SifuPhil
R.I.P. With Us In Spirit Only
- Location
- Pennsylvania, USA
As a young boy in 1965, a mere 7 years old, I was what they would nowadays call a "nerd". Science and Nature were my two main fascinations and I had dreams of becoming a Game Warden. I even sent out to the North American School of Conservation that hallowed year in hopes of learning how to "protect wildlife and arrest violators".
While waiting for that Holy Grail of Game Protection to arrive I decided it would be most profitable for me to spend some time attending to my own little menagerie, which I had collected purely in the name of scientific research. My basement laboratory (an 8'-long repurposed kitchen countertop on top of some cabinets my father had made and an old glass floor display case inherited from a local school) was already filled with the sounds and odors of my love of critters: tropical fish, goldfish, hamsters, gerbils, those little turtles that are now banned because of the diseases they carry, and, holding a place of some prominence on my lab bench, the chameleon, or as he is more technically known, the Anole.
"Andy", as I had named him ("Andy Anole" - 7-year-old wit), was a wonderful companion for an introverted young scientist and was often freed from his terrarium in order to have the run of the lab bench and, on special occasions such as his birthday, my HO-scale slot-car track table, a 4'x8' ping-pong table covered in track, plastic building models and crude scenery such as mountains and trees.
I like to think that he enjoyed those special times, playing Godzilla among the 1/2"-tall citizens of my little world. But then it would be back to his home just in time for his favorite dinner, mealworms.
Now the thing with mealworms wasn't so much their procurement - the local pet shop had them in abundance; rather, it was the storage of said worms for any decent length of time. Since Andy was just a tiny fella - maybe 6" long, tail included - and he truly relished those squiggly treats, the sad truth was that he couldn't eat more than a few during any one feeding. When you bought in bulk as I did, I think it was 100 worms in a little round Styrofoam container, you had to figure out some way to store them until it was time for their ultimate sacrifice.
I had read that mealworms ought to be stored at a temperature of around 35-40 degrees Fahrenheit, which just happened to coincide with the reading on our kitchen's refrigerator. So, to my 7-year-old brain, the solution was obvious.
When I first put the container in the fridge and Mom asked what it was, I told her it was part of my chemistry set - a chemical that had to be refrigerated. This seemed to satisfy her non-technical mind and the Cup-O'-Wigglies had found a new temporary home.
Until that fateful Saturday in August, that is. I remember that day being perfect - deep blue sky with a sprinkling of puffy white clouds, the birds singing and the entire world at peace with itself.
That would soon change, by my own hand. Literally.
Being summer and a weekend, I had no responsibilities except to my critters. I arose early and quickly, as a true Game Warden does, at around 6am for the morning feeding of my zoo.
I forgot what I had done with Andy's food. I spent a few minutes looking through my lab cabinets until I remembered where I had stored Andy's breakfast. I mounted the basement steps two at a time and made it to the fridge, opening the door while simultaneously thinking about the bike ride I would be taking with my best friend Michael Salerno that day.
Have you ever experienced that momentary pause when time seems to stretch between everyday affairs and stark, raving terror?
Yeah ... that was me.
It took a few seconds before my juvenile mind could comprehend what it saw. Inside that large refrigerated space, so carefully crafted by the Admiral Manufacturing Corporation and guaranteed for 10 years to be leak-proof and temperature-true, crawled 100 mealworms. They crawled over the milk bottles, they crawled over the apples. They slipped and slid over the cellophane-covered ground beef and they even appeared to be using the half watermelon as a skating rink. They were on the walls and on all of the shelves, in and out of the family food supply.
That's when Mom chose to come into the kitchen.
They say that trained opera singers can hit a certain frequency in their singing that can break glass. I'm here to say that that is entirely true.
Not only did glass break, but dogs within a 3-block radius were later reported to have suddenly begun howling and attempting to cover their ears.
Of course, that unearthly scream brought my father running, along with my sister and two brothers. Heidi, the family mutt, hid behind the couch shivering. They all got an early-morning wake-up call and were treated to the sight of the now-alive refrigerator.
Mom began retching uncontrollably, my sister joined in, my two brothers stumbled backwards in horror. Only my father, my brave, brave father, proved once again his courage and valor. He proceeded to set up the perk coffeepot, sat down at the kitchen table with his empty mug and, looking at me with a poorly-concealed smirk on his face, said:
"Well, Philip, how are you going to clean that up?"
As the Three Divine Beings of Tao are my witnesses the very first thought that entered my mind and escaped my lips was, "I'll bring Andy up - he'll take care of it!"
I guess I inherited my father's strange sense of humor, because he burst out laughing so hard that the empty coffee mug hit the floor and shattered as he slid out of his chair in helpless spasms. The rest of the family peered warily around the corner, trying to figure out what was so funny during such a horrible disaster.
"No, I think you should just take everything out of the fridge and put it in the sink, pick the worms off of everything and then wash everything down".
"NOOOOOO!" came yet another soul-searing shriek from my Mom. "I WILL NOT TOUCH THAT FOOD EVER EVER EVER AGAIN! THROW IT ALL OUT!!!"
And so it came to pass on that beautiful watercolor August day that I was forced to accompany my father on a quick drive to the local incinerator, the old blue Pontiac filled to the gills with boxes and bags of mostly-untouched foodstuffs and me trying my best to corral the odd runaway mealworm back into his prison before he could take up residence under the mohair upholstery. We did the deed and I felt like a mass murderer, but we got back home without my receiving a single smack on the bottom. I DID, however, receive a stern lecture from Mom about the future limits of my scientific endeavors (isn't that just like the older generation to try to hold back progress?), and it wasn't until Michael Salerno came over at 9am that I suddenly remembered that Andy hadn't had breakfast yet.
I sheepishly went into the kitchen looking for something appropriate for his morning meal. All that was left was the Wonder Bread in the bread box, some canned soup in the cabinet and in the overhead cupboard I finally found something Andy would like ...
Lucky Charms.
Michael and I spent an unplanned hour watching Andy chow down on hearts, moons, stars and clovers, and as we did so we both wondered what critters our trip that day would bring to us, because of course being the first Saturday of August it was officially Critter Collection Day.
While waiting for that Holy Grail of Game Protection to arrive I decided it would be most profitable for me to spend some time attending to my own little menagerie, which I had collected purely in the name of scientific research. My basement laboratory (an 8'-long repurposed kitchen countertop on top of some cabinets my father had made and an old glass floor display case inherited from a local school) was already filled with the sounds and odors of my love of critters: tropical fish, goldfish, hamsters, gerbils, those little turtles that are now banned because of the diseases they carry, and, holding a place of some prominence on my lab bench, the chameleon, or as he is more technically known, the Anole.
"Andy", as I had named him ("Andy Anole" - 7-year-old wit), was a wonderful companion for an introverted young scientist and was often freed from his terrarium in order to have the run of the lab bench and, on special occasions such as his birthday, my HO-scale slot-car track table, a 4'x8' ping-pong table covered in track, plastic building models and crude scenery such as mountains and trees.
I like to think that he enjoyed those special times, playing Godzilla among the 1/2"-tall citizens of my little world. But then it would be back to his home just in time for his favorite dinner, mealworms.
Now the thing with mealworms wasn't so much their procurement - the local pet shop had them in abundance; rather, it was the storage of said worms for any decent length of time. Since Andy was just a tiny fella - maybe 6" long, tail included - and he truly relished those squiggly treats, the sad truth was that he couldn't eat more than a few during any one feeding. When you bought in bulk as I did, I think it was 100 worms in a little round Styrofoam container, you had to figure out some way to store them until it was time for their ultimate sacrifice.
I had read that mealworms ought to be stored at a temperature of around 35-40 degrees Fahrenheit, which just happened to coincide with the reading on our kitchen's refrigerator. So, to my 7-year-old brain, the solution was obvious.
When I first put the container in the fridge and Mom asked what it was, I told her it was part of my chemistry set - a chemical that had to be refrigerated. This seemed to satisfy her non-technical mind and the Cup-O'-Wigglies had found a new temporary home.
Until that fateful Saturday in August, that is. I remember that day being perfect - deep blue sky with a sprinkling of puffy white clouds, the birds singing and the entire world at peace with itself.
That would soon change, by my own hand. Literally.
Being summer and a weekend, I had no responsibilities except to my critters. I arose early and quickly, as a true Game Warden does, at around 6am for the morning feeding of my zoo.
- Fish - check
- Hamster - check
- Gerbils - check
- Turtles - check
- Andy - Andy ... ummm ...
I forgot what I had done with Andy's food. I spent a few minutes looking through my lab cabinets until I remembered where I had stored Andy's breakfast. I mounted the basement steps two at a time and made it to the fridge, opening the door while simultaneously thinking about the bike ride I would be taking with my best friend Michael Salerno that day.
Have you ever experienced that momentary pause when time seems to stretch between everyday affairs and stark, raving terror?
Yeah ... that was me.
It took a few seconds before my juvenile mind could comprehend what it saw. Inside that large refrigerated space, so carefully crafted by the Admiral Manufacturing Corporation and guaranteed for 10 years to be leak-proof and temperature-true, crawled 100 mealworms. They crawled over the milk bottles, they crawled over the apples. They slipped and slid over the cellophane-covered ground beef and they even appeared to be using the half watermelon as a skating rink. They were on the walls and on all of the shelves, in and out of the family food supply.
That's when Mom chose to come into the kitchen.
They say that trained opera singers can hit a certain frequency in their singing that can break glass. I'm here to say that that is entirely true.
Not only did glass break, but dogs within a 3-block radius were later reported to have suddenly begun howling and attempting to cover their ears.
Of course, that unearthly scream brought my father running, along with my sister and two brothers. Heidi, the family mutt, hid behind the couch shivering. They all got an early-morning wake-up call and were treated to the sight of the now-alive refrigerator.
Mom began retching uncontrollably, my sister joined in, my two brothers stumbled backwards in horror. Only my father, my brave, brave father, proved once again his courage and valor. He proceeded to set up the perk coffeepot, sat down at the kitchen table with his empty mug and, looking at me with a poorly-concealed smirk on his face, said:
"Well, Philip, how are you going to clean that up?"
As the Three Divine Beings of Tao are my witnesses the very first thought that entered my mind and escaped my lips was, "I'll bring Andy up - he'll take care of it!"
I guess I inherited my father's strange sense of humor, because he burst out laughing so hard that the empty coffee mug hit the floor and shattered as he slid out of his chair in helpless spasms. The rest of the family peered warily around the corner, trying to figure out what was so funny during such a horrible disaster.
"No, I think you should just take everything out of the fridge and put it in the sink, pick the worms off of everything and then wash everything down".
"NOOOOOO!" came yet another soul-searing shriek from my Mom. "I WILL NOT TOUCH THAT FOOD EVER EVER EVER AGAIN! THROW IT ALL OUT!!!"
And so it came to pass on that beautiful watercolor August day that I was forced to accompany my father on a quick drive to the local incinerator, the old blue Pontiac filled to the gills with boxes and bags of mostly-untouched foodstuffs and me trying my best to corral the odd runaway mealworm back into his prison before he could take up residence under the mohair upholstery. We did the deed and I felt like a mass murderer, but we got back home without my receiving a single smack on the bottom. I DID, however, receive a stern lecture from Mom about the future limits of my scientific endeavors (isn't that just like the older generation to try to hold back progress?), and it wasn't until Michael Salerno came over at 9am that I suddenly remembered that Andy hadn't had breakfast yet.
I sheepishly went into the kitchen looking for something appropriate for his morning meal. All that was left was the Wonder Bread in the bread box, some canned soup in the cabinet and in the overhead cupboard I finally found something Andy would like ...
Lucky Charms.
Michael and I spent an unplanned hour watching Andy chow down on hearts, moons, stars and clovers, and as we did so we both wondered what critters our trip that day would bring to us, because of course being the first Saturday of August it was officially Critter Collection Day.
layful:
