Saturday, May 30, 2015
Quote of the Week
"There are lots of reasons why a girl might keep a fresh pair of undies in her purse. Some good. Some bad!"
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Surviving Winter--It's about
As an outdoor educator, one who really does know a thing or two about gathering wood and starting fires, running wilderness programs, tying knots, building emergency shelters and sleeping in snow caves-I can say that really? Those skills matter very little when it comes to surviving a long winter in Vermont.
It's not about keeping the heat up, or even on. It's not about paying propane bills, purchasing yet another electric heater, finding and using a blow dryer to thaw out pipes, pouring hot water into all the sink drains, tubs and showers. It's not even about keeping a woolen Army blanket in your car, a lighter, a sleeping bag, food and extra water. Not about keeping your car as full of gas as possible, having new snow tires, but keeping your vehicle turned around in your driveway to face the South, scraping snow and ice from every glass surface before daring to get into a frozen vehicle.
It's much more complicated than that; it's about mental survival.
It's about making yourself crawl out of a warm bed and being able to see your breath vapors...taking your showers in the evening because it's just too damned cold in the morning and not kidding yourself into thinking about turning up the heat on work-day mornings; you are just going to be at home one waking hour today, anyway.
It's about not allowing the defeatist weather channel and the two weather phone apps you follow to turn your frozen brain into mush. And if you know what's good for you, you had better not listen to your co-workers talk about the weather more than 15 or 20 times a day. Learning to spend hour upon hour alone in your little office, back turned to the window and the street. You need to learn to see every single teeny tiny speck of hope as a harbinger of spring--the sun that peeks through the gray haze one hour a month in December, the temperature difference between night and day in January, the short and dark month of February with Valentines' Day smack dab in the middle of it.
Yes, dress in layers (lest you perish), but have a little style! A fluffy down street-length coat with a hood can be accented with a nice, jaunty cashmere scarf. And everything you OWN need not be black. Your mood need not be either. Some people grow plants over the winter, religiously watering them and talking to them as if they are pets. Others do "family game nights" and order out pizza. They make every day special...living in their own quiet hazes of reality, humming little tunes, imagining what their gardens will look like come spring. Some folks even get together with friends in writing groups, book clubs or bowling leagues...anything to stave off the dread of yet another short day of sub-zero terror.
Surviving winter in Vermont is really only partially about not freezing to death.
It's not about keeping the heat up, or even on. It's not about paying propane bills, purchasing yet another electric heater, finding and using a blow dryer to thaw out pipes, pouring hot water into all the sink drains, tubs and showers. It's not even about keeping a woolen Army blanket in your car, a lighter, a sleeping bag, food and extra water. Not about keeping your car as full of gas as possible, having new snow tires, but keeping your vehicle turned around in your driveway to face the South, scraping snow and ice from every glass surface before daring to get into a frozen vehicle.
It's much more complicated than that; it's about mental survival.
It's about making yourself crawl out of a warm bed and being able to see your breath vapors...taking your showers in the evening because it's just too damned cold in the morning and not kidding yourself into thinking about turning up the heat on work-day mornings; you are just going to be at home one waking hour today, anyway.
It's about not allowing the defeatist weather channel and the two weather phone apps you follow to turn your frozen brain into mush. And if you know what's good for you, you had better not listen to your co-workers talk about the weather more than 15 or 20 times a day. Learning to spend hour upon hour alone in your little office, back turned to the window and the street. You need to learn to see every single teeny tiny speck of hope as a harbinger of spring--the sun that peeks through the gray haze one hour a month in December, the temperature difference between night and day in January, the short and dark month of February with Valentines' Day smack dab in the middle of it.
Yes, dress in layers (lest you perish), but have a little style! A fluffy down street-length coat with a hood can be accented with a nice, jaunty cashmere scarf. And everything you OWN need not be black. Your mood need not be either. Some people grow plants over the winter, religiously watering them and talking to them as if they are pets. Others do "family game nights" and order out pizza. They make every day special...living in their own quiet hazes of reality, humming little tunes, imagining what their gardens will look like come spring. Some folks even get together with friends in writing groups, book clubs or bowling leagues...anything to stave off the dread of yet another short day of sub-zero terror.
Surviving winter in Vermont is really only partially about not freezing to death.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Quitter or Survivor?
"Finish what you start" is my middle name. I don't always get it right or follow through with things at the PACE I should and generally speaking I am a procrastinator, but I do get things done. And my whole history on earth proves that. So instead of ticking off one after the other accomplishments in my life, suffice it to say I am no quitter.
Or am I?
I mean, I never quit relationships when they're done. That makes me STUPID, but no quitter. I never leave a JOB when they are done with me; instead I fight to the very bitter end, tents drawn up, horses packed, side walks dusted, train whistles blowing, planes roaring overhead...and there I am, looking around asking, "What? What's going on? Where's everybody going in such a hurry?" Clueless I am but a quitter? I am not.
So when I (a public servant) decided --admittedly on a whim-- that I wasn't doing enough working fulltime (40+ hours a week) for the parks and recreation department, commuting 10 hours a week, volunteering for my hometown planning/zoning AND recreation committees, as well as just having started a "writer's group"--something that became an instant "hit". I decided to become an EMT!
Now, I had gone through many similar courses: backcountry first aid and advanced first aid, First Responder, not to mention a myriad of other like annual courses that I took due to the nature of my public service WORK. So when this "crisis of great magnitude" came up in my social community on-line bulletin board known as FRONT PAGE FORUM, I just HAD to respond.
Red flags pop up in life and in this case early. I told my sisters about my plan and they texted back "cool" and "nice"-- my sisters are NOT sisters of few words. I briefly thought "wait just a minute" and then ignored my intuition..something I KNOW never to do, and proceeded to run right up to the squad room and "sign up". I was vetted by the "board" and did some paperwork (W-9, letting them photocopy my passport, etc. and I think I may have signed a document promising to do something or other, but I'm not entirely certain.) I picked up the 9 pound book and off I went two nights per week from 6-9 pm and all-day Saturdays until (it seemed) practically the end of time.
Now, I couldn't see anything wrong with it except that I started being quizzed and tested, got 65, 65, 87 and 70 on those tests and the thought "Would you want a doctor who got a 70 on his surgery test taking out your appendix?" popped into my head several times over the following weeks. I needed to be sure but I was already IN it. Knee deep. I was trepidatious all the while. But did I quit? NO Not for some time. Instead I made a list inside my head of reasons I signed up in the first place. Or the reason.
As I said before, I am a public servant. I'm paid to be one, but still...I work for the good of the public. And my volunteer jobs speak highly of the time I am willing to waste...sitting on boards being told by members of my own community that I have no power. Funny, I always think, I'm on THIS side of the table and YOU? Are not. One man one vote and all, but I can sway a room if I say absolutely nothing for about an hour whilst concocting a REALLY good statement about why everyone should vote my way. It usually works. Well, if usually means always, it usually works.
But convincing myself of anything is a bit different. Doesn't always work. It's like Jerry Seinfeld's joke about ending any relationship being like knocking down a Coke machine, "It doesn't always go over with the first push. You gotta rock it back and forth a few times!" So my getting rid of them before they got rid of me was a tough one. Guilt plagued me. Second and third thoughts made me uneasy. After all, hadn't I SAID I was doing this to "give back" to my community? How can someone undo a statement like that?..Did I really do that? Did I quit something in order to survive? If so, it is singly the FIRST time I have ever done it! So congratulations are, indeed, in order.
(more to come)...
Or am I?
I mean, I never quit relationships when they're done. That makes me STUPID, but no quitter. I never leave a JOB when they are done with me; instead I fight to the very bitter end, tents drawn up, horses packed, side walks dusted, train whistles blowing, planes roaring overhead...and there I am, looking around asking, "What? What's going on? Where's everybody going in such a hurry?" Clueless I am but a quitter? I am not.
So when I (a public servant) decided --admittedly on a whim-- that I wasn't doing enough working fulltime (40+ hours a week) for the parks and recreation department, commuting 10 hours a week, volunteering for my hometown planning/zoning AND recreation committees, as well as just having started a "writer's group"--something that became an instant "hit". I decided to become an EMT!
Now, I had gone through many similar courses: backcountry first aid and advanced first aid, First Responder, not to mention a myriad of other like annual courses that I took due to the nature of my public service WORK. So when this "crisis of great magnitude" came up in my social community on-line bulletin board known as FRONT PAGE FORUM, I just HAD to respond.
Red flags pop up in life and in this case early. I told my sisters about my plan and they texted back "cool" and "nice"-- my sisters are NOT sisters of few words. I briefly thought "wait just a minute" and then ignored my intuition..something I KNOW never to do, and proceeded to run right up to the squad room and "sign up". I was vetted by the "board" and did some paperwork (W-9, letting them photocopy my passport, etc. and I think I may have signed a document promising to do something or other, but I'm not entirely certain.) I picked up the 9 pound book and off I went two nights per week from 6-9 pm and all-day Saturdays until (it seemed) practically the end of time.
Now, I couldn't see anything wrong with it except that I started being quizzed and tested, got 65, 65, 87 and 70 on those tests and the thought "Would you want a doctor who got a 70 on his surgery test taking out your appendix?" popped into my head several times over the following weeks. I needed to be sure but I was already IN it. Knee deep. I was trepidatious all the while. But did I quit? NO Not for some time. Instead I made a list inside my head of reasons I signed up in the first place. Or the reason.
As I said before, I am a public servant. I'm paid to be one, but still...I work for the good of the public. And my volunteer jobs speak highly of the time I am willing to waste...sitting on boards being told by members of my own community that I have no power. Funny, I always think, I'm on THIS side of the table and YOU? Are not. One man one vote and all, but I can sway a room if I say absolutely nothing for about an hour whilst concocting a REALLY good statement about why everyone should vote my way. It usually works. Well, if usually means always, it usually works.
But convincing myself of anything is a bit different. Doesn't always work. It's like Jerry Seinfeld's joke about ending any relationship being like knocking down a Coke machine, "It doesn't always go over with the first push. You gotta rock it back and forth a few times!" So my getting rid of them before they got rid of me was a tough one. Guilt plagued me. Second and third thoughts made me uneasy. After all, hadn't I SAID I was doing this to "give back" to my community? How can someone undo a statement like that?..Did I really do that? Did I quit something in order to survive? If so, it is singly the FIRST time I have ever done it! So congratulations are, indeed, in order.
(more to come)...
Monday, May 11, 2015
Surviving an Out of Control Ski Program
It wasn't as if I wanted to do it; in fact I did protest. And got into trouble for it from my supervisor AND HIS AND HERS. And none of them particularly liked or trusted me from the get-go. Mostly, it was that he (I will call him "Harry") didn't want to do it himself. So he had no choice but to put me (at least on paper) in charge. I did notice early on that when Harry sent emails to parents, he signed them with his name. When I sent out emails, I signed both of our names. I also noticed that although the plan was to keep me "in the loop"? Old Harry only managed to do that about half of the time. The other times I just found out about things like cancellations and important matters like that the usual way---in the hallway or bathroom--or from a parent text with a question I couldn't answer because HARRY had sent the information without cc'ing me.
So when the first night of the ski program, a 12 year old girl got "clothes lined" (sent spread eagle, rope across her chest, arms outstretched like she was hanging FROM a clothes line) off the slopes and into the woods, it was actually good that someone (me) with some experience was actually there to deal with it...after having her put "in the basket" and checked out by Ski Patrol, written the accident report and followed up with her (not impressed) mother, I felt kind of as if my physical presence== although 12 Friday nights ping phew! going to the wind-- might be warranted.
A few weeks later, a boy broke an ankle snowboarding into or not into something (since there was nothing there) and I had the lovely job of hauling him in the back of my Subaru to the ER in a blinding snowstorm after an hour of Ski Patrol communications and decision-making phone calls, texts to Harry who was snug as a bug at home. The ride to the ER is normally 30 minutes and it took at least an hour. Not to mention the kid's parents didn't bother to show up for 1/2 hour although he shouted at them in Vietnamese quite a bit more than once to "get there." That night I got home at 10:45 and heard Harry's laughter in my sleep, "Better you than me, sucker. Better you than me.!"
The next time we went up, a third kid was snowboarding just before we were to pack them all on the busses, CRACK! Broken wrist.Three major issues in 9 nights. Even I could do that math: one third of all the times we went up? Something went down. At one point I thought, if the KIDS can't even survive this ski program, how the hell can I?
So our superintendent, whose name is not but I will call Marta, decided that we need to go back to our good old plan and get the little kids skiing again. Teach them young so when they are 'tweens and teens they might be more careful. And this was something I agreed to. Now, when she said this, none of us knew she was right about to retire. And her successor is none other than Harry.
Snow conditions in New England are iffy, at best, and are not improving as global warming seethes in our midst. These past two winters--ones during which yours truly spent EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT up on that mountain, were horrendous featuring 44 days in succession where the temperature did not go above freezing. This isn't that unusual in Vermont if you spend your whole life here. Every 20 years or so we get rain on Christmas or snow in June. So you never know. But what I do know is that if I am going to be "in charge" of this out of control ski program and survive it, there are going to be some changes. I want to make the decisions. At least then? if it all goes clothes lined? I will have nobody else to blame.
So when the first night of the ski program, a 12 year old girl got "clothes lined" (sent spread eagle, rope across her chest, arms outstretched like she was hanging FROM a clothes line) off the slopes and into the woods, it was actually good that someone (me) with some experience was actually there to deal with it...after having her put "in the basket" and checked out by Ski Patrol, written the accident report and followed up with her (not impressed) mother, I felt kind of as if my physical presence== although 12 Friday nights ping phew! going to the wind-- might be warranted.
A few weeks later, a boy broke an ankle snowboarding into or not into something (since there was nothing there) and I had the lovely job of hauling him in the back of my Subaru to the ER in a blinding snowstorm after an hour of Ski Patrol communications and decision-making phone calls, texts to Harry who was snug as a bug at home. The ride to the ER is normally 30 minutes and it took at least an hour. Not to mention the kid's parents didn't bother to show up for 1/2 hour although he shouted at them in Vietnamese quite a bit more than once to "get there." That night I got home at 10:45 and heard Harry's laughter in my sleep, "Better you than me, sucker. Better you than me.!"
The next time we went up, a third kid was snowboarding just before we were to pack them all on the busses, CRACK! Broken wrist.Three major issues in 9 nights. Even I could do that math: one third of all the times we went up? Something went down. At one point I thought, if the KIDS can't even survive this ski program, how the hell can I?
So our superintendent, whose name is not but I will call Marta, decided that we need to go back to our good old plan and get the little kids skiing again. Teach them young so when they are 'tweens and teens they might be more careful. And this was something I agreed to. Now, when she said this, none of us knew she was right about to retire. And her successor is none other than Harry.
Snow conditions in New England are iffy, at best, and are not improving as global warming seethes in our midst. These past two winters--ones during which yours truly spent EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT up on that mountain, were horrendous featuring 44 days in succession where the temperature did not go above freezing. This isn't that unusual in Vermont if you spend your whole life here. Every 20 years or so we get rain on Christmas or snow in June. So you never know. But what I do know is that if I am going to be "in charge" of this out of control ski program and survive it, there are going to be some changes. I want to make the decisions. At least then? if it all goes clothes lined? I will have nobody else to blame.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Surviving a Staycation Spare Room Spring Cleaning
Now, it wasn't as if I wanted the thing around and to be honest I already had one AND it wasn't mine. So giving away that giant nativity scene was no big deal. My roommate, Bella, kept saying, "When we have our lawn sale I am SOOOO selling that nativity set." Of course, it was months until "lawn sale season" and I, for one, could wait no longer.
I was on vacation or "staycation" (where you just stay around the area and spend your money locally instead of giving it to some resort, say) as many others do, since the Great Recession. Nobody goes anywhere anymore. And if they do, they don't post pics on Facebook so, really? It's as if they don't vacation at all--(much like in the world or emergency services: if you don't write it down, it didn't happen.)
It took me two days of this Staycation to muster up the courage, but on Day Three I did, indeed, dare open the spare bedroom door and enter. Or, try to. It was full to the brim with boxes and tubs and winter clothing, snowshoes, broken umbrellas and old doors... scrap wood, paint cans and Venetian blinds that might or might not fit one of the 18 windows of this house someone unloaded on me. Usually I drink beer when I clean, (you know, to get through it) but it was 10 am and mid week...so I sucked down coffee and water and told myself I would "begin this project" --not that I would clean this room...even I know myself well enough to know that saying anything definitive about that room would end up with me slamming the door, grabbing car keys and driving at least 10 miles down the road. And if I even thought about looking back, it would be in the rear view mirror.
So I did what I always do when faced with doom: I took three deep breaths and asked myself this: How am I going to survive this staycation spare room spring cleaning? Treat it like an adventure!
I did find, not one but TWO Christmas tree stands; one in a box and one just on the floor with pieces of freshly broken glass all over it. I found two large counter tops (one I have absolutely no recollection of ever putting in there) many boxes of paperwork from as far back as high school English classes and almost nothing of any value. Cleaning makes me hot and frustrated...I hate the mess and half way through inevitably start swearing and feeling melancholy and defeatist all at the same time. So I was almost to the closed and locked window cursing myself and God for the SHIT in this room and the MESS I was in and at one point I did scream ( at least one time) "SOME FUCKING VACATION!" Ok, I may have said that more than once. Then I got the brilliant idea of opening the window, ripping off the screen, tossing the screen out the window and tossing anything burnable out...the plan wasn't to toss things ONTO the screen, but of course that happened, too, in my urgency and heated up state.
Now, you'd THINK that I would have put on shoes for this venture, right? Oh, no, not I! I tiptoed around that broken glass (getting only two pieces actually pierced into my right foot) until I found the floor and a space large enough to vacuum.
Now, when you share a vacuum cleaner with a legally blind person, guess who has to empty out the vacuum cleaner? Yup. So after the thing "calved" as we say in Vermont, I dragged it outside and emptied all the cat dander and organic corn cat litter (yes, I am allergic) into a plastic garbage bag that just happened to be half full and residing on the porch--which then commenced my sneezing attack. Oh, did I mention that it was 80 degrees F and humid? This was coming along so very nicely, I had to continue.
I went back into the room, lugging the dusty excuse for a vacuum and swearing under my breath this time because we have neighborhood kids and many of them. I am a lot of things but a drunken sailor on leave I am not. Heat rash developing on both inner arms, and hunger pangs stripping me of strength (hadn't any time to eat), I persevered dragging two single mattresses from the room and throwing them with all the gusto I could muster out the bedroom door and onto the kitchen island with yet another crash. "First rule of moving something is clear a path!" I reminded myself a bit too late. When I got to the very large box that was taped with blue painters' tape (just about as good an adhesive as a 3-M sticker), masking tape (called that because it masks actually being tape) and Scotch tape (smells good, does nothing to hold overflowing boxes together), I decided to throw the thing out the window. Decided isn't accurate. It was more like: THROW AT the window hoping it would miraculously exit the building and NOT land on the screen window. Which it did. With a crash and some tinkles. I thought, "Cress Crash" and then "SHIT I probably just killed the baby Jesus. And I'm pretty sure you go straight to Hell for something like that."
Eventually I left the house and dragged myself into the steaming noon heat. Checked on my rabbit, Dory, in her hutch who was panting and about to drop dead. Shit. Sidetracked. Not good. Moved the table umbrella--heavy and really long--to shade her hutch--or tried to. CRAP. I checked on her minutes later after a water break and couldn't leave her there so I brought Dory--who ALWAYS gives me a hard time about picking her up even when she's on her last pant--into the shade and cool, clean white Heaven of the bathroom tiles.
It was way past lunch time by the time I finished vacuuming and put the two mattresses on the clean floor by the window. I found clean sheets and pillows and made the bed in time for my 7 year old niece to come over, put on a cape I had made her with her very own name on it and FLY onto the bed saying, "This is comfy!" with a crazy smile because her upper two milk teeth stick straight out. "She's seven," is my sister's answer when asked about those bucky beavers. She won't let any of us pull them so they just hang there looking very much like Dory's. So, it was all worth it until my roommate eventually did open the box. Jesus was still ok, but the angel's hand had been severed, as had Mary's and Joseph's. AND the head of the "little drummer boy", who was always my favorite character in the story. Oddly, the swan was ok (who knew swans were part of the Jesus story) a sleeping dog (again, who knew?) and the ox and the ass. Well, one of them. I, the other ass--and one for whom in hindsight I'm guessing God is gunning for right now, turned out ok. Survived the staycation spare room spring cleaning, anyway!
I was on vacation or "staycation" (where you just stay around the area and spend your money locally instead of giving it to some resort, say) as many others do, since the Great Recession. Nobody goes anywhere anymore. And if they do, they don't post pics on Facebook so, really? It's as if they don't vacation at all--(much like in the world or emergency services: if you don't write it down, it didn't happen.)
It took me two days of this Staycation to muster up the courage, but on Day Three I did, indeed, dare open the spare bedroom door and enter. Or, try to. It was full to the brim with boxes and tubs and winter clothing, snowshoes, broken umbrellas and old doors... scrap wood, paint cans and Venetian blinds that might or might not fit one of the 18 windows of this house someone unloaded on me. Usually I drink beer when I clean, (you know, to get through it) but it was 10 am and mid week...so I sucked down coffee and water and told myself I would "begin this project" --not that I would clean this room...even I know myself well enough to know that saying anything definitive about that room would end up with me slamming the door, grabbing car keys and driving at least 10 miles down the road. And if I even thought about looking back, it would be in the rear view mirror.
So I did what I always do when faced with doom: I took three deep breaths and asked myself this: How am I going to survive this staycation spare room spring cleaning? Treat it like an adventure!
I did find, not one but TWO Christmas tree stands; one in a box and one just on the floor with pieces of freshly broken glass all over it. I found two large counter tops (one I have absolutely no recollection of ever putting in there) many boxes of paperwork from as far back as high school English classes and almost nothing of any value. Cleaning makes me hot and frustrated...I hate the mess and half way through inevitably start swearing and feeling melancholy and defeatist all at the same time. So I was almost to the closed and locked window cursing myself and God for the SHIT in this room and the MESS I was in and at one point I did scream ( at least one time) "SOME FUCKING VACATION!" Ok, I may have said that more than once. Then I got the brilliant idea of opening the window, ripping off the screen, tossing the screen out the window and tossing anything burnable out...the plan wasn't to toss things ONTO the screen, but of course that happened, too, in my urgency and heated up state.
Now, you'd THINK that I would have put on shoes for this venture, right? Oh, no, not I! I tiptoed around that broken glass (getting only two pieces actually pierced into my right foot) until I found the floor and a space large enough to vacuum.
Now, when you share a vacuum cleaner with a legally blind person, guess who has to empty out the vacuum cleaner? Yup. So after the thing "calved" as we say in Vermont, I dragged it outside and emptied all the cat dander and organic corn cat litter (yes, I am allergic) into a plastic garbage bag that just happened to be half full and residing on the porch--which then commenced my sneezing attack. Oh, did I mention that it was 80 degrees F and humid? This was coming along so very nicely, I had to continue.
I went back into the room, lugging the dusty excuse for a vacuum and swearing under my breath this time because we have neighborhood kids and many of them. I am a lot of things but a drunken sailor on leave I am not. Heat rash developing on both inner arms, and hunger pangs stripping me of strength (hadn't any time to eat), I persevered dragging two single mattresses from the room and throwing them with all the gusto I could muster out the bedroom door and onto the kitchen island with yet another crash. "First rule of moving something is clear a path!" I reminded myself a bit too late. When I got to the very large box that was taped with blue painters' tape (just about as good an adhesive as a 3-M sticker), masking tape (called that because it masks actually being tape) and Scotch tape (smells good, does nothing to hold overflowing boxes together), I decided to throw the thing out the window. Decided isn't accurate. It was more like: THROW AT the window hoping it would miraculously exit the building and NOT land on the screen window. Which it did. With a crash and some tinkles. I thought, "Cress Crash" and then "SHIT I probably just killed the baby Jesus. And I'm pretty sure you go straight to Hell for something like that."
Eventually I left the house and dragged myself into the steaming noon heat. Checked on my rabbit, Dory, in her hutch who was panting and about to drop dead. Shit. Sidetracked. Not good. Moved the table umbrella--heavy and really long--to shade her hutch--or tried to. CRAP. I checked on her minutes later after a water break and couldn't leave her there so I brought Dory--who ALWAYS gives me a hard time about picking her up even when she's on her last pant--into the shade and cool, clean white Heaven of the bathroom tiles.
It was way past lunch time by the time I finished vacuuming and put the two mattresses on the clean floor by the window. I found clean sheets and pillows and made the bed in time for my 7 year old niece to come over, put on a cape I had made her with her very own name on it and FLY onto the bed saying, "This is comfy!" with a crazy smile because her upper two milk teeth stick straight out. "She's seven," is my sister's answer when asked about those bucky beavers. She won't let any of us pull them so they just hang there looking very much like Dory's. So, it was all worth it until my roommate eventually did open the box. Jesus was still ok, but the angel's hand had been severed, as had Mary's and Joseph's. AND the head of the "little drummer boy", who was always my favorite character in the story. Oddly, the swan was ok (who knew swans were part of the Jesus story) a sleeping dog (again, who knew?) and the ox and the ass. Well, one of them. I, the other ass--and one for whom in hindsight I'm guessing God is gunning for right now, turned out ok. Survived the staycation spare room spring cleaning, anyway!
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