Doreen vs the Trout

As I was just about to leave Michigan to move back east to Maryland, Ron and I decided to take one last drive through the area. We passed Spring Valley Trout Farm and I mentioned that I had never been fishing. Ron replied that he and his mother went fishing all the time and headed the car into the lot.

Of course, I was assuming all along that Ron would join me in the fishing adventure but as we got to the counter, he only ordered one pole and one can of bait. Being a sturdy New Englander, the sight of cut up, yet squirming, worms did not do me in. So we proceeded to the pond. There were families having picnics under the pavilion to the left and a large pond to the right. It was getting cloudy and looked like we were in for rain. With great wisdom, Ron announced that rainy weather meant good fishing. What did I know. It sounded good to me. So off we went.

There were children fishing on the end closest to the picnic tables so we went to the far end. I successfully put the first worm on the end of the pole and plopped it into the water. I don’t know what magic I thought would happen but things seems pretty quiet. As I asked Ron “how do I know if I caught one,” I raised the pole and there was a fish attached. I screamed like a sissy girl flailing the pole this way and that. Ron grabbed the pole and pulled it towards the bucket they gave us. Ta da, it went it. We unhooked it and off I went to try a second time.

I had a bit more trouble with the worm but managed to get it on. Inspired, I plopped the pole in the water and again was wondering how I would know if I caught a fish. I pulled up the pole and low and behold another fish was attached. Since I wasn’t expecting it, I screamed like a sissy girl - again. Ron had a bit more trouble helping me get it to the bucket but it was success number two. I kept thinking if I were a baseball player, I’d be batting 1000.

This thought jinxed me. I put the worm-laden pole in the water for a third time but this big old fish got away. I had my eye on him. I was not leaving without him for dinner!

I struggled to put a fourth worm on the pole but determined to catch what had now become my “white whale,” I followed "Moby Dick" around until I could put the pole right in front of him. He was a big old fish and he didn’t get that way by snapping at every pole in the pond. I waiting patiently as a fine mist of rain began to fall. He came close two times. Like Jaws, the third time he nibbled at the bait. I jumped for joy bringing the pole out of the water and there he was flopping about to beat the band. We had quite a struggle to get him in the pail but success was mine. He was still flopping about wildly as we went to check out counter.  No one else's fish were flopping like that. I had a live one! I was proud of my three catches. The Toles would eat well tonight.

As we finished dinner, I was amused to find myself very proud that I had caught dinner. This primal urge welled up in me and like a cave man, I shouted “um gow ah” “me catch food”.

Doreen 1. Fish 0.

Spring Valley Trout Farm, used with permission. 

Passport anyone?

There is a rite of passage when you are old enough to have your own checking account. Because I grew up poor, it had extra meaning for me. Add to that the reason I needed one is because I was the first in my branch of the family tree to go to college and you have real cause for a celebration.

At the time I got accepted to graduate school in Chicago, bank regulations were tightening and stores were requiring at least one, if not two, major forms of ID to cash checks. I quickly realized that my Massachusetts license might not qualify to cash out-of-state checks in Illinois. I mentioned this concern to my college pals, many of whom had real worldly experience. Beth Ann (of the New Hampshire Steinberg’s) said “why don’t you get a passport? That’s a major form of ID.” Not to be one-down, I went to find out - from someone else - what I needed to get one.

It was no big deal to get the two passport photos. I simply went to one of the arcade photo booths at Revere Beach. It was more involved, however, to get a notarized birth certificate. After more research, I needed to go to the McCormick building Records Office in downtown Boston.  I remembered I saw a building with that name on one of my shopping trips so merrily caught the train – which in Massachusetts is the same as Metro in DC – toting my precious photos.

I easily found the McCormick building and went directly to the tenant directory. Two security guards ambled over to “help” me. I told them I needed a notarized birth certificate and they said I was at the wrong McCormick building. Go figure.

They gave me directions and as I was leaving, one guard asked me why I needed one. I smugly informed him that I needed it to get a passport. Naturally, he asked me where I was going. Without thinking, I said “Chicago.” They both gawked at me in disbelief. One stuttered “B, b, b, b, but, lady. You don’t need a passport to go to Chicago!”

Of course, I knew I didn’t need a passport to go to Chicago. After all, Illinois is still part of the US. I tried to correct my shortcut answer to no avail. They looked at me like I needed to go into THE home for SPECIAL people. I let it go, hopped back on the train and hurried to the correct McCormick building.

Showing evidence of learningÔ, when the Records clerk asked me why I needed it and where I was going, instead of saying “Chicago” or “I need it for ID,” I angrily said “nowhere. I am not going anywhere!” He looked at me like I needed to take a pill but didn’t press further.

Many years later, at one of my husband’s work-related social gatherings, Ron insisted I tell my “best” story. So, I did and everybody laughed. Then Ron added “I bet those guards are still talking about the lady who thought she needed a passport to get to Chicago.” Okay, it’s one thing for them to think I’m crazy. It’s another if the guards have their get togethers and I am one of the showpieces!

Women’s Purses Explained

Like many American women, I have more than one purse. OK. I have several. American men have a long history of purse phobia. Yes, they fear our purses. A few even break out into a sweat after the ever-present eye roll.

Because I take the MARC commuter train into DC, I have my regular purse (wallet, lipstick, cell phone, etc.) and my “train” bag (everything else I need that would normally be in my car if it weren’t parked over 20 miles away).

Having to juggle the two bags through throngs of commuters makes my runway walk less than smooth. It also makes it tricky to gracefully pull out my access badge to get through the security check point at work.

As I wrestled with my bags one morning, I saw “the” look from one of the male security guards. To cover my fumbling, I explained that “women’s purses have their own alternate universes."

He said “What?”

I explained further (pointing to my train bag): “women’s purses have their own separate universes. That’s why things get lost in there. Just like a black hole.”

He gave out a big laugh and as I went up the elevator to my floor, I felt I scored a point for female-to-male communications. Yes!

Duck, (Duck), Goose

Growing up, my brother Frank and I had our share of pets: turtles, dogs, and eventually cats. Then there were the pigeons, the wild animals of the inner city.  One weekend Uncle Johnny and Aunt Ginny took us and our cousin Anthony to the Franklin Park zoo. We piled into the back of the Chevy station wagon excited at the thought of seeing “other” kinds of animals.

As we wondered through the zoo, we took note of the sights, sounds and smells that made up the animal kingdom – at least the one chosen by the zookeepers. We came across a penned in area where parents and children were feeding ducks zoo food pellets. Doreen being Doreen, I zipped ahead of the others because all animals needed to be patted. Well, that’s what we did with the dogs and cats, right?

I reached the pen and stuck my little hand over the one-foot high fence and attempted to “pat” the nearest duck. Of course, the duck thought I had food so bit my plump 8-year old palm! I screamed to high heaven and ran off in the opposite direction as fast as my little legs would carry me leaving the adults fearing for their lives if they returned home to grandma without me.

I don’t remember how I was recaptured but am afraid to ask even now. I can still get yelled at even though I’m a grown up.

Twenty years after the duck attack, my boyfriend and I were strolling through Illinois’ Morton Arboretum. It reminded me of the episode so I told Ron all about it as we approached the edge of a pond (left) where, similar to the zoo incident, parents and children were feeding geese. At the exact moment that I finished telling him about my childhood trauma, the families ran out of bread. The flock of geese saw Ron and me and ran/flew at us for dear life.

I nearly had a heart attack thinking that the Boston duck had passed the word through generations of avian fowl to the Illinois geese and this was the satisfaction of their long-held revenge against me for trying to pat them. It was all I could do to compose myself while Ron, laughing his head off, said “you should see your face!” See my face? I was ready to meet my Maker. Never mind the look on my face.

Duck and goose two. Doreen zero.

           (See also the post about “Doreen vs the Squirrel”)

Doreen vs the Squirrel

I was born and raised in the city. To me, a pigeon is a WILD animal. I never liked squirrels so kept my distance - in city parks, in forest preserves and in the mountains of New Hampshire where, as teens, we spent summer weekends swimming at Angle Pond.

Amid the bustling of a Chicago spring, my first direct battle with a squirrel occurred in the small park across from our apartment. I tossed my lunch bag into a trash can only to be set upon by a territorial squirrel waving its arms and flicking its tail. I jumped back scared out of my wits and the squirrel chirped in victory.

The Squirrel one. Doreen zero.

Twenty years later, I was, little by little, getting the hang of being a first-time homeowner in the suburbs of DC. The master bath has a window overlooking the roof and this particular fall day, I was busily brushing my teeth with the window open. The squirrels love the cedar shake, high-pitched, roof surrounded by lush, tall pine trees. I usually hear them scurrying across the roof as I got ready for work and that day was no different - except I decided to retaliate!

With my spit cup in hand, I flung the contents through the screen only hitting the squirrel’s left, hind paw. He snorted at me and ran away. I thought I had my long-sought victory in my grasp.

A few minutes later, I heard chattering and ran to the window. Not only had the squirrel returned, but it brought backup! I now had two tormentors! They kept looking at each other, then me, then chattered incessantly to each other.  I quickly realized they were making fun of me!

How could I fight back? The same screen that kept them out also kept me in. The human was the one caged. All I could do was yell back in frustration.

After several minutes, wondering if the neighbors thought the new owner was nuts, I admitted defeat and slinked back to the sink.

The Squirrel two. Doreen zero.