Ginger
July 12, 1997 –
February 13, 2013
I miss that girl.
I mean I really miss her. The
quiet, gentle soul that followed me through my day, always wanting to be close
by. My protector. Not protecting my safety, exactly. It was more than that. She protected my well-being. Oh, sure, she was a loving member of the
household, happily taking her place with her pack. Rough-housing with Henry on the floor;
cuddling with Katie and begging treats when no one else was looking; sharing
deep thoughts with Andrew, who scrunched up her face in his hands and spoke in
a language only they understood. Always
there for Peter, welcoming him home every day from work, and waiting patiently
for that special tummy scratch that always hit the right spot.
I could wax eloquently about her marvelous attributes.
Instead, I want to honor that part of her that was so much larger than her wonderful
doggie personality. She had the biggest
heart and no one in our family escaped the reach of her unconditional
love. We often joked that she had the
highest emotional intelligence in the family and that is surely true. Whenever anyone suffered an injury, Ginger was
immediately there to lick the wound, or standby with a concerned look, tail
wagging. She’d say without saying, I am here for you and it is going to be
OK. Just give me a pat and you’ll feel
better. She always inserted herself in
the middle of any argument, because discord in her pack was not OK. She did her level best to nose
her way into the discussion, reminding us, hey, don’t you love each other? Don’t you love me? Aren’t we a family? Here, give me a pat and you’ll both feel
better.
All during those years of sending husband and kids off to
work and school, I had a trusty companion.
As close and reliable as my shadow. What more could you ask of a true friend than
constancy? She loved our routines and embraced any novelties. As long as she could be by my side she was
happy. Even on dark days, I always felt
there was no sorrow or sadness that couldn’t be eased by her presence. I never felt lonely; I never lacked for
someone to talk to or share a meaningful glance with. She would so often say without saying, isn’t
this a wonderful life here in this pretty home, with the sunshine pouring in
and everything we truly need right here?
And how about a little walk to clear our heads and offer a fresh
perspective on things? And of course,
what we really need to do soon is head in to the kitchen and fix something
yummy to eat . . .
Like any dog, she had her favorite things, and these
memories will burn the brightest and bring the sharpest sweetest pain. She loved finding a dead fish to roll in at
the river, imparting a perfume only she could appreciate. Wriggling on her back in fresh snow, with unbridled
joy. Stretching out on cool tile, under
flouncy sheer curtains, with nose protruding so we could find her. Stealing a sock and playing ‘catch me if you
can’, racing around furniture at daredevil speed. Swimming with her family in the pool, and
more specifically, gracefully diving in.
Giving that shake of her collar to voice her opinion, hey don’t forget
about me I’m here yes let’s go. And
hearing that wonderful sound, the cracking of an egg, and running to the
kitchen to find out if, by any chance, it landed on the floor.
To write a tribute to Ginger is to write a tribute to the
sunshine; I can’t think of one without the other. When I think of her I see that happy face,
tongue hanging out, tail wagging, bright brown eyes shining, warm sun
reflecting off white fur. She filled
this house with love the way the sunshine fills it with light. There isn’t any part of this house that doesn’t
hold a little memory of her. It is going
to be a very long time before I can walk past her sunny spot on the rug in the
kitchen without thinking of her presence in that room. Or any room.
I can’t escape it. But maybe I
shouldn’t try. Maybe I should welcome
each memory as a gift. She is still here
for me, still saying without saying, I love you. It is going to be OK.
###
The Best Customer Review
(posted 8/31/12)
Like many of you, I hate
to shop. I wish I could just snap my
fingers and have whatever it is I need already purchased and unpacked and up
and running in my home. One of the reasons
I dislike shopping is that I am compulsive about finding the most aesthetically
pleasing, highest quality, most fairly priced -- hopefully on sale, and in some
cases locally produced, fairly traded, and ecologically mindful product out
there. This takes time. Lots of it.
Thank goodness for the
internet! Someone like me would never
hit that sweet spot without it. What is
my secret to success? The customer
review. God bless the person at
Amazon.com who came up with the idea to publish customer reviews of everything
under the sun. It is always the first
place I start no matter what I am buying or where I plan to buy it. Anything you want to know about anything,
from electric toothbrushes to power washers, can be found at the touch of the
Customer Reviews button. There is
literally a sea of information out there for anyone willing to wade into these
opinionated waters.
There is an art to reading
the customer review, I have concluded.
You could spend your life reading what others have to say and never be
able to conclude anything, for all the variety and inconsistency out
there. I look for trends. I develop loyalties and shortcuts. Here is what I look for in a reliable
customer review:
First, who is the person
reviewing the item? This is sometimes
hard to tell, but I like to try to find someone sort of like me. That is to say, not super young. Someone more seasoned in life and who brings
some wisdom to the table. You can spot
the young shoppers a mile away, with their texting style of writing, LOL. I just can’t take that seriously. Sorry.
I also like a review by
someone who has owned the thing a while.
What good is a customer review from someone who just took the blouse out
of the box and says, “Oh it is so cute and I can’t wait to try it on!” I want to know did it fit according to
size? Are the sleeves long enough? Does it wash well? How does it hold up over
six months or a year?
The reviews by return
customers are almost always a safe bet.
They guy who is purchasing the exact same wallet when the old one
finally gave out after ten years. The
woman who purchased the same slippers for everyone in her family, grandparents
and aunts and uncles included. The couple
who returns to the same beach resort year after year even after they tried all
the others in the same area. These are
easy to find, scanning the reviews, because they always start with a
declaration, “This is the BEST . . . ” and then they go on to convincingly
explain their unflagging loyalty. I love
those folks and wish I could thank them personally for helping me find the best
gifts, the best clothes, the best vacation destinations, and the best things
for my home.
I really appreciate
reviews by self-described experts: people like the mother of six who knows a
thing or two about dishwashers, the Little League baseball coach recommending
his favorite mitt, or the interior decorator who has purchased bamboo blinds
for every window in her home. These are
the real gems, in the world of customer reviews, because you know they are
telling you the truth. Sometimes it is
brutal. When shopping for a new vacuum
cleaner, I discovered a whole sub-set of people who really obsess over this
appliance. After performing multiple
experiments or after purchasing multiple brands of vacuums, they write pages of
scathingly harsh reviews about features of a vacuum I never even
considered: noise level, length of the
cord, ease of changing the bag, weight, and of course there is much to discuss
about the never-ending debate -- upright vs. canister. The most hilarious review was by a fellow who
went on a rant about the Dyson vacuum.
He hated everything about the machine, most especially the instruction
manual, which, he reported, has no words.
Instead, the manual explains the care and maintenance of this ridiculously
expensive piece of equipment using universal language illustrations. You know, those symbols that are meant to be intelligible
to future archaeologists and aliens visiting from outer space but are worthless
to the homeowner trying to figure out how to disassemble the vacuum to get the
HEPA filter out.
I sometimes wonder about
the life these folks lead, these self-described experts obviously on a mission
to educate the rest of us about the minutia of the product they purchased. I mean really, who takes the time to write a
thoughtful, lengthy essay about a blender or edge trimmer or pair of shoes they
purchased a year ago? What kind of
person feels compelled to tell strangers about their terrific or awful purchase
long after the thrill of the new thing has worn off? The most amazing review I ever read was
written by a computer programmer who had purchased a front-loading washing
machine. He, bless him, had sat with a
stop watch in front of the washer and had timed every step of every cycle with
every option that the machine had to offer.
He was particularly assessing whether this high efficiency washer used
enough water to properly clean and rinse every kind of load imaginable. He practically constructed a spreadsheet of
information, critiquing the design, operation, performance and maintenance of
this machine over the two years he had owned it. It must have taken him days to do this! But what a bonanza of unbiased information!
While I have benefited
enormously over the years from truthful customer reviews, I have yet to
actually ever write one. I fear that if
I write one, I will feel compelled to write another, and another. I will get sucked in to the ether and never
re-emerge in the land of the living. I
mean, who among us does not have an opinion to share about something we own? Isn’t it an instinct to crow a little when we
find something that works brilliantly, exceeds our expectations, or saves us a
bundle? And don’t we all have that urge
every now and then to really explode when something we bought is a complete
lemon? I resist these urges because I
know I’m the kind of person who would feel compelled to report the whole
story. I would measure new clothing with
a tape measure to make sure it is sized accurately, calculate the gas mileage
of new yard equipment, and translate owner’s manuals, cover to cover, into
proper English. It would become a
full-time obsession.
I am, however, going to
indulge just this one time. If I am ever
called upon to write one customer review, this is what I would offer:
Cuisinart DGB-600BC
Grind & Brew, Brushed Chrome coffee maker
We bought this sleek, brushed
chrome coffee maker nine years ago because it a) fit nicely on the kitchen
counter under the cabinets, b) matched the stainless steel look of the kitchen,
and c) is made by Cuisinart, a brand I trust for quality and customer service. Sure enough, it grinds fresh beans and brews
a nice, hot gourmet cup of coffee when you want it. Hooray!
But be forewarned: the grinder sounds like a jet engine revving up with
twice the normal decibel level of, say, your sink disposal. So it is a convenient way to wake up any lazy
members of the household who are still slumbering when you are in the kitchen
making their breakfast. Another
convenient feature: the thermal carafe, which keeps the coffee hot without
cooking it. With the special vacuum-sealed
lid, you have to tip the carafe at a steeper angle than you’d imagine in order
to pour the coffee out. This takes
getting used to but is not a big deal. I
will point out that you will inevitably forget to inform any houseguests of
this idiosyncrasy, and when they go to get their coffee, they will unscrew the
lid (thus losing the vacuum seal which keeps the coffee hot) and make a mess
when they pour. If you are trying to
economize, it is a great way to discourage coffee consumption amongst
visitors.
All of this functionality
is packaged in a remarkably compact unit, which includes a black plastic water
reservoir with a stepped cup measure against the inside wall. Sadly in my kitchen, there is no spotlight
above the coffee maker, so peering down in to the black reservoir to add water,
one has to estimate the 2-, 4-, or 6- cup mark.
It is easier just to make a full pot, except you won’t have many folks
to share it with (see visitor note, above).
Amazingly, the grinding unit is tucked inside this reservoir area, which
keeps the design of the machine clean and sophisticated. However, I think the product designer forgot
to consult with the product engineer on this feature. As the water heats up in the reservoir, steam
travels over to the grinding chamber and turns the residue of coffee grounds to
mud, making cleanup a challenge. But I
knew what I was signing up for when we bought an expensive machine that grinds
and brews all in one go. This isn’t for
coffee sissies. We paid extra for
this! At least that is what I told
myself the first few months we owned this machine. Every night we’d disassemble the unit,
removing the carafe, the grinder, the lid of the grinder, the basket, and the
washable filter. The daily cleanup
routine went well until the grinder, after months of coffee steam baths,
refused to eject from its niche. It was
stuck in there but good and no amount of hollering and yanking would release
it. Finally it did let go, sending me
flying backwards and launching it to the ceiling, creating an interesting
coffee ground splatter pattern up there.
I called Cuisinart the next day and was pleased they were attentive to
my complaint. They sent me a new
grinding assembly right away, no questions asked.
We got along fine with the
new grinding assembly for about two years.
Then, sadly, it got gummed up in the works like its predecessor. Cuisinart Customer Service was less helpful
this time, since the coffee maker had gone off warranty. I ended up purchasing a new grinding
assembly, though, figuring it was less expensive than purchasing a new
machine. Another three or four years
went by without incident, until it started jamming up again. By this time, we had discovered several
tricks to keep this from happening on a daily basis (namely, make sure
everything is completely dry before reassembling), and out of laziness or sheer
stubbornness, we never got around to fixing it.
It still made a decent cup of coffee, after all.
One day, though, after
months of flawless cleanup, the grinder seemed to be cemented to its spot. No
amount of tugging and prying would loosen it.
I tried everything, even a screwdriver, to force the assembly
loose. Out of frustration, I reached in
with two hands and grabbed the two grinding blades. What was I thinking? Yes, this did the trick. The grinding chamber popped out. However, it resulted in a trip to the
emergency room. They are not called
‘blades’ for no reason. As an aside, if
you are going to have an accident brought on by stupidity, I don’t recommend
doing it on a Sunday evening. The
emergency room was crammed with folks who had waited all weekend with their
complaint, sure they’d feel better or be able to make it to Monday but had to
come in because they were getting worse.
Since mine was a non-life-threatening situation, they had me sit in the
waiting room a good long while and finally set me up on a cot in the hallway
just past the nursing station, outside treatment room #63. I decided this is where they put all the idiots
who hurt themselves, because the lady in the cot next to me had wrapped her car
around a telephone pole for no apparent reason and was suffering from mild whiplash. We must have provided comic relief for the
nurses and interns bustling about taking care of patients with real problems,
inside the treatment rooms.
This particular hospital
is a teaching hospital, so there are multiple professionals and would-be
professionals you have to speak to before you can actually see the doctor who
will treat you. I found it humiliating,
really, having to repeat my embarrassing story to the nurse, the premed
volunteer, the sympathetic lady from the gift shop, the med student, and the
first year ER resident. “A coffee
grinder, you say?” By the time I saw the doctor, I was so ashamed of myself I
asked if I could just have a Band-Aid and go home. He insisted I needed five stitches, and right
there on the spot whipped out his suture kit.
On account of the frenetic activity in the ER at the time, and perhaps
to teach me a lesson, he was going to sew me up right there in the hallway. A
small crowd gathered as he scrubbed my finger with iodine solution. To partially redeem myself, I bravely said I
didn’t need any anesthetic. “Just go
ahead and sew me up,” I said jauntily. I
forgot that five stitches means ten jabs with the needle. And this needle was big enough to darn
socks. Have you ever had to hold back
ten screams? No way was I going to let
out a peep, although I admit the fingernails from my other hand did leave
puncture wounds in my husband’s left palm.
After an eternity, the ordeal was over.
I did not pass out. I thanked the
good doctor and sheepishly slunk home to my dirty dishes.
After this incident, it
became a matter of pride to hang on to this coffee maker. Call me obstinate, but I have sunk so much
into this thing, I’ll be darned if I’m going to let it get the best of me. As of this writing, it is still going
strong. We seem to have struck a sort of
peace agreement, this machine and I. I
don’t complain about its design flaws, and it makes me plenty of good
coffee. One day I know I’ll have to give
it up and go through the annoying process of wading through customer reviews to
find another coffee maker, but until then, I’ll stick with what I’ve got. In fact, I would heartily recommend this
product to any stubborn, Cuisinart-loyal, persistently self-reliant, foolish
coffee snob such as myself. Caveat
emptor!
###
A Satisfied Customer
(posted 6/28/12)
Today I took my car in for
its annual state inspection. It was
quick, easy and efficient. As soon as I
arrived, I was met by Don, the friendly Customer Service Technician. Have you
ever noticed that in dealership service departments, the customer service representative
is called a ‘Technician’? My guess is
that they want you to think he’s a technical kind of guy; the sort who knows
everything there is to know about car problems and can handily deal with
anything you throw at him. Or else they
want to boost his image so he doesn’t feel inferior to the mechanics who really
do know everything there is to know
about car problems. . . At any rate, Don took my smart key and popped it in the
key reader. He asked me the obligatory
“How are you doing today?” and proceeded to tap away at the computer. He didn’t even have to ask why I was
there. The key informed him I was there
for the state inspection. A moment
later, the service ticket printed out, and Don sent me off to the customer
lounge to wait for my car.
The whole interchange
couldn’t have taken more than three minutes.
Like I said, it was quick, easy and efficient. And in less than two shakes they were done
and I was heading back home with my car.
What I now dread, however, is the barrage of emails, phone calls and
automated messages from the dealer, urgently eager to ascertain the level of my
customer satisfaction. I don’t mind
giving feedback every now and then to the Corporate Office, telling them how
the rank and file is doing on the front lines.
But why is it that car dealerships need to know about Every Single
Interaction I Ever Have with the Service Department? It was a state inspection,
for crying out loud! I will spend more
time reporting (or trying to avoid reporting) how my experience went than the
time I spent in the experience in the first place! Where is it on the survey, on a scale of one
to five, one being the lowest and five being the highest, that I get to rate my
satisfaction with the way they harass me about my customer satisfaction?!
Don’t get me wrong, I like
Don. He’s great. He’s an actual person I get to talk to about
my car and he gets the thing fixed whenever it needs fixing. And while my car is under warranty, it is
often free, which is even better. But I can’t
stand the cheery emails that will surely start arriving tomorrow; thanking me
for my patronage and wouldn’t I please just take a few minutes to complete this
brief customer survey? What they don’t
tell you is that it isn’t an option not
to respond. They will spam you with the
darn survey every single day forever until you finally capitulate and fill it
out.
They will come after you
on the phone as well. At first you’ll
receive automated messages prompting you to complete a questionnaire. I never fall for this. I loathe talking to a machine that’s
impersonating a real human being and so I immediately hang up. But then a real person will start calling
predictably at dinnertime or when you are the only one in the house and you’re
in the middle of something that requires concentration, like balancing the
checkbook. And by the way, the folks who
send out the emails are not the same folks who do the phoning. I know this for a fact because one time I
completed the online form and I STILL got phone calls from the manager. “Well is there anything else you want to report?”, she asked me. What, like after fourteen questions asking
how happy I am with my car service experience, I might have held something
back?
So this time I am going to
tell them once and for all to stop pestering me. If they want my business, they are going to
have to remain in the dark as to whether I was pleased or not. I will vote with my feet, I’ll tell them. If I’m
happy, I’ll keep coming back. So don’t
ask me about my arrival experience, whether or not I was greeted at the door by
name, about the demeanor and empathy of the Customer Service Technician,
whether the service desk area was well lit, about the spotlessness of the
customer lounge, about my approximate wait time in the lounge, about the
comfort of the leather couches in the lounge, whether the wait time was
acceptable and did I receive timely updates, about the ease of operation of the
television in the lounge, whether the array of reading materials in the lounge
was to my taste, and about the cleanliness of my car when it was finally
returned to me. The more they try to
slice and dice and analyze my general feelings of satisfaction, the more
dissatisfied I will become. Isn’t that
obvious? Isn’t that a rule somewhere in
marketing, don’t push your luck with the survey stuff?
It is enough to send me
down the road to our local service station.
There, you can make an appointment just about any time. They can handle anything, I’ve discovered,
from punctured tires to transmission issues to disc brake rotor
replacement. In the tiny, dirty office
next to the open garage, you stroll up to the counter and Trigg, the service
manager, will gladly give you an estimate on the spot. You can wait in the adjoining room if you
like. It is on the dingy side so you try not to touch anything. Not fancy.
You can sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair under flickering fluorescent
lights and watch the NASCAR channel on the little TV in the corner. The volume is turned off (or broken), so you
can only imagine what the commentators are saying. Or you could inspect the chrome hubcap display
next to the plastic chairs. And maybe
get a cup of water from the cooler. You
try not to annoy the scary-looking dog in the kennel in the back of the
office. By and by they’ll have your car
ready and you’re set to go. No worse for
the wear and you know you paid a fair price.
You know your bill isn’t padded to cover the overhead of a fancy
customer lounge, the Keurig coffee station, the wide screen HDTV, the free
carwash with every service, and the additional customer service employees who
are paid to hound you for Service Appointment Experience data. Nope,
even without all that customer care, I somehow manage to depart the service
station a satisfied customer. Every
time.
###
About Jane
(posted 8/29/11)
August 11, 2011
Jane has passed away.
Last night I couldn’t sleep and I composed a whole essay in my head about her, and
now those words are gone, too. Is it the
exhaustion? Is it the emotional toll of
seeing someone breathing this morning and then not breathing this evening? I kept looking at her tonight and expecting
her to take the next breath. She was just
pausing between inhalation and exhalation.
Surely she’d keep going, like she has all along.
The first thing to say about her is she had a strong will to
survive. After her first two big strokes
she suffered liver failure and the doctors said she had a 20 percent chance to
survive. She did – and lived six more
years. In more recent time, when
emergency hospital visits became more frequent, she had an ischemic attack in
her bowel. The doctor said she had a 5
percent chance to pull through the night --- She lived six more weeks. A couple of Fridays ago she became only
intermittently responsive. The hospice
nurse said she’d be amazed if Jane lived through that weekend. She lived seven more days. Then we got a call late at night from Ed.
“I’m afraid it’s time,” he said. But she
lived another day.
This slow and steady march toward her end has been so
gradual and so long I hardly recall the healthy, strong woman she once
was. She had so many close calls, each
time resetting a new normal one step down from where she was. I have to really concentrate to hear her old
voice, see the old sparkle in her eye. In
a few years’ time she became a mere shadow of her former self. Over the recent years she shrank in every way
imaginable, until a dried up husk was all that remained of what was vitally
Jane. And today, she disappeared
completely, leaving her tired, waxy-skinned, emaciated, body behind.
My first memories of her go back thirty years. I met her after dating Peter for a year, and
she was exactly as Peter described her: Germanic, pragmatic, brilliant,
kind. I don’t remember her laughter and
I am certain she didn’t tell a joke, but she had a beautiful smile: wide,
toothy and self-assured. She was so interested in me I loved her
immediately. “I just want to know everything!” she once declared several
years later, when I kidded her about being so intrigued with my boring little
life.
When Peter and I were first married, Jane wrote us a lovely
letter, in her left-handed, tidy cursive, to express her joy in our
marriage. She had some sweet things to
say about what she imagined for our journey ahead, and she left us with advice
we remember to this day: “The most
important thing is -- humor, humor, humor!”
When I first read this, I was surprised it came from someone who never
joked around or said anything funny. But
over time, we came to understand what she meant. Through years of living
together, a husband and wife develop a private language to recall shared
experiences, convey feelings, or telegraph personal thoughts in a public
setting. Humor is the key to success in
this endeavor. It lifts whatever heavy
load a couple must bear. It is a balm to
soothe any hurts. It carries the
day. We are forever grateful she shared
that wisdom so many years ago, and our marriage strengthened because of it.
Jane was a brilliant woman in her own right. She studied aeronautical engineering in
college, and majored in biology, as she thought she might like to become a
doctor. She spoke four languages and
worked at the CIA translating Russian technical manuals. But after marrying, she settled down to raise
her family. When I was a young bride, I
couldn’t understand how someone with so much talent and brilliance would give
all that up for family. She was a
devoted wife and mother, and took her role seriously. In fact, that was the only issue she would
get up on the soap box for. She told me
she passionately believed that a mother’s work is the best work there is,
investing time and energy and love in the next generation. The strength of our society depends on
it. There is nothing more noble or
rewarding than raising up a family with strong faith and good values. Now looking at her smart, successful children
I’d say she did a great job. When it
came time for our first child to be born, I quit my job and never looked
back. I’m so grateful to have had her as
a role model, when so many of my peers chose a different path.
I am also grateful for her steadfast loyalty to her
family. Whenever there’s been a crisis
in one of her children’s lives, Jane was there.
She came to our aid every single time we were in need: at the birth of every child, when I had knee surgery
and when Peter had back surgery . . . and even when my fledgling business took
off and suddenly I needed to ship out hundreds of boxes of Christmas cards to
distribution centers around the country.
I was in a panic until Jane showed up for a week to fill orders, pack
and tape shipping boxes, and keep track of the accounting. I’ll never forget how thankful I was that she
was there for me. That meant more to me
than getting the cards out the door. She
was really there for me.
Through this long trial, Jane never complained. Oh sure, when you asked how she was, the
automatic “Fine!” became “So-so” and finally “Not so good”. But that is a result of losing the filters in
her mind, not a change in her optimistic personality. As she lost mobility and cognitive function,
she soldiered on. Through all the
physical therapy and speech therapy and endless medication and repeated
hospitalizations, I never heard a self-pitying word. As she became more and more dependent on Ed,
she never lost her sense of dignity.
Only her face revealed her suffering.
A couple of years ago, her habitual smile gave way to a more somber
expression. But even then, and right up
to the end, she kept that old smile ready to show gratitude. I don’t know if I’ve ever witnesses such
patience and humility as she showed in her final years. But most of all, she expressed gratitude
right up to the very end. In halted
speech she’d say “Oh thank you for coming!”
“It was wonderful!” “I love you.”
While most other words fell away, these words remained to the end.
And so I say to you Jane, wherever you are, Oh thank you for
coming.
It was wonderful.
I love you.###
Franklin
(posted 6/26/11)
It is my belief that one of the greatest joys of childhood is to own and care for a pet. In our household, my children shared their early years with mice, frogs, newts, goldfish and other creatures that held their fascination. But the deal was that if somebody wanted their own pet, they had to agree to take care of it one hundred percent. Imagine the excitement in our house on Christmas morning when our oldest children, then 10 and 8, found cages of gerbils under the Christmas tree. Santa, at least, thought they were ready for the responsibility of pet ownership.
As the months went by, the kids delighted in the care and feeding of Marshmallow and Little John. However our youngest son, Henry, then 5, grew increasingly insistent that he was ready to take care of a pet, too. My husband and I thought otherwise. “One day . . ., “ we’d say, and quickly change the subject. On his sixth birthday, as we were all sitting down to cake and ice cream, there was a knock at the door. It was Leticia, our cleaning lady, stopping by with a gift for Henry. She had in her hands a wrapped shoebox, and requested that Henry open it right away. “Henry told me he wanted a pet,” she whispered to me with glee. And before I could even give her a look of concern, Henry had lifted off the lid of the box to reveal a big, dark, alert but frightened turtle. “I thought he could handle a turtle,” Leticia said to me, apologetically, noticing the look of shock on my face. “The pet store man said they are easy. Just put him in a tank with water and feed him once a day.”
Well, Henry was ecstatic. His very own pet. To a six year old, there is only one appropriate name for a turtle and that is Franklin the Turtle. So Franklin the Turtle came to live with us in Brooklyn, New York, on a cold November day in 1999. That night he spent the night in the bathtub, which worked out fine, and the very next morning I headed off to the pet shop to find out how to keep him alive. We didn’t have a car and the pet shop was a bit of a hike, about a 20 minute walk. Knowing I’d be purchasing supplies, I took along my trusty shopping cart, a flimsy contraption that gives the dimmest suggestion of usefulness with its four puny wheels and thin wire frame.
The pet store owner was very friendly. He was, in fact, the man who sold Leticia the turtle the day before. “What you’ve got is about a five year old Red-eared Slider,” he informed me. “Don’t know if it is a male or female, but you want to be hoping it is a male.”
“Why is that?” I asked innocently.
“If it’s a male, it will grow to about eight inches in length. If it’s a female, it will keep on growing up to a foot, and no tank will be big enough to hold her.” Imagining the terror of that possibility, I decided to keep the gender issue under wraps with Henry. It would be years until we knew what we were dealing with anyway, and who knew if we could keep Franklin alive that long?
“And how long do these turtles live?” I asked nervously.
“Oh, they can get up to 35 or 40 if they’re healthy,” he replied.
“Oh,” was all I could think to say.
We whizzed around the tiny shop collecting all sorts of paraphernalia and before I knew it, I had assembled several hundred dollars worth of habitat for this creature. He darn well better stay alive, I mused, looking over the tank, heater, rocks, filter, siphon hose, food and water conditioner. It did all fit in the flimsy shopping cart, barely. I had to walk home very slowly, though, as every bump in the brick sidewalk threatened to crack the brand new glass tank. I got it home and all set up just in time for Henry to return from school. There was Franklin, swimming happily in his tank, the filter murmuring quietly and the heater bulb casting a friendly glow in the tank. Henry was enchanted. And that was that.
Henry became very good at feeding his little pet every day. We quickly learned, though, that Franklin was a food processing machine. And what goes through Franklin quickly clogs tubes and filters, I learned. Every week I was taking the darn motor apart to clean and change the charcoal filters, cursing the day Leticia ever brought the darn turtle into the house. We burnt out three motors within the year before one pet store clerk casually suggested why don’t we just feed him every other day?
Thus began our love – hate relationship with this turtle. We love the turtle, don’t get me wrong. Who knew turtles could be so entertaining? Henry would tap on the glass wall of the tank whenever he fed him, and Franklin soon learned to start hunting for food whenever he heard the tapping sound. Even more amusing is to watch him swim. He doesn’t just swim forwards, like an ordinary turtle. He swims backwards, as well. He actually seems to prefer swimming backwards, doing laps around the tank for hours on end. Imagine the tedious life of a turtle, the hours spent alone in a tank with nobody to watch or communicate with. And then the untold joy of discovering something dizzyingly fresh and new like moving through space a different way. I’m sure it blows his little turtle mind every time he does it.
And though Franklin is an aquatic turtle, he doesn’t actually need to spend that much time under water. He enjoys a good bit of each day sunning himself on the rocks which stick out of the water. Lately, I’ve noticed, he has perfected his pose, like a sunbather working on the perfect angle. He’ll keep three of his legs close in to his body, but one hind leg he will extend back just far enough so his toes, well claws really, just graze the water, as if he’s keeping tabs on the temperature. Best of all, though, is when Henry lets him out of the tank. The first time we all stood and watched, then burst out laughing as Franklin just took off across the room. I mean he was hoofing it. No pokey turtle puttering along. Franklin can move.
On the other side of the equation – the part we hate - is Franklin Upkeep. A turtle’s natural habitat is a pond, right? So I never have gotten too fussed about keeping the tank scrupulously clean. It is a huge chore which Henry and I loathe, and I think Franklin secretly likes hanging out in the murky depths anyway. However, when Henry’s room begins to smell swampy, we know we can’t put it off any longer. We have to psyche ourselves up, knowing something will go wrong somewhere along the way. It always does. We will end up with stinky tank water on Henry’s carpet, or we will electrocute ourselves, or we will stop up the plumbing trying to flush turtle waste down the toilet, or Franklin will escape. We can’t get the siphon to start working. Or we get it to start working, but we let go of one end and we end up with tank water sprayed all over. Or we get the dirty water in the bucket, then spill the bucket on the way to the bathroom. Once, we couldn’t figure out why every trip we spilled more and more water, only to discover a hole in the bucket!
Then there is the filter battle. We went through numerous aquatic tank filters, as I mentioned, until finally someone told us they aren’t built to handle turtle waste. Now that was an honest salesman! We tried no filter at all which worked for a while, as long as we cleaned the tank regularly (not). Finally last year we broke down and bought a big, expensive external filter which sits on the floor next to the tank and connects to the tank with big, fat tubes. It is quiet and effective. The perfect solution. BUT it is a pain to clean. When it is time to clean the filter, one of the tubes usually disconnects on us and unleashes the Waterfall Situation. This is a result of Henry pulling the filter pump one way while I pull the tubes the other way, both of us yelling in a panic while his room gets thoroughly doused. (Note to self: to stop siphon action, lift tank end of tube out of the water.) Calming ourselves from this event, we set about cleaning out the filter parts. Then try to remember how to put the 15 parts all back together in the right order. Then attempt to get the pump to fire up again, which is easier said than done because there is now air in the tubes and the pump is sitting two feet below the tank, on the floor. Suffice it to say that we have never done all of this without spilling at least some water, and so now the pump lives in a bucket on the floor just for a little peace of mind. Every time we clean the darn pump I think to myself, “That is it, we are giving away this turtle at the first opportunity!”
But he is Franklin, our turtle. Now about 16 years old, Franklin is fully grown and is definitely a male (whew!). He is now on his third tank. Turtles outgrow them like shoes, you see, until they have reached their full size. Franklin figured out how to climb up and escape from his first tank after just a few months, clever boy. After several years, the second tank became too confining, as well, and Franklin seemed to be depressed from the cramped quarters. The pet store clerk told us we had a choice, either to let him loose in a pond (as Red-eared Sliders are indigenous in Virginia, where we now live), or bite the bullet and purchase the big, 40 gallon breeder tank. It is very big. And expensive. Momentarily I wondered whether we’d need to put a second mortgage on the house to finance the thing. A breeder tank is as big as you’d want to go without turning your home into Sea Life Park. I wasn’t sure there would be room in Henry’s bedroom for both the tank and his bed. I wasn’t sure the floor could withstand the weight of all that water. Was Franklin worth it? Maybe the pond was the best answer.
Then I glanced at Henry. At the mere thought of letting Franklin go, we both burst into tears. Throwing caution to the wind, we bought the big 40 gallon breeder tank. And the cast iron stand to go under it. (Hey, if you cost it out over three decades, it isn’t that bad.) We bought more colored gravel for the bottom of the tank and some fake aquatic plants, too. Henry even bought Franklin 20 feeder goldfish to snack on if he felt like it, or make friends with if he didn’t. So what if Franklin will live another 30 years? So what if it is a pain in the neck keeping the tank clean? So what if we are depleting Henry’s savings account and his college fund to keep Franklin in high cotton? So what if Franklin can’t do anything but swim backwards and eat and stare blankly and sometimes when he gets the chance, zip across the floor to his hidey spot? We have grown attached to the little guy and that is that.
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