the fortieth story

This one is also at the pet store, and happened relatively soon after I started, so not long after my 16th birthday. I include that as an anti embarrassment feature, because this is stupid even for me.

Whoever was opening the store would come in at least an hour before the shop was to open- this gave time to clean the cages, scoop out dead fish, and generally make the idea of having pets look appealing instead of like drudgery.Tasks included cleaning all the fish tanks; they were on one system, so you could simply set the siphon going in the end tank, effectively run the water backwards, and there you'd have it, clean water. It was, though, very important to stop running the siphon. The first morning I was there by myself, I forgot that last bit. I flooded the store pretty thoroughly. I had flooded it to the point that there was water flowing out the front door. And I couldn't find a damned mop. So I did what any self respecting young girl would do in a difficult situation- I called my dad. This was another of our entertainingly cryptic phone conversations. "Dad- do we have a mop at home?" "I'll be right there, Princess" (yes, my dad calls me princess sometimes. Drop it.) Between the two of us, we had the whole mess cleaned up well before opening, but my brand new boss, when she came in, was VERY suspicious of the clean floor.

the thirty ninth story

My first real paying job was at a pet store. At the pet store, we had birds. We also had fish, but fish don't really care one whit about people. Amongst the birds, we had some cockatiels, a small parrot, that sort of thing; those would live in the shop long enough that we would make good friends with them, and were always sad to see them go. We also had a big flight cage with parakeets. The parakeets were fairly cheap, and so made their way through the shop quite quickly- also there were so many of them, and they looked so similair, that it was hard, on our part, to make friends. We just didn't ever take them out and play with them. All they knew about us was that, occasionally, one of us would reach into the cage and grab a bird, who was never seen again. They didn't like us, and this was a reasonable conclusion on their part. One time, there was a little boy, and he had his eye on a particular bird. This always made things complex, but I was game. I waited till the one bird was near the door. I put down the internal gate so the other birds, further away, couldn't get out. I opened the door. I stuck my hand in. He attacked. I have never been so viciously and singlemindedly attacked by a living creature, before or since. This tiny bird wanted my blood. The way he was holding on, I couldn't get my hand out of the cage without potentially hurting the bird (for the purposes of this story, assume that this is synonymous with "It was impossible to get my hand out"). I also didn't want to make a scene, what with this kid and his parents there. So I stood there, trying to gently pry this nasty, malicious little creature from my hand. I did finally get him off.
I grabbed a different bird, and, with my injured hand behind my back, told the kid that the bird he wanted just wasn't very well behaved, and I'd chosen him a better match. He was pissy. His parents got pissy, demanding the first bird. I told them that, not only did they NOT want the first bird, I wasn't going to try to catch it again. This went back and forth for some minutes before I finally got sick of it, pulled my bloody hand from behind my back, and said "This! This is why!". They silently paid for the bird I'd chosen for them. And I have the silliest assortment of scars on my right hand.

the thirty eighth story

takes place right after the thirty seventh. In the end, we did not have what I would, as an adult, call snow. We had an icy covering on the grass, with maybe some hail pellets to make it look a little white. My brother and I, htough, were snow kids. We loved the snow. We loved snow men, and sledding, and the whole deal. Sadly, in addition to not having real snow, we also didn't have hills. My grandfather was in town, though, and while I have a lot of negative memories of that grandfather, this was one of those times when he put aside being an asshole for long enough to be one of the awesomest people on earth. He got my brother and I to put on our snowsuits, walked us down to the park, and spent the entire rest of the day- many hours- all the way to full dark- pulling as around the flat park in our sled. It couldn't have been any easier to pull than it would have been on a summer's day, but we were calling it snow, and wanted to go sledding on it, so he did it. It was fantastic.

the thirty seventh story

I was born in rural PA, but we moved to Florida when I was four. I missed the snow something fierce. The following winter, when I was in kindergarten, we got snow flurries. This had never happened. My teacher took us all out into the hallway, to  a big picture window, to watch the snow. I promptly walked back into the classroom, grabbed my (bright pink, faux) fur coat. Imagine, if you will, the tiniest girl in the class, the shy one who has to be badgered to so much as participate in saying the ABCs out loud with the class, and now imagine this bitty thing marching up to her teacher and announcing that she is going out to play in the snow. At first my teacher said no- school policy was not to let the kids out in the snow, for fear of colds. I held up my (pink faux) fur coat. Then she pointed out that she had to have her eye on the whole class, and couldn't let me out by myself, nor could she leave the class alone. I promised to stay by the window where she could see me. And then I walked past her, out the door, and caught snowflakes on my tongue while trying to make snow angels in a flurry.

the thirty sixth story

another story from Mali, this one very short. The Dogon country features some remarkable gorges. We stayed part of a day and two nights in a village located inside one of these, with very very tall, very very steep walls on two sides. There was a donkey in this village, too. He would bray, and, with the echoes, the sound simply never left the valley. It would bounce back and forth, the echoes echoing each other long after the donkey had brayed again, harmonizing with himself.

The Thirty Fifth Story

The Tornado Show:

A few years ago (maybe quite a few years ago?) I did Falcon Ridge Folk Festival as a vendor. Business was slow, but I was having a grand time, so that was ok. Two of my friends were along, helping out, so I was able to go see some music, and we were very near the main stage, so even while in the booth, things were not bad. Falcon Ridge folk festival is four or five days long, and the kinda thing where you camp on site and no one has any access to any information from the outside world (also, no one has soap or running water). It is grand. On the last day, while my friends were off at a contra dance thing, the wind picked up really suddenly. I stood up and grabbed the upper horizontal pole on the backside of my tent. Immediately, I felt the whole thing start tugging. Being the contrary person that I am, I dug my toes into the mud and held on- this put my face to the back wall, so when the hail started falling, there I was. I heard someone in the front of my booth. I was never able to let go long enough to turn around, and thus, have no idea what pronoun to use, but for the rest of the story we will go with "him" for no apparent reason. He shouted back at me (yes, it's only ten feet, yes, shouting was necessary) and asked if I wanted him to hold the front. I, naturally, said yes. He held the front of my tent and narrated as everything else started going down- first other vendor tents, then the cafeteria tent, then parts of the main stage. As the storm passed, he complimented me on my tent staking skills, said he thought things were good, and left. The friends came running back with information. A tornado had touched down at another spot on the farm, and more were expected within 15 minutes. I figured we could get out of there in ten. I sent one of the friends for the car, and the other and I packed everything up. Turns out I sent a person who can't drive stick to get my manual transmission car, but it did make it back, and we were, in fact, out of there in 7 minutes flat. I still think that's impossible, but as it is also impossible that my little ten by ten pavilion stood up to a tornado, you'll just have to  believe it.

The Thirty Fourth Story

There is nothing like being in a zoo after it closes; without the crowds, the animals can all let their hair down and relax, and you can hear their beaks slide through their feathers as they preen, and all their other subtle sounds.

There is also nothing like walking back to the front gate of a zoo and realizing you've been locked in for the last half hour.