My Back Yard

A giraffe’s tongue is long, skinny, and gray. But it’s not particularly slimy.

I discovered that when I fed Peggy the giraffe.

To feed a giraffe, place the food pellets in your cupped hand. Let her scoop them out with her tongue.

What does a lion cub’s fur feel like?

Not silky soft. More like the matted-down surface of a plush animal.

At 3 1/2 months, cubs are playful, but not too dangerous under a lion park staff member’s supervision. They can’t break your bones. Just don’t touch the head or tail.

Comments (0)

I loved Tiger the cat more than Skippy the dog when I was growing up.

Skippy was our first pet. A curly, black- and brown-haired Welsh terrier. If you know what an Airedale looks like, just shrink him down to about 40 pounds.

Skippy had an impressive heritage. One of his half-siblings belonged to President John F. Kennedy’s family.  We must have gotten Skippy from the same breeder in Massachusetts.

Skippy put up a tough front to any human or animal passing our house. He barked like crazy. What a watchdog!

The prowlers didn’t realize that if they came into our house, Skippy would have greeted them with a wagging tail. He’d rather drop a wet kiss on them than bite them. Skippy was a pushover for any attention. That’s why I didn’t love him as much as Tiger.

Tiger was the feline equivalent of a mutt, with tabby stripes. A gift from a doctor getting rid of his cat’s latest litter.

Tiger was my role model. I had to earn his respect by feeding him, playing with him, and massaging that spot behind one of his ears.

When Tiger tired of my attention, he told me so with a swat of his paw. If I persisted in pestering him, he’d deploy his claws.

When I was a kid I wished my feelings could have commanded as much respect as Tiger’s. 

Ate yummy felafel at Anat tonight.

Soft, fresh pita bread filled with ungreasy felafel, tahini and condiments.

A squirrel inspired the first poem of an author I met last night.

She’d been shipped off to a convent’s boarding school in Constantia. Didn’t like it at all. Her first meal was a sugar bean stew, which she promptly regurgitated onto the floor of the dining room.

Her first weekend there, she went for a walk in the woods. She saw a squirrel and noticed that it was so small, yet so fast. That inspired her poem.

My cousin’s daughter is working on commercial flights from Amman, Jordan into cities like Baghdad and Basra. Her mom says that her daughter is safer doing that than living in Johannesburg with her parents. For all that I’ve heard about Johannesburg’s crime rate, I find that hard to believe.

But it does sound as if usually the daughter’s company’s planes land, unload and take off. They don’t hang around. One time a mechanical problem kept the plane overnight in Baghdad. The company told my cousin’s daughter and her colleagues to "take a cab into Baghdad and find a hotel."

That didn’t sound too safe. Luckily an army man heard that and offered to put them up overnight in the barracks.

I can’t imagine living that kind of life with forays into Iraq. On the other hand, the violent crime rate is astounding in Johannesburg.

Distant relatives

Who are you,

stranger who bears my surname,

and packs Red Sox caps,

maple syrup, and Crest WhiteStrips?

Blood says we’re relatives,

but we’ve only met for 20 minutes

at the Johannesburg airport

in a fast food restaurant.

We captured your image,

nothing more

on our digital camera.

It’s not enough.

Entering the gods’ kingdom

I chose the neon pink of love

when I entered the gods’ kingdom.

Not for me the strident yellow of wealth

nor the new-grass green of wisdom.

I’ve tried wealth, and I’ve tried wisdom.

They’re like biting down in lip-licking anticipation

on what turns out to be a

credit card or parchment diploma.

A young wife’s lament

My peas are cold, my fried fish isn’t crispy.

Those were high crimes in your world,

where I struggled with milk-spitting,

wallpaper-tearing toddlers in a

strange country where I knew no one.

True, you worked hard as a doctor in solo practice,

but why did my tasks count for nothing?

I got fed up one time, hurling a dinner plate at you.

It hit the wall and broke into pieces.

So ended a dear piece of china,

a wedding gift from my parents,

shattered like my dream of a happy family.

Mind

My mind skitters across the floor,

pulling my forearm across the grater.

Disconnected from life.

MOTHERWORDS is "an irreverent, realistic look at motherhood." Articles
range from birth stories, adoption, fun things to do with kids, and
lifestyle changes. Sarah Teres is editor of this monthly magazine, which
will debut on June 25 and be available "north of Boston." Writers do not
have to be from the New England area; submissions and queries are being
accepted…

What a great day!

Parked at Horseneck state beach, biked along the southeastern Massachusetts coast, cooled off on the beach, and dinner at the Back Eddy. 

Going to the beach has changed since I was a kid. It has gotten a lot lighter. Back in the 1960s, the beach umbrella was a behemoth — a heavy canvas shade atop a stout wooden pole. Dad had to dig a deep hole, then pile sand around the pole to anchor it. Sand chairs were also made of wood and canvas. Then there was the cooler — a round metal canister patterned in a red pattern called "Scotch plaid." Everything was heavier than its modern-day plastic, synthetic, and metal counterparts.

I managed a poor attempt at a poem on the beach.

The radio rumbles under

the clamor of breeze and waves.

"Vanessa, Vanessa," cries a boy

just a silhouette under the intense sun.

A jagged chunk of styrofoam

lobster buoy crackles under foot.

I’m at the beach. 

A sparrow flew uncertainly from branch to branch. It looked as if it might be driving drunk.

This was about a month ago. Then animals emptied the Squirrel Palace and all of our other feeders by Wednesday. That was twice as fast a usual. I figured out that my drunken friend was in fact a sparrow who was fledging. Unlike their moms and dads, the newbies stick close to home and they’re voracious.

About the same time, a pair of chickadees started hanging in the backyard. They like to pick at the leftover peanut butter after the squirrels have eaten the easy pickings that I’ve slathered on corn cobs. Watching them makes me feel happy.