"I don't know," I said. "We really don't have a lot of time." I lied. We had all the time in the world but there was no point in telling my kids that. Parents end up losing any advantage they have over their children if they start telling them the truth about how things in the world really work. I kept our abundance of time to myself.
"Just for a second. Please!" he said. Then I knew I couldn't resist my children. They both leaned forward and gave me that look, that look that melts parents' hearts. You know that look, right? If you don't, then you will--one day.
"Fine," I said.
"Yeah!" they said, bouncing and squirming and jiggling around in the back seat, cheering and laughing. It was an unexpected victory for them and they were reveling in it. I reluctantly let them have the victory if it meant I wouldn't have to drive by the Crazy House again in the future. That was a card I'd hold close for later. I turned right on Mallard Duck Drive--the street our old house resided on--and slowly drove until we stopped in front of it.
"There it is!" they said, unbuckling their seat belts and smashing their faces against the window to look. "It looks so different!"
In reality, it looked practically the same as the day I sold it. The lawn was lush and green. The oak tree's canopy was full and leafy. The color of the siding was the same. The shrubs around the covered, front porch were all the same except for one, new addition: a Knock Out rose bush. Its blooms were of such a brightly oversaturated red that they appeared to be exploding in the air. The kids must have been focusing on the rose bush and nothing else about the house. But why would they focus on anything else? I was the one that took care of the front of the house. I was familiar with every inch of that yard and the exterior of the house.
"Nah, it looks the same," I said, dismissing their observation. "Only the rose bush is new."
"Nuh-uh," Jessie said, defiantly. "It looks totally different. I said so!"
"Right, if you say so."
"Can we get out and look, Daddy?" Sammie said. "It's been forever since we stopped by."
"No, son, we cannot. It's not our house anymore. I don't want to annoy the new owners."
"How would we annoy them?" he said, confused. "We are a nice family."
"I know we are. But when someone buys a house from someone else, they usually don't want to have anything to do with the previous owners."
"That's weird," he said, sitting back down in his seat. "Remember how the ducks used to walk over to our yard and the mama ducks would lay eggs in the bushes?"
"I sure do," I said as I slowly pulled away from the house. Sammie's question was my way out of this dilemma. "Then we'd have cute ducklings in our yard after about four weeks."
"They were so cute!" Jessie said, oblivious to my driving. My scheme had worked. "Baby ducks are cuter than anything. Cuter than kittens, cuter than puppies, and cuter than babies!"
"Cuter than baby pandas?" Sammie said.
"Even cuter than baby pandas."
As Sammie and Jessie debated the cuteness of various baby animals, I drove away from the Crazy House and down the street to the cul-de-sac where the trailhead for the jogging trail around the lake was. I parked the car and unlocked the doors. The kids spilled out the side of the car, still debating about ducklings versus any other baby animal known to man. I walked on the trailhead and the kids followed, eventually seeing their surroundings and where we were. They stopped debating and started walking behind me--silently--taking in the beauty of the pond and the surrounding trees. There was some debate amongst the residents of Wells Port if the lake or pond was really a lake or pond, considering it was called both. I guess if you wanted to get technical about it, it was really a small lake or a large pond. Either way, it was a serene place inhabited by a variety of ducks, geese, cranes and squirrels, even turtles and toads and snakes. Surrounding the lake was a trail for walking, jogging, or biking, always occupied by exercise buffs. There was a pier for fishing and another smaller pier for launching small, non-motorized boats but you rarely saw anyone brave enough to careen around the brown, murky waters in a small dingy or whatever. You'd have to be a real nut to want to float around that murky lake, teeming with swimming snakes and snapping turtles and weird fish. One of those creatures was sure to chomp your balls off if you fell in that yucky water. That's for sure. Surrounding all of this was a combination of oak trees, ash trees, cedar trees, and other indigenous trees I wasn't so familiar with.
The kids followed me for a short ways on the trail at a leisurely pace but once Sammie spotted a turtle sunbathing on a partly submerged tree branch, they tore through the grass separating the trail from the pond at break-neck speed, Sammie in front and little Jessie not far behind him, her arms swinging frantically so she could catch up to him. Nothing got good ol' Sammie Boy more excited and bent out of shape than a sunbathing turtle. He just couldn't resist the goddamn things. It's true.
He knelt in the mud, inches from the brown water that lapped at the muddy shore, and grabbed a two-foot long, somewhat straight stick. He extended the stick in the direction of the turtle, tapping its tip on the surface of the lake, sending tiny ripples toward the turtle in hopes of getting its attention. But the turtle was unperturbed, looking up at the sky. It didn't seem to care one lick that Sammie wanted to touch it or hold it or pet it or whatever his little heart desired to do with the ugly-looking amphibious creature. In fact, the turtle acted like Sammie didn't exist at all, which was far worse to my boy than simply ignoring him. Jessie stood behind him the whole time, impatiently wiggling her leg and tapping her foot. She wanted the turtle to look their way as much as Sammie did.
"Daddy! Daddy! It won't look at me!" Sammie said, tapping the water a little more aggressively with the end of the stick.
"It must be busy."
"Busy? Doing what?!" he said, looking at me, puzzled. "It's not doing anything. It's just sitting there."
"To you, it may look like it's not doing anything but that doesn't mean it's not doing something."
"What could it be doing?" Jessie said, placing her hands on her hips and tilting her head slightly--quizzically. "Thinking about a girl turtle?"
"Could be," I said, chuckling. "It totally could be thinking about a turtle girl. Or maybe some turtle philosophy."
"Fill-os-oh what?" Sammie said, annoyed. He stood up, tossing his stick in the grass, and approached me with his hands on his hips just like Jessie. They both gazed up at me, confused, hands resting on their sides. I guess they didn't know what philosophy was or that it was something for a turtle to contemplate. Why would they know that? They were just little kids. All little kids care about is eating, sleeping, watching TV, and playing with their toys. Their place in the universe was none of their own concern. "Turtles don't think about stuff, Daddy. They just eat bugs and stick their heads and legs in their shell when you pick them up and stick their faces up at the sun to get a turtle tan."
"A turtle tan? That's good. I like the sound of that."
"How can I get it to come over here?" he said, running back to the muddy shore, looking at me then looking at the turtle. I could tell he really wanted the turtle to come over to him. What he would do once it did come over to him was a mystery to me though. "I'd do anything!"
"Anything?" Jessie said slyly. "Would you give me all of your money?"
"Yes!" he said.
"How about all of your toys?" she said.
"YES!"
"How about all of your comic books?"
"Ye--" he said, then biting his lip, forcing the pronunciation of that affirmation to cease immediately. "What?!"
"Would you give me all of your comic books if I got the turtle to come over?" she said, her hands on her waist and her right foot furiously tapping. She seemed pretty sure she could get that stuck-up turtle to come over to her. "Because if I can get it to come over then I want all of your comic books."
I was surprised at first at the level of wickedness in her tone when she asked good ol' Sammie Boy that question but then I remembered t
hat she was her mother's daughter. As much as I hated to admit it, there was some of that woman's DNA in my daughter. Sometimes, there was a little more of that DNA there in her than I'd like to admit. Talk about a sore subject for me. It's true.
"Well," he said, standing up. "As much as I love my comic books, I would give them to you if you could. But you can't!"
"Can to!" she said, defiantly.
"Cannot!"
"Can!"
"Can't!"
"Just you watch me!" she said, storming away from her big brother and looking for something on the ground. I didn't know what she was looking for but she was adamant to find whatever it was that was going to snap the turtle out of its stubborn trance and swim over to them. She approached a thicket of shrubs and bushes, walking around it and peering inside, seeing something. She took a step back, then two steps back, winding up her arms, then she leapt in the thicket, leaves flying everywhere. It was a daring move, one that I surely would not have taken. I mean, who knew what was living inside that thicket? Rabid dogs? Feral cats? Angry birds? She was about to find out. But that little Jessie, she wasn't scared of anything. Bigfoot could be crouched in there and she would dive in anyway. It's true. The bushes and shrubs rustled as she moved around inside. Then after a minute of rummaging, she jumped out of the thicket--her hair tussled, leaves stuck to her shirt, scrapes on her face and arms--holding a wooden, folding ruler, the kind made of a light-colored wood with metal hinges (probably steel or brass or whatever). It was one of those kind of old-school rulers that my grandfather would have had in his tool box or something like that. It was dingy and covered in dried mud. She held it high above her head as if threatening the gods above with it. "I found what I need to get the turtle to come over!"
She ran back to the lake shore and knelt down. She unfolded the ruler and straightened a few lengths of it, probably getting it to about three feet of its six feet or so of length. She extended it toward the turtle who, for a few seconds more, sat motionless. Frustrated, she brought the ruler back in and extended two more sections, getting it to about four feet in length. She slowly extended the ruler and tapped the water. Miraculously, the turtle moved its head, turning its nose towards us. It blinked two or three times then, without hesitation, slid into the water and swam toward us like a miniature motorboat. Little Jessie tossed the ruler at her brother and cheered, then covered her mouth to muffle her excited yelps. Good ol' Sammie Boy stood there--slack-jawed and wide-eyed--in utter disbelief. He couldn't believe his bratty little sister had the magic touch when it came to turtles. I couldn't believe it either, quite frankly. Who knows how to do this stuff anyway? I surely didn't. I wouldn't have bet money on it, I tell you.
"I can't believe it," Sammie said, placing both of his hands on the sides of his surprised face, like one of the characters from a Little Rascals short film, witnessing something amazing. "How did you do that?"
"I told you I could get the turtle to come over. You owe me ALL of your comic books, big brother!"
"That's fine," he said, stepping to the shore and kneeling down. The turtle swam up to the shore then stopped. It turned its head and stared at good ol' Sammie Boy with its black turtle eye. It sat there, motionless, like a statue. "Daddy, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, son," I said.
"Can I pick it up?"
"Sure."
Sammie slowly reached for the turtle. He placed his fingers over the top of the shell and his thumb underneath it, slowly raising the turtle off the ground and towards his face. As the turtle got closer to his face, at first it moved its legs as if it was trying to run then it slowly retracted its legs and head into its shell, for safety. Once at a very close vantage point to examine, all of its extremities were tightly pulled in under folds of wrinkly, scaly skin. As Sammie turned the shell where its head used to be, all he could see was the tip of the turtle's beak and part of one eye.
"He's looking at me!" he said, giggling and wheezing at the silly sight of the turtle's one partially revealed eye. "Look!" he said, extending the turtle toward his sister. She too looked at his protected turtle face, giggling as well.
"It looks funny!" she said, covering her mouth to hold in the loud laughter waiting to be released. She didn't want to frighten the reptilian thing, I could tell. She may act tough as nails but she's really soft and gooey on the inside. I promise. "Look, Daddy!"
Good ol' Sammie Boy extended the turtle to me to examine it and I looked at its wrinkly, scaly skin covering most of its wrinkly, scaly, turtle face stuffed inside that crusty, dirty shell. It was cute, for sure, but something inside me told me that I should tell my boy to let it go free. As cute as we thought it was, the turtle was probably scared shitless. I mean, we were four giants compared to its small size, picking it up off the ground and pulling it close to our faces where, I'm certain, it probably feared we would try to eat it or rip its extremities off or something like that. Now, I've had fried alligator before but I would never try to eat a goddamn turtle. That would be disgusting.
"You should put it down, son. It's probably scared of us."
"Why would it be scared, Daddy? We're a nice family."
"I know that but the turtle doesn't know that. It probably thinks you are going to eat it."
"Ooo, gross!" he said, falling to his knees and releasing the turtle into the water. Its legs and head immediately popped out of its shell, flapping and waving to and fro. It disappeared under the brown water in seconds like a scaly submarine. "I would never eat a turtle. That's so gross!"
Jessie laughed a hearty laugh now that the turtle was gone and she couldn't scare it anymore. She grabbed her stomach, trying to contain herself. "I bet if you tried to eat it, that it would pee in your mouth!"
"That's disgusting! Why would you say that?!" Sammie said.
"'Cause it's true!"
"Is not!"
"Is to!"
I placed my arms around their shoulders and reeled them into my sides--hugging them tightly. "Let's go sit on our favorite bench under the tree before you two start pounding each other. It's too nice a day for fighting. OK?"
"OK," they both said.
Good ol' Sammie Boy folded up the ruler and slid the thing in his pocket. His sister sprinted across the grass toward the walking trail. As she ran, she said, "Catch me if you can, big brother!"
"I don't want to," Sammie said. We watched his sister run away, her body shrinking as she fled down the trail of crushed, red granite, past runners and walkers and bike riders and dog walkers and baby stroller pushers. She was running like a man-eating beast was chasing her.
"Where do you think she's running off to?" I said, looking at Sammie.
"Who knows?" he said, not caring. We walked across the grass together to the trail--my arm draped across his shoulders, his arm clinging to my waist--then stepped on the crushed granite that was the foundation of the trail. Our feet crunched and crunched as we walked. "Daddy, can I ask you another question?"
"Yes, of course, son," I said, watching the speck of his sister running around the perimeter of the lake, well beyond calling distance. "What's on your mind?"
"Do you ever have dreams?"
"Dreams? You mean, like when I'm asleep?"
"Yeah. You know? Dreams."
"Sure, I do. Sometimes. Not all the time. Every once and a while, I'll remember a dream that I had. Why?"
"Did you know I have dreams all the time?"
"Really?" I said, pulling him closer. His sister was out of sight--gone--somewhere passed a group of trees on the other side of the lake. I wasn't too worried, though. The walking trail circled the entire lake. Eventually, she would be right behind us unless she passed out or something. You never know with kids. Sometimes, they are an endless ball of energy. And other times, they run out of energy and unexpectedly drop like a sack of potatoes. It's weird. Good ol' Sammie Boy was worrying me, though. Something was off about him. I wasn't sure what but I could tell. "Are they the same dreams? Or different?"
"Bot
h. Sometimes they are the same. And sometimes they are very different. I'm always in them, though. I'm always in them like I'm in a movie or something."
"Really? And how does that make you feel?"
"Strange."
"I bet," I said, patting his shoulder. "Let's go sit on our favorite bench so you can tell me all about these dreams."
"OK."
We walked together around the first turn of the walking trail then off into the grass toward a tall pecan tree, about twenty feet from the trail. Underneath the majestic nut tree was a wrought iron bench--painted dark green with designs of vines and leaves in the metal--with wood slats in the seat. The tall tree generously shaded the bench as well as generously dropped pecans on and around the bench. There were so many nuts on the grass that it appeared the bench stood on a brown, woven rug. Pecans crunched under our feet as we approached the bench. We sat on the bench, sliding off leaves and pecans so we could get comfortable.
"Tell me more about your dreams," I said, crossing one of my legs over the other, interlacing my fingers around my knee.
"Well, my dreams are always about me. Me and my friend Budgie!" he said, his face lighting up.
"Budgie? Who is Budgie?"
"Budgie is my friend in my dreams. He's a budgerigar. You know what a budgerigar is, right?"
"Yes," I said, remembering he had told me quite a few times recently what a budgerigar was. I wasn't about to admit that I forgot who or what a budgie was. Maybe I was getting old or something. But I didn't tell Sammie that. Why would I tell Sammie that? I'm not a fool.
"He's my friend who is a parakeet. We explore together."
"Explore? Where are you in your dreams?"
"I don't know. It's kind of like a desert. Sometimes, there are mountains but mostly there isn't much. We did find a cave and that's where we stay most of the time," he said, interlacing his fingers then resting his hands on his lap. He kicked his legs back and forth as he talked, a nervous kid habit.
"Why do you stay in the cave most of the time?" I said, curious.
Sammie & Budgie Page 15