Helping Daddy

It was a sunny afternoon in May, and my dad and I were gathering the remains of winter – fine, pale grass, bits of twigs, and withered papery leaves that would be burned, without ceremony, in our small backyard. I was five years old and happy to be working alongside my dad who took pride in keeping our property neat and tidy.

It seemed safe to burn such a small amount of debris, so my dad lit a match and let it fall to the ground. Together, we watched closely as the fire meandered through the grass and leaves. Maybe the robins were watching too, as their precious nest building materials were in peril.

I eagerly gathered more leaves to add to the flickering orange pile. It was exciting to see the edges of the leaves curl and crinkle before disappearing entirely. A crow that was perched in our maple tree began to caw repeatedly. Perhaps he was mocking us or sending a warning signal to alert us of the danger that was imminent.

My dad and I had no way of knowing that during the winter some oil had leaked onto the ground from the rusty barrel that sat on top of a narrow storage shed next to our house. Suddenly, the fire grew in size and quickly traveled to the shed. My dad leapt into action. He pushed the oil drum off the shed, and away from the flames that would soon reach the back wall of the house.

I ran inside to get some water to throw on the fire, and found that my mom was bathing my three month-old sister in a little pink bathtub on the kitchen table. She gently lifted her out of the bubbles and wrapped her in a cozy towel. Their tranquil moment was broken by my urgent request. “Mommy, I need some water for the fire,” I said.

My mom was oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. “Okay, honey,” she said as she handed me a small ice cream container filled with water. I briefly imagined myself courageously dousing the fire, and was headed for the door when my dad rushed into the house, shouting, “Call the fire department! The house is on fire!” Then he flew out the door with the plastic bathtub of soapy water in hand. I can only guess that the fire hissed and crackled as my dad threw the little tub into the flames that quickly devoured it like soft pink marshmallows.

My mom took me, and my sister to the safety of our neighbor’s house, across the street, where we all stood together like innocent bystanders, watching and hoping for a happy ending. The firefighters quickly extinguished the fire, and then proceeded to lecture my dad about “Burning on Sunday” and “Burning without a permit.” My dad expressed his gratitude to the firemen (who decided not to press charges), and then he took my mom out for a relaxing dinner because it was, after all, Mother’s Day.

Memories of Fourteen (a tanka)

Infatuation

Slow dancing, but not too close

Playing truth or dare

Adolescent adventure

Slumber parties and secrets

To the Editor-in-Chief

Dear Mr. Jannot, Editor-in-Chief,

The January issue of Popular Science appeared in my school mailbox the other day. Apparently none of the other elementary school teachers wanted it, so I happily took the magazine home to my spouse and my 13 year-old son, who are both scientifically minded.

My husband read the issue from cover to cover, and I suspect that he now secretly yearns to drive 124 mph in a red, electric Audi E-Tron like the one that was featured in one of the articles. My son was fascinated by the information on the making of Avatar – we recently saw the movie together and were awestruck by the virtual world of the Na’vi.

I had never read a Pop. Sci. magazine before, so I was curious about the contents. I discovered colonies of robotic bees that are being developed to assist the dwindling bee population with pollination; military veterans who play musical instruments to lessen the impact of traumatic brain injuries; grade six students who learn “almost entirely through video game-inspired activities” at the Quest to Learn school in Manhattan, and companies that guarantee “penis enlargement up to 5 inches and 50% gain in width…”

Honestly, this last bit of info surprised me, like finding a hair in my tiramisu at a topnotch restaurant. I won’t be returning there despite the delicious entrée. It’s unfortunate that Popular Science provides classified ad space to rinky dink companies that claim to increase penis size. What’s next - x-ray glasses and blow-up dolls? (That question is for the frat boys responsible for classified advertising sales.)

The Popular Science team should consider the younger audience of readers that includes students in upper elementary and Jr. High school. You should take pride in creating a dynamic and interesting magazine for individuals who take the time to read it because they want to be enlightened, rather than enlarged.

The Lady of the House is Not In

I was washing the dishes from last night's dinner and was very focused on scrubbing every last speck of egg from the frying pan when the doorbell rang.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw two women standing at my back door. They had serious expressions; tightly curled grey hair, and were clutching leaflets. I had met women like these before - they traveled in pairs and they preyed on people who were home during the day.

My fight or flight instincts took over… I immediately crouched down out of view from both the kitchen window and the back door window. But what if these women had already seen me when I had been washing dishes?

The doorbell rang again. I made myself as small as I could and hoped that they would leave soon, as my knees were getting sore. I thought about answering the door, but then reconsidered as my appearance was approaching that of a hobo - I was wearing sweat pants and an old fleece jacket; my uncombed hair had taken on a life of its own, and I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. If I opened the door now, they might think I looked the way I did because I had been out drinking the night before. Then they would really want to "save" me, and before I knew it, I would find myself in a heated debate about religion and God with two complete strangers.

No, I would definitely not answer the door to save my soul. I continued to remain in the uncomfortable squatting, human ball position, all the while listening for any sound at the back door. Maybe they had given up and they were retreating to a large, dark, North American made vehicle that resembled an undercover police car.

There was silence, except for the hum of the fridge and the purring of my cat who thought that I was crouching down so that I could be closer to her. She is the ideal companion - easy going and never judgmental, but at this moment, I secretly wished that I had a large, snarling dog named Cujo who would jump and bark crazily as soon as he heard the doorbell ring.

It was over. The women had finally left and I will never know if they saw me or not. My only worry is that they might come back tomorrow.