"Et tu, Brute?" The Werewolf of Venice

(Continued) I apologize for being late on getting this one out.. but as it turned out, after my epic clash with the rooster, (which was once a close ally) the insidious beast was now nothing more to me than a backstabbing traitor... "Et tu, Brute?"

Needless to say, I was late for school.

I wasn't happy that I had to give excuses for my being late to school, either. I tried the best I could to explain why to my seventh grade teacher, Sister Edith. I went on about how it was trash day and how it was my job (even though I had fifteen thousand older brothers) to drags the cans (all by myself) to the ally because of my "Saint Francis" relationship I had built with the mini-Godzilla (when my brothers tried to kill me by burying in the Igloo of Death Post 2/27/14) and how the ugly attack rooster wouldn't let anyone else in the backyard and how all of this had something to do with the Mexican Tomato plants...

I don't know what it was...but I don't think that a 12-year-old is supposed to use words like: Saint Francis, Godzilla and Mexican Tomato plants all in the same sentence or all in one long breath. She interrupted me, impatiently tapping her worn out yardstick on the old brown desk. 'Rude! Hello!' I thought.

Thump Thump Thump! Tap Tap Tap!  The sound of her rapping that stick on her desk gave me a flashback! My pre-pubescent PTSD kicked in and I zoned out!

The rest of the kids in the class room started laughing. 'What?'  I thought, 'Like this doesn't happen to any of you other little creeps. Yeah like none of you have attack roosters and a Staff-Sergeant-Dad, who beats on the ceiling with a broom handle on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings. Like none of you have to eat oatmeal with meal worms before you get here. Like no one else here has ever had to wrestle an alligator or has been bitten by a snake or thrown over a cliff or shot at with needle-tipped arrows, electrocuted or dropped out of a window. Sure, right, like none of you other kids haven't ever had to do battle with a prehistoric monster first thing in the morning before school.' I sneered at the class and looked at all the empty eyes staring back and then it dawned on me!


THEY DIDN'T!  Normal People didn't have a giant frog the size of a beagle that ate baby chickens, or an alligator, or a monkey, or rattlesnakes, or chuckwallas or a bazillion rabbits and guinea pigs, turtles, a nasty looking cat that had been raised from the dead... or a pigeon that lived on top of the refrigerator or mushrooms that grew in the shower.    

I forgot that the Dahlins weren't normal...by any stretch of the imagination... and then realized that they thought I was making this entire story up about having to do battle with Godzilla before even getting to school! Like it wasn't true! 'Idiots! What do they know?'

Their stupid excuses on the other hand were like pathetic white bread in comparison, "My dog ate my homework." Hello, gag me with a spoon! "I stubbed my toe and my mom rushed me to the emergency room and I had to keep it elevated all day and had to watch cartoons and eat ice cream."  Whaaaaaa! Really? 'Oh poor baby, call the Whammmbulance!'

They thought I was joking and Sister Edith thought I was trying to make fun of her and she pulled a desk up to the front of the room and made me sit right next to her all day long! She wouldn't even let me show her the blood that had run down my leg and into my red Ked sneakers.  "Sheeze-Louise"

Trust me, someone was going to get it!  "Stay clear or my, oh my!"  Forget about the boys for a minute - one of them was bound to get it at recess. But. there. THEY. were! The girls! Ughhhhhhh. Looking at me like I was some alien creature from Mars.  Marilyn and Theresa and Julie and ANDREA!  I knew I didn't stand a chance with the girls against regular boys who were human-beings from planet earth.

Stupid
Dumb
Retarded
There I sat like a wounded or sickly wolf cut out of the pack - right up next to Sister Edith's desk. It was like I had leprosy or some contagious disease.

"Head tones" the Catholic nun screeched.  No! She wasn't about to get 'head tones' from me today... I refused to sing!

I was somewhere outside the Troposphere... Flying in one of the Apollo rocket ships on the way to the moon. I was trying to get away and thought that maybe I could live up there - if I was lucky!

"Read the question Mark!" Sister Edith bellowed judiciously from the platform where her desk was perched! My spaceship crash landed and I was suddenly back on planet Earth, in Venice, in the seventh grade, in a room at Saint Mark's school. I fumbled around for what seemed like 20 pressured-filled minutes trying to find the page we were on and didn't have a clue where we were. I knew it had something to do with Pavlov's dog, and, in a conditioned involuntary reflex I began reading in the middle of the page at the exact same time that Earnestine started to read! Sister slapped my desk with her yardstick and yelled at me.

I had no idea why the nun had gone berserk! First the rooster, now her! In front of the entire class, she wrapped my knuckles with her ruler and broke the thing over my hand. 'Ha! That'll teach her' I thought.

After Earnestine began reading again, I looked down the page of the text book and realized that she hadn't asked me to read.  She had asked Earnestine to read the paragraph following the QUESTION MARK - you know - a question mark the little squiggly thing with a dot that looks like this...
          ?
I thought she had asked me to read the question!  But she had asked Earnestine to read the question mark.

Alright! Touché Sister, this one was yours - you won this one, fair and square.  I limped outside for recess and all the boys wanted to see my bloody knuckles. They thought it was cool how I made up the big story about having to fight a rooster this morning and then how I dared to disrupt the class by reading right over the top of Ernestine, especially since I was in whacking distance of Sister Edith's notorious yardstick. 

Acting braver than I really was, my bloody knuckles were now a middle-school badge of honor and I said, "Oh Yeah!" and tried not to limp. Ricky said it was the best excuse story he had ever heard and all the smelly 12-year-old boys laughed in agreement. They thought I was cool for making up such a far fetch story about guard roosters and Saint Francis and all that! 

Anyway, I had been attacked by a rooster, humiliated, threatened with a stick and whacked with a ruler by a 300-year-old nun. Like one of Pavlov's dogs my fuse was a little short because of all the stimuli I had been subjected to this morning and knew that I had a long hard day in front of me. 

Ralph, the guy who helped me nearly cut off my leg 5 months ago, (blog post 11/29/13) Harry and I decided that we would ditch kickball and twirl ourselves around like helicopters instead. Actually the cool kids didn't pick Harry for one of the teams and I felt sorry for him.

And... this is when the Inner-Viking - the fuse blew... and Pavlov's passive dog turned into a werewolf that snapped. 

Poor, Poor, Terry!  

Blame it on the rooster, on Sister Edith, on her stick - her broken ruler; blame it on my PTSD...blame it on a conditioned involuntary reflex... blame it on my past electrocutions...but none-the-less, I really think Terry deserved what he got next!         
   

"Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - bird or devil! Pt II

Tap! Tap! Tap!  As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber floor. It is no one I muttered. No one rapping on my bedroom floor. Deep into darkness peering, long I lay there wondering fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
But since the silence was unbroken and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken were the whispered words of "Monday morn!"
This I whispered, "nevermore" an echo chanted louder, "Monday MORN!"

Rap, rap, rapping on my bedroom floor.

"Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! - prophet still, it bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
In this Harding house by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore
Is there - is there balm in my Gilead - my head - tell me, I implore!'
quote the raven, 'Nevermore."

Thump, thump thump grew the rapping as a beating heart of the dead body beneath my floor.

"Monday morn! Monday morn!"shouted in cadence with the tapping from my chamber floor.
"Prophet!" said I, 'thing of evil! - Prophet still, if bird or devil!"
"Nevermore" I said, tossing in my slumber to the haunting voice below one floor.

Thump, thump, thump went the broom handle on the entry ceiling - "Truly your forgiveness I implore."

"Up and at 'em!" yelled the vice that had been rapping at my bedroom floor, "It's Monday morn!"
Presently the light grew stronger and I realized that that tapping and voice morphed into my nightmare lore.
It was not a a heart beating -  not the dead rising - in fact it was not to be that tame!
No! Monday morning was always the same and yet no timid game!

Eyes finally adjusting to the light of day, it was the staff sergeant's broom handle beating on my bedroom floor.
"Up and at 'em!" yelled my dad. "let's go, go, go, go, go" cried he,
"Its time of the harvest moon" he implored!
Be it beating heart, or dead man or ghoul beneath the floor would have been better than what was in store!

Morning morning trash day had become my chore.
This was not Wednesday or Thursday "street cleaning day" circus galore (blog post 7/1/2013).
This did not involve the entire Wolf Pack, only Markie D and this infamous chore.

No one dared go out the backstairs door with what the Veloci Raptor had in store.
No dared tempt the evil bird that was no one's friend!
Someone flesh the rooster was destined to rend!

I marched down stairs with angry in eyes, dragging trash cans twice my size.
"Why was I the only one?" I criticized!
I knew the answer, it was no surprise.
I was Saint Francis, to the evil bird with crazy eyes.

Only me. Markie D!
My gift.  My superpower gave me a free pass
The bird of prey allowed me and me alone on the weeds and remnant grass.
Only I was allowed to drag the trash cans pass.

(Okay, you get the idea and the story will take much too long to continue in the prose of Poe)

Blaming the violent rooster for scares and blood, the older boys on the third floor were not part of my Monday morning ritual on trash day. Dad pounded on the ceiling below my bed. I dragged out the billion cans of trash to alley every Monday morn.  I looked at the rooster with love in my eyes and spoke a language it didn't despise(Blog Post: Kid in a pit with a water hose 2/27/14).  The hideous beast cleared a birth wide enough for this little lass, unhindered by the wild beast, I did pass.

Packing cans and stacking trash in the alley I did my chore.. my chore forever more.
when finished with the mundane task, I turned towards the house alas...
this is where things got wild, for the beast blocked my path - standing on the grass.

The Veloci-Raptor stood in the narrow path between cars and junk old kitchen sink
and a look in the eye of the evil beast cause my heart to sink.
But I was Saint Francis lover of animals not the typical hippie or rat fink!
Why rooster? Why?" Be that word or sing of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and quell this nightmarish horror.
Leave no blood foul fowl as a token of our sacred bond and let me pass now and forevermore!"

Why? (Again too much rhyming and I mean it -  anyone care for a peanut)

This is a true story as I looked at the crazy bird
and threw out positive pheromones of gentleness and kind word.
slowly approaching with my Saint Francis confidence and the "Covenant we struck in the Pit"
I trusted that rascle -  "Oh - S...Poop!"

Nevermore be still
Nevermore cursed bird or devil
I shrieked as betraying raptor flew waist high
and struck me repeatedly with sharp talon usually reserved for the hippies and the other guy!

Fresh blood flowed through the holes in my jeans
I laid on the ground with unrequited screams
shaking my fist at a horror worst that any of my bad dreams

Like wounded soldier, I crawled to the back gate
stood to my feet in haste I scrounged for battle gear
I plundered a trash can lid as shield and buckler
a broken mop handle - IT WAS WAR for this little suckler.

(Hey, if Dr. Suess and rappers can make up so so can I)

Thump Thump Thump! Tap Tap Tap! Rap Rap Rap
we clashed in epic battle
With my trash can shield and wodden sward I gave that beast quite a rattle.
Losing my Saint Francis I said, "Mess with me you devilish pig, your shallow grave, I'll gladly dig!"

Anyway, I managed to survive the fiendish attack before I set off that day for school
and was bent on being no bodies fool
Not Erick, Sister Edith, Mike, Terry, not Joe
Though animals and babies, I'll consent to try to give my Saint Francis eye
but for this mini-Godzilla, Wolf pack or foe
all I can say, "Stay clear or my oh my!"

I came in to test my Dad's experimental milk (Post 7/13/13)
and choked down clumpy oat meal meal worms and all (Shocking and Vomitous Thursday post 7/11/13).
and limped off to Saint Mark's school
determined not to be played for anyone's fool




                                    
                       "Watch out Terry, don't even think about messing with my friend Harry!"


Quote the raven, "Nevermore!"

Of Bees and Men!

Even though the setting for my blog is fall of 1968 (where I am in the first couple months of 7^th grade), last time I took us back 6 years to August of 1962. It shouldn't surprise anybody that this Dahlin vacation turned into another high drama odyssey in the comedic rescue attempt of Dooh-Dooh Pants, which almost killed him while entertaining the throngs of spectators that lined the shore of the Kings River just below Pine Flats dam.    

 

  

Chewbacca was happy that the paddle board did not end up in a plastic tray in some restaurant as tooth picks (paddleboard pictured to the left).

 

The previously mocking teenagers went back to Rio Linda with “Mud on their face, a big disgrace” (Hey, those are fun words...someone should make that into a song someday).

I took the bag off my head and returned Puke-Breath’s crutches and spent the rest of the day fishing with the family below the dam. 

 

I didn’t like fishing like the rest of the boys, so I spent the greater part of the day climbing the low hanging trees that hung over the river…being careful not to fall into the swift current that would carry me into “The Cow Blender Falls" of death - that Dooh-Dooh Pants had barely escaped. 

BUT, as either fate would have it…or human nature; this day did not end without at least a little bit more excitement brought on by the mischievous schemes of the Wolf Pack.

In a decrepit rust-and-blue trashcan that had the remains of some camper’s dinner from yesterday and discarded remains of  this morning’s fishing exploits – guts and trout heads, were bees. Saying bees makes this scene sound too mundane and just too ordinary when in actuality it was buzzing with the industrious sounds of ten bazillion meat bees doing what meat-bees do.

That old trashcan drummed with the humming and buzzing of a tropical cyclone that could be heard some 200 feet away that gave me the willy-nillies. It was a veritable “cock eye Bobs” as they might say in Australia. Never-the-less, the dented metal can was almost no match for the force of those bees that seemed to have that rusted can spinning under a spell, as if it had floated down river (like Dooh-Dooh Pants had in my last episode) and without being rescued was caught in the turbulent cow shredding falls just below the bridge.

No one in their right mind was about to venture within 32 and a half feet of that thing. But then, we weren’t really in our right mind - were we? While dad was busy baiting hooks and helping to liberate lures that had gotten snagged on submerged logs, two of the conniving older boys warily, but courageously made their way to the trash-can-of-certain-death with an empty Styrofoam worm container.

They had the brilliant (or devious) idea of capturing a bunch of those bees in order to terrorize the rest of us who were happily climbing or intensely fishing. 

Managing to make it all the way to the tornado of bees without getting stung, Gustav must have been channeling Saint Francis. The bees didn’t seem to mind the ooey-gooey container of warm-worm ooze that had been let down into the center of their vortex - the eye of the hurricane!  As a matter of fact the easily agitated bees seemed well pleased as they delightfully swarmed the bountiful grossness that was offered to them as if a gift from the gods itself.     

       NECTAR FROM THE BEE GODS

Little did any of us imagine, at the time, just how much this trickery would upset the industrious little critters.  Snap went the lid, trapping a bunch of them inside, just like they had done to me in "The Hamper of Death" incident (blog post 6/5/2013). I, better than anybody, knew how they felt! All these poor buzzing little guys wanted was to feel important and included, only to discover that they had also been betrayed when seduced by a cunning plot of my older brothers.  Maybe they felt betrayed, hurt, or sad (I don't know exactly), but I can tell you this – The Bees trapped in that Styrofoam worm container WERE MAD! 

Let me put it this way...in the words of Robert Burns, "The best laid plans of mice of men oft go astray!"  or should I say, "The best laid plans of BEES and MEN!"

To wet your whistle, maybe I should just say this…poor, poor, poor…Puke Breath. This trip was to celebrate the fact that he was up and out of bed for the first time in months with his full-length walking cast. In retrospect, my advice would have been for him 'not to have wondered from that hospital bed in our dining room.'  This is the same counsel I would have told Goliath when he faced a ruddy little boy with five smooth stones.  "Goliath - don't get out of bed today. You're in for a heap of trouble." 

Dooh-Dooh Pants' rescue was ACT 1 and now Puke-Breath was about to star in ACT 2 of the show we put on at the Kings River.            Puke Breath had no idea what trouble lied ahead!  

THE ZOO: The conclusion! Plus 1000 thanks

I began posting my childhood stories just over a week ago and I would like to thank all of you for visiting and traveling back with me to the 60's. Today I hope to finish the Zoo Odyssey, but wanted to give a shout out to all of those who have made up the 1,048 visits to this blog site.  Thank you to those in Germany, South Korea, Thailand, Russia, France, the UK and those of you right here in the U S of A.

1048 THANKS

I'm sorry for leaving you hanging ... as you can see at least one of us had lots of training that would come in handy for the next part of this story. Who knew that  the ability to hold-on would be essential to their survival. 

We left off last time with Flea-Bait being suspiciously pushed off the ledge of the monkey habitat. In the words of Paul Harvey, "And now, the rest of the story."

 Desperate, Mom had just mixed all our names up (as she usually did) while invoking “The Clause.” (I'll stick with the alias' here).

“GustavBjornKnutLeifUlrikeorwhoever you are, (I was usually the "WhoEverYouAre" I thought that was my name until second grade when I got into trouble for putting it on top of my school papers.) 

With the Papal authority that went all the way back to Saint Peter, mom shouted, "Get down this instant - UNDER-PAIN-OF-MORTAL-SIN”

WELLLLLLLLLL.... Knut pushed and Flea-Bait fell into the anticipating clutches of the agitated monkeys below. (REMEMBER, THIS IS A TRUE STORY)

Flea-bait was a prize... something to be sniffed and prodded and examined and licked and tasted and adopted and fought over and owned. 

With a hundred monkeys climbing all over Flea-Bait and picking his head for lice...Knut knew that they had no intention of giving Flea-Bait back. My mother took the two girls and hid in the bushes about 50 feet away. 

Knut knew that if Flea-Bait died, then he was the one guilty of Murder and was now subject to Mortal Sin and would have to spend an additional billion years in Purgatory. ONLY. Only Knut couldn't reach far enough down into the Pit of Despair to rescue poor Flea-Bait and had to be lowered by his ankles by Mad Dog and Gustav. 

Every time Flea-Bait opened his mouth to scream for help monkey fingers went in. ONLY. Only when Flea-Bait discovered that one of fingers  wasn't really a finger, but a toe - he began to freak out.  He figured what ever foot this toe was attached to - had probably just been walking around in monkey dung and urine.

In shear terror that he would have to live with monkey pee-soaked-toes in his mouth for the rest of his life, Flea-Bait looked up with hope to the outstretched arms that were extended to him (holding back his own vomit).

With the aid of several other Dahlin Boys (and friends who had voluntarily squished themselves into the old Dodge station wagon for the Field Trip to the Zoo) Knut had been lowered far enough by his ankles to grab the outstretched arms of Flea-Bait. 

ONLY. Only there were a million monkeys crawling all over Flea-Bait! From up above, he looked like a piece of forgotten candy that had been covered in ants (Only monkeys. Only monkeys that didn't want to give him back). 

We had a problem!   There were too many of the little buggers.

So along with Gustav and Mad Dog, Liver lips, Chewy, Pinky, Dooh-Dooh Pants, and me... we all grabbed on and joined the tug-of war.

It was the monkeys on one end and the Viking Wolf Pack on the other end, with Knut and Flea-Bait stretched out like a piece of rope in the middle. (Told you that those hanging-on-skills would come in handy right?) We could hang with the best of monkeys.

 

We had all gone through monkey training  school and had bow staff mad skills 

We could not... would not lose! 

“Heave ho!” We all shouted in unison, giving one humungous jerk. “Si Se Puedes!” Chewy screamed. Four Eyes was with us but was completely useless - as usual. He sat down with his slide rule and tried to make some kind of formula as to how many Dahlins it would take to pull up Flea-Bait factoring in weight, total muscle mass and gravitational pull. 

 

By this time, sirens were blaring and blue lights flashing as Zoo security in faded green, electric carts rounded the sharp corner by the Gorilla statue.  Holding tranquilizer dart-guns as if they were going to war, this was their big chance to use guns that a zoo security guard rarely, if ever, got to use.

Later when my dad heard the story, he laughed, rolled his eyes, and then said something like, “Too bad they weren’t using real bullets.” 

Anyway, complete mayhem broke out in the zoo, and my mom stayed hidden in the bushes offering up prayers to Saint Francis.  

The 6,000 monkeys were just too heavy for us to lift poor Flea-Bait out of the monkey pit. 

This is when "IT" happened. 

(I thought for the sake of time I'd leave you hanging here - but it didn't think I could do it to you again). 

The very last monkey, anchoring the tug-of war, let go and climbed over the monkey in front of him and the monkey in front of that monkey, and the monkey in front of that one - and on and on until he reached Flea-Bait. He stood up on his feet and screamed something in monkey as he beat his chest (I'm not really fluent at translating monkey, but if I had to guess this brilliant little fella shouted "FREEDOM") then he took off over Knut, over Gustav, over Mad Dog, over Liver Lips, over Chewy, Pinky, Dooh-Dooh Pants and over me into the Zoo. 

The next to last monkey did the same thing: Over one monkey, then the next and the next until he reached Knut where he paused and took a whiff of  Knut's breath and acted as if he had almost fallen in love...(Knut wore a retainer and had really bad breath... the Monkey loved it) he stood up, beat his chest and shouted "FREEDOM" as he climbed over all the Dahlin boys and into the zoo. 

Monkey by monkey they all did the same thing... We. Us. The Dahlins!  WE HAD MANAGED TO LET EVERY SINGLE ONE of the MONKEYS OUT OF THE CAGE! 

Monkeys running riot, babies crying, angry men with tranquilizer guns, sirens blaring, food dropping, people screaming, Mrs D praying, girls hiding and Dahlins fleeing. 

Did anything like this every happen to your family? I want to know. Tell me about it!