recall at least three male nurses who took great care of him. Now the question is, can a man be a midwife? I am sure there is some practical, gender-neutral term for the man who decides to undertake this profession. Is it a midspouse?


Anyway, what was the hold up in the delivery of my boy? I wouldn’t have been able to tell you then, but now that I’ve had thirteen years to get to know him, I know the exact cause of his in utero delay.


I suspect that this child was giving a lecture of some sort even back in the womb, and he just could not be interrupted from his oral delivery to participate in the delivery of the other kind. This child is just about the most talkative person I know. Right after, or possibly along with, my second daughter. Make that after my husband. And maybe after a couple of the other kids. OK – there’s really only one of the six children who hasn’t a lot to say, but of the other five talkers, I would say that Niles is the most talkative.


I realized this early in his youth, and knew that it would have a lifelong impact even when he was just a tot. When he was newly potty trained, he would wander into the bathroom, door ajar, and plant himself on the potty insert. All the while he was getting himself settled, he had hardly interrupted his flow of speech. We’re not going to talk about any other flows here, because that could embarrass my child, and we know that I am always so judicious about what I send to my editor’s desk. (Except that time I talked about boogers.)


There’s nothing wrong with being loquacious. In fact, it is always a good complement to a laconic individual. My only problem is that it really interferes with my own plans to impart knowledge, wisdom, and other vital instructions such as: "Unload the dishwasher! Dump out the trash!"


Once, when he was in second grade, just moments before heading off to bed, he leaned against the railing, cocked his head, and began a sort of monologue before he got the burning question that lay on his mind, “Mom, supposing that you happened to have something in your ear, like paper, or something…how difficult would it be to get it out?”


Yes, he has always used the longest words possible. When he was less than two, and wanted to talk about rubber bands, he called them rubber Band-aids. When he was looking at a plant, he even had to string that out to a “planet.” The worst was when he was telling a dinner guest that he had watched me preparing the chicken curry I served that night. He told them that he had seen me cutting the “raw-ten” chicken.


At the end of his ramble, it turned out that he had lodged a small wad of paper into his ear while trying to demonstrate a magic trick during recess. The resolution, after lots of home remedies, involved a trip to our wonderful pediatrician, Dr. Margaret Jeffries-Honeycutt.  Happy Birthday, Niles!

Beware the Modern Day Peddler

Originally published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat on April 20, 2007 and again on March 25, 2011.

The other day, an effusively smiling young man showed up outside my front door with a full 2-liter bottle of Coke. Was he a drug dealer pushing “coke?” Was he an admirer wooing me with sweet words and soft drinks? Or was he a criminal wielding a potential explosive?


I knew instantly he was pushing a particular line of vacuum cleaners, because last year they were handing out boxes of chocolates with a promise to return with a brief demonstration. If, like me, you declined the demo, they were happy to reclaim their bait box.


I’ve had that demo already – back in the days when I was younger and even more gullible. In nearly fifteen years of stay-at-home-dom, I’ve encountered many a salesperson. Most can be categorized as:


A. Sellers of candy, wrapping paper, or pledges so the children in their organization aren’t forced to play on equipment older than they are.


B. Sellers of candy or magazine subscriptions so they can stay off of drugs, out of gangs, fund their way to college, or win a trip to Europe.


C. Those selling cleaning appliances or cleaning agents, not to earn a living, but just to helpfully point out that, despite your best efforts, your home is a breeding ground of germs and microscopic insects.


I wonder if modern day peddlers are using the system once employed by hobos. Depending on the reception they had received, hobos would leave a drawing near the entrance of a house. Like a Nielsen rating of the occupants, the sign might be a warm apple pie, a fierce attack dog, or the muzzle of a shotgun.


I think someone has left a code on our doorstep: SUCKERS. Most of the time I can ward off those the peddler with a bawling baby or other convenient domestic excuse, but one day I fell victim to my own schemes.


The day I became a sucker, it was a Category C seller. Normally, when I open the door I don’t just let the character in, but as my husband was home I was a bit bolder. "Are you the Queen of the Castle?" the man with the spray bottle of cleaner queried as he oozed his rehearsed charm. “Queen of the Castle? QUEEN OF THE CASTLE?” I shrieked hysterically in my mind. Did this man step out of the 1950’s?


I don't know about QUEEN: yeah, I make the royal beds and do the royal dishes. Before I had a chance to respond, his spiel began. (I'm sure this steamrolling technique has a name and is taught to these folks who have the unenviable situation of earning a living this way.) His citrus cleaner, he boasted, even diluted to the millionth, was caustic on every stain known to man, yet safe for the environment and children who were into tasting cleaning agents. He rushed to a rust-stained segment of the sidewalk, poured some of the watered down stuff on it, scrubbed with a washcloth, and presto! The rust was magically gone. Then he took a lick of the stuff to prove his second point.


I had allowed myself to listen. I had listened! That was my first mistake. Whenever I get a Category C “Cleaning Peddler,” I harbor this evil thought. Let these people run all around my house with their cleaners, demonstrating how great their products are while I encourage them to remove this stain and that until my home is polished and sparkling. When it’s time to buy, I could conveniently forget how to speak English.


Then I had a stroke of genius. My husband had long ago stained his favorite shirt. The stain was in a spot that could be concealed by a sweater vest, so it was still in the closet. Also, we had used it to ward off other peddlers. I brought out the shirt - a little too gleefully, I admit. But this was the Master of Shrewd. He sealed the bargain, "So if I get out the stain, you'll buy it?" Others had attempted to scale this mountain of stain and failed miserably, so I accepted. My glee and delusions of genius should have been my clue.


Before too long this man attacked my husband’s shirt: pouring capful after capful on the stain, half-scrubbing with the washcloth and half-scraping the fiber off with his extremely long thumbnail. In the end, he held it up to the light. Most of the stain (and some of the fiber) was gone. I was stuck buying a $29-bottle of citrus cleaner.


I shouldn’t complain - the cleaner did resurrect my husband's favorite shirt and has since rescued a pair of oil-stained pants. But mostly, I am relieved to have the "shirt challenge" retired.


Not long after that incident, a young lady came selling the same stuff. She pointed to my partially cleaned rust stain on the sidewalk. “I know, I know,” I said wearily. “I bought the citrus cleaner from the last guy.” She looked puzzled. Why hadn’t I bothered to clean the rest? Forget the rust stain, I am looking to remove our SUCKER code.

School fundraisers: guaranteed to raise blood pressure and hackles

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on Friday, March 18th, 2011
 So, to continue from last week, do you know what else gets on my nerves?


I am sorry to sound completely self-centered. I should talk about the crisis in Japan: earthquakes, aftershocks, tsunamis, and nuclear meltdowns. But you can read about that in those “other” papers – and don’t pretend you don’t. I’ve seen you behind your Washington Post’s around town. So let’s just save ourselves the awkwardness and continue.


I can’t say that it’s the crying baby in the seat behind you when you are flying on a plane, because first of all, I have been the parent of that crying child. Trust me; it gets on the parent’s nerves too. Possibly on their last, and very frazzled, one. Secondly, it’s been about a decade since I was last on a plane – not for a matter of fear or choice, but that’s the way it has worked out.


I can’t say it’s obnoxious, pushy parents because I’ve been (am?) one of those too. We each have our time and place to get ugly. Some of us stay that way. (And I don’t mean physically.)


There are many contenders, but I will try to restrict my vacillations. People who flaunt big words are not in the running; I like that. Anyone who can stretch my vocabulary is welcome, because my belly, budget, and patience have all had to stretch too.


What gets on my nerves? School fundraisers. School fundraisers REALLY, REALLY, get on my nerves. The only kind of thing those raise for me is the hairs on my back. And please don’t be picturing my hairy back. I’m not picturing yours; so kindly do not be visualizing mine.


What I say now, I shall say with the greatest of care and trepidation. In case you haven’t noticed, the schools and this newspaper haven’t been on the friendliest of footing lately. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. If you refuse to dance with each other, that’s one way of avoiding treading on toes, I suppose. (Oooh! I made a rhyme.)


I have experienced many types of schooling with my six children in 20 years of motherhood: home schooling, public schooling, and private schooling. I was never brave or confident or foolish enough (take your pick) to do the “unschooling” thing. My “baby” just turned six a couple of weeks ago, so years of schooling loom before us. Incidentally, this week he recited pi to 50 decimal places, edging out high school students to win our school’s “A Pie for a Pi” contest. It was his idea, and his own motivation. I barely have two seconds to give to my own children any more.


It doesn’t seem to matter whether you are in public or private school: fundraisers are the common affliction of schooling. I am probably scarred from a childhood of selling cleaning supplies, light bulbs, citrus fruits, and Christmas wrapping paper. Ah, those were the good old days when you went door to door with that gigantic white envelope marked by gridlines on which to record the orders. There was only the occasional creepy character who answered the door and leeringly looked you up and down as you smiled stupidly and continued your sales pitch.


School fundraisers get my hackles up. I work for a school now, and certainly I can see the need for many things. Would higher salaries attract and retain better teachers? Positively. Would better equipment make life easier and more efficient? Probably. Can you teach some things without all the gadgetry? Perhaps. .


I understand that classrooms need things and special projects need funding. I understand the collective desire and/or need for more money. We live in America, and more is better, right? I’d prefer my kids not be involved.


You want them to study? Me too. You want them to develop good character, be good citizens who contribute to society? So do I. I just don’t see how selling Christmas wrapping, pricey fruit baskets, and auctioning off specialty baskets enter into that equation.


Are we teaching them about capitalism? I love those special projects they do at the elementary school, where all day long the students barter for things they have mutually cleared out of their parent’s closets, garages, and basements. What a symbiotic experience!


Have you attended Mountain Vista Governor’s School’s World Fair? The Warrenton campus at Lord Fairfax Community College is opening its City of Tomorrow to the public on Thursday, March 24th from 9 am to 10:45 am. Visitors receive “money” to invest in the most promising inventions. Middle school and 5th grade GT groups can contact DeAnne Wilmore at 347-6237 or at dwilmore@lfcc.edu to schedule a group visit. There must be myriad other examples, but these are ones I know about.


The latest fundraiser involves handing over to the school of choice your friends’ or families’ names, addresses, and contact information so the school can send out letters seeking donations. Sorry. I’m not selling my friends. I’ll have even fewer then. I don’t like it, and I’m not playing that game. More on this topic next week.

Home Parties and Buying Stuff you Don't Need

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Friday, March 11th, 2011
Do you know what really gets on my nerves?  No, not home parties in which people try to pawn products off onto their embarrassed friends who attended only so that they could


A) Socialize with friends


B) Munch on goodies that were sequestered from the host family’s appetite


C) Escape from their own domestic duties


D) All of the above


Rarely is the purpose of attending such a party to buy unnecessary things at exorbitant prices, all the while looking casual and carefree while wondering behind your smile how to tell your spouse that it wasn’t good enough to get away the whole evening; you also squandered next week’s grocery money.


Incidentally, have you ever noticed how these home parties spread among friends, like bread mold or some viral or bacterial infection, rippling from an inner circle out to unsuspecting friends and acquaintances? This is where the term “hosting” a party conjures not hospitality, but a biological organism who unwittingly serves as a medium for pathogens to thrive on.


There are home parties for cookware, Tupperware, silver, jewelry, make-up, decorative things, and women’s undergarments in which you are guaranteed to be fitted so that your cup neither runneth over nor saggeth under. Of course, I know there exist other, racier home parties, but I haven’t been invited to any of those. Thank God. Let’s keep it that way.


The wildest I have ever gotten with these sort of home parties is Tupperware. It wasn’t the Tupperware that was so wild, it was the idea that I thought I could or should host another party of my own so that the hostess of the infecting, I mean, original, party could get bonus points, deeper discounts on her own purchases, and that mega, three-cooler picnic set as a thank you gift.


In order for the hostess to get the gift, the other parties that were spawned from her original, had to be executed within a couple of weeks, like some punishment for an offense before the dust from all the evidence settles.


The thing about gifts is that the very term implies that it is free. Last time I checked, a gift was something given willingly, and something that the recipient did need not to prove his or her worth for. Oh wait – let me save this thread for the Easter column.


Anyway, the time that I tried to host a home party was back in the 80’s. The 1980’s, thank you, in case you had some image of me picking cotton and then returning from the fields after dark to host some sort of Pewter-ware Party. Yes, I am taunting readers for feedback. You haven’t been writing to me, so I must goad you.


There were a couple of fatal flaws with my grand plans to host a Tupperware party. First, I had pretty much the same circle of friends as the hostess. In fact, if anything, mine was a subset of her circle – at best, it was a smaller ring, like a dartboard target, when compared to my pastor’s wife who was, at the time, the young mom of a preschooler and a newborn. So naturally, my guest list was going to happily include these same lucky women to come attend a duplicate party in rapid succession.


The second fatal flaw involved my few, extra-circle friends. These friends were fellow students, both undergraduates (overworked) and graduate students (underfed), whose only interest in Tupperware was what it might contain and whether it might still be consumable. They did like parties, of course, but Tupperware rarely featured in them.


And what did Tupperware parties lack? Glossy brochures were pressed upon us so we could look at, and long for, the kind of life in which Mom molded Jell-O letters so she could spell out each child’s name on his or her dessert plate.


“Games” were played in which you might find yourself the lucky winner of a tangerine-teaser, which was a variant of the orange opener, which itself was a specialized form of the citrus peeler. If you won all three, there was a special snap-on ring onto which each of your spoons could be affixed. You probably already had all these tools amongst your battalion of kitchen gadgets, not including your own God-given fingernails and teeth, which had once, before the arrival of Tupperware, been foolishly believed to be effective in the war on citrus fruits. Clearly, that was a generation of vitamin-C deprived individuals who were deficient in their thinking.


On the day of my own Tupperware party, it dawned on me that attendees would be deficient. I called the representative so I could spare her time and I could spare my shame. Perhaps I was more vitamin-C deprived than I had believed. I think then I made a solemn promise to not be embarrassed into hosting a party with this childish chant: “cross my heart, hope to die, stick a citrus peeler in my eye.”


Good thing, though, that it’s not home parties that really get on my nerves. More next week.

Street Smarts – Part III - Apology Accepted

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on Friday, March 4, 2011
This is the final part of a three-part series of columns.


My teenaged son, whom we shall call “Fred,” had offended a neighbor lady up the street while walking his dog. The neighbor had followed up with a visit to our home to complain of “Fred’s” behavior. We coaxed and reproved Fred and then, by the magic of online money transfers, subtracted $25 from Fred’s account. He was then, quite literally, driven out of the house (by car), to purchase and deliver flowers, candy, and a card for the neighbor. Rejoin this column as Fred is writing in the card.


We sat in our semi-darkened car as he filled the blank card with words. I was not going to allow this to be one of those situations where we have all the best intentions to “do it later” and then promptly forget to follow through. (Have I yet written to the ladies of the Christian Women’s Club of Warrenton and Zoar Baptist Church who sent us $200 at Thanksgiving, knowing that my husband, formerly the sole breadwinner – despite my recent contributions as a crumb-collector of sorts – was hospitalized? If my plans and actions would ever align, I might have less need to be ashamed of myself. Carrying this burden about mars one’s ability to lecture others, especially one’s children.)


Though it was cold, he sat and wrote. His words were neither contrived nor produced under duress. They were sincere, if a little stiff. You see, Fred is obstinate. He refuses to concede any point when he is convinced he is right. The problem with Fred, as with most of us, is that he always seems to be right about almost everything. (Or so he thinks.)


My son’s face stiffens when he believes you are talking some rubbish. He and his face don’t mind conveying this sentiment, either. That must have been the face that he gave our neighbor: impassive, but seething within. His lips are set and his eyes are squinted and hardened. You aren’t going to get past that steel façade easily.


If you do, though, he has an incredibly winning smile. When things go well, or he finally admits to mischief, he has the most handsome and infectious smile. He refuses to oblige you with a fake smile, so if you get one, it is genuine and rewarding.


So Fred wrote from his semi-steel heart. I don’t have his words verbatim. After our shopping and sitting together in the car – just the two of us, I felt I had truly won him over. He may not have written that he was sorry, but he said he was sorry for the way he had behaved. As we sat and talked, Fred finally understood our neighbor’s concern for the safety of the dogs, the younger children playing in the neighborhood, and for the owner of the two dogs who also happened to be in the final stages of pregnancy, and the danger that a dogfight might have imposed upon this woman. He might have written that he was grateful to have such a neighbor.


I, too, was grateful: grateful to have a caring neighbor and such a son, who despite his steely determination would allow chinks of oil to seep in and soften him once in a while.


We returned to our subdivision, and drove up the hill in the neighborhood. It was difficult to spot the house from which this neighbor might have emerged. We knew where the two dogs lived. From there it was an educated guess as to which of the houses it might be across the street.


“That one. The one with the brown door,” my son seemed to become more certain as we examined house after house of brick-front, shuttered constructions. We both went to the door.


A young woman breezily opened the door. She was perhaps wiping her hands from a meal. My son proffered the flowers and chocolates, but hesitated, suddenly mired in confusion. He did not recognize her being the woman who had yelled at him earlier. “Wait,” he said awkwardly. “Are you the one I had an argument with today?”


We described the events of the afternoon. “Oh,” she said, knowingly nodding her head. “That would be Kerri Pepin, next door.”


Kerri Pepin? Now it all made sense. I already knew her as another mom from Mrs. Stright’s kindergarten class at C.M. Bradley a few years ago. I knew and liked Kerri.


We went next door, but Kerri wasn’t available, so we spoke with Tom, her husband.


My son apologized to the husband of the woman he had offended. He handed over his portion of the peace treaty. Tom was very gracious and appreciative of the visit.


Kerri and I spoke afterward. She said the thing that had impressed her the most about my son’s apology was the card – that he had written a card.


You know what? Me too. I’m glad my son is still somewhat pliable (occasionally), and I’m glad we live in a time and place when neighbors can watch out for each other and their children.

A dogfight is averted - an apology attempted

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on February 25, 2011

This is the second in a three-part series of columns.

My teenaged son, whom we shall refer to by the mysterious name of “Fred,” and his canine companion whose name I have obscured to “Letty Boo” were walking up the neighborhood when two seemingly rabid Pekingese dogs bounded into their yard. My son relayed the events to me afterward, because something along his walk had prompted a neighbor to visit our home and complain about “Fred’s” behavior. I got home later to hear my teenager’s account of this same walk. In his version of the account, he was, of course, innocent of any wrongdoing.


The owner of the Pekingese happened to be in a state of gravidarum, which, in case you didn’t know it, is the medical term for pregnancy. By using obscure terms, it is my intention to either confuse or impress you. (Isn’t that an effective technique in many fields that use arcane terms? And shouldn’t I be getting paid more if I am impressively confusing?) The owner of the dogs had opened her front door, but she was then unable to coax her pets back indoors.


So, here is the Freddian version of events:


Letty Boo began snapping and lunging, Fred admitted. Regardless, Fred knew he had everything in consummate control. Or so he said.


He stood restraining his hound and fending off the two smaller dogs when suddenly, out of nowhere, a nosy and interfering neighbor came dashing across the street and told my poor, darling, child to get Letty Boo and himself to the other side of the street to minimize any potential, illegal, and as yet, un-betted upon, dogfights.


Fred, in his kindest and most civil manner, apparently told this nosy neighbor that he was in supreme control of the situation and that she could very kindly attend to her own affairs. Or something to that effect, but dripping with politeness and civility.


That’s not exactly the version of events that was relayed by the neighbor, who as a mother of four children herself, thought that the parents of Fred might be interested to know of his behavior in the great outdoors. She had come to our door, and since I was not home at the time, the matter had been deferred for Mommie Dearest to hear about.


I got to hear about this later that evening when I returned from the school in Reston where I was working last year. After some discussion with Fred, I insisted that he go up the hill to apologize. Fred balked. I want to warn you: Don’t balk with me. I am the Mother of Balkers, so if you try, you will be balking up the wrong tree. I described more and more elaborate reasons and ways in which the apology could or should be executed. Finally, I settled on the one below.


Many apologies are delivered with eyes rolling upwards, body and shoulders slouching downward, and a disgusted “sorry” muttered and mumbled to the offended party. The one who offers the apology conveys with everything except his words that the wounded one is probably some sort of oversensitive sissy, and most likely in error anyway. Such apologies are meaningless until any deeper feeling is attached. Often times, the best feeling to attach to apologies is pain. For Fred, pain usually involves lack of food and/or money.


This was going to have to cost him, I decided. Suddenly, I had one of those ideas that renews faith in my own abilities and intelligence, despite the children’s efforts to outwit me at every turn.


What would happen to you in the REAL WORLD if you were to mishandle matters? (Notice how we make our children feel they live in some alternate plane, as if the reality of their school and friends and daily pressures don’t amount to real life.) There might be legal and financial consequences. We had a joint little savings account, did we not? We had access to this savings account online and through the boy’s ATM card, did we not?


With dramatic flourish, I announced that such egregious behavior was going to have a price tag. It would cost Fred enough to hurt and to remember, but not so much as to maim and embitter him. The price tag for offending a “nosy and interfering neighbor” was going to be $ 25.


I called Designs by Teresa in Old Town because I’ve met the owner and SHE READS MY COLUMN. Whoa! It was too late in the evening at this point, and I wanted an immediate resolution and retribution.


We settled on making a transfer of cash from accounts online, handing Fred the cash, and whirling out to our local Safeway. The instructions were simple: take your $25. Spend it all on some tokens of your sincere gratitude and remorse. Flowers: $ 15. Two boxes of chocolates: $ 8. That left about a dollar on hand. Where best to spend a dollar but at the store with the eponymous name: Dollar Tree. One blank note card later, and it was a done deal. His money was spent, and so was his anger. Would it be tacky if I said, “Priceless” here?


Stay tuned for the final part of this series.

A neighborhood stroll is no walk in the park

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Feb. 18th, 2011


This is the first in a three-part saga.

This tale involves flowers and candy, but not on Valentine’s Day. It began with my teenaged son taking a walk in the neighborhood and ended with him buying and delivering flowers and chocolates to a neighbor lady – a married one, at that!


I will not name this son of mine because every once in a while, I like to think about my children’s feelings. I don’t let this happen too frequently, because that could impinge on my parenting skills as well as my liberty to share with you embarrassing scrapes they get into. But he actually gave me permission to write about this. This happened well over a year ago, and so my “broadcasting license” on this one is just a tad stale, but you don’t really expect me to try to renew it, do you? First of all, I’m writing this at 4 am. Secondly, what if he were to change his groggy mind? I don’t want to lose my license any more than you want me to.


So I don’t implicate which particular brown boy of mine was involved, I have created a Writers’ Protection Program. In writing this piece, I will call this boy of mine ‘Fred.’ It doesn’t matter what I call him, actually. I don’t know about your children, but mine don’t respond to any of the names we agonized over before their birth. When you’ve roared that unique, amazing, and etymologically significant name of theirs four or five times, that’s when they start thinking about possibly responding to that clever name you gave them. Only when your face is contorted and red, and when your ugly uvula is exposed like some sort of maniacal cartoon character, do they respond. Might as well call the kid Fred, after all.


Also, because our pre-named shelter dog features in this, I shall obscure her name as well. The canine will be referred to as Letty Boo. See how clever I can be in the predawn hours?


So, this is what happened last winter:


I came home one evening to the news that a neighbor had recently descended upon our door with a complaint about Fred’s behavior. This was a novel experience for me, and novel does not necessarily mean nice. It was tinged with embarrassment. We all have these great expectations of our children; we pour our very souls into them, and then they become the taint of the neighborhood. Nice.


My husband had earlier dispatched one of the older girls to trudge up the neighborhood with our son so that he could offer his apology, but they were unable to find the house, and the woman’s name had been garbled in the message. We weren’t sure which neighbor had been offended, or where she lived exactly, but there was offense in the air in our neighborly little community.


It was just getting dark. My mood was getting darker. I may botch some details here, but you’ll extend me a little license too, right? My memory is not what it used to be.


And let me exonerate myself in case I should botch any details: I may tend to repeat or omit details. After all, my memory is not what it used to be. Or did I just tell you that?


The facts of the matter, as retold by my fuming Fred, were something like this:


Fred and Letty Boo were innocently and congenially taking a walk up the street in our neighborhood. Fred was most assuredly carrying a bag to collect any deposits that Letty Boo might decide to make, even though who can imagine a perfect pooch doing such a thing? He had probably waved to neighbors and friends and helped old ladies cross the street. Furthermore, Fred may even have filled up the bike tires of struggling small children along the way. And the birds, of course, were undoubtedly chirping.


Suddenly, out of nowhere, two vicious Pekingese attack dogs bounded into their own yard next to the sidewalk occupied by this young model citizen and his canine compatriot. That particular yard has an underground electric fence, and although Fred knew that these two rabid animals could not possibly cross onto the sidewalk and into their realm, unfortunately, Letty Boo did not. Not being privy to this vital bit of engineering, Letty Boo began snarling, snapping, lunging, and drooling at her two furry, snack-sized foes.


Stay tuned for the second part of this tale.