It has been an amazing and beautiful year. Each day Ann Marie and I see our children grow and change. Although I do wonder sometimes just what it is exactly they are changing into…
My children appear to be those type of kids that enjoy picking up snakes and playing with them. They assign names to the snakes in the neighborhood and give them personality types. I can tolerate the actual touching of the snakes, but what freaks me out is the association I have with the type of kid that handles the snakes so readily. In my youth the kids that played with snakes were largely the same shirtless punks that excelled at climbing the legendary Grease Pole at the Banks Bar-B-Q. They were the anti-Huck Finns—belligerent and toothless but definitely uncute. The Snake Boys had names like "Guy," "Tater," or "Icky." I would pass them on my trudge to school and see one latched onto some old lady's dogwood tree with a garter snake clutched in his teeth. One of the Snake Boys would wear his older brother's underpants to school. He showed them off with pride. They were regular tight whites stamped with the words "Property of TILLAMOOK WORK CAMP." Could this be the path my children are destined to travel? Drifting from town to town, one grease pole to the next, sporting borrowed prison underwear and entertaining bemused onlookers with their troupe of wild reptiles.
I am also having trouble finding appropriate television shows to watch with Nina and Peter. It's not so much that the programming is inappropriate for them; it is finding something suitable for me. You see, back in my midwestern truck driving days there was this other driver at the warehouse named Dan. Dan was from Alabama. I'm killing time between loads in the coffee room, working the Tribune crossword when Dan wanders by and glances down at the paper. He stabs a greased stained finger at The Family Circus cartoon appearing next to the puzzle and grunts "Look at the jugs on her." He was referring to the immaculate wife of The Family Circus—P.J.'s mom! He stood for a moment, looking at the cartoon as a salacious smile crept across his face. He was still admiring her jugs. I shuddered as he walked away.
I shook the whole thing off and barricaded the episode in the recesses of my mind—until now. I'll be watching cartoons with the kids; PBS cartoons no less, something as pure and decent as Clifford the Big Red Dog, when it happens. A character will appear on screen such as Mrs. Harrington, Emily Elizabeth's teacher, when this voice inside my head whispers, "Look at the jugs on her." My intention is not to admire Mrs. Harrington's jugs; although if she doesn't want me to, why does she always wear the same red cartoon sweater? I didn't put the voice in my head nor can I stop it. I just want to be transported to carefree Birdwell Island and enjoy some lighthearted dog adventures. It's not supposed to be about jugs. Thank you Dan, now pre-school cartoons on public television make me feel unclean.
All things considered, the family is doing great. Nina is still awaiting extradition and Pete is due to stand trial in January. Ann Marie has fled the country and I am working nights on the kill floor of the poultry plant under an assumed name.
