Lofty thoughts and noodle knowledge

I’m behind with my blog, and time is short today.  So I’m relying on updates from our children for this post.

First Zach.  Last weekend we were in Manhattan, Kan., where we helped Zach build a loft bed for his new off-campus digs – a house that he’s sharing with a bunch of guys this summer and into the new school year.

Zach and frat Beta buddy Dragon.

It went together pretty well. Apparently we miss-measured along the way, because the actual mattress – which arrived after we left – ended up being about a foot and a half narrower than the aircraft-carrier platform I constructed.  But I think that’s okay.  Zach will find uses for the extra space.

“The bed leaves plenty of room for shelves eventually,” he wrote me.

So ample room for many books!  (Okay, a not-so-subtle hint.)

The bed also is as sturdy as a rock.  They say if a tornado comes it’s best to hide under a strong table or other, similar structure.  This is one of those. The bed is on the second floor vs. the basement, so if The Big One hits, it’s not ideal.  But I’m confident of its suspension capabilities short of that.

Dimensionally challenged, I was.  But it works!

Zach’s proud of his new room; it's his alone.  It’s decorated with yellow flowered wallpaper ... the kind that  married Manhattan women of the '70s might have loved, so a bit out of date. But it’s a big change from the sleeping rooms at the frat, where dozens of guys cram into bunk rooms like sailors in submarines.  Clearly a step up.

All in all, Zach has settled in well at K-State.  I'm  proud of his house.  I’m especially proud of him. 

By the way, this is the second loft bed I’ve built for the kids.  The first went to Meghan while she was in an apartment at the University of Tulsa.  Zach’s bed is about four feet off the ground – not too high up.  Meghan’s was a towering structure … up where the air was thin. I’ve wondered what life is like for squirrels in treetops.  I think Meghan lived that life, especially when her room fan was at full blast.

So now to Meghan.  Readers know that she lives in Bellingham, Wash., where she’s doing graduate work.

She sent us a lengthy email this week. It concerned our small dog Linus.

As a family, we’ve long wondered about Linus’s pedigree.  He’s an odd guy, a mutt with a cork-screw tail, bulging eyebrows and beard like Albus Dumbledore, but he's oh-so-cute so that during our walks strangers always say, “Oh, so cute!”   Then they ask, “What kind is he?!”

“Dunno!” we say.

Meghan and Linus

But this recent report from Meghan could, at last, provide the answer.  I’ll let her tell the tale … tail … whatever.

“Sooo,” Meghan wrote, “I have discovered, by being in the right place at the right time, that Linus must be half Havanese.”

(Before she goes on … to me, half Havanese is a quarter of something, though goodness knows what.)

“I've never really seen a Havanese before besides in dog books, “ she continued.  “plus most Havanese owners keep their dog’s hair long. BUT I had the fortune of meeting a Havanese on the streets of Bellingham today that had his hair cut just like we cut Linus's. 

“This dog looked JUST LIKE HIM! Same face, same stance, same walk, same CURLY TAIL. HE EVEN SNEEZED IN FRONT OF ME LIKE LINUS DOES! MULTIPLE TIMES!!!

“So did I take a picture, you ask? Well, I talked to the owner, but didn't try and take a picture with my phone because my phone's camera lens is all dusty and the pictures would have turned out blurry. So I didn't ask to take one.

Linus with a nose full of Michigan beach.

“And then the owner walked away, and two minutes later I remembered I had my camera in my purse. So I sat there for another two minutes debating whether to run and find him again. Finally I decided to go for it and went running down the block.

“I tried to find him. But I couldn't. And I was really bummed.

“BUT … right as we were leaving the guy rounded the corner down the street and I just barely caught him out of the corner of my eye. I stopped short and was like YESSSSS I FOUND HIM and chased him down.

“The owner and his wife very graciously let me take the dog's picture. Well, multiple pictures.

Meghan's photo. Note the cork-screw tail.

“So, family, I put before you my evidence that Linus is, in some way, related in breed to this mystery dog on the street. I mean, for God's sake, they have the SAME SNEEZES.

“I'm telling you. This is it. I've solved the 12- to 13-year (however old Linus is) mystery. I seriously don't think that anything besides a blood test would convince me that he is not half poodle, half Havanese.

Both also have splayed front paws. Here are Linus's.

“What do you think??? This has totally made my day!”

I think she’s right.  The proof is in the pictures.

Two other things:

First, after doing some research, I learned the Havanese were spawned in Cuba.  The breed is that country’s national dog, and they are sometimes referred to as Havana Silk Dogs.

Most Havanese are hidden by hair.

Second, Linus doesn’t seem impressed that he might be kin to Fidel Castro.  But he’s never been concerned about his background.  He lives for the here and now – the white cat, the chipmunks, the occasional rabbit and squirrel, not to mention his daily biscuit and his walk in the fields behind the nearby schoolyard.

But still, the discovery is good to know.  As Zach and Meghan both are learning at their respective schools, knowledge is power.

A Havanese may be a cool Cuban dog.   

But knowing we own half a Havanese ... and maybe even a rare Hav-a-noodle? 

That should get us something, sometime. 

I’m certain of it. 

To the Hills!

The latest dispatch from The Chipmunk Wars.

I fear I’m losing.

They’ve regained territory on the eastern front … the bricks that I carefully repositioned with new sand are again sunk, leaving gaping holes.  There are fresh tunnels everywhere.

The central portion of the patio remains intact – I think.  I stomp here and there to test bricks, and they seem to hold.  And no, they haven’t charged yet from the south or west.

But to the north, next to the house? Oh, my, to the north …. 

There the news isn’t good.

We recently replaced some windows, including two overlooking the patio.  We had hired brothers Jeff and John to do the work.  They’re quite capable guys.  They’ve done our kitchen, some baths, now windows.

John brought his ladder around back to work on the patio’s northern edge, to replace the TV Room’s west window. He carefully checked the ladder’s footing, then began to climb.

The brick underneath collapsed like a fragile false floor, the ladder teetered, and John nearly did a Humpty Dumpty.

This is clear escalation by the ‘munks. It’s one thing to target me or the dogs. We’re knowingly in the fight. But to put civilians at risk? Not to mention my liability coverage? Unthinkable.

I’ve ruled out the nuclear option.  It would burn the plants.

Instead I went to a fine web site called “GetRidOfThings.com” and sought advice about chipmunks.

I was tempted to wander the site, thinking of other things that I’d like to get rid of … smelly feet, fussbudget politicians, some talk-radio hosts and – last night – people who incessantly honk their noses in movie theaters.

But we’re at war and the ‘munks are advancing.  So I needed advice quickly.

The site began with an admonishment. Chipmunks are, in fact, decent and helpful creatures, the authors said.

“They are the janitors of the squirrel family, feeding on decaying meat, pestiferous bugs, grubs, seeds, and anything else that happens to be lying about. Chipmunks are voracious scavengers, making them the ideal animal to have around when your neck of the woods needs some tidying up.”

First of all, I like that word “pestiferous.”  I’ll use that some day. Second, I’m now feeling guilty.  A mere glance out the back shows we definitely need help tidying up.

So again the moral quandary … live with them, or not?

I think not.  I figure any decaying meat out there the dogs will eat. So that leaves mainly bugs and grubs.  I’ve got chemicals for that.  And I can yank the offending seeds when their stalks and stems grow a foot tall or so. My usual practice anyway. 

Plus I just can’t continue to have these bricks collapsing like rotten teeth.  The house might be next. 

The web site does offer get-rid advice: You can put mesh down to block the chipmunks (given the sheer size of the battlefield, not practical), you can get stinky stuff to dissuade them (most chipmunks get used to the stink), you can use poison (if your state allows … not sure about Kansas … seems harsh), or you can trap them.  The last seems best.

So I’m buying a trap.  A nice, shiny one with a handle to ease in carrying.  I’ll drop it near the tunnels; the dogs and I will watch shoulder to shoulder from behind the new windows, our eyes low, our noses perched just above the sill.

Ready to bark, “Gotcha!”

They say you want to haul your catch “miles away” before releasing it so the pests won’t bother others.  The problem is that we live in the heart of the metro area.

So I figure I’ll be driving them out to the Flint Hills of Kansas, where they can dig to their hearts' content. 

I also see that the Flint Hills is host to coyotes, owls, hawks, foxes, snakes and bobcats. And all of them love to munch on chipmunks.

I feel bad about that.  But not too bad. These chipmunks have had lots of practice evading the enemy at our expense. They’ll do fine.

So I’ll set them free in the Hills.  And leave them with a handful of birdseed and some free advice.

Tunnel deep, boys, tunnel deep.

Where the 'boys are

I grabbed the basket on the downstairs landing.  It was about half full with paper – The Kansas City Star, the Wall Street Journal, plus assorted flyers, direct-mail pieces and other paper products that somehow had gained entry.

Paper drives were our duty.

And I dumped its contents in the recycling bin.  Trash day!  We may be rampant consumers at our house, but we know how to separate plastic, aluminum, cardboard, newsprint and other items from mere trash.

As I did my weekly duty, though, I remembered recycling on a much bigger scale, before it was so cool to recycle, before giant recycling bins dotted our landscape like green elephants – when, as a Boy Scout, we used to hold paper drives in our St. Louis suburb.

It was always on a Sunday at 2 p.m., so enough time to go home and change clothes after church. We’d gather at the big semi trailer parked in the church lot, divide the boys up among the dads and their cars, and head out to our assigned territories.

In most cases station wagons were required, though some dads had pickups.

We had a station wagon, and those afternoons were pure bliss.  Once we reached our appointed area, Dad would put down the tailgate.  And we’d sit perched on the gate, our legs dangling over the side, our feet just inches above the pavement.  Dad would drive slowly, sure.  But by being there, so exposed, taking a risk that he’d hit a bump and we’d fly off like rocks in a slingshot … why, that was death-defying, exhilarating.

Of course there was work to be done.  Along the road, residents had stacked bags of newspapers and magazines. So we’d stop, hop out, grab the bags, toss them into the back, re-board the tailgate for a short trip, then repeat it all again.

On a good day we’d have to make three trips back to the trailer, the papers so high and deep that they’d pushed us tailgate boys to the brink.

Tailgating was one glorious thing.  But when you were an older Scout, there was a second job available to you.  To work “the truck.”

That was a coveted job.  I couldn’t figure out why, though.  At least at first.  You stood inside the hot, dusty trailer as boys and dads tossed bundles up to you. Then you had to either carry them or toss them as far back as the stack would allow.

It was dirty work, and it could get dangerous. Sometimes three or four cars would unload at once and bundles would zing right and left and straight at you … a fusillade of fat bullets that could separate head from body if you weren’t alert.

So I didn’t care much for the job, until I worked up there once with a guy named Ringworm. Not his real name … his real name was Scott.  But we all were given nicknames in Scouts.  Mine was Doodles.  Can’t recall why. (Sometimes it was simply Weave.) The coolest nickname belonged to Snake, an older Scout who had turned his abode into a reptile house that was the envy of the best zoos.  I was pleased with Doodles, though ... happy that I didn’t get stuck with something nasty like Ringworm.

Anyway, Ringworm was the son of an oral surgeon, very well spoken, very proper in demeanor, very smart.  He wore thick glasses.  He was kind of odd. But we all were a tiny bit off then, so I liked him a lot.

Ringworm favored the magazine bundles.

So on this day Ringworm and ol’ Doodles had trailer duty, and I noticed that Ringworm was giving each bundle thrown our way a careful eye.  The newspaper bundles tied with string were the exception. He could care less about those.

It was the magazine bundles that interested him.  He’d see one coming, shove me aside to catch it, riff through the edges, then toss it to the back. 

On a few occasions, there’d also be grocery bags of magazines taped shut.  You could tell they were magazines because of their heft. It was spooky, but Ringworm knew those were coming before they flew in the door. He was always ready for them.

I didn’t think much about Ringworm’s odd behavior at the time. I was just trying to survive. Until his shout.

“Ah ha!!”  He had pealed back the corner of a taped sack.

I glanced back.  “What?!” I yelled, my shoulders hunched, bundles whizzing by my head.

“Found some!!”

Then he quickly laid the sack down in the trailer’s corner. And cordial, soft-spoken Ringworm suddenly became a Scout possessed, embers glowing from his sweat-filled eyes.

He looked at me.

“That’s mine,” he said, his voice dark, his eyes narrowing. Then almost a hiss: “Don’t touch it.”

Back then I was a bit slow in the ways of the world.  I couldn’t quite figure out what had just happened.  Today, looking back, Ringworm was behaving like Tolkien’s Gollom. The sack was his Ring.

“My precioussss ...”

Then I heard one of the dads mutter something about “boys.”

And it hit me … not a bundle, but awareness. Like the dawn of a new day … a startling revelation, a youngster’s epiphany.  It was a moment that would change my life forever.

Playboys.

No wonder the older guys wanted this job, to breathe the dust, to risk decapitation.

I was such an idiot.

I’d mainly just heard about ‘em.  Yes, my friend Tommy up the street once showed me a torn-out centerfold that he’d pulled from his back pocket, the slick paper horribly wrinkled, the photo barely discernible. (Oh, bad pun.)

But I’d never seen a complete Playboy.

That would change … quickly.  Let’s just say that me and Ringworm, best buddies outside the trailer, had now turned into fierce rivals inside. Like hockey players, we hip-checked and shoulder-bumped and almost landed a few punches as we fought for suspicious bundles.

The fact was, the packages were rare finds … precioussss.

But eventually I got mine.  I don’t think Mom and Dad ever knew, but I managed to sneak them home.  There was a great hiding spot in the attic, behind a loose board that held back insulation.

And there they sat for years.  Miss February, June and July, a couple of Octobers and many more.  And I’ll be honest with you … I didn’t keep them for the articles.

One day late in high school I threw them away. A sign of maturity, I guess.  But I didn’t recycle them. Like I said, except for paper drives, you didn’t recycle back then. I stuffed them in a sack and put them at the bottom of a trash can.

I still feel guilty about it all.  Not about reading the Playboys ... are you kidding?  No, I feel bad that I didn’t bundle ‘em up for those eagle-eyed Scouts working trailer duty, those that followed me with their own paper drives.

That would have been recycling – the Ringworm way.