Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

Ah, yes, spring. When the little kids dress appropriately for Easter egg hunts by bundling up in their parkas, mittens, and snow boots. When the optimistic lilacs that felt the 70-degree days in March and started budding turn into lilacicles. When the new green grass glistens with frost in the early morning sunshine.

Still, it’s spring. I know this, because there’s wildlife out and about. And there are a lot of animals wandering around, too.

My favorites are the yearling deer. Their mothers, getting ready for this year’s babies, have sent last year’s not-quite-grown children out into the world on their own. There’s a group of five in our neighborhood, keeping each other company as they try to figure out how to get along without moms to tell them to watch for cars and mountain lions. Scruffy with shedding winter coats, they look unkempt, as if they just got up and forgot to comb their hair. They hang out together like a group of young teenagers on a street corner, trying to look cool and hoping no one will notice they aren’t old enough to drive.

There is a fox in the neighborhood, too. We’ve seen it several times in the last couple of weeks, and two nights ago it ran across our driveway as we pulled up to the garage. That does perhaps explain why we haven’t seen many cottontails in the yard lately. There’s something appealing about a fox—maybe it’s the thick brush of a tail that’s almost as big as its body, or maybe it’s the delicate black feet, or the dainty quickness. I think this one is a female with a den close by, probably on the far side of a busy road. Twice I’ve seen the fox trotting back and forth at the roadside, waiting for a break in the traffic so she can cross. Once, coming home after dark, we caught her having a late dinner of squirrel a la Goodyear in the middle of the road. She dashed to the curb, then circled impatiently, waiting for the cars to go by so she could resume her meal. I hope she’s careful out there.

Actually, all of us probably should be careful out there. As if the ever-increasing population of mountain lions isn’t enough, an article in our weekly newspaper announced that we have verified sightings of black bears in the Black Hills. The assumption is that they are mostly young males, just passing through on their way to seek their fortunes. Sooner or later, though, one of them is going to bring his girlfriend along and settle in. It will give us hikers something to think about besides 150-pound cats.

I’ve only been close to one bear in the wild, and that was a half-grown black bear in Jackson Hole. It was a few feet away from the hiking trail, munching berries without regard to the handful of tourists watching and taking pictures. If you’re going to meet a bear in the woods, this one was probably the ideal size—not big enough to be threatening, but too old to have a protective mama hovering nearby. Still, being that close to it made me uncomfortable. Call me unreasonable, but I find it hard to relax when I’m within easy range of something that tends to think of me as lunch.

I much prefer the fox. I just hope she never finds out about the fox fur coat hanging in my closet.

Things one can learn from making an impulsive decision to move the washer and dryer into a semi-finished downstairs bathroom and convert the laundry room into a workshop:

1. According to the Law of Expanding Improvements, any small remodeling job such as this will grow beyond your initial estimate (in cost, time, and disruption) by a factor of four.

2. The day the workmen come to “look at the job” and unexpectedly decide they can do the work on the spot will be the day you overslept, you have three appointments and an urgent deadline on an important project, and you left underwear drying on the shower curtain rod.

3. When several guys are working on a project inside your house that requires them to make many trips back and forth to their truck, it will be raining.

4. When you have someone in the house working on the plumbing, he will always announce he has to shut off the water just after you’ve had a second cup of tea.

5. It isn’t the work that’s difficult, it’s the decisions. Such as the following:

Vinyl or tile flooring? Compare prices, compare durability, consider how this laundry-room-in-the-process-of-becoming-a-workshop will be used. Okay, vinyl.

Which type? There’s the cheap one, the middle-grade one, the really thick one with the 20-year warranty, or maybe the other really thick one with the imbedded stain protection. Compare prices, compare durability, consider as above. Okay, the stain-protection one.

Which pattern? It’s getting easier here, because there are only two in stock and I don’t want to wait for a special order. Okay, this one.

Which color? Finally, the answer is easy and obvious. Beige.

6. Getting the workspace you want? Worth every cent and all the disruption.

7. And having friends who are willing to advise, to help you make decisions—and even to delve boldly into the intricacies of 30-year-old plumbing? Priceless.

It’s Saturday morning at a local coffee shop. The busy room with its mismatched tables and chairs feels rather like the dining room at Grandma’s house when the whole family is visiting—friendly enough to seem cozy rather than crowded.

I’m alone at a table for four, waiting for some friends, supposedly writing but really eavesdropping in both directions. The seven or eight people crowded around the table to my right are talking and laughing with animation. The volume is, not unpleasantly, somewhere between “background noise” and “impossible to ignore.” Their caffeine-fueled chorus tends to drown out the conversation of the smaller group on my left.

Until the inevitable happens. A cell phone rings. The sound, and the ensuing conversation from my left, is at first merely a new voice in the chorale. As it progresses, though, I find out more. The caller is apparently the daughter of the owner of the cell phone. She is out of town at some sort of competition. She has done well in the first round of debate or basketball or dog-grooming or whatever it was. She will call back that evening after the next round.

I know this—and so does everyone else in the coffee shop—because we are lucky enough to be privy to both sides of the conversation. The woman at the table, after answering her phone, says, “It’s noisy in here. Let me put you on speaker.” We get to hear, not only the mother’s side of the conversation as she shouts into the phone, but her daughter’s as well. The young woman’s voice screeches out of the speaker, enhanced by background noise and distortion into a credible imitation of the featured soprano in a wannabe punk rock band.

I try to close my ears and concentrate on my notebook and my scone. The conversation at the merry table to my right falters as people glance over their shoulders and frown. The patrons at the other tables look up. The staff members behind the counter pause in their coffee-brewing and tea-pouring. We’re all suspended for a few moments until the cellular invasion, mercifully brief, is over. Then we breathe a united sigh of relief and go on about our business.

The culprit, apparently oblivious, drops her phone back into her purse. Let’s hope that this evening, when her daughter calls back, she isn’t out in public.

We’ve come a long way since Samuel Morse opened the door to instant communication with his invention of the telegraph. The first message he sent was, “What hath God wrought.” Had he had the gift of prophecy as well as technology, he might have said, “What? Hath God wrought wrath? Or is it just noisy in here?”

It started with an invitation from a friend. She had a gift certificate for a restaurant, one of the popular chains. Would we care to join her and her husband for dinner that Saturday evening? We would. We did.

The place was busy, not surprising on a weekend evening, so there was a short wait before we were seated. We ordered. We waited. My friend had asked for hot tea. The waitress came by twice to say it was “on its way.” All the way from China, apparently. On the slow boat.

When eventually the boat docked—er, the tea came, it was green. My friend, who hadn’t been asked for a preference, requested black tea instead. “I’m sorry,” the waitress told her, “This is the only kind we have.”

It apparently hadn’t occurred to her that mentioning this at the time the tea was ordered could have saved time and hassle for everyone. Okay, we would get along without the tea.

Eventually, our meals came. One chicken and pasta, two shrimp dinners, and one salmon salad, which the waitress put in front of me. I am not a fan of salmon; I had ordered the steak salad. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll get that right out for you.”

Everyone else began eating. Declining offers to share, I sat wistfully watching servers trot by with plates of food. Our waitress stopped by twice to assure me, “They’re working on it.”

By her second visit, I began to assume that “working on it” was shorthand for “they’ve headed out to round up the steers, and they should be finished butchering some time tomorrow morning.”

Finally, about the time my friends were finishing their meals, my salad came. It had oil and vinegar dressing. I don’t like oil and vinegar dressing. Nor do I like the vast quantities of salad dressing most restaurants consider a serving. For those reasons, I had ordered ranch, on the side.

I told the waitress this, then realized I may have made a mistake. Having actual food in front of me at last, it didn’t seem wise to let it disappear again. “Oh, not a problem,” she said. “There’s another one ready. Really, it will only take a minute to change it.”

On that basis, I sent it back a second time. Not a good strategy. “Only a minute” turned into ten or fifteen. We occupied the time by chatting with the manager, who did her best to make soothing noises and agreed that there were problems in the kitchen. Since half the items on the menu were made with “(insert famous whiskey brand name here) sauce,” we wondered whether said problems might have been related to over-zealous sauce tasting on the part of the kitchen staff.

Eventually the third version of my meal appeared. It had ranch dressing on the side, just as I had requested. It also, I realized after my first bite, was covered with the original oil and vinegar dressing.

There was nothing left to do at this point except laugh. Then I shut up and ate. There was no way I was letting this plate of food escape. While I ate my oily lettuce and steak, my companions had another visit with the manager. She made more soothing noises, apologized, and cancelled our entire bill.

My friend didn’t receive this news with the satisfaction one might have expected. After the manager left, she hissed across the table, “Do you know what this means? I still have the gift certificate. Now we’ll have to come back!”

British author Dame Rebecca West has suggested, "If the whole human race lay in one grave, the epitaph on its headstone might well be: ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’"

It’s easy to come up with examples, both personal and global, that support her statement. You can even do it without mentioning wars, laws, or politics. There’s a simple formula: problem + creative solution = unforeseen consequences.

Problem? No familiar small animals to hunt in Australia. Creative solution? Let’s turn loose some rabbits. Unforeseen consequences? A bunny population explosion with resulting destruction of habitat, extinction of native animals, and huge long-term costs even 150 years later.

Problem? Erosion in the southeastern United States during the dry years of the 1930’s. Creative solution? Kudzu imported from the Far East. Unforeseen consequences? The nickname says it all: “the vine that ate the South.”

There are plenty of smaller examples, as well. Such as this one from my years as a legal secretary: Problem? You’re on your way home from a long night at the bar, and your car won’t start. Creative solution? Just shoot the danged thing and put it out of its misery. Unforeseen consequences? What’s the big deal? There was already a crack in the windshield. But I guess I can get my mail here at the jail for a while.

Or even closer to home: Problem? Losing control of one’s skateboard while going down a long, steep hill. Creative solution? Bolt a pair of old shoes to said skateboard and tie shoes firmly to feet. (Did I mention this problem-solver was a 10-year-old boy?) Unforeseen consequences? Not really that bad—in a few years the scars will hardly show.

All in all, Dame Rebecca certainly has a point. Unfortunately, I operate at a literary level somewhat lower than hers. I must confess her quote reminds me irresistibly of another one. The vocabulary might be different, but the essential point is the same.

It’s the joke about the redneck’s last words: “Here, hold my beer and watch this!”

How many teenage guys does it take to change the oil in an SUV?

Three, apparently. One to drive it to the quick-lube shop, and two to keep him company.

I recently took my car in for an oil change. The place had a waiting room that might generously be described as “compact.” It contained two easy chairs, a couch, a kiddie table with two toddler-sized chairs, an end table strewn with magazines, a decorative shelf holding a plastic plant, a service counter, and the inevitable television set. The space would have been comfortable for two people, cozy for three, and claustrophobic for four. My arrival put the occupancy count at eight, no doubt violating several sets of safety codes.

One man stood at the counter clutching a magazine. Two middle-aged women sat on the couch. A small boy bounced back and forth between the two of them and the kiddie table. The two chairs and the third seat on the couch were taken up by three young guys. That’s seven people, six of whom were presumably qualified drivers. There were three vehicles in the service bays.

Okay, it was unfair of me to be annoyed by this. There is no law against taking a friend along when you go to get your oil changed. It wasn’t unreasonable of me, however, to be annoyed because it didn’t occur to any of the teenagers to offer me a seat.

I’m neither decrepit nor elderly. I’m perfectly healthy and quite capable of standing, purse and all, for 15 or 20 minutes. Still, manners are manners. If you are a teenager, sitting in a crowded room that has no empty seats, and a woman old enough to be your mother comes in, isn’t it basic courtesy to get up to let her have your chair? I thought about asking for a seat, but my inner wimp talked me out of it.

The three guys were leafing through magazines. One had a Redbook, and the other announced that he was reading "Good Housewives"—apparently comparing them to their desperate TV sisters. After a while the Redbook reader said, “Hey, there’s some pretty good stuff in here.” He brought the open magazine over to his friend’s chair.

The friend looked at the page, said, “Wow!” and settled in to read. Since I was standing behind him as a result of his not offering me a seat, I had no compunction about looking over his shoulder. The article was something along the lines of “What women really want in bed.”

Poor kid—he may never know. Before he had a chance to read more than the first paragraph, the technician came in and announced that the SUV was done. The three young guys jostled their way out the door, leaving the magazine behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I sat down in the chair. After a minute I casually picked up the Redbook. What page was that article on?

Spelunking. What a unique word, especially if you say it out loud several times. It sounds like a 30-ton dinosaur stomping through the swamp. “Here comes another brontosaurus—spelunk, spelunk, spelunk.”

Maybe that’s why people who explore underground prefer to call themselves “cavers.”

The other night I attended a talk by a man whose passion is caving. He was a good speaker, and it was fascinating to listen as he shared his delight in underground exploring. He showed us amazing photographs of caves he has been in—giant pillars where stalactites and stalagmites had grown together, draped “curtains,” delicate crystals that looked like frost, and dramatic underground waterfalls. The beauty was breathtaking.

The most literally breathtaking picture for me, though, was one that a fellow caver had taken of the speaker. Part of him, anyway—his boots. They were sticking out of a slit in the rock. The rest of him (did I mention this man was very slender?) had already disappeared into the narrow hole. It was like the last sight someone might have had of Jonah just before he vanished down the gullet of the whale.

Just seeing the photograph made me shudder. Crawl into dark, twisting passages so slim that if your navel were an outie instead of an innie you’d never make it to the other end? No, thank you. Not on your life.

I have visited a couple of caves. Touristy caves, with walkways and railings and comforting electric lights. They were spectacular. The day I went to Carlsbad Caverns, I’m sure I set a personal record for the number of exclamations of “Wow!” in a single day. Carlsbad, or at least the parts of it they let the visitors see, is a huge place of high-ceilinged caverns and vast spaces. That much I can handle, at least as long as they leave the lights on.

Anything smaller I’ll leave to the real cavers. It’s fun to see the pictures and to hear someone describe something he is so excited about. It’s wonderful that there are people willing to venture into the world’s less accessible places and then tell the rest of us all about them. More power to them. May they stay slender and may their headlamps never fail.

I’ll just stay out here in the sunlight and enjoy playing with words like “spelunking.”

I was going to get a flu shot. Really. At the one-day “flu shot clinic” advertised last fall at the drug store. When they were offered at the health fair. Or maybe even at my doctor’s office. I was going to. I just never quite got around to it.

Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here in my recliner, tucked in under a soft, cozy throw, with my forehead feeling hot and my hands feeling cold and an ache across my lower back that even Ibuprofen won’t get rid of.

What hurts the most is knowing that at this very moment I could be relaxing on a massage table under Nikki’s skilled, soothing hands. It was no doubt considerate of me to cancel my appointment rather than to risk spreading the flu, if indeed I have the flu. She appreciated it. I didn’t. I’d rather be getting a massage than sitting here aching and whining—to myself, yet, which is no fun. What’s the point of whining, after all, if there’s no one to listen to you?

Since whining isn’t doing any good, I might as well acknowledge that my failure to get a flu shot was more than just not getting around to it. I never really intended to get one at all. It’s not that I’m afraid of shots. It’s not that I don’t believe in them—though I do have some doubts about the efficacy of one shot against a multitude of ever-evolving strains of flu.

No, I simply am not ready to admit that I belong to a category of people advised to get flu shots. People who are considered to be at higher risk. Not because of chronic illnesses, or because they work in hospitals or nursing homes or day care centers. People who are considered at risk because of the dreaded A-word. Age. People who are eligible for AARP membership and “keenager” checking accounts at the credit union and even senior citizen discounts in some restaurants. “Older people.” People over 50.

I am not an “older person.” Never mind the grown kids and the four grandkids. Never mind the hair color; it’s still all mine. (You buy it, it’s yours, right?) I can still run up the hill to the mailbox on a chilly morning. I can still hike all day or dance all night—just not on the same day. I can still touch my toes without bending my knees. On second thought, never mind the toe-touching—my grandmother could do that when she was 80.

Still, anyone who is as active, healthy, and energetic as I am—at least after my third cup of tea in the morning—certainly should not be classified as “high-risk” when it comes to the flu. I shouldn’t need a flu shot. I didn’t get a flu shot. Nyah, nyah, nyah. So there.

After you’re done saying, “I told you so,” could you please hand me some more Ibuprofen?