On Thursday evenings, Ana comes to visit.  She, my wife Karen, and I sit close in one corner of the living room, drinking hot peppermint tea and playing cards while I recount humorous tales of my well-misspent youth.  It's all very cozy and we have a good laugh, which is good medicine. Last week I told my wallaby tales.

One of the great blessings of my youth was that I grew up hanging out in what amounted to a private zoo. It was my best friend Dan's private zoo; well, his dad’s, actually. Dan's family counted me as one of their own, and affirmed their affection by christening me: "That Damn Andrew."

Dan's father, Norm, was a breeder of exotic ducks.  The main aviary he'd constructed enclosed a quarter of an acre, and under this chicken-wire dome dwelt ducks of every description, along with impeyan pheasants and guinea fowl in a paradise of tall pampas grass, pear trees, and small, green ponds. Other pens housed fancy pigeons, chickens, a pair of noisy otters, a pair of arctic foxes, a tegu, and a badger.  House pets included the occasional ferret, a groundhog, a cat named Spaz, and a mynah bird who could whistle the theme to Hogan's Heroes. But the coolest critters of this suburban menagerie had to be the wallabies! I'll never forget bottle-feeding a joey, all leggy and hairless, cradling him in a heating pad between my knees.

Like any other habit, the wallaby binge starts out with just one or two.  And then the next thing you know, you've got a mob of fifteen miniature kangaroos free-ranging in your backyard -- foraging, boxing, lounging with an expansive yawn beneath a shady tree, or stretched out on the cool, concrete patio indulging in a luxuriant belly-scratch; always keeping a wary eye out for Mike – the undisputed godfather of the mob, and punisher of escaped chickens.

He stood a good thirty-six inches tall, and when there were no more carrot chips left on the patio, he would lope up to the sliding screen door and rattle it mercilessly.  Should a chicken escape its enclosure, Mike--following the example of his owner--would run it down, pin it with one arm, yank out a few handfuls of feathers, and then release it. Take that fowl beast! 

Mike and his harem also enjoyed their own version of wallaby drive-in theater. One night, another of our friends had laid himself out on the floor in front of the TV, his back to the sliding glass doors.  I had just stepped in from the garage, a cold Coke in hand, when a mischievous smile spread across my face.  "Pssst!" I whispered, motioning to my friend to look behind him.  He twisted his body and strained to see over his shoulder.  Eight glassy orbs in fuzzy, alien faces stared back.  He yelped and leapt to his feet, barely retaining control of certain body functions.  I probably should have chipped in for at least one therapy session.

Occasionally, a neighbor would call to say "Norman, there's somethin' big in my garden. Is it yours?"  Rounding up a stray wallaby was no small undertaking. The large gate had to be opened, and guarded.  Traffic on 16th St. had to be stopped, and a small group of wranglers had to shoo the wayward marsupial back in the general direction of said gate.

Catching a wallaby was a different matter altogether; especially the time that one inadvertently spent the night in the back garage. The next morning it was discovered that she had eaten a package of d-Con mouse poison.  It was imperative that vitamin K, an anti-coagulant, be administered as quickly as possible.  The usual suspects were assembled--Dan, his dad, myself, Dan's big brother and a couple of his friends (collectively known as "the Mooses.")  There was a large island of sundry stuff in the middle of the garage, with a path encircling its perimeter.  Norm directed us to station ourselves around this aisle with our feet wide apart. Then he shut the big garage door and it dawned on me:  we were eight guys shut in a tight space with a frightened creature which was - no kidding- capable of ripping our guts out in the blink of an eye. 

Norm chivied her out of her hiding place, and off she went, bounding at top speed around the track, each of us making a wild grab at her tail as she sprinted between our knees.  On the third lap, I got the timing right, seized the varmint and hauled her up, straining to hold her at arm’s length lest I be disemboweled.  The wallaby, however, was surprisingly calm--until Norm took her. Then she went gonzo fuzzy buzz-saw! She was hurried to a holding pen, and given the needed Vitamin K. She made a full recovery, and I lived to tell the tale.

I have a treasury of stories from the good old daze at Dan's place--my home away from home.  There are many which, though the statute of limitations has long expired, I cannot relate publicly - even if the names be changed to protect the guilty.  These gems of memory may only be revealed in close company, over a steaming cup of peppermint tea.
 
 
 
 

Daze of Adventure
Romantic: Reflecting the emotional or imaginative charm of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized--often in recalling the past.

I owe the inspiration for so many of the characters and incidents in Uncle Arctica to the multitude of people I've had the pleasure, and displeasure of knowing throughout my five decades, and to all of the outlandish things that have happened along the way.  The tale I am about to relate would provide the setting for a pivotal chapter in my novel Uncle Arctica. It’s a memory I will cherish for the rest of my days.

Ten years ago, I was happy to have had the frequent and particularly good company of two extraordinary teenagers -- Erik and Kristen Rachel. They were the eldest of four children, and always game for whatever adventure their eccentric, middle-aged mentor might have in store for them.

We had escaped to the Indiana Dunes, on Lake Michigan. I had picked them up -- twenty minutes late -- in my red '75 Nova. It had a full, black roof, and everything about it -- down to the way it smelled -- just plain felt like 1975. We made the National lake shore ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The kids had never been to the ocean, nor anything remotely like it. The Lakeshore was an epiphany to them: nothing but sand, sea, and blue sky. It was a bright, hot day and the place was packed. The wind was light, so there was no surf. Chicago looked like stubble on the horizon. I charged straight into the water -- hat, clothes, and all. Erik followed. Rachel, being sensible, changed into her swimsuit. The water was perfect! We swam a long time and incurred the ire of the lifeguards several times, by drifting too far out - it was glorious!

We ate lunch, loafed on the beach, then resolved to ascend Mt. Tom. We strained up the white, sand slope barefoot and greeted a happy family of Mexicans near the summit. They seemed favorably impressed by my authentic, vintage La Playa vest and our cheerful greeting of them in their native tongue. Our trek went on and on. We visited the marsh with its boardwalk, and enjoyed many striking marvels of nature while steadfastly ignoring the sky-- which was growing ever darker. We kidded ourselves for the next couple of miles that the occasional, distant rumbles were jets from Chicago O'Hare. We finally ended out eastern leg, turned north and reached the summit of the great dunes overlooking Lake Michigan. The sky was black – oh man, was it black! We huddled together and took a selfie with that angry, inky sky looming behind our silly grins.

We descended the dune, but stopped short of the beach -- where there was certainly surf now. The howling wind sent ten-foot breakers roaring ashore; lightning stabbed the stygian lake, thunder exploded, rain and sand stung our faces. It was a scene of wild, primal power and chaos, desolation and danger. A blinding bolt of white fire snaked through the air directly overhead, cracking the sky with a sound like bad news on judgement day. There were startled shouts of profanity as we scrambled back up the rough, steep slope. We raced westward along the crests and down into the blowouts, battered by slanting sheets of rain and that stinging wind-blown sand. It was pure, absolute adventure -- and we loved every perilous moment of it! We made the next trailhead and, sheltering in the forest, pulled out a pathetic little umbrella and map. It would be four miles back to the car.

The storm finally diminished, and Erik, now wearing only shorts and a black leather fedora, took my vest to stop his shivering. Rachel and I shared the umbrella, which did little more than keep the rain out of our eyes. Eventually we reached a nature center, and turned in to get a drink and warm up. Erik drew not a few stares and smirks.

At last, we reached our parking lot. Down on the beach, all was still. The crowds had fled. The sky was yet a great black vault. We waded into the calm water, and stood silently. In the west, the clouds opened a little and the sun appeared, orange and flat, turning that part of the sky into a soaring canyon of lurid purple and red. Shafts of splendor tumbled down to illuminate Chicago, on the far shore. A freighter sat a mile out, her smoke ascending straight up to the sully the newly purified air.

One by one, without a word, we waded ashore and returned to the car. It is so very hard to leave a scene like that; to step out of a painting that you were just a part of, the last strokes of which are not even dry -- after living an adventure that is now just a rollicking, good tale.

Night fell as we rolled down I-65, the old Nova’s hood reflecting a highway galaxy of tail lights, turn signals, barricades, street lights, and overhead signs. Erik had not brought anything to change into. He rode alone in the back seat all the way to Lafayette, wearing nothing but a black, leather fedora on his head, and my safari hat on his lap. At the Outback, we guzzled down six pitchers of water before dinner arrived. We realized that we'd hiked eight miles, barefoot, on sand, with only a brief slurp out of a fountain.

The years have flown by, and the kids have gone on to live their own adventures. Kristen attended the birth of my daughter, and went on to become a Registered Nurse, and a spritely Irish-step dancer. It is rumored that in recent years Erik was seen in a mob that had stolen all of restroom-stall doors in Germany; was spotted luxuriating at a mud bath festival in South Korea; and nearly discovered on a strictly off-the-record tour of a Russian warship in Vladivostok, which only cost him three bottles of vodka.
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I can’t wait to read his adventure novel!