A Child is Born

First official portrait, but before neck muscles strengthened.

Today marks the 20^th anniversary of one of the greatest and most life changing events of my life.    It will not be noted in the history books, and if memory serves me correctly, it somehow even failed to make the vital statistics in the paper; nonetheless, it was historic for me and my wife.  It was on this date in 1991 that I became a father.

I met my wife while we were both students at Purdue University in the early 1980’s.  After a five year courtship, we were married on August 8, 1987.  Being new graduates with both the debt of school and a new home, we knew it would be a few years before we were financially able to add children to our lives.  However, by the end of 1990 we felt stable enough to finally consider a family.  And it was with great joy that we learned towards the end of that year that we were to have a baby the following July.

My wife’s coworkers threw her the requisite baby shower, and I recall how the sight of the small infant socks she received that day brought it home to me that we would soon have a new life in our household.  More than any other gift, those socks made it real to me and literally brought tears to my eyes.  I still can’t fully explain it, but the emotion was very strong.  

My wife purchased the book Your Pregnancy Week by Week which chronicles a baby’s development.  Each Monday we would sit together and read what features were forming on our child and how big it might be.  Size was usually related to fruit, so we celebrated as our child grew from a grape to a plum to a kiwi and beyond.  While the baby was growing on the inside, my wife’s body was undergoing its own outer transformation, although one needed something much larger than a kiwi to describe her.  There was one outfit in particular she enjoyed wearing, and whenever I saw her in this I could not help but think she looked just like Humpty Dumpty.  Eventually, we could see the baby changing positions within my wife’s belly, and its kicks became strong enough for even me to feel.  By that time we could even tell our baby was prone to hiccups. 

I made sure I was available for each of the doctor exams and always looked forward to hearing the rapid little heart of the life within my wife’s womb.  The ultrasound was exciting, yet at the same time disappointing given that it came so early in our child’s development.  Rather than seeing a formed baby with arms and legs sucking its thumb, we saw a small blob with a flickering area representing a heartbeat.  Still it was the very first glimpse of our baby and moved us both.  A few months later, we began our birthing classes.  Once a week, we would gather up a blanket and pillow and head to the hospital for our evening class, where we would watch movies of various birthing methods and practice our breathing and massage techniques.  

On the home front, we had spent the summer working on the new nursery.  Around the top of the room, I had stenciled a repeating pattern of Peter Rabbits paired off and holding a heart between them.  My wife began making a quilt for the baby’s bed as well as a small pillow onto which we also stenciled Peter Rabbit.  Finally, on June 25^th, a full month before the expected delivery date, we assembled the furniture and completed the room.  My wife finished the sewing on the next day and announced the nursery complete.   We were proud of ourselves to have finished the task with so much time to spare.

David on his Peter Rabbit bedding.

That day was Wednesday, a typical work day.  I came home that night and, as had become my habit, asked my wife how she felt.  She had an uncertain look on her face and admitted she wasn’t sure what was happening.  Earlier that evening, she had “leaked” a small volume of fluid and now she felt “funny.”  Had her water broken?  Had her bladder been squeezed just a little too hard by the developing baby?  We were stumped, but since we were still a month away from our due date, we decided it probably was nothing of concern.  We had dinner and began watching Seinfeld, our usual Wednesday night ritual.  However, as the evening progressed my wife became gradually more and more uncomfortable and soon was vomiting.  What was happening?  This was not the way it was in the movies we had watched each week.  Nor was it in the books my wife had been reading.  I was becoming anxious, but my wife kept disregarding what was happening.  Frustrated, I had to get out of the house and take a walk.

I returned to find my wife no better.  In fact, the pains were worse and the nausea had not abated.  I urged my wife to call the doctor, but she didn’t want to be considered too anxious or a nuisance, but when the pain became constant, she finally agreed.  Upon hearing my wife’s description of her symptoms, the doctor replied that it could be labor, but it was more likely just the stomach flu.   Rather than the proverbial, “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” she was told to take Tylenol and a warm shower and to call if the pains started coming five minutes apart for an hour.  It was at this point that I realized that in all of our preparations, we had failed to pack the bag for the hospital.  I suggested this might be a good time to do so “just in case,” but my wife pushed the idea aside.  Not only were we unprepared in this way, we had never even discussed and implemented a birth plan with our obstetrician.

My wife skipped the Tylenol but retired to bed, leaving me to my imagination and rapidly mounting anxieties.  It was at this time that I took it upon myself to pack the labor bag; however, I wasn’t sure what I was to pack.  Since my wife was trying to relax, I started grabbing her pregnancy books and reading through the pages to find any reference to an overnight bag for the hospital.  I finally found a list and started out to gather the items, only I didn’t know where my wife kept half of them.  I would check the list, run back to the other end of the house to find the item, charge back to throw it in the bag and then look at the next thing on the list.  Our cat was lying in the middle of the family room, and with each trip I would hurdle him in my mad scramble.  After about the third time of making this mad dash, the cat began to become suspicious of the crazy man leaping through the air.  He fluffed himself and started hissing at me each time I ran by.  I was sure I would be attacked before the night was through.

During this period, I periodically checked in with my wife to ask how the pains were going.  She really wouldn’t talk to me, but she would occasionally moan.  I took the moans to mean a pain was striking and grabbed my watch to time them.  Three minutes later, she moaned again.  Were her contractions already three minutes apart?  The doctor said to call when they were five minutes apart!  Was she already having the baby?  My panic grew with each moan.  I asked her if these were individual pains, but she just motioned me away.  With the bag finally packed, I started thinking about the trip to the hospital.  It was at least a 30 minute drive, and I was sure the baby was coming.  Yes, I was a veterinarian, and yes, we had watched all the movies in childbirth class, but I was not prepared to be delivering our baby.  Yet I wanted to be prepared should we not make it to the hospital in time.  What should I do if the baby came too quickly?  I decided I needed to make an emergency childbirth bag.  So I gathered up some clean towels, some string to tie off the umbilical cord and my always handy Swiss army knife.  Suction!  What would I do to suction the baby’s mouth?  I thought for a moment then remembered the turkey baster under the stove, and it was quickly added to my “medical” supplies.  Finally, I felt I was at least physically prepared to deliver the baby if called upon; however, emotionally I was a wreck.

My sister nicknamed David "Butterball" because of the turkey baster story.  We decided to run with the idea a little.

I went back to again check on my wife.  Her pain was worse, and she admitted it never ended.  However, there were moments when it was more intense, so I decided to time those.  They were four to five minutes apart so I knew the time had come, but when should we actually go to the hospital?   She had been having pains like this for over an hour as it was, and our instructions were to call the doctor after one hour.  My wife was very stubborn and would not call, so I figured I would count for up to another hour then put my foot down, and we would go to the hospital regardless.  However, a short while later when the pains began coming every three minutes, even Sara was convinced it was time to take action.  

As my wife called the doctor, I put the bags in the car.  My still nauseous wife gingerly made her way to the garage while I grabbed a bucket and covered the car seats.  I am one who gets sickened at the very thought of someone vomiting, so it took great restraint for me to continue driving with my wife heaving into a bucket next to me in the car.  The trip to the hospital was smooth, and we arrived in good time.  I drove into the parking lot and started driving around looking for a parking spot.  I was getting ready to move to the next lot when my wife said, “Honey, why don’t you drop me off at the door and then park the car?”  It had never dawned on me that I shouldn’t expect her to walk a long distance into the building.  I was just glad I made it without the need for my knife and turkey baster.  So I dropped her off at the door, parked the car then dashed back to the hospital to be with my wife.

We were placed into a temporary holding room so they could check on my wife’s condition.  We were told they would check her dilation and then put her on a baby monitor for a while.  When they discovered she was already six centimeters dilated, they immediately moved us into the birthing suite.  It was a spacious room with soft lighting.  As mentioned previously, we had never made a birthing plan, so my wife was forced to make some decisions very quickly, the biggest of which was whether she wanted an epidural.  Sara feared the pain of childbirth, but she feared needles more, so she opted to have natural childbirth without the aid of analgesia.  They got us set up and the doctor on the floor came to check on her.  My wife was still not far enough along to begin pushing, so we were left to ourselves for a while.  I offered to massage Sara’s back, but she let it be known very early that she was in no mood to be touched other than holding her hand.  So much for my part of the birthing classes.

I had brought a cd player with what I thought was a nice collection of soothing music, but we opted instead to watch the television in the room.  I flipped through the stations and found an old episode of I Love Lucy.  It just so happened it was the one in which Lucy has found out she is pregnant, and she is trying to figure out a way of telling Ricky.  She finally decides to go down to the club and anonymously request he sing We’re Having a Baby for someone in the audience who is expecting.  He starts singing and walking from table to table trying to guess the lucky couple.  He can’t seem to find them but continues singing as he passes the table where Lucy is sitting.  He nods hello to her and starts to walk by when she looks up with tears in her eyes and nods.  He then realizes he is the one who is going to become a father.  I always thought it was the most honest and touching moment I ever saw on that show, and it could not have been a more perfect backdrop to the events at hand.

The evening passed and my wife progressed as expected.  The doctor on duty seemed a little frazzled as there were multiple women giving birth, and one in particular who was quite vocal.  We heard the screams echoing down the hall and saw the frustration in the doctor’s eyes as she sighed and went to tend to her more demanding patient.  Thankfully, we were blessed with an angel of a nurse who calmly talked my wife through everything.  Our obstetrician had been called, but she had learned through years of experience when things were likely to come to a head.  The nurse encouraged my wife to go through the breathing exercises we had learned at class.  I had to stifle a laugh as my wife leaned forward and started chugging like a train.  Through the “Hee!  Hee! Hoo!’s” the nurse urged my wife to hang on and not push, yet with each surge of pain my wife would call out, “I’m gonna push!  I’m gonna push!”

Grandpa getting his first look at his new grandson.

At last the magic time arrived.  Our regular obstetrician had appeared, my wife was fully dilated and the baby had decided enough was enough.  So with her nails dug into my arms, Sara began to push in earnest.  Soon a small head full of black hair began to appear.   I was shocked by how small the baby was, but then with the next push what seemed like an enormous head fully appeared!  What I had seen originally was just a small area of the scalp which had sort of pouched out as the head was forcing its way out.   Now with head fully exposed, the doctor cleared the baby’s airways and suggested my wife not push for a moment while she did so.  But my wife was not to be stopped, and with another mighty effort the baby shot into the world.  The nurse, who had calmly talked us through each step, picked him up and pronounced that it was a boy!  Because he was a month early, staff members quickly whisked him out of the room to insure there were no health issues.   He was soon returned to us with the announcement that he was very healthy and had done well on all his tests.  

As they moved us from the birthing room to our own private room, we stopped to peak in at the nursery window.  The nurse was cleaning him up and getting all the official measurements.  As a stream of liquid shot high in the air, I learned my first lesson about changing a diaper on a boy.  My wife was tired and sore, so she continued on to the room, but I wanted to stay and watch my son.  Proudly I would point him out to other parents stopping at the window.  Finally I returned to Sara, who although sore, admitted that childbirth was something she could do again.  What a trooper!

Sara admiring her new son.

For some reason, I had wanted a daughter, but when the nurse handed me my new son that morning, I could imagine nothing else.  I admired his thick head of hair and thrilled as his little hand wrapped around my finger.  Now twenty years later, he still has a thick mop of black hair, but he also sports a beard.  All the dreams I had for him that early morning in 1991 are coming to fruition.  He is a young man with a sharp mind, a good sense of humor, an artistic flair and high morals.  Respected by both peers and elders, he seems poised for a happy and successful life.   And now as our little fledgling prepares to leave the nest, that long night so many years ago is but a distant memory.  So much has changed with us all since then, but one thing that remains is my pride as his father.  Happy birthday, son!

The first family portrait.

Leatherbacks

            I’ve decided to change things up a little with this post.  Rather than composing a new entry, I’m basically posting a letter I wrote to my parents back in 1987.  I’ve edited it a little for grammar and tense, although I thought it stood by itself pretty well.  But first a little background.  In 1987 I was a senior veterinary student at Purdue University in search of a practice with which to serve my externship.  My sister, Dianna, was then living in St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands and took it upon herself to contact the local veterinary clinic there.  A very generous Crago Animal Clinic gave me the opportunity to spend nearly two months in paradise, but I just look at it as a sacrifice for my education.  Many opportunities were opened to me.  Mornings were spent at the clinic, but afternoons were spent lounging on the beach and snorkeling the crystal clear waters off Cane Bay.  There was Carnival on St. Thomas and Easter on St. John.  However, one adventure stands above all others.  My sister, being the bold adventurer of the family, arranged for her and me to spend a night with an Earthwatch group who was studying nesting Leatherback sea turtles on the southwest corner of the island.  What follows is my account of that evening.  I want to stress that this is not meant as a scientific treatise on leatherback turtles, and I have done nothing to verify the information included.  It is simply my recollection of statements I had heard that night on the beach.  So with that in mind, here is my great turtle adventure.

April 14, 1987

            Last night Dianna and I had the chance of a lifetime- to participate in a turtle watch for nesting leatherback sea turtles.   St. Croix is one of about half a dozen nesting sites in the Virgin Islands and one of about a dozen sites worldwide.  This particular beach holds the distinction of attracting the largest nesting population of leatherbacks in US waters.  The beach, Sandy Point Beach near Frederiksted, is ideal for these turtles.  It is a long stretch of sand with deep water access.  There are no rocks or coral reefs to interfere with the turtles’ approach and the area has been classified as a nature preserve.  Last night we had an additional bonus (at least initially) of a full moon which illuminated the entire strip of beach with a soft, silver light.  Spotting a turtle would be easy.

            Our leaders for this event were a pair of biologists who give up six months of their lives to aid and document the nesting and hatching of these turtles.  Ten hours a night, seven days a week, these two scientists, along with a group of Earthwatch volunteers, patrol this beach, collect data and play host to groups of interested onlookers such as us.  The plan last night was to position Dianna, myself and about seven other individuals who had come along to watch in the center of the beach.  The Earthwatch volunteers would move on down to the far end until 9:00 at which time they would walk the length of the beach in search of turtles.  If no turtles were seen, they would reposition themselves at the opposite end of the beach until the following hour when they would again make the patrol.  Dianna and I had decided to walk the beach for a while and soon found ourselves sitting with the Earthwatch group listening to turtle facts.  At about 8:30 we decided to continue our walk along the shore.  We had moved about 100 yards up the beach when I noticed a large black form emerging from the water.  The rush of adrenalin was incredible, and it took a lot not to run right up to the turtle.  The signal for a turtle was to be three flashes with a flashlight to be answered by one flash from the other group; however, I had left our flashlight with one of the people in our group so I had to run back down the beach to the Earthwatch group.  Shortly, there were a dozen people standing in silence in the moonlight watching this lone creature heave her body along the sand.

Dianna and I admiring turtle

            We kept our distance as she climbed the beach so she would not be frightened and return to the sea.  It is amazing how quickly these giant animals can move through the sand, and it took little time for this female to choose a spot near the vegetation line to dig her nest.  We could see sand flying into the air as she began body molding, the process of shifting her body and digging with her flippers until she makes a depression in the sand large enough to fit her body.  Then slowly and methodically she began the process of digging the primary hole into which she would lay between 60 and 100 eggs.  She would carefully push one of her rear fins into the sand, curl it under her, and then bring out a “handful” of sand.  This continued until a shaft three feet deep was created.  This particular female had chosen a very dry area so the hole periodically caved in slightly and was partially filled.  It was our fear that she would have to abandon this site and seek out a more suitable patch of sand, but she stopped shifting her body and patiently continued her dig until a suitable hole was created.

            Finally, she grew quiet and covered the hole with her rear fins. This was the signal that she was about to begin laying eggs.  At this point instinct and maternal drive become so strong you can handle them with the female apparently oblivious to everything around her.  This is when the Earthwatch team sprang into action.  Her length (about five feet) and width (about three feet) were recorded.  One woman recorded all distinguishing marks on a prepared diagram of the turtle.  Her rear fins were pulled aside and nest depth was measured and recorded.  Dianna helped another volunteer count the eggs as they were laid.  The eggs themselves look like the cue ball in a pool game- white, round, glistening but with a pliable shell which allows them to survive the long fall to the sand.  She would strain slightly and then two or three eggs would shoot out into the nest.  This continued for nearly 20 minutes until the yokeless eggs (small, infertile eggs that are thought to aid in maintaining the moisture of the nest) appeared, marking the end of the lay.  Soon she would begin to push sand over the eggs creating a slight mound.  She would make several other mounds to disguise the actual nest site.

The pink spot (3rd eye) is visible here. 

            The leatherback turtle is quite a sight to behold.  Her shell is very smooth but has a series of ridges running its length which makes it appear very much like the hull of a small boat turned upside down.  The shell is relatively soft giving rise to the name “leatherback.”  She is black with white streaks along the ridges of her shell, and she has a large pink spot on the top of her head which is believed to be a light sensor or “third eye.”  With some individuals, missing fins and scarred flesh tell the tale of narrow escapes from sharks and killer whales, the natural predators of adult leatherbacks.  Because of her massive size and inability to expand her shell, breathing is quite labored.  She must arch her neck forward and upward to draw in a loud, slow gasping breath.  Hearing that sound coming from this prehistoric creature on a lonely beach in the dark of night is an eerie yet exhilarating experience.  Because she takes in so much salt, the leatherback has developed a means of eliminating the excess salt through a constant stream of tears.  Although this is a continuous process, the tears are especially evident when the turtle is on land.  Because of their thick, viscous nature the tears hang from the turtle’s eyes giving the impression that she is crying.   She may be five or six feet long and from fin tip to fin tip may be eight feet wide.  Last night we had the privilege of assisting in the first attempt ever made by this this team to weigh a leatherback.  They erected a large tripod over her and passed two straps beneath her through tunnels they had dug in the sand.  The straps were attached to a scale suspended on a series of pulleys.  Then with people steadying the tripod we hoisted her into the air, her back fins still instinctively pushing invisible sand onto her nest.  The scale read 700 lbs.

Digging tunnel for strap

One strap in place.

            Seven hundred pounds is a pretty good sized turtle, but the team leaders talked of another turtle, “Snaggle Tooth” which also nested on this beach.  Snaggle Tooth, they said, was as big as they come and much larger than this female.  Suddenly, from the point- THREE FLASHES!  Another turtle had come ashore.  Immediately, Susan (the researcher with our group) and an Earthwatch volunteer headed down the beach to begin collecting data on the new turtle.  We continued to tag this female, one tag in a front fin and another in the rear fin.  This particular turtle had come ashore the night before but had turned back before laying any eggs or before they could tag her.  It was at this point that the radio crackled, “Earth-base ‘S’ to earth-base ‘B,’ we have the giant one down here.  She’s body molding right now so you’ll have time to make it down here and get a weight on her.”  What luck!  Other people had been out all week and did well to see one turtle (usually after 3 AM.)  Here it was only 9:30 and we had two turtles on the beach.  Not only that, but one of them was Snaggle Tooth herself.  The excitement started to mount, and we almost ran down the beach afraid in some way that we might miss this “legend.”  Not even the light rain which had started could dampen our spirits.

            She, too, was at the vegetation line, nosed up to a small tree.  At first she didn’t look much bigger than the female we had just left, but as we got closer the difference became obvious.  She was at least a foot longer and overall had a much larger build.  Her head was at least a foot in width.  Her nickname was well deserved since some early encounter had left her with half a lower jaw and a twisted, scarred face.  She would look up to breath and flash what looked like a crooked but endearing grin.  It can certainly be said that this grand old lady had character. 

A good shot of Snaggle Tooth's missing jaw.

            Although she was near the vegetation, her nest was near the water and in an area that would be prone to erosion, so the decision was made to relocate the nest.  This is where the measurement of nest depth becomes important.  Like many other reptiles the sex of the egg is determined by the temperature of its environment.  Since temperature varies with depth, it is essential that the eggs be placed at the same depth as that from which they were removed.  So as soon as she would lay some eggs, they would be snatched from the nest by an Earthwatch volunteer and placed in a mesh bag.  They would have two hours to select a new nest site and bury the eggs.  Then in 60 days the eggs will hatch, and hundreds of little babies only four inches long will push their way to the surface (again under the cover of darkness) where they will congregate until the entire clutch has emerged.  Then, oriented by the light of the ocean, they will clumsily make their way through a gauntlet of predators to the water.  Some will be killed by ghost crabs.  Others will fall victim to birds or dogs.  Still others will be trapped in tire tracks or hoof prints in the sand.  Those which do reach the water are met by hundreds of hungry fish.  It is easy to see how that for every one hundred eggs that hatch, only one hatchling will survive.

Bob with  a handful of eggs.

            Her laying complete, the moment of truth arrived.  We were about to weigh perhaps the largest leatherback to nest on this beach.  It would take everyone there to steady the tripod and hoist this massive animal into the air.  All the men took hold of the line and HEAVED!  Slowly, she began to rise from the sand.  HEAVE!  The tripod began to lean to one side.  HEAVE!  Even with the system of pulleys designed to lighten the strain, you could feel the immense weight on the rope.  HEAVE!  The tripod leaned even more, but her body finally cleared the sand.  Bob (the other researcher) read the scale and announced that she weighed 504 kg.  She was 1100 pounds and perhaps even more since her rear flippers may still have been on the ground.  Half a ton of turtle hung there in the rain, thick tears streaming from both eyes, that jawless grin flashing with each breath, and an odd assortment of people surrounding her, stroking her, measuring her, and photographing her.  And somewhere in the depths of the ocean swam her mate who is twice her size.  The only contact he’ll ever have with land was that perilous dash he made for the ocean following his emergence from the sand years ago.  Maybe he was born on this very beach or perhaps he came from Mexico or Africa.  No one knows much about the males since their life is spent in the deep ocean somewhere between the nesting site and Nova Scotia, which is where these females will soon be returning.

Author shining light on Snaggle Tooth's pink spot while Susan places numbered marker for photo.

            Snaggle Tooth was slowly eased back down to the beach where she continued her nesting ritual by filling in what was now an empty nest.  Despite our intrusion into her activities, she would return in 10 nights to repeat the process.  She may return as many as 10 times and then disappear for two years, when a new group of people will be lucky enough to witness this miraculous event.  I’m sure they too will long remember that jawless grin of this gentle giant.

            And we will also remember the dedication of this group of people who gave up so much to study and protect these animals.  Picture in your mind an 1100 lb. turtle slowly digging a nest on a dark beach.  It is raining, yet around this animal lies a dozen individuals on their stomachs peering into the ever deepening hole.  Few words are spoken, we are hypnotized by the sheer fortune of being a part of such a rare event with so special an animal.  It is an experience everyone should have in his/her life but so few ever will.

My sister, Dianna giving Snaggle Tooth a good bye stroke.

That was my letter home.  What I didn’t mention was how I slipped away from the group while they were working with Snaggle Tooth so I could go back down the beach for some alone time with the first turtle.  I sat in the sand and watched her rock her body to cover the nest and watched her build false nest mounds to disguise the real thing.  There was a second chance a week or so later for Dianna and me to follow the team, although this time we were accompanied by a photographer for National Geographic.  Not a single turtle showed up that night.  Recently reviewing Bob and Susan’s data from that summer, only 30 turtles nested on Sandy Point in 1987, and we were lucky enough to see two of them.  I am forever grateful to my sister for arranging this wonderful evening and for the Earthwatch team for letting us tag along.  How I would love to return and do this all over again.

I apologize for the quality of these photos.  My film was damaged in the camera (perhaps sand or salt got into it.)

Peonies

Tucked away in a small box on the top shelf of my father’s closet is an old 8 mm film.  It is a chronicle of our family during the years of 1965 and 1966.  One scene in particular has always brought me a chuckle.  In this brief snippet I am seen as a three or four year old boy walking through my backyard on a sunny May day.  Then as now, the yard was lined by peony bushes in full flower.  I stroll along looking at the bushes and eventually stop to smell one of the blooms.  Although there is no sound, my father who is holding the camera asks me to pick one of the blossoms for my mother, so I try to oblige him.  I take the peony bloom in my hand and give a gentle tug, but nothing happens.  Undaunted, I decide to give it a little more effort, but unfortunately the result is the same.  As the smile slowly fades from my face, I shift tactics and grab the bloom with both hands, lifting and pulling with all my might.  Nothing! I start stamping my feet, and as I turn to the camera I am clearly frustrated.  My face is red and there is a trace of tears welling up in my eyes.  Even then my pride reared its ugly head and you can see my determination grow as I try to accomplish the job and regain my dignity.  To show that I am up to the task, I put one hand behind my back, confident that this time I had the strength to win the battle.  I take hold of the bloom and charge away from the bush, but the stem does not yield and I am quickly snapped back.  Repeatedly, I lunge and lunge, and repeatedly the peony holds fast.  Finally out of sympathy, my father stops filming.  

One of the ever present ants exploring a bud.

That was about 45 years ago and so much in my life has changed, but one thing that hasn’t changed is that fencerow of bushes.  One of the many wonderful qualities about peonies is their long life, and these plants, at nearly half a century of age, are a testament to that fact.  They are as full and their heady fragrance still perfumes the air in April just as it did all those many years ago.  It is a scent I can still appreciate, but now that my sense of smell has greatly diminished, I can no longer appreciate the aroma of the foliage itself.  I became acquainted with it as a boy searching for the occasional errant baseball that had disappeared into their dark recesses.  With only a general idea of where the ball had disappeared, I would move bush by bush, separating the stems and searching their bases for the ball.  Two things would become obvious - the air was always cool and moist below these bushes, and there was a very distinct smell to the leaves.  In my memory the smell is still quite strong, but in actuality my nose can no longer register it.

For many years the peonies became part of a family tradition.   Each May my mother would sell bouquets of their blooms for those who wanted to decorate graves.  Although Decoration Day (now Memorial Day) was originally recognized as a day to honor fallen veterans, it has evolved into a day to remember all loved ones who have passed on.  Peonies were a very popular flower to leave at grave sites in those days, although the tradition has seemed to fade over the years.  But in those days, when May rolled around, Mom would make signs to place in the local grocery stores advertising our flowers.  I was given the job of taking a sign and nailing it to a telephone pole along 16^th Street, the busy avenue that ran a block from our house.  Then we would wait for the people to come.  The total was never large, but each year a respectable number would knock on our door and ask for some flowers.  Mom would grab her scissors and lead them out back to pick out their bouquet.  Our bushes were pink and white with a couple of cherished red ones that bloomed a deep mahogany.  These were Mom’s favorites, and I think she tried steering people away from them, but I’m sure if they asked, she snipped them a few red blooms, too.

Our peony selling days eventually came to an end for a couple of reasons.  Perhaps the greatest reason was that we started spending all of our weekends, when the “flower business” was at its peak, at our trailer at Raccoon Lake.  Weekends were the prime time for visiting cemeteries and people were looking for fresh blooms.  Another reason was that our bushes tended to bloom late, and it seemed that over time their bloom period finally became too late for Memorial Day.   That opened the door wider for our biggest competitor, the Huebners who lived behind us.  The Huebners held a couple of big advantages over us.  First, their peonies were an earlier blooming variety, so they had a good supply ready when the holiday rolled around.  Secondly, they lived on 16^th Street itself, so they had lots of traffic.  Our house sat on a dead end, so unless you lived on our street, you never passed our house.  I’m sure our ads at the store and my sign on the telephone pole probably brought them a little extra business.  While trying to find our house, the customer would invariably drive past their house with its own “Poenies for Sale” sign posted out front and turn in.  But I don’t hold that against them.  They were a wonderful family and had as much right to sell their flowers as we did.  In fact, one of those weekends when we were “playing” at the lake, Mrs. Huebner sold some of our flowers.  We did not know this until we returned home Sunday evening, and she came strolling from her backyard through ours.  She knocked on the door and presented my mother with money, explaining in her thick German accent, “While you were gone it rained, and all your peonies looked so sad beaten to the ground.  I shook the water off, but they would not stand up.  I did not want to see them lying on the ground, so I clipped some and sold them.”  We would have never noticed the missing blooms, but the Huebners were an honest couple. 

They say peonies are one of those generational plants that gets passed from family to family through the years.  Such is the case with my family’s plants.  I have owned two homes in my life, and at each one I have planted peonies from my parents’ backyard.  My sister has even presented me with starts from the Huebner’s yard, which to me is just as meaningful.   

This year the peonies will again serve their original purpose for our family.  In a week or two, we will gather a bundle of the pink, white and burgundy blooms, and we will take them to the cemetery.  There they will be placed in a vase at my mother’s grave.  It will be our first Memorial Day without her, but I know she will be happy seeing her peonies once again.

My mother, very much loved and very much missed.

Treasure Chest

I grew up in a much simpler time.  There were no computers, no videos or video games to distract us.  Televisions were mainly black and white and got three or four channels, at best.  For my generation, you spent your free time outdoors, and your best friend was your imagination.  And I will admit, my imagination in those days was very well developed. That is not to say that we didn’t have toys with which to play, we just didn’t have the great bulk of “things” that kids seem to accumulate these days.  I’ve already written about my favorite accoutrement to play, my swing set.  But the swing was not the sole attraction of my backyard.

First and foremost, given that I am from the great state of Indiana where basketball has always reigned supreme, there was the basketball goal.  Early on after my parents moved into the house in which I was to grow up, my dad hauled in an old telephone pole and sunk it in the ground in the back corner of the yard.  He then fashioned a wooden backboard and hung a rim.  There was no official court, just lawn and hard packed dirt.  The free-throw line was where the grass was most worn away.  I tried and tried to become a proficient basketball player, but somehow that skill (as did most athletic skills) eluded me.  However, it did not prevent many fun games of horse or 21.  In later years as various trees were planted and grew large, new twists were added.  We started trying to make baskets by throwing the ball over the apple tree.  Or there were three point contests from the edge of the garden.   A few years ago, after nearly four decades of standing vigil in the back yard, the goal which had seen the family grow up and move away finally gave way to age and the elements.  You wouldn’t think there would be much emotion with such a thing, but it was like clipping the umbilical cord to my youth, and it also marked the point in my father’s life where he admitted he was getting too old to play basketball any more.  I am proud to say, he stuck it out into his 80’s, however.  There is a brief aside to this story.  When the goal finally came down a few years ago, you could have found a particular knothole a few feet up from its base that was filled with some light colored material.  It was my chewing gum that I had stuck in there in 1976 and into which I had pressed the number “76” into with my fingernail.  That was the country’s bicentennial year, and wanting to mark its passage and looking for a way to deposit my worn-out gum, that was my solution.  I never dreamed it would remain for almost 30 more years.

For a brief period, a tether ball pole was added.  I can remember only a few games, more with my sister and her friends than myself, but the tether ball pole held a different fascination for me.  At some point the ball snapped off the rope, and rather than replace it, the pole was left as is, with just a fragment of rope hanging from it.  This is the period I most enjoyed because it gave me something other than my swing set on which to climb.  I enjoyed shimmying up the thin, metal pole to reach the top. It might have served as the mast of an imaginary ship, or perhaps it was the palm tree I would climb to look for signs of civilization once I had shipwrecked.  Or it was simply a test of my strength and ability, but regardless the purpose, the pole was still fun to climb.

I've used this photo before, but it is the only one I know which shows the old tire sandbox.

I can also remember all the time I spent playing in our sandbox.  It was made from an old tractor tire that my father had re-purposed for his then growing family.  It was very large and could easily seat a few children around its perimeter.  It is so early in my life, that much of its memory is lost to me.  I can vaguely recall going with my father to buy sand for it.  We did not go to a store, but rather to something more like a strip pit, I believe.  I don’t recall how we got the sand home, but I do remember the trip to get it.  I recall a few little toy figures that “lived” in the sandbox.  They would be buried in the sand and finding one was always like digging up buried treasure.  Not being fine beach sand, it had a way of forming hard clumps that I would break up with my hands.  These often formed in the deeper recesses of the tire itself, which is also where the buried toys most often lurked.  My neighbor and I made many mud pies and sand cakes with sand and a little water, but it was my goal to create a formula to turn it into concrete.  I don’t recall what I would add to the sand and water, but I was always confident I would succeed.  As much fun as playing in the sand was running around the tire’s perimeter.  I seem to remember having wrestling matches where the goal was to shove your opponents off the tire while remaining standing to become “king of the hill.”  When we had all outgrown the sandbox, Dad cleared it out and took the tire to a friend.  That is when I learned something I had never noticed in all the years we played in it.  My father had carved his and my mother’s initials into the hard rubber sides when they had first gotten the tire. 

Me wielding my small Indianapolis Indians bat

One of my favorite areas, yet the most dreaded, was our toy chest that sat under the old elm tree.  It was quite large and constructed of wood and thin strips of metal, with a curved lid and a latch which gave it the appearance of the classic treasure chest from every pirate story I had ever read or watched on television.  And that is what seemed so magical about it.  For me, it was a true treasure chest, and I think I always half-expected to open its lid to reveal piles of gold coins and jewelry.  What was revealed when the lid was opened was what I least liked about that chest. It made the perfect home for dozens of spiders.  When we would go to retrieve something from its dark interior, the lid would be lifted and spiders would scatter, their webs and egg baskets would clinging to its underside.  You would make a quick survey of the contents, then reach in and grab your toy as fast as you could before running away from the trunk and allowing the lid to fall closed with a loud “thunk.” 

Ours were blue and red.

Inside was the sports equipment and outdoor toys with which we played.  There was an ancient football actually constructed from pigskin, with a smooth suede feel to it.  And there was our basketball which eventually went over the back fence into the pen with Gigi, the German shepherd who lived behind us.  Gigi was large and loud and scared us all.  She lived in a garage but had a short, enclosed metal run from her doggy door to the outside.  The passage out was at a right angle, so you could never see in the door to know if she was headed out or not.  When the ball bounced into her pen, you had to steady your nerves, make a quick leap over the fence, run to the ball, fling it back into the yard then quickly dash back to the fence before she emerged barking and charging.  It was very frightening to me, so when I was alone and the ball bounced into her pen, I was usually too scared to retrieve it.  This happened on one occasion, and I just left the ball there and went inside.  I finally told my brother, and we were able to retrieve it a few days later, but not before Gigi had ripped the entire covering from the ball.  It was still inflated, but it was just a soft rubber ball after that.  Tossed in with these was our scoop ball set, a pair of curved plastic handles and a whiffle ball that served as a tame Midwestern version of jai alai.  You could throw a wicked curve ball with that set, but I frequently used the handles as my peg leg when pretending to be a pirate.  There were assorted other baseballs and softballs and a collection of bats which had been relocated here from my father’s old army bag in which he used to transport them to the little league games he helped coach.  And finally, there were my brother’s old metal Tonka toys including a dump truck, a road grader, a flatbed trailer and an old Jewel Tea Company truck.  You could always pull something fun from that old chest.

Although not ours, this is how the Jewel Tea truck looked until I painted it.

My brother's Tonka road grader

The old Tonka truck hooked up to the flatbed trailer.

The remainder of my entertainment sprang from what grew naturally.  There were trees to climb.  I had a small tree house in the old apple tree next to the basketball goal, but I loved climbing the large silver maple even more.  There I would spread myself on a wide branch and try napping or sit and read a book. For fun one afternoon, I took a volume of our Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia into the big maple and memorized the first half of the Gettysburg address. Iris leaves made wonderful swords, and we waged many a sword fight.  Bugs were plentiful so we caught large grasshoppers, praying mantis, bumble bees and lightening bugs.  We didn’t have to watch nature programs, we learned it firsthand.

Everything put together could not have cost much and most were hand-me-downs, but to me I was the richest kid in the world.  I do not recall wanting for anything.  I only wish my own children could appreciate such simple things.  My wife and I are guilty for that, I guess.  We have always given our children too much, and we encouraged technology at an early age.  We never kicked them out the back door and told them to entertain themselves.  Although they both showed those early bursts of creative imagination, I felt the seed never was allowed to hit fertile soil and take root as it should.  Maybe when I become a grandparent in a few years, I will rectify my errors.  I vow now to get them outdoors, to walk in the woods, to have stick races on the creek and to sit back and see what they can accomplish with a few simple toys and their imagination.  I think that is one of the greater gifts I could provide.  After all, sometimes a greater treasure than gold and jewels can be found in al old pirate chest.