Nigel lives, wiser for his brush with danger

It looks as though the tale of Nigel the possum is on it's way to becoming a saga.
Back in December, I wrote a column about a baby possum who showed up at our house four years ago, ingratiated himself into a litter of kittens and has been coming back every evening since for his helping of cat food.
We had been feeding Nigel on the front porch so there'd be no chance meetings with Lola, our Australian shepherd. Lola ruled the back yard and seemed to consider Nigel a potential chew toy.
We ran into a problem with this arrangement when some free-roaming neighborhood dogs discovered there were snacks available at our house. Their owners seem to feel leash laws are mere suggestions and couldn't possibly apply to their little darlings. These mutts began raiding Nigel's bowl each night.
One evening, I heard a curious banging out front. Peeking out, I saw Nigel bumping his empty bowl against the door. My husband thought he was simply foraging for stray pieces of cat food around the bowl. I prefer to think he was voicing his complaint at the poor service.
With reservations, I moved his bowl to the back deck. I was careful to fill it only after Lola was in for the night. This arrangement seemed to work for a while. Then one evening Lola needed to go out after bedtime. I checked outside and there was no sign of Nigel.
When I opened the door, Lola morphed from a big lovable pup into something from a Stephen King novel. Every muscle tensed and she was out the door, moving faster than I've ever seen her run. There was no barking, no snarling, just pure focus on her mission. That's when I realized what was happening. She was in a dark corner of the yard. I could hear muffled sounds and the rustle of leaves. I ran to her and saw she had something in her mouth: Nigel.
I yelled for her to drop him and she did. He lay in a furry mound at her feet. For the first and only time, I touched him. The fur that I had always thought would be coarse and greasy was actually heartbreakingly soft. I ordered Lola back into the house and spent the rest of the night in an uneasy sleep, dreaming of baby possums and dogs that suddenly became wolverines.
The next morning, my husband and I went out to bury Nigel. We had everything we needed: gloves, a plastic bag and a shovel. What we didn't have was Nigel.
It never crossed my mind that he might have done what possums do best: play possum.
That night changed everything. I still love Lola, of course. It's just now I've seen her feral side. I've seen the wolf, the hunter, that lurks inside every pampered house pet. Now I see her for what she is: a dog, not the third Glazer girl.
Nigel seems to have recovered from his encounter with the hellhound. He still comes around for his food but now he waits until much later, after the porch light is out and the house is dark. I miss watching him gobble down his dinner and then waddle off into the night.
While the lion may indeed lie down with the lamb, when it comes to the Aussie and the possum, well, I don't think so.

(Originally published Thursday, February 10, 2005 in the Gainesville Times)

Reach deep to help those our nation forgot

In even the most satisfying of lives, there are regrets. Lord knows, I have my share.
I wish I'd stuck with piano lessons. I wish I'd listened to my friends before I dived into that ill-advised first marriage.
I wish I'd jumped at the chance to buy a Clarks Bridge Road lake lot for $10,000 back in 1980. And I wish I'd lived, at least for a while, in New Orleans.
My roommate at the University of Alabama was from Bay St. Louis, Miss. It's about an hour from New Orleans and when we'd visit her family, we'd inevitably end up in the Big Easy, strolling down Bourbon Street with a "cup for the street" in hand.
There were beignets and chicory coffee at the Cafe du Monde and mufellatas at the Central Grocery Store. I once had my fortune told by a doughy old woman in a dim storefront off Canal Street. She dealt a few bent and grubby playing cards and told me I'd have a long life, two daughters, two husbands and would travel the world over. Three out of four is pretty good.
New Orleans spoke to what little artist there is in my soul. I could see myself in a tiny apartment three floors above a street named something like Dauphine or Ursalines, writing free verse and running a little gallery or maybe buying a deck of cards and going into the fortune business myself. New Orleans is my road not taken.
It breaks my heart to see what's happened to New Orleans. Like anyone who's ever spent time there, I'm taking this disaster personally.
I worried about Fats Domino. I watched scenes of desperation and looting until I couldn't stomach anymore. I had nightmares of being trapped in a stuffy, stifling attic with water rising around my ankles.
I watched my president give a speech that wouldn't have taken third place in a middle school oratory contest, a dismissive frat-boy smirk on his face as he tried to explain his administration's policy of too little, too late. Quit smiling, buddy. Ain't nothing funny about this.
I wonder what's happened to the albino alligators at Audubon Park Zoo. I wonder what's happened to the ashes of Everette Maddox, the gloriously drunken poet laureate of the Carrollton District who's buried beneath a flower bed at the Maple Leaf Bar on Oak Street.
We were students together at Alabama and I always meant to pour a scotch on Rette's grave the next time I was in New Orleans. Someday I will, if it's still there.
As I write this, New Orleans has degenerated to the level of a "Mad Max" movie. It's not like we didn't see this coming. Anyone with a National Geographic subscription knew what could and probably would happen if a hurricane like Katrina hit New Orleans. The first four paragraphs of the October 2004 article "The Incredible Shrinking Bayou" were eerily prophetic. Would someone please send a copy to the director of FEMA?
It's time for everyone to step up. We naively thought we could depend on our government to look after its own people on its own shores. We were so wrong.
There are plenty of charitable agencies that will use your money to help the refugees from Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. Pick one and figure out how much you can comfortably afford to donate. Then double that amount. Right now. Put down the paper and pick up your checkbook.
Consider it a debt of gratitude for the fresh water you drink and the dry bed you sleep in, for having children who aren't nasty and hungry and living in a stench-filled stadium, for not having to worry about alligators and crazed looters when you step out onto the street. It's the price of admission to the human race.

(Originally published Monday, September 5, 2005 in the Gainesville Times)

Law of the bus is worth preserving

Since they started kindergarten, my children have ridden on county school buses. At first, I assumed they would prefer to be driven by me. Molly set me straight in a hurry when she said, "I'd rather ride with Miss Diane, mom. She doesn't listen to National Public Radio."
So there it was. My girls spent about an hour each school day on buses.
I soon learned there was a method to all the early morning and late afternoon madness. Little kids were required to sit up front near the driver. The seat directly behind the driver was reserved for the rowdy kids who weren't yet considered trustworthy enough to behave at the back. It was a badge of honor and maturity to be allowed to sit in a seat of one's own choosing.
I've always had a problem with the whole "gold star" concept of rewards for kids. My girls would often come home bearing work plastered with stars and smiley stickers. There were exhortations of "well done!" and "good try!" penned all over even the sloppiest of efforts.
Rachel once proudly displayed a sheet covered in happy stickers and "good try" even though she'd missed most of the questions. When I asked her teacher about it, I was informed that children were rewarded for their efforts, even if the resulting answers were wrong.
Hmmm ... maybe it's just me, but I can't recall the last time I received an "atta-girl" for effort alone. In the world I live in, it's mostly results that matter.
That's how it is in school bus world, too. Some of the drivers reward good bus etiquette with a Friday afternoon prize. It's usually just a piece of hard candy or a small trinket, but it's hard-won and proudly displayed.
Molly's driver had an unerring memory for who was loud on Wednesday and who stood while the bus was moving on Monday. No amount of whining and pleading produced a prize for those offenders. They were just encouraged to try harder next week. Now that's how the real world works.
For the past 20 years, I've operated a resale clothing store. On many occasions, I've had bus drivers come in looking for warm coats or sturdy sneakers for some of their needy charges.
The most touching incident occurred on an icy January day. A driver noticed a stoic little third-grader trudging off to school in his big sister's puffy lavender jacket. It was the only coat available to him. Thanks to his driver, he was soon the proud owner of a like-new Spiderman jacket complete with a hood and those most prized of all embellishments: lots of pockets and zippers.
The recent vandalism at the county bus shop was especially disturbing to me. Windows were smashed, electronics destroyed, scores of seats slashed and graffiti (probably misspelled) sprayed throughout. What a slap in the face to the kind people who work so hard to keep our children safe.
The cost of repairs and the resulting rise in insurance rates will have to come from somewhere. I resent seeing my tax dollars go toward correcting damage propagated by a bunch of pea-brained losers.
There's a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of these reprobates. Anyone stupid enough to commit an offense like this is also stupid enough to brag about it. Someone knows who did this. Come on, drop a dime and collect $1,000. It's easier than a scratch ticket.
In the meantime, if the county decides to have a work day to help clean up this mess, just let me know when and where. I'll be there with a bucket and a Brillo pad.

(Originally published Monday, June 25, 2007 in the Gainesville Times)

When it was ‘jackass’ day at the zoo

Looks like there's another contender for the Darwin Award.
The Darwins, for those who don't know, are tongue-in-cheek awards given each year to those who do the most to improve the human gene pool ... by leaving it. There are idiot crooks who try to creep in via chimneys and are discovered months later.
My personal favorite is the guy who tried to steal gas from a camper but hooked his syphon hose up to the waste tank instead. I'll bet he's still trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
On Christmas Day, two young men were mauled and one killed by a Siberian tiger at the San Francisco Zoo. The tiger was subsequently shot and killed. Gradually, the rest of the story is emerging. One of the surviving victims has admitted that they climbed the enclosure fence, taunting the tiger. A partial shoeprint matching one of the victims was found atop the fence railing.
A witness has reported seeing two of the victims roaring and making aggressive motions toward the tiger, so much so that nearby children were frightened. And, for the coupe de grace, a vodka bottle and marijuana was found in the victims' car and all three had both substances in their bloodstreams. Liquid courage, anyone?
Well, you don't have to be the sharpest crayon in the box to realized that it's not a particularly good idea to antagonize a full-grown tiger. I contribute it to the whole "Jackass" mentality that's become part of youth culture. You've probably seen the YouTube videos of kids doing incredibly stupid stunts: dancing atop moving cars and performing fiery antics in attempts to imitate the MTV show "Jackass." Me, I think the name says it all.
We've had our Amazon parrot, Spanky, for 12 years. The first question visitors always ask is "Does he bite?" The answer is always, "Yes, he does. He's a parrot. That's what parrots do."
He's sweet and talkative but he also has an innate need to periodically chomp down on something pliable like a finger or an ear. Multiply that need by about a million and the you have the danger presented by the big cats. Anyone who doesn't respect that is, well, a jackass.
I know I sound callous toward the human victims in this case. It's tragic, certainly, but it's also the result of man's bottomless capacity for stupidity. Forrest Gump was right: "Stupid is as stupid does."
The tiger was being ... well, a tiger. The humans, it appears, were being alcohol-addled, testosterone-fueled idiots. Also, the officials at the zoo seem to have failed to bring the enclosure up to current industry standards. There's plenty of blame to go around.
We all know how this is going to play out. Mark Geragos, erstwhile attorney of wife and unborn baby killer Scott Peterson, has elbowed his way to the front of the lawyer line. There will be lawsuits upon lawsuits. All the victims, including the family of the young man who was killed, will get a little money and their 15 minutes of fame. There will be endless debates over the safety and viability of zoos.
And periodically some substance-impaired jerk will decide to show off in front of his or her friends by antagonizing an elephant or an alligator or a hippopotamus and the whole cycle will begin again. Jackasses, every last one of them.
(First published Jan. 25, 2008 in the Gainesville Times January 25, 2008)

Celebrity mom’s how-to book is a how not-to

Stop the presses! Here’s a scoop for you. Lynne Spears, that paragon of parenting, mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn, has lost her book deal. This following the announcement that 16-year-old Jamie Lynne, the star of one of those interminable Nickelodeon teen TV series, is 12 weeks pregnant.
The book, “Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World” was characterized by the publisher as “a parenting book that’s going to have faith elements.” It had been scheduled for a Mother’s Day 2008 release.
Drat. Guess I’ll have to take that one off of my Amazon wish list.
I was really looking forward to her explaining how to tell the difference between “edgy” and “soft core” when my teen girls start appearing in music videos. I’m sure she could give some great advice on shopping for rehab facilities and fashion tips on what to wear to custody hearings and court-mandated drug screenings. Oh, and just imagine the chapter on driver etiquette.
Mama Lynne, ever the lemonade maker, characterized her younger daughter as “always conscientious” and (one who) never violated curfew. Yeah, we all know babies are only made after midnight.
Don’t get me wrong. Every baby is a gift and every woman who chooses childbirth over abortion is, in my estimation, a hero. That said, I can’t think of any woman who’s had a surprise pregnancy in her teens who would recommend the experience for anyone else. It’s a blessing, yes, but it’s also very, very hard. Emotionally, financially, socially, educationally, you name it. Every aspect of life becomes exponentially more difficult.
For the past 21 years I’ve operated a resale clothing store that carries infant and maternity wear. For 21 years, I’ve met girls as young as 13 who were shopping for prom dresses one day and preemie sleepers the next. I’ve seen scholarships declined and quickie marriages fail in a matter of weeks. I’ve seen a lot of grandparents alter their life plans to allow for raising a grandchild or three.
These people don’t have the option of selling their baby shower pictures to a tabloid for a kajillion dollars or allowing a camera crew in the delivery room to “share” the blessed event with the masses. Actually, most of the moms I know have far too much class to do that even if the offers were made. They just soldier on, going to work and school, bleary from nights spent rocking colicky babies.
Jamie Lynn, I wish you, your child and your baby daddy well. I hope you persevere, deliver a healthy bundle of Cajun joy and manage to figure out how to salvage your career if that’s what you choose.
I’m sure your bottom-feeder mother will devise a way to capitalize on what should be a personal family issue. I expect there’ll be a line of Lynne Spears baby food or nursery furnishings available by, oh, say ... Mother’s Day 2008.

(Originally published December 26, 2007 in the Gainesville Times)

Parents, know that your kids are watching

I happen to be the mother of a child who loves to write. She's 13 and spends a couple of hours each day doing some sort of writing: short stories, poems, blog entries, essays. She's even completed a few chapters of a book.
When most kids were asking for iPods, she asked for a copy of the "AP Stylebook," an indispensable tool for serious writers.
She occasionally submits her work to competitions. In the past couple of years, she's won cash prizes, trips, medals and even a bonsai tree. I'm sure if she'd known about the essay contest to win almost-impossible-to-get tickets to a Hannah Montana concert, she most certainly would have entered. And she would have lost.
The child who won was a 6-year-old girl who wrote a heart-rending paragraph about how her father had been killed in Iraq. Gosh, who wouldn't want that child to win? After all, she and her family had been through hell and if this prize could do a little to distract them from their pain, then good for them.
There was one problem, however. The whole thing was a lie. Her father didn't die in Iraq. He was alive and well in another town. The whole scam started to fall apart when the winner was surprised with a Hannah Montana makeover at a kid's boutique in her hometown of Garland, Texas. I don't think her mom expected camera crews and when they started asking questions about the essay, she first tried to act like it was, oh, too painful to talk about.
When she was finally confronted with irrefutable evidence of the deception she tried to quibble, saying "We never said this was a true story. We do essays all the time. My daughter does essays at school all the time. It never did say it had to be true." Well, duh.
I ran the scenario past my daughter, Rachel. Maybe I'd missed something here. Maybe there was a way to justify this deception.
Nope, not in Rachel's eyes. She was disgusted by the whole thing and sad for the girl. Her take was, "If it's not true, its not an essay. It's a short story. No way should they win anything. What's worse, that little girl has been exposed to nationwide scrutiny and she and her mom have been shown to be a liars and cheats. All for a few concert tickets. How on earth does a kid recover from something like that?"
Good question. I don't know the answer.
One thing my mother taught me, long before I had children of my own, was that kids learn far more from watching than they do from listening. When you are kind to a stranger, your kids are watching. When a healthy mom parks in a handicapped parking spot, her kids see that, too. When a dad lies to get an undeserved refund his children are right there, taking it all in.
Years ago, a mother and daughter came into my resale clothing store. They were shopping for a prom dress, and the girl soon spotted the perfect one. I happened to be working nearby as they discussed the dress. The daughter bemoaned the fact that she'd only be able to wear it one time. The mother told her not to worry. They could always bring it back after the dance. That certainly caught my attention.
When they checked out, I made sure they were aware of the return policy, that the tags had to be attached for us to take an item back. Sure enough, a week later they showed up to return the dress. Of course there were no tags and there was a suspicious spot on the front that was probably punch.
When I declined to take the dress back, the mother launched into a monumental hissy fit, the kind that I'm sure had served her well many times before. I let her go on for a bit, then looked her in the eye and softly said, "I know what you did. You should be ashamed."
The mom gasped, snapped her mouth shut and scurried out of the shop. I sometimes wonder what became of that daughter. She was watching.
Just like that child in Texas was watching as her mother was humiliated and exposed as a liar. Watching as a glorious prize was taken from her and awarded to a runner-up.
Sad. So sad.
(First published Jan. 5, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

My 15 minutes on ‘Montel’ with a ghost dog

An era is coming to an end. After 17 years, "The Montel Williams show" is not going to be renewed.
As it happens, that’s one of the few daytime talk shows that I regularly watch. There’s a nice mix of self-help, entertainment and a bare minimum of "who’s your daddy" DNA testing.
It never crossed my mind that I’d ever be a guest on the show. I don’t have any cautionary tales to tell about stalkers or Internet predators. My children’s paternity has never been in question. But then, as John Lennon said, "Life’s what happens when you’re busy making other plans."
In February 2004, our elderly black Pomeranian, Yofi (that’s Hebrew for "beautiful") died of congestive heart failure. By the time she died, her eyes were clouded by cataracts and her muzzle had turned white.
About two weeks after she died, I was taking digital pictures of some Ferragamo shoes to sell on eBay. I sat them on the seat of a wooden chair and snapped some pictures. When I uploaded them to my computer, there was a curious blur in one of the images. Looking through the back slats of the chair was what appeared to be Yofi.
I showed it to my family and they thought it looked like Yofi, too. The most striking thing about the image was that Yofi’s eyes were clear and her muzzle was black, much like when she was a young dog. I e-mailed the picture out to some friends and then forgot about it.
One morning the following September, I walked into work and one of my employees said, "Teressa, what does Montel Williams want with you?"
There was a message to call a producer of his syndicated talk show.
Turns out, someone who had received my e-mailed pictures of Yofi had sent the images to the "Montel" show, where they have a weekly episode featuring psychic Sylvia Browne. The producer asked if I’d like to appear on the show and have Sylvia give her impressions of the picture. I was initially reluctant, but their offer to let me bring a companion clinched the deal.
They flew me and my daughter, Rachel, then 10 years old, to New York. We were picked up by a limo at the airport and put up at a charming art deco-style hotel, The Edison, near Times Square.
The usual plan would have been to fly us home on Friday after the taping. I asked if they could schedule the return flight for Sunday since my mother-in-law lives on Long Island and it would be a shame to be so close and not spend some time with her. Not only did they do that, they even hired a car and driver to make the two-hour drive out to the Hamptons and then deliver us to the airport on Sunday.
The taping itself was a blast. I was taken to hair and makeup and then to the Green Room to wait with the other guests. There was a creepy young man who’d taken some pictures of an old house in West Virginia and felt the "orbs" of light in the pictures might be long-dead ancestors trying to contact him. I thought it looked like the price you pay for using a cheap throwaway camera with a crummy flash. But, hey, I was there with dead dog pictures, so who was I to judge?
There was a woman from Minnesota who thought a guardian angel had helped her following an auto accident. It was her second appearance on the show, so these sorts of things must happen to her frequently. There was a sad woman who was searching for answers about who killed her brother.
I can’t start to tell how kind the producers were. They put us all at ease and explained what would happen, how Montel would introduce us, we’d tell our story and then Sylvia would give her impressions of our experiences.
We were wired with microphones and seated on couches throughout the audience. I was going to be the last one interviewed, so I had the most time to worry. Before the taping, Montel answered audience questions. Many of them were about his health, since he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a few years before. He looked in great shape and talked about his grueling workout that helps him stay strong.
Browne was introduced and floated in swathed in pink silk and pounds of gold jewelry. She was earthy and funny and seemed to be having a wonderful time. She took audience questions, mostly about love lives and job searches. She assured folks that they’d find the love of their lives (two years seemed to be the favored time frame) or a dream job (six months or less).
Finally my turn came. Montel introduced me and I assumed what my daughter calls my "deer in the headlights" look and gave a quick rundown of the Yofi picture. Sylvia assured me that this was indeed our Yofi in spirit form, that dogs and cats have souls and are waiting for us in the afterlife. Then she announced that she’d just written a book about animal spirits and proceeded to promote the book. My 15 minutes of fame took about two minutes.
The show aired in February 2005, coincidentally on the anniversary of Yofi’s death. It is shown again from time to time, so I sometimes have people say, "I saw you on TV last week!" They’re usually too kind to mention how petrified I looked or how pronounced my accent was. Usually.
Was that really Yofi reaching out from the hereafter to let me know she’d arrived safe and sound? Or is that kid from West Virginia not the only one who can’t use a flash properly?
Either way, we have Yofi to thank for an experience of a lifetime. It’s especially precious since the "Montel" show soon will be no more. I wonder if Sylvia Browne saw that one coming?
(Originally published in the Gainesville Times march 6, 2008.)