Time for Catching Flies

After our dinner was finished and the table cleared, my father and I would set out in preparation of another’s meal. At the time we lived on a dead end street which butted up against the railroad tracks. Across from our house was a small field, probably something to do with the railroad, but I cannot say for certain. The grass and weeds would grow tall thereby protecting whatever wildlife having ventured into its canopied self.


Our mission was not to disturb the variety of wildlife which made its home there, but instead to catch flies for our amphibious friends at home. I had toads. Probably not one of the best pets for a child, but I thought they were fascinating and wonderful. As an adult, I realize that they, like the other wildlife just outside our door, would have preferred the freedom of the field rather than the artificially lighted home that was made theirs against their tough skinned will, but children rarely make that connection and I was no different. I loved them and wanted then near and because of this I thought that they too would obviously feel the same. Poor creatures.

My father was given the task to escort me into the field to catch flies to feed our toad family as my mother didn’t find the process necessarily pleasant. The process was simple enough, find a sleeping fly and cup it in the palm of your hand until you could transfer it to the waiting container. I am certain that the unsuspecting fly did not have this relocation in mind when it had settled in for the night, giving way to the much more interesting fireflies.

I can recall the excitement of seeking out the resting flies on the underside of leaves and crevices found on plant stalks. The hunter and the hunted, but the hunted had no idea that it was indeed being stalked by a small child and a giant of a man. The flies, normally shunned by their human counterparts, must of have been quite unsettled with this change of events, but my loyalty lied with the toads in their homemade swamp, rather than the fly.

Catching flies is a strange skill to hone, but when you have small hungry mouths to feed, you take it in stride- just as my father did, with my insatiable curiosity and want to be in the world, rather than just observe. He maintained his patience while showing me the ways in which nature worked, playing out its joys and sorrows. Sometimes, most likely against his better judgment, he allowed me to intervene in the natural outcome of things, just a little, but that is what dads do.

Winding clocks Backward (A poem)

Once we were free,
Without time on our heels
Winding clocks, still mysterious in movement and rhythm
Bees demanded our attention, not world politics
We did what we would, what pleased us
Flitting like butterflies through the neighborhood
With sunlight tangled in our wild hair
Wild as our thoughts and dreams, running
Bare feet touching every other step
In the tall grass of our safari fields
Searching out large and small game
Seeking knowledge not found in books
Or on advertisements
Cupping grasshoppers and crickets alike
Listening to their wise words and sharing our secrets
Knowing our secrets were safe, unbroken
Within the kaleidoscope of perfect childhood wonder
(J.Smith 2011)

Stowaways, Circa early 80s

When I was a child my family spent most of our vacations in Hayward, Wisconsin. As long as I stayed within shouting distance, I was pretty much allowed to run free. With that freedom, I was left to explore the little fish swimming near the dock, various bugs, and other wildlife- probably to the chagrin of all the aforementioned.


Frogs, one of my favorite specimens to observe, and play with, were plentiful and easily found hoping around or taking a dip in the lake. I loved frogs and toads. The variety of shape, size and skin type was astounding.

I also loved our nighttime drives down the long secluded road leading to the large white gates that signified we were home. The headlights of our old car would illuminate a path for all the little bouncing frogs and toads out for their evening meal. My father would do his best to carefully drive around them so as to give them another day to eat their fill of our arch nemesis, the mosquito.

Packing the car to return home, which was always a long process since it included strategically placing everything that we came with, the random things we purchased while there and collecting our four cats that found hiding better than returning to the loathed cat carrier and then, worse, the car, I decided I wanted to take some of my amphibian friends home with me. I asked my parents if I could add two little frogs, each the size of the tip of my thumb, to our already overcrowded car, which came a reply- a resounding no.

Not to be deterred, I fashioned a brilliant plan to hide them, better yet, stow them away in the car until it was too late and they were home with us. Instant new pets! Excited, I found a hole in the car door just large enough to place my special stowaways. I popped them in with absolutely no trouble at all.

I must have looked guilty because not terribly long after I executed my "could not go wrong" plan, my plan was discovered! The horror!! Luckily, my father, a man of many skills, including taking a car door apart, was there to liberate the stowaways. Both escaped unharmed, but, I am sure, quite bewildered by their strange journey from the grasses behind the house, to the hands of a giant to the dark warm mobile cave that they inexplicably found themselves. Their lives would never be the same.

We, on the other hand, had to get on the road, and, without much further ado, minus some reprimanding and a bit of a grumpy driver, we were. The white gates faded in the distance all the while cat sirens provided back up to ELO’s "Don't Bring Me Down." An all time favorite of the grumpy driver.

Don't Invite the Pinata

This photo is completely unrelated to the story... just a picture of Earwax Cafe...

When I was a child I somehow got it in my head that I must have a piñata at my birthday party. How could I go wrong? Whack at a cardboard vessel crammed with toys, pennies and, best of all, candy until it exploded and showered the guests with these fine gifts… and you even got to eat the candy? This sounded like a great idea. I was wholly invested in the "piñata scenario."

After some serious pestering, my mother agreed to the addition of the piñata to my up coming birthday. I couldn’t wait. I played and replayed the images in my mind. The anticipation, the senseless whacking at something with a stick without getting in trouble, and, then, for the grand finale, the explosion of pieces of everything you ever wanted pouring down from above. And… I would be the one supplying the excitement. Yes, me! I would be remembered with godlike awe as that girl with the piñata.

At the party, everything was going smoothly. Food, cake, and little girl chatter. Finally, the time arrived. We all headed up to the attic where the jewel of the evening was hanging from the ceiling like an angel. The anticipation sat heavy as all the little girls clamored to the top of the stairs beholding the donkey piñata in all its glory. We stood around twitching with excitement.

Blindfold the contestant, spin her around a couple times and hand her a long wooden stick. Sounds safe, doesn’t it? Some missed the mark completely, some made contact. A few sprinkles of candies showered upon us. But then, to my horror, something else occurred. There was a slight groan in the rope and the freed cardboard donkey made its final decent. It landed with a muffled thud. The fallen angel.

Laying there bloated, limp and exposed, the donkey waited for something to happen. It didn’t take long for the other birthday guests to circle their prey. The tearing and pounding of this helpless cardboard donkey was more than I could bear. It was one thing to beat it with a stick, dizzy and blindfolded while it hung in the air, but this savagery was just too much. I tried to stop it. Tried to hold back the pack of wild hyenas that moments before were docile friends of mine, but no, it was too late. I pleaded with them to allow the donkey to be restrung and place back on high. My pleas fell silently upon the foaming at the mouth hyena children. There was no saving the donkey from this level of brutality. I fled.

This episode brought to light my character flaw of needing to follow the rules. There are certain rules the must be obeyed. The piñata is supposed to go down in a blaze of candy glory, not torn to bits by wild children. There are rules. They were not followed and I knew it. I knew that they had been broken and I wanted no part of it.

Finding myself a nice safe hiding place behind an oversized chair in our living room, I waited. The hyenas would not get me after they finished cleaning out the donkey’s innards. I was protected. As the beating of the cardboard donkey was the last planned activity of my birthday party, I remained hidden until the final guest turned savage left my home, booty in hand. Once it was certain everyone had left, my mother coaxed me out of my hiding place, dried my tears and made a vow to never allow another cardboard donkey make an appearance at any festive gathering.