Musing on home and other things

When Shawn and I moved from our married-student-housing apartment at the University of Minnesota to our first apartment in central New York, and then from that apartment to our first house, it was surprising how the continuity of "stuff" created a sense of home. Constant through all these moves was an old basement sofa my parents had donated to us when we first married. Olive tweed, long, sturdy, it lasted through my mother's married life and much of mine. Currently it sits in our garage, awaiting a ride to the dump. The upholstery is shot, but it is still as sturdy and well constructed as ever. I wish I knew how to reupholster. Every time I open the garage door to put something into a recycling bin, I see that old sofa and I feel a pang. Memories are hard for me to dump.

There were a few things... certain wall hangings we received as wedding gifts, that sofa, the WWII army footlocker that we used as a coffee table for so many years. We'd get to a new place, and we'd unpack these things, and suddenly it seemed familiar, "ours."

Shannon's new apartment is like that, somehow. Her room at home is different now, but with her bookshelf and her desk in place, her apartment feels homey. We also took her the dresser she used when she was a little girl. Someone had donated it to us, and Shawn and I stripped it, stained it and replaced the hardware. It was one of our projects, back in the day. At a certain point we replaced it, but I kept it in the basement and filled it up with craft supplies. In honor of Shannon, I cleaned out the drawers and packed it along to her new place. It's a little piece of the olden days, standing in the corner of her bedroom.



It felt good to be at Shannon's a week and a half ago. It felt like home, like another home, another place in the world where I actually belong. I think feeling at home has something to do with being allowed into a refrigerator. You are not truly at home unless you can open up the refrigerator and get out the makings of breakfast or lunch.

Recently, Shannon wrote, "I catch myself calling two different places home, now. It's kind of odd - almost like a mental break. I still have home programmed into my GPS as New York, and I can't bring myself to change that. What do you do when going home means two different things? I think it's just out of convenience that I refer to this apartment as home. It's faster than saying 'I'm going back to my apartment.' People seem to understand."

That resonated with me, caught as I am in New York while never having stopped feeling that Minnesota was my home. In today's world, "home" becomes so fragmented, a splintering concept that disperses in all directions as family members move farther and farther from one another.

When Shawn and I arrived at our first apartment here in CNY, it was July and we didn't have much more than a shower curtain. A day later, the moving truck pulled up and we arranged our stuff, made it home, and settled in.

I remembered our first NY apartment while we were at Shannon's, because they have not turned on the heat on in her building. This reminded me that they didn't turn the heat on in our first apartment building until (I think) October 1. Maybe it was November 1. We froze.

Shannon had been freezing in her apartment, too. It was about 57 degrees (inside) the evening we arrived. Her apartment handbook says, "The heat will be turned on in the early fall and off again in the late spring." I'm not sure what constitutes "early fall" but I suppose they are purposefully vague. We piled on the blankets that night and awoke to a nippy morning which we combated with hot tea, hot coffee and hot baths. Oddly, the pipe to the shower-head doesn't seem to pull much hot water, so you are better off bathing...it's a fantastic, giant, cast-iron tub. Shannon has the blue checkered shower curtain that graced the kids' bathroom upstairs until we remodeled this past year. Another shout-out to familiarity... I love familiar things.

Later, Shawn and I left Shannon studying for her organometallic chemistry exam and went for a walk. The day had warmed up to about 80, and I found myself shedding layers as we clipped along.

We decided we'd better tell Shannon to open some windows and let the warmth in, so we headed back up the hill. In front of a large gray house with curving concrete steps, a gray squirrel busied himself ravishing an oak tree. There were so many acorn treasures, he was quite overcome with joy. He leapt along with a huge tuft of oak leaf sprouting from his mouth; curling green foliage sprigged up one side, and a nutty brown cluster of acorns hung down the other.

Back in the apartment building, icy air hit us like a blast of air conditioning. We helped Shannon open up the windows. By then the afternoon sun was shining in too, so before long we warmed up luxuriously.

We walked to our favorite burger place for dinner. To get there, one must cross a town square. Through the center lies a grassy village green, and along the west side (or maybe the north side?) three churches stand in a row -- modern, liberal, main-line churches. Along the road, buses continually pull up in front of the churches to pick up and drop off riders. The many park benches, presumably placed for the convenience of bus riders, overflow with tired, sad, economically-depressed people. Some people get on and off the buses, while others huddle together beneath newspapers, trying to find some comfort in a wearisome world. Belligerent, grammatically and vocabularily challenged youths cavort on skateboards and do their best to block foot traffic. And just beyond all this, a pricey wedding spilled out of one of the churches. Formal black tuxedos, posh golden bridesmaids' dresses and white, feathered flower arrangements, a bride and a flower girl adorned with the latest and greatest NYC fashions, all posed for photos among distinguished family members and friends. The party was beautiful, and so were the church and the park. I am sure that the photographer strategically aimed her shots away from the buses and the street people. I thought how different the photos would look from the view we got as we walked down the sidewalk. A photo frame is a powerful thing.

In the restaurant, business was hopping. Since every table was full, the host invited us to sit in three chairs around the corner of the bar. Of course, this infuriated the bartender, as we had no intention of buying drinks. But he sucked it up pretty well and let us have water and Coke while we watched Notre Dame kill the Air Force Academy and waited for our food. A solitary lady next to me spread out her reading material and picked at her plate, a colorful melange of lettuce, tomato and other unidentifiable but eye-catching substances. She approached her glass of beer with infinitesimal sips. Her elbow crowded me, and I wished she would hurry up, finish her dinner and leave. But then I realized that it was a Saturday night, and she was all alone in the middle of that loud, crowded place, all alone dragging out her meal while pretending to read newsprint. When the bartender took away her not-nearly-empty-but-stagnating plate, she folded up her reading material and got out her phone, proceeding to read through old text messages and emails until she couldn't make the beer last any longer. And then I felt sorry for her. I was so happy to be with Shannon and Shawn, laughing, catching up, trading stories.

The next day we went to church, and then we did some shopping. Back once more, our arms loaded with packages from the store, we approached the steps to the apartment building only to see two squirrels cavorting in the sunshine. One was a normal looking squirrel, big and bushy. The other one was tiny. Are there baby squirrels around in October? The big squirrel ducked into the shrubbery as we approached, but the little one stood on the step, quivering, nervous, hopeful. I have never been so close to a squirrel before. His face was as wistful as Schubert's. Shannon thought he must want some food and sent Shawn in to get a piece of bread. The little guy peered up at us, as cute as a puppet or a cartoon drawing (and if you know anything about my hatred of rodents, you know that this one was excessively cute if even I thought so). We could see the varied colors in his facial hair--brown, gray, white--his small black eyes, and his upside-down Y of a mouth. His feet and hands were huge in relation to his body, with long fingers and finger-like toes. But they weren't icky the way DJ says the rat paws are in the lab where he works. They were innocent and almost duck-like, maybe because they were just so huge in proportion to his little body. Anyway, now I understand how squirrels climb across power lines. Our little guy couldn't quite decide what to do. He seemed frightened but not terrified, shaking, hopping towards us a half-a-hop and then finally darting away into the shrubbery after his companion. Shawn said that perhaps someone else has been feeding him and taming him. I hope there are no cats around those apartments, or he'll be a goner very soon.

So that was our visit to Shannon. We left DJ and Jon alone and Jon got locked out of the house for the better part of Sunday, but I am not going to write about it. It ended OK, and that's all I'm going to say about that.

I felt at home at Shannon's. She has a black futon rather than our old tweed sofa (the one that awaits its demise in our garage), but the futon makes a much more hospitable resting place for Shawn and me. It folds down into a very comfortable bed. And home is also a place where you can get a good night's sleep.

Visiting Shannon

Shawn and I are visiting Shannon while the boys and the dogs hold down the fort at home.

This is a new thing.

I guess it is what we are aiming for when we begin to raise a child. We hope that the child will grow up to be a self-supporting, productive member of society.

So here we are at Shannon's, eating her waffles and her cookies and her soup and sandwiches and guacamole. I used her soap this morning, and Shawn borrowed her hair gel. Now we are all contentedly pecking away at our respective computers. She is studying for an exam on the organo-metallic chemistry of transition metals, which she has to take on Tuesday. Shawn is catching up on things for his work. And I am writing a blog post. This is family togetherness in 2011.

Of course, there is a part of me that wishes she had just gotten married, bought the house up the street, and settled down to provide me with grandchildren. But really, it is so amazing that God has allowed her these opportunities to grow and expand. She spent the summer working with a professor who was recognized recently for discovering a way to chemically synthesize a new and ground-breaking medicine that treats ovarian cancer. Who knows what God might have in store for Shannon?

It was really cold last night, and they have not yet turned on the heat in this apartment building. In addition to eating Shannon's food, we drank a lot of her tea. This morning we opened the blinds of these huge, airy windows and looked out on a sunny, blue-skied courtyard. There is a tree in the center, a tree whose leaves are still green. A deep residual cold lingered in the apartment, but outside the day is warm and wonderful. We discovered this on a short walk, after which we returned to open the windows, let in the fresh warm air, and listen to the birds in the bushes.

It's funny how things come out. I love how Shannon has organized her little kitchen. It simply delights me. I wonder if there is anything I taught her that contributed to her logical sense of order. Maybe? My life recently has been a train-wreck, as is my house, but there have been times when I have been on top of things. Maybe that's why I love it here so much. It reminds me of seasons in my own life when I have been on top of things.

Well, we are only going to be here for a short time. I don't want to waste too much of it blogging...

Theophonics

My husband is in a singing group called "Theophonics." They are an all-male a cappella group, and you can listen to a few of their songs here. Don't miss the "Praise Ye the Lord" one... it's my favorite!

The guys.

The guys again. They'd been trying to induce Schubert to pose with them.

They have real jobs and wives and children, but they love to sing together when they can. I've been lucky enough to have them practicing at my house for the past month or so. It's so nice to listen to them... especially when they've pretty much got the music under their belts and are fine tuning it. They travel around to area churches to sing, and just take a love offering to help cover their travel expenses and to help them afford to buy sound and recording equipment. They sing locally and have gone as far as PA.




Because this is my blog, I am shamelessly putting my husband first. He usually sings the very top parts. If you read my blog, you know all about our family, so I do not need to belabor his bio.


This is Ron. Ron is really the guy who started the whole thing. He organizes practices, arranges music, dreams big and keeps everybody excited. In real life, he is a music teacher at a school in the area, and he also directs a really wonderful homeschool choir. Like my husband, he is a high tenor. He and his wife have a two-year-old daughter and an infant son. The group used to practice at his place, but the noise interfered with bedtime. So I got them! And I'm glad I did!




This is Brian. He is also a chorus teacher in a local school district, and he directs the school's plays (at least, the musicals). He and his wife have three children, two teenage daughters and a soon-to-be teen son. Brian has a beautiful gift for writing and arranging music and often lends his skills to the group. Brian is a baritone, and it's a good thing he is, because this group is heavy on tenors, as you will see.



Here we have Mr. Jim. He does the vocal percussion for the group, but he also sings lead sometimes. He has a wonderful, folksy, slightly-higher-than-baritone voice. Jim and his wife have a son in elementary school and a daughter in junior high.



This is the "other" Bryan. He is the newest member of the group, and what a fantastic addition he has been! He has a stunningly gorgeous high tenor voice, classically trained at Eastman School of Music. He and his wife have a preschool age daughter, a one-year-old son and a new baby due on November 17. So Theophonics will not be booking in November. Sorry, but families come first!



This is another Shawn. I will not call him the "other" Shawn, because he is great friends with Ron, and they started the group together, and he was probably the person who actually invited my Shawn to join. This Shawn is a tremendous team player with a second tenor voice. He's willing to sing whatever part is needed, which usually ends up being something super-difficult in the middle, so it's a good thing that he's a good music reader! He never complains, and he's always on time, always agreeable, always doing whatever it takes to pull things together. He and his wife have a newly potty trained daughter!

So, that's Theophonics. If God wills, maybe you will hear them sing in person some day. We'd all like that.

Dark day

It is dark, chilly and rainy.

Either I have a cold, or my allergies have gone berserk.

I had very few goals today, but even so, the only thing I've managed to get done is a lasagna.

Shawn says it could be a lot worse.

A note to google readers

If any of you actually subscribe to me on Google Reader, I'd just like to say this... my first draft of a post is really a first draft. I have trouble seeing what I've done when I type in this little html box, so I always publish and then read and edit a few times, and then sometimes I even edit more a few days later (and add pictures). So I fear that if you are reading what pops up on Google Reader the first time, you are getting a rough, rough draft, and for that I apologize. You may want to wait a few days before you read this stuff, or at least a few hours, and then hit your refresh button a few times...

Good-bye, girls--part seven

I've been avoiding this post.

I've been writing to my daughters about all the things I wish I'd ever told them and am afraid I may have missed.

Shortly before Shannon moved out, I told her, "Come upstairs with me and watch me clean this toilet. You'll need to know how to do this on your own now." And she told me, "It's OK, Mom, you've already shown me how to clean a toilet." And I wanted to say, "But my technique may have changed since then," or "I think I use a different cleaning chemical now," or "Are you sure? I have no memory of that. I probably did it wrong; let me show you again." Actually, I probably did say that last thing.

Anyway, as promised at the end of the last post in this series, this post is about supplements. Shannon doesn't really much approve of taking supplements, and Laura hates the way the basket full of supplements looks in the kitchen, and I feel pretty self-conscious about this particular post. But it is keeping me at least one more step away from trying to talk about beauty, and for that I am truly grateful.

I take supplements because I think they keep me off prescription medications, and that is a very good thing, especially with the lack of coverage our health insurance provides.

DISCLAIMER: This post is based on anecdotal personal experience.  I am not a medical professional.  This is motherly advice for my daughters, nothing more.  If you are reading this, and you are not my daughter, talk to your doctor before you do anything based on my advice.

One of the most important aspects of supplements is this: they can help you boost your immunities. Here is a list of immunity boosting supplements:

(1) Vitamin D3. We talked about this earlier. Vitamin D3 is very important, especially for those of us who live in the northeastern USA where there is precious little sun, and small children grow up believing that the sky is gray, not blue. It boosts your immunities, eases aches and pains, strengthens your heart... actually, I forget all the things it does. If we ever migrate to Arizona, we will be able to ease up on the vitamin D3, but for now, take a supplement, and some days, the darkest days, go ahead and take two.

(2) A multi-vitamin. Take a good multi-vitamin daily. I shy away from vitamins formulated specifically for women, because they always contain iron, and iron makes me sick. Men's multi-vitamin formulas often have selenium, which I always thought was good for you (in the proper amount, not too much) and helps with immunities, heart, skin, thyroid and eye health. It is a very powerful anti-oxidant and even has some effect on fighting cancer and neutralizing toxic substances that you may take in. I was a big proponent of selenium, and then Dr. Mercola came out and said that it is really dangerous and the kind they put into most multi-vitamins will actually kill you (not the kind he puts in his own multi-vitamins, of course...) But I'm sick of Dr. Mercola, so I think I'll go ahead with my recommendation that you take a muti-vitamin with selenium and no iron.

(3) Fish Oil. Fish oil is just so good for you over all, you ought to take it. Again, it is good for your heart. It helps your circulatory system, your nervous system, your digestive system and your skin, hair and nails. It's even good for your brain. The special kind of fat in fish oil helps you metabolize your food and absorb your vitamins. One of my friends told me that a psychiatrist told her that he takes four fish oil capsules a day to boost his mood and fend off depression. I'm not exactly sure if it belongs in my "immunity boosting" list, but it does everything else, so I figured that such an all purpose supplement probably boosts your immunities, too. NOTE: look for entearic coated fish oil capsules, or at least capsules that promise "no fishy burps." Cheaper is not better where fish oil is concerned. The cheap ones can give people wicked indigestion.

(4) Acidophilus or a good probiotic. The good bacteria in your "gut" (as they say) is very important to maintaining a healthy immune system. Antibiotics kill off these good bacteria. Other things do, too, specifically the chlorine in drinking water and--much stronger and more dangerous--the chlorine in Splenda (sucralose). Stay away from Splenda, almost as much as you would stay away from aspartame. (Anyway, Splenda tastes awful.) Besides generally keeping your immune system healthy, probiotics prevent and fight all kinds of fungal and yeast infections. Also, if you are having troubles with your stomach being off, or with diarrhea or constipation, a few extra probiotic capsules should help to right your system.

Then there are supplements I take for "womanly" issues. I will try to be careful about how I discuss them.

(1) Evening Primrose Oil. I love this supplement. It prevents joint pain, acne, heart disease, hyperactivity and obesity. It has a very high concentration of a fatty acid called GLA which actually works on your endocrine system and blocks certain hormones from bothering you. It is proven to help with both PMS and menopause, lessening menstrual cramps, breast tenderness, irritable bowel flare ups and hot flashes. It increases feelings of well-being. Applied topically, it also prevents wrinkles and heals wounds. Good stuff. It smells nice, too, and the capsules are one of the few without a nasty flavor on the way down.

(2) Estroven. This is an over-the-counter preparation, not exactly a natural supplement. I used to like the one that was actually a multi-vitamin with womanly help added to it, but they stopped making that one, or at any rate I haven't been able to find it. The important ingredient is Black Cohosh, which is a famous herb for PMS and menopause. You probably do not need to take this stuff, although if you run into PMS trouble, or lots of discomfort with your periods, you might want to pick up a bottle of Black Cohosh.

(3) Calcium. You need Calcium to have strong bones, and to prevent osteoporosis, which runs in my mother's family. The best way to take Calcium is in combination with other supplements that help you absorb it. One of these is Vitamin D, which we already discussed above. I also feel that it is important to take Calcium with Magnesium. Magnesium helps with a number of female and nervous system issues, and it also prevents you from getting constipated from the calcium. I have been taking a combination of Calcium, Magnesium and Zinc for many years, and it seems to be serving me well. DJ has encouraged me to take my Calcium and Magnesium at bedtime to help me relax and lessen my leg cramps. Calcium taken alone can cause indigestion, constipation and even kidney stones, so be sure to take Magnesium and Vitamin D along with it.

(4) Cranberry. I do not take this all the time, but if I run into trouble with my bladder, this is the ticket. If you get a bladder infection, or something that feels like a bladder infection, get a bottle of this. Look for one that says Cranmax on it somewhere, either in the main name of the product or in the ingredient list. To fend off a bladder infection, take the Cranberry tablets along with a probiotic and lots and lots of water. I have found that, for me, this works better than going to the doctor.

Haha. Here we are... my beauty supplements.

(1) Biotin. I take this, as the bottle says, for skin, hair and nails. I mostly notice that it works on my nails. Since I've been taking it regularly, My nails hardly ever break. I started taking it because my hair is falling out. My hair dresser says she thinks it is helping, but I can't tell that it is. I don't know whether it makes any difference in my skin, but I keep hoping it does. It definitely strengthens my nails, though.

(2) Saw Palmetto. Somebody told somebody that Biotin is useless without Saw Palmetto, so I bought some. I really can't say that I notice much difference. Saw Palmetto is a DHT blocker, and DJ says that means it should block acne causing hormones, too. My skin and my hair are holding steady at what I would call a passable condition, so maybe these two supplements are staving off excessive damage and I have no idea how bad it might be without them.

To be totally honest, I think I do notice more problems cropping up when I forget to take my supplements for a couple of days (as I have this week).

Well... scary but true... we are encroaching on the subject of beauty, and we will have to face it head-on before long. Or maybe I will end this series with this post. What will the future bring?

Other posts in this series:
Good-bye, girls--part one,
Good-bye, girls--part two,
Good-bye, girls--part three,
Good-bye, girls--part four.
Good-bye, girls--part five
Good-bye, girls--part six

A re-post from December, 2004 (just because I found it)

It has been requested that I put this story down in writing, although it has very little to do with Christmas. There is a loose association, in that it does pertain to the idea of gifts, somewhat. And it might bring to mind that pagan carol about the partridge in the pear tree, the two French hens, the three turtledoves and the four calling birds—particularly the four calling birds.

But in our case, it was two calling birds. Or, to be precise, two cockatiels.

It all began in August of 2003, shortly before Jonathan’s eighth birthday. All he wanted in the world was a game system for the TV, and some games to go with it. This was his hope and his dream. I, his strict, straight-laced and fun-squelching mother, deplored the idea of a game system in our home. Keeping the Gameboy and computer game usage under control was taxing enough. I did not want a PS2 or an X-box or a Gamecube to come under my roof. No indeed!

Have you ever seen Jonathan when he is hoping for something? There is a shining light in his liquid brown eyes, and his eyebrows arch above with a perfection that it almost hurts to observe. His mouth is serious and his olive skin pales slightly as though the hope is literally radiating out of him.

But I could not get a game system. They are so bad for kids—no exercise, total time wasters, a discouragement to reading and even to social interaction. I despise them. What then could I give to this precious child that would thrill him, when a Gamecube was the only thing he wanted?

I decided to get him a bird.

When Shawn and I went to buy the bird, we should have sensed trouble and left. To begin with, the man selling the birds was blind. But, being desperate for a gift for Jon, as well as feeling pity for this poor disabled person, we looked at his menagerie and picked one. There was another bird that the man wanted us to buy and kept pushing us towards. It had something on its beak that I didn’t like. We asked about it, but he didn’t seem to know what we meant. Being blind, whether he knew or not, he could act like he didn’t. Finally, when we picked the bird we wanted, he threw in the one he’d been trying to push on us. He said two birds would be nice together. We thought two male birds in one cage sounded strange, but we took them. We named them Jeeves and Bertie Wooster after the butler and drone found in P.G. Wodehouse’s writings.

Jon was thrilled with his birthday present. I will say that. He spent that autumn at school writing essays about caring for his birds and drawing pictures of them. Although the birds were wild when we got them, with patience we trained the calmer one (Bertie Wooster—the one with the funny beak) to perch on our fingers and shoulders. They were loud and messy and took up a lot of space, but Jon was enjoying them. I will say that.

On Thursday, October 30, 2003, we were getting ready to leave for piano lessons. I was upstairs, and I heard Jon call out, “Hey Mom, Jeeves is letting me pet him!” This sounded neither right nor good to me. Bertie Wooster was the tame one—Jeeves wouldn’t ordinarily even nibble a cracker if you held it through the cage. I went running, and Jeeves was huddled on the bottom of the cage. He looked very bad. I realized that he was seriously ill, and I had no idea what to do.

Shannon and David came running to see what was the matter. Shannon lifted Jeeves out of the cage, and he lay weakly in her hands, obviously dying. Everyone started to weep and wail. I didn’t know what to do—and we were going to be late to piano lessons on top of everything else. Should I try to get the bird to an emergency vet? Would he die before we could get there? I called Shawn at work to try to get some advice.

While I was on the phone, the weeping and wailing increased. On the other end of the phone, Shawn told me it sounded like a death procession in the ancient Middle East. Jonathan fell to his knees beside the birdcage and prayed, “Please, God, don’t let my bird die!” Shannon started screaming that it was dying and she didn’t want to hold it anymore. David bravely, compassionately took it from her. A miracle did not occur. Moments later, Jeeves convulsed in a final thrashing death spasm and flopped out of David’s hands onto the table next to the cage, dead. David said, “I killed him. I killed him.” I tried to assure him that he had not. Laura by this time had exited the scene and was sitting alone, out in the van, waiting to go to piano.

Shawn was still on the phone, so I told him it was over and hung up. We put the dead bird in a box and left it on top of the cage. I had them wash their hands very carefully, and we went to piano. They cried all the way there. It was a traumatic event, and creepy the day before Halloween.

While we were at piano, Shawn heroically went home from work and buried the bird. Afterwards, I thoroughly cleaned out the cage. But even then, we felt unsettled. Why had it died? It was the strong, healthy bird—bigger than Bertie Wooster and with better reflexes. So what was up? I decided to make an appointment to take Bertie Wooster to the vet to see if he was healthy, or whether we might expect him to die, too.

Upon first examination of Bertie Wooster, the vet exclaimed, “How long has his beak been like that?” I replied that he had been that way when we bought him. The vet immediately grabbed the bird and took a tiny scalpel to his nose, scraping away a great deal of his nostril. Bertie bled all over everything and was most unhappy. The vet informed me that Bertie had a chronic nose infection that would never go away. He gave me an antibiotic to administer orally twice a day for two weeks, and some salve that he said must be put on the nose once a day every day for the rest of the bird’s life. He said, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen them live ten years or more on this medicine.” Aauugghh.

So began the treatment of Bertie Wooster. Unfortunately, his surgically altered nostril was raw and moist and had a way of attracting seed hulls from his food. So along with administering medicine, we had to learn to pick seeds out of his nostril with a large safety pin every evening before applying the nose drops. As it healed, it left a huge, gaping hole on the right side of his beak, which is perennially filled with seed hulls.

We got used to the beak treatments. We were doing okay with them. Really, we were. But then one day last March, the kids noticed Bertie wobbling and almost falling off his perch. This, I knew, was not a good sign. Of course, Shawn was in California that week, so I was on my own with the issue. Upon closer observation, I realized that the bird’s feet were bleeding. I did not want to take him to the vet again, so I got out some clean, soft rags and pinned them around the perch to make it thicker and softer. Then I pulled out the oral antibiotic drops, which we had not come close to finishing over the original fourteen days. I gave him a dose of antibiotic twice a day until Shawn came home. The bird didn’t die.

When Shawn came home, he looked at Bertie Wooster, and pity won out. He told me to take him to the vet again. So I did.

This vet is probably older than we are—I’m guessing mid-forties—but he looks younger. He is tan and relaxed and obviously has not spent years of his life getting up with crying children in the night. He wears gold chains and smiles a lot. He looked at Bertie Wooster and announced, “I can tell you exactly what is wrong with your bird. Your bird has Bumblefoot. It isn’t that uncommon. In fact, I myself just recently returned from Aruba where I treated all the swans at the Hyatt Regency for Bumblefoot.”

I was dumbstruck. And then the thought lept into my mind, “Why don’t you just take your relaxed tan face and your gold chains and this stupid sick bird and go back to Aruba and stay there?” But, of course, I didn’t say that. Instead I said something like, “How does one treat Bumblefoot?”

I did not much like the answer I got. One treats Bumblefoot by completely cleaning and disinfecting the birdcage three times per day (yes, per day) with a solution of bleach and Lysol, changing the padding on the perch every time you clean the cage, and soaking the bird’s feet twice per day for ten minutes in an Epsom salt solution. If you do this faithfully, you should see good improvement within about four weeks. (You also give oral antibiotics for two weeks, but compared to the rest of it, that is minor.)

So, I bought a Rubbermaid bin with a lid (for the Epsom salt foot baths), and the treatments began. Actually, I am not ashamed to admit that I only disinfected the cage twice per day, while the bird was in his foot baths, because I couldn’t figure out where to go with him if I did it a third time. It was all we could handle, and the nose treatments were, of course, still ongoing. Anyway, it must have been good enough. At his four week check-up, the vet said that Bertie was much improved and another two weeks ought to do it. Yay.

Can I say that I am truly tired of this bird? He is not as tame as he used to be, due to the trauma of all his treatments. He still likes Jon well enough, since Jon has never taken any role in his treatments. He got pretty sick over the summer and grew black scabby stuff all over his face. We almost thought we’d seen the end of him when we left him with a poor, dear generous friend during our trip to visit relatives in August. But when we got back and brought him home, the black scabs fell off, leaving a featherless face with a crooked beak topped by a gaping hole where there was once a nostril. Jon says, “Isn’t Bertie Wooster cute?” Yep. Even cuter than a Boston Terrier.

I’m done spending money on this pet. We have developed a procedure for fixing his beak when it grows too long and crooked for him to eat. You are supposed to take him to the vet ($35) and have his beak filed down ($15), but we find that a toenail clipper works just fine.
The real kicker? Remember why I bought the bird in the first place? I didn’t want a game system in my home. Well, about 8 months ago, David and Shannon pooled some of their money, and Shawn took them to Toys R Us, and they came home with a Gamecube. So I have gotten nothing, absolutely nothing, out of this whole deal. Nothing but hard work and vet bills.

The moral of the story: don’t ever buy a bird.

(But I know one you can have for free, if you want him.)*


*That last statement is no longer true. We gave Bertie Wooster and all of his paraphernalia away to some friends who loved him. He moved with them up to the Adirondack mountains where he died a happy and fulfilled bird, may he rest in peace.