April 30, 1981

It was to be an important learning experience - one of those lessons parents feel compelled to present to their children. What better way to illustrate life, death, cohabitation, and the responsibility than to raise a flock of pigeons?
The plans for the coop were sketched and the materials purchased. Nails were nailed, screws were screwed, and wire fence was attached, turning a mass of lumber into a pigeon haven. The excitement was building in the short people. Lessons were being learned.
When two silver birds, a male and a female, were released into the coop they seemed to enjoy their new environs. The male spent most of his time sitting idly near the nesting box while his mate diligently surveyed their new home, flying repeatedly from the roosting bar to the floor and back.
Having raised pigeons when we were short, we were able to wow the youngsters with our knowledge of the new winged pets. With appropriate vagueness we explained how the two would pair off, how they would work together to prepare the nest, how they would make themselves ready for parenthood.
With wide eyes the short people listened, obviously impressed with our pigeon proficiency. Their awe prompted us to further explanation. Pointing to the male, still sitting heavily near the nesting box, we informed the youngsters of how the cock assists in egg incubation. From the time the hen lays the first egg, she will sit on the nest from four in the afternoon until ten in the morning. During the late morning and early afternoon the male dutifully warms his future children. And when the eggs hatch in eighteen days, (The more specifics we tossed in the more the young eyes and mouths widened.) both parents will supply the squabs with a milky nourishment secreted from their crop glands.
It won't take long now for that lean female to deposit two eggs in the nesting box straw. The short people were excited. They demanded more details which we skillfully supplied.
It was wonderful. The project was even a better object lesson than we had planned. Not only were life, death, birth, and cooperation to be vividly exhibited, but the short ones were also gaining new respect for their parents. It was everything we had hoped for and more.
And then the "male" proudly laid two eggs. End of lesson.... ~T. Stucky

April 26, 1996

I wish I could remember where I put the article.  It was so encouraging.  It made me feel my growing anxiety was unjustified.  It convinced me my memory loss was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to be overly concerned about.

I just wish I could remember where I put the article.

I remember cutting it out after reading it, thinking it was a source I could refer to later--during those times when one of the people I live with says, "Remember, I told you I was going to Hutch this afternoon." or "Yes, you've been told that shirt does not go with those pants."

I remember thinking that when those situations arose I could pull the article from its safe place and say something like, "The reason I don't remember is that I have so many other important things on my mind."  (I think that's what the article said.)

The article referred to a recently published book by some doctor who has counseled many of the Baby Boomer Generation who are finding their minds aren't as clear as they once were.  They forget appointments, they forget anniversaries, they forget what it was they were saying in the middle of a sentence, they forget...well...they forget other things, too.  The good doctor, the article noted, gives his clients solace, saying memory lapses are natural; they are not an indication that brain cells are dying, they are not an indication Baby Boomers are a stumble away from the rocking chair in the corner.

At least, I think that's what the article said.

Chatting with acquaintances Sunday afternoon, I recognized the dull gaze which flows from the eyes when people have heard the story before.  And I realized that what I thought was fresh and sparkling and captivating, was none of the above because it was a twice-told tale.  The punch line, like a George Foreman uppercut, was aged and ineffective.

Seeing that blank stare midway through my monologue, made me want to pull out that article and confirm to my listeners that I wasn't losing my mind, that my reasoning ability was still intact, that the gray matter was still functional.  I wanted to let them know that scientific research indicates sometimes the brain recalls that first bite of cherry cheese cake which delighted the mouth back in first grade more readily than what was munched for breakfast this morning.

I think the article also mentioned that there are ways to enhance memory.  It listed a couple of things that can be done to avoid those embarrassing exchanges between significant others--"No, you never told me I wasn't supposed to bet our savings account that the Chiefs would win the Super Bowl."  "I don't thing you ever said the Rottweilers were my responsibility."  "You mean we don't have an upstairs bathroom?"

According to the article, there are numerous books written by people whose names I can't remember, which provide clever tricks to help people remember names.  When introduced to a woman named Lucy, for example, the name can be permanently logged by noting that her voice sounds like a goose.  When you see her again and she says hello, her nasally voice will trigger the association "Goosey...Lucy."  If she doesn't speak first, there may be a problem.  There may also be a problem if your memory serves you "ducky" or "adenoid" instead of goosey.

Several years ago, a former basketball player, I can't for the life of me remember who it was, published a book about memory tricks.  He appeared on a talk show reeling off a lengthy list of words and numbers which he had memorized in sequence in a matter of seconds.  It was a stunning display of how the human mind can be focused to store insignificant data for later use.

It almost seems like I bought that book.  I think it's lying around here somewhere.  ~T.Stucky

April 29, 1982

It was a momentous occasion-an occasion which carried as much dread as joy.  After several years of being satisfied with a plastic baseball bat, the short people began clamoring for a metal bat.  So last Saturday, with a good deal of trepidation, a shiny, hard, aluminum bat replaced the safe plastic one in the backyard.

The short people were enthusiastic, even as they received strict instructions on the importance of cautious swinging.  For the big people, visions of a youngster with a split head palled the opening of the new season.

As a result it came as no great surprise when Emily came dashing into the house Monday afternoon saying, "He hit her on the head with the bat!"  Emily was obviously safe, Carly was sleeping upstairs, so by process of elimination Allison must be lying unconscious in the grass.

Not so.  There at the back door, hand pressed tight against a forehead that was rapidly swelling and changing color, was ol' n.  She had been helping Aaron search for the baseball under a bush when he lifted the bat and her head happened to be in the way.

There were the usual comments.  "It was a home run, huh, Mom."  "Do you see stars?"  "Did you think you were a baseball?"  "You look like a unicorn."  "You're the season's first casualty."

However, the humor in the event took a while to appear.  It came slowly, at about the same speed the bump disappeared....  ~T.Stucky

April 9, 1987

Tuesday morning two plump robins hopped around in our backyard harassing a young female goldfinch.  The goldfinch, having just flown in from its winter home in the deep south, was content to peck away at the apparently tasty morsels which the yard offered.  The robins, exercising their territorial imperative, were intent on routing the lone intruder.

Working as a team, the two robins, their heads up, their knees stiff, bounced in tandem toward the goldfinch.  The small bird looked at the threatening pair as if wondering why they who had too much would deny her a little.  By scurrying between brief feedings she was able to maintain a safe distance.

We wondered, too, why this robust couple would bully their weaker cousin.  She was not after their worms.  Why heckle the little matron?  As we watched our image of the kindly robin which graces Easter paintings, which serves as a harbinger of spring, which we embrace as our most beloved feathered friend began to fade.  These spindly legged characters are the muggers of the backyard.

And then we realized what the goldfinch was feasting on.  In our never-ending effort to annihilate chickweed and dandelions and promote a lush growth of grass we had spread granules of fertilizer and poison on the lawn.  The goldfinch appeared to be munching on the toxic berries - berries that resemble the seeds she is accustomed to eating.

And so, in the eternal drama being staged out our kitchen window, we became the villains, the robins (falsely accused of assault and battery) became saintly protectors, attempting to keep the tender goldfinch from the poison, and the goldfinch remained the doomed femme.

The problem with all the world being a stage is that you never know what your part is....  ~T.Stucky

April 2, 1987

This is, for those of you who come to this corner seeking chronological bearings, "The Year of the Reader," so declared by the Library of Congress.

The intent of the special designation, which overlaps with The Year of the Golden Plover and The Decade of Uncommon Social Persuasion, is to make reading more accessible to Americans of all ages.  President Reagan hopes the effort will "restore reading to a place of preeminence in our personal lives and in the life of our nation."

An estimated 27 million people in this country are functionally illiterate, which means they cannot read at a fifth grade level.  When you toss in the millions of pre-schoolers and primary grade students the number of functionally illiterate mushroom dramatically.

Now the reading bandwagon has been loosed from the garage and sent rumbling across the continent, hordes are stampeding to get on board.  For instance, K-Mart, where America goes to shop, is recognizing the special year by putting up signs, handing out bookmark bag stuffers and encouraging their employees to serve as literary tutors to their communities.

Develop a mental picture of the clerk who zipped your items across the bar-marking reader the last time you visited the big city bustle - and - hustle mart.  Is this someone you want coming into your home with a reading list?

Think about the stock boy piling toilet paper into a tottering mound in aisle 32.  Is this a guy you want reading stories to you functionally illiterate?

This is how serious we are about wiping out illiteracy.  We're prepared to arm our stock boys with an arsenal of Barbara Cartland and send them off to conquer the world for readership. Restoring preeminence, indeed.

In fact, despite Steven Spielberg's comments at Monday night's Academy Award program, reading is a relic of the past, booted into antiquity by motion pictures and television.  Lifting the Titanic from the ocean floor would be kid's play compared to raising reading to its former preeminence.  And both are better left lying right where they are.

Back in the old days when people read, when the printed word was the basis for communal thought, people were too analytical, they delved too far below the surface, they too often read between the lines.  In those days they created their own images of life at seas, of flight in a balloon, of the horror of slavery.  And because they created their own images, those images became real, influencing society from the grassroots up.

When reading was preeminent, people gathered on street corners and in meeting halls to debate religion, politics, social developments.  It was a disruptive time.  People had opinions and they could back them up with words printed in black ink on white paper.

Back then politicians used the printed word to convey their beliefs.  Voters knew where their elected officials stood, and they held them accountable.  Wavering on issues was difficult when words were recorded with black ink on white paper.

Today we seldom see the written words of a president.  We see his smile, his full head of hair, his crisp wave on the evening news.  It come and it goes.  Little accountability for mistakes.  Few solid opinions.  A handsome face replacing a contemplative mind as the only qualification for high office.

Is it any wonder then, that in "The Year of the Reader" we are enlisting stock boys to raise our country's literacy rate....  ~T. Stucky