Being an MK to some exotic place means you get AWESOME pets from that exotic place!
First, we had normal pets. Dog and a cat. Slowly, I began to love animals. And thus, I begged for more.
So we got a chicken. Vampire bats got to the chickens, and I cried my eyes out...Poor Rosie, Pepper, Millie, Alice, Gaby, and Archibald...
Then, after that, we decided we would get two turtles: One for me and one for my sister.
They were snapping turtles. We put them in a cage held together with staples and tin.
Two weeks later, WOOSH. The turtles bit off the staples and knawed through the tin. We lost them.
Later, we were about to get an ocelot. Beautiful little kitties. Dad was all for it, but Mom...Not so much...
So that was past. We were almost going to get a horse. The problem? We didn't have any idea how to get the horse from the village it was in to our village. NO WAY would the horse ride in the canoe so far. And, we also didn't have a place to put him.
So, we couldn't have a horse either.
We had birds. Well, not really but we fed a Toucan popcorn every day. He would come by and sit on our doorstep ready for the treats. When we left, he left.
I often captured many little creatures in my Magnifying Carrier. This wonderful bug catcher was great for anything small enough to fit in it. It held tadpoles, whom, I'm sad to say, died about two days later, and butterflies and everything else! It broke when Dad tried to keep a scorpion inside it. Sad.
We even found a PURPLE ladybug. Violet purple. And we named it--my name!! I loved im'. We had found him on our walk down to the creek.
We also had Bubbles. A very cute little water turtle that I found on the path on his back. I saw him dying, and if you know me, you KNEW I would NOT leave the poor thing there!!
We had him for a few days. He lived in a tub in the shower. Mom did not like him one bit. He was a side-neck turtle, which meant that instead of pulling his head in, he rolled it underneath, sideways. He had a long neck. Which meant that, anyone who was using the pot had to be ready for a peep-show. Bubbles would watch everyone. We let him go in the creek, because we knew he ate fish and we couldn't give him fish. So, we took him and left him in the creek. He was much happier. And so was Mom.
Through the years we were offered many types of pets. Mom turned down anything that was either freaky, needed food that was difficult to find, too big, or we had no place for them or any of the above.
No birds was her rule. Mom has always been afraid of birds. I love them!
I had many turtles. One of them, the one with much character, died in the sun when we left for a week and we left him with our trusted friend. It was not their fault.
Frankie was his name. He had character!!
He had scared Mom more than once, and gave each of us a laugh. I'm crying now, as I write this.
Once, when Mom was in the school-room alone, swinging and reading in the hammock, she heard a noise in Dad's tool room.
"What are you doing??" Mom shouted.
Silence.
"Hellooo?!?"
Crash, bang, CLUNK, rustle.
Mom got up and investigated. Frankie had SOMEHOW managed to climb onto Dad's tool-shelf and was nestled among the pliers. He had made Mom think someone had been stealing tools.
Nope. Just Frankie, settling down for his afternoon nap.
Another time, Mom was swinging in the hammock again, and Frankie squeezed himself under the bottom shelf of Dad's enormous bookshelf. He had been taking a nap peacefully, when Mom laughed her head off and called us down there.
We laughed even harder. I tried to pull Frankie out from under the bookshelf. Dad had to pry him loose. Finally we got him out.
Seems Frankie liked variety, and changed is napping spot every time. We found him all sorts of places. In the shower, under the bed, in the closet. He was always hiding. I loved him. So I cried extremely deep when he had passed away.
So, those are our pets that we had. And there are MANY more. Like a humming-bird.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Shichas
Well, worms are something. Now on to shichas. They are horrible little creatures, and I haven't the faintest idea why God invented them but He definitely had a reason.
These little shichas were little tiny flea-like bugs that lived in dirt and would climb into your foot and make a nest of baby shichas IN YOUR FOOT. The only way to get rid of one, was to poke it out with a needle. This, as you can probably imagine, hurt. And the fact that I ran around bare-foot, made me come home with little nature presents in my feet nearly every day.
Mom was the shicha remover. She was the mom, thus, she had needles and therefore, was the one who dealt with the problem.
She would await us in the room, like she wasn't happy to have the privilege of holding our jungle feet and picking disgusting shichas out of our foot. What an honor! I can't imagine why she wouldn't be thrilled...
It would start with HER. Spotting us limping as casually as we could manage, (which wasn't very discreet.)
The shichas ITCHED LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE while they were in your foot. They squirmed around and built nests all inside your foot. So, trying to walk in a casual manner was NOT as easy as it may sound.
We weren't overjoyed to have someone pick at our feet. It hurt and tickled at the same time, if you can imagine that.
Dad was the funniest whenever he had a shicha in his foot. It was family-time. We'd all gather around as Mom prepared the foot. She would place it on her lap, needle in hand, and one of us kids holding the Somergan. Somergan would kill the little devil, hiding in our foot. Mostly what mom would do was poke a big hole and DOUSE the fellow with Somergan.
Dad would sit there. Holding on to something. Usually he clutched the chair so hard that we all feared it might fall apart.
"Ready?" Mom would ask.
"Uh-huh..."
"OOkaay.." And with that, she could pierce the needle into my Dad's foot and--
"YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! OUCH OUCH OUCH!" He would yelp, and he would move, and Mom had to point out that if he moved again, it would hurt him even more.
Dad sat still for maybe two more minutes as Mom poked and prodded around in his foot. If he had a nest in his foot this process could take hours.
We would beg Mom to leave it alive.
We kids were evil to them. Once we took them out, we'd steal Mom's needle, the Somergan, the matches and begin the torture. We hated shichas. They made us look like idiots for scratching our feet during Sunday service. It was FINE if the Indians did it, but if we did it, Mom would take us out of church and home and then pick it out and we'd go back to church feeling relieved.
One night, we had an experiment. We wanted to see just how tough Demon, (that's what we named it) was.
We filled a cup with water. He swam around. He was smaller than a flea. Then he JUMPED out of the cup and we dashed for him. We didn't want to kill it, because we weren't done playing with it yet. Josh finally caught him, digging into our cat's tail. The cat took care of it, and then my brother Josh pried it away from Maxine. He held it in a napkin.
Next we burned it. Over the electric stove, we speared it with the needle and roasted him like a marshmallow. Only...we didn't eat it.
We tried soaking it in a bowl of Somergan, and we tried to flush it down the toilet. The toilet worked, and we had to go to bed.
The next day, someone, I won't say who, used the restroom and ...well...we'll leave it at that.
We loved shichas. Part of life. And we dealt with them appropriately and enthusiastically!
These little shichas were little tiny flea-like bugs that lived in dirt and would climb into your foot and make a nest of baby shichas IN YOUR FOOT. The only way to get rid of one, was to poke it out with a needle. This, as you can probably imagine, hurt. And the fact that I ran around bare-foot, made me come home with little nature presents in my feet nearly every day.
Mom was the shicha remover. She was the mom, thus, she had needles and therefore, was the one who dealt with the problem.
She would await us in the room, like she wasn't happy to have the privilege of holding our jungle feet and picking disgusting shichas out of our foot. What an honor! I can't imagine why she wouldn't be thrilled...
It would start with HER. Spotting us limping as casually as we could manage, (which wasn't very discreet.)
The shichas ITCHED LIKE YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE while they were in your foot. They squirmed around and built nests all inside your foot. So, trying to walk in a casual manner was NOT as easy as it may sound.
We weren't overjoyed to have someone pick at our feet. It hurt and tickled at the same time, if you can imagine that.
Dad was the funniest whenever he had a shicha in his foot. It was family-time. We'd all gather around as Mom prepared the foot. She would place it on her lap, needle in hand, and one of us kids holding the Somergan. Somergan would kill the little devil, hiding in our foot. Mostly what mom would do was poke a big hole and DOUSE the fellow with Somergan.
Dad would sit there. Holding on to something. Usually he clutched the chair so hard that we all feared it might fall apart.
"Ready?" Mom would ask.
"Uh-huh..."
"OOkaay.." And with that, she could pierce the needle into my Dad's foot and--
"YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! OUCH OUCH OUCH!" He would yelp, and he would move, and Mom had to point out that if he moved again, it would hurt him even more.
Dad sat still for maybe two more minutes as Mom poked and prodded around in his foot. If he had a nest in his foot this process could take hours.
We would beg Mom to leave it alive.
We kids were evil to them. Once we took them out, we'd steal Mom's needle, the Somergan, the matches and begin the torture. We hated shichas. They made us look like idiots for scratching our feet during Sunday service. It was FINE if the Indians did it, but if we did it, Mom would take us out of church and home and then pick it out and we'd go back to church feeling relieved.
One night, we had an experiment. We wanted to see just how tough Demon, (that's what we named it) was.
We filled a cup with water. He swam around. He was smaller than a flea. Then he JUMPED out of the cup and we dashed for him. We didn't want to kill it, because we weren't done playing with it yet. Josh finally caught him, digging into our cat's tail. The cat took care of it, and then my brother Josh pried it away from Maxine. He held it in a napkin.
Next we burned it. Over the electric stove, we speared it with the needle and roasted him like a marshmallow. Only...we didn't eat it.
We tried soaking it in a bowl of Somergan, and we tried to flush it down the toilet. The toilet worked, and we had to go to bed.
The next day, someone, I won't say who, used the restroom and ...well...we'll leave it at that.
We loved shichas. Part of life. And we dealt with them appropriately and enthusiastically!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Chapter One- Meet Me
Hi. I'm an MK, a home-schooler, and a Christian. I have friends who are MKs. I have experienced many cultures, and at times felt weird or left out. It has taken a while for me to realize that being different or weird isn't so bad. In fact, at times, it means you are more in control. It means you are special and have gotten to do things that many adults only dream about, much less kids.
It means that you know how to do things that most people learn in college, by the age of eight. Or even six.
I love every culture I have ever been a part of. I believe that everyone should try out a new culture at least once in their life, and I know they'd love to. Well, I have gotten to do it three times.
Venezuela, the States, and then Paraguay.
For you, the States is normal, and Venezuela and Paraguay are different. For me, it's the other way around.
I have swam in the Amazon, and learned three languages, cried myself to sleep at night because there was a strike going on outside, learned to walk in the Indians' mud hut, and eaten worms. Dead and alive. Yes. I. Have.
It's odd to think that someone who looks American fits in better with Latins than Americans, but it's confusing. It's the inside that makes us different by someone who has probably never left their state. Much less town. It's the thought that we have been somewhere dangerous, or beautiful or both. The fact that we can correct adults who have studied a language for eight years and we learned it in two years, and the people understand us better than that other scholar-person. The fact that we can say Hola without it sounding like Oh-Law.
And because we have done this, people fear us, and practice their Spanish on us, or Russian or whatever language they want to hear. If we know it, then you can guess that we have said the same thing we say to you about eight thousand times. At eight hundred different churches.
When we aren't very enthusiastic when you say how much we've grown, it's because we have heard it a million times and are upset that we still hear 'you were this big when I saw you last'. And, we wish we had grown at least a LITTLE bit since the last person told us that.
It's because our favorite thing to do is baffle people who speak the same language as us in public just to see their faces when they see someone who looks like they can't understand the person's accent.
For example, US. At Mexican restaurants. And at Wal-Mart and everywhere else we happen to see someone who speaks our language.
So now I am gonna let you in my 'canoe' and we'll float down the river of my life. Wear a life jacket. This is gonna be bumpy, and wet, and EVERYTHING in between.
It means that you know how to do things that most people learn in college, by the age of eight. Or even six.
I love every culture I have ever been a part of. I believe that everyone should try out a new culture at least once in their life, and I know they'd love to. Well, I have gotten to do it three times.
Venezuela, the States, and then Paraguay.
For you, the States is normal, and Venezuela and Paraguay are different. For me, it's the other way around.
I have swam in the Amazon, and learned three languages, cried myself to sleep at night because there was a strike going on outside, learned to walk in the Indians' mud hut, and eaten worms. Dead and alive. Yes. I. Have.
It's odd to think that someone who looks American fits in better with Latins than Americans, but it's confusing. It's the inside that makes us different by someone who has probably never left their state. Much less town. It's the thought that we have been somewhere dangerous, or beautiful or both. The fact that we can correct adults who have studied a language for eight years and we learned it in two years, and the people understand us better than that other scholar-person. The fact that we can say Hola without it sounding like Oh-Law.
And because we have done this, people fear us, and practice their Spanish on us, or Russian or whatever language they want to hear. If we know it, then you can guess that we have said the same thing we say to you about eight thousand times. At eight hundred different churches.
When we aren't very enthusiastic when you say how much we've grown, it's because we have heard it a million times and are upset that we still hear 'you were this big when I saw you last'. And, we wish we had grown at least a LITTLE bit since the last person told us that.
It's because our favorite thing to do is baffle people who speak the same language as us in public just to see their faces when they see someone who looks like they can't understand the person's accent.
For example, US. At Mexican restaurants. And at Wal-Mart and everywhere else we happen to see someone who speaks our language.
So now I am gonna let you in my 'canoe' and we'll float down the river of my life. Wear a life jacket. This is gonna be bumpy, and wet, and EVERYTHING in between.
Worms!
The earliest memory I can recall clearly is eating worms instead of my mom's chocolate chip cookies. I may have been crazy, or simply craving worms. I don't know. But they were smoked, and they were very tasty. They taste a lot like beef jerky only a little bit more...um...wiggly. Plus, they are long. About a foot long. Let's just say that they are like Slim Jims. Only living.
They are much tastier when they are cooked, as are most foods. But, eating them live and raw can gross out any tourists or city-folk and it is fun. I used to snack on them like potato chips. I prefer them over potato chips.
Anyways, I'm guessing myself to be about five to six years old, and obviously, I was hungry. I was growing anyway, and I needed something to hold me over until Mom finished making lunch.
"Mama." I said, and looked up at her as she stirred the pot...Or cut the vegetables...Or baked or whatever she was doing. And she looked down at me.
"What?"
"I'm hungry." As I said this, I rubbed my tummy.
Mom told me to go look in the fridge, as there was something to snack on. "Go look."
I walked over, and opened the fridge. Inside was a wild array of meat, fish that the Indians had brought, baby veggies, leftovers and...Worms. I dug in for the worms. I took them out, and carried them up to the loft while I played.
As soon as the Ziploc was empty, I quietly slipped back down the ladder, and threw the bag in the sink as Mom had always instructed me to do, because 'those magical bags didn't grow on trees'. I found this odd, because, to me, everything grew on trees. Fruits, vegetables, and I thought birds grew on trees. And the fact that they were magical meant they had to be cleaned every day, to be used again. And then stuck against the window when wet, to dry.
Anyway, once I threw it in the sink, I looked over and saw Mom leaning into the fridge. (I remember this clearly).
I went over and asked what she was doing. Mom stood back up, and said, " Where are they!?!?! They're--They're---They're GONE! What happened? Do you know??" She asked me.
I shook my head. Then Mom saw me. And looked in the sink.
"Did you eat the worms??"
I nodded. "You said there was a snack in the fridge."
"But--Those were for your cousins for when we see them next week. Oh...I was gonna surprise them!..." Mom looked so sad. So I looked at her, smiled and said,
"They wouldn't like them anyway. They would think that they were gross. So I eated them."
"I'm sure you did."
Turns out, she had meant the chocolate chip cookies when she said a snack. Who knew?
They are much tastier when they are cooked, as are most foods. But, eating them live and raw can gross out any tourists or city-folk and it is fun. I used to snack on them like potato chips. I prefer them over potato chips.
Anyways, I'm guessing myself to be about five to six years old, and obviously, I was hungry. I was growing anyway, and I needed something to hold me over until Mom finished making lunch.
"Mama." I said, and looked up at her as she stirred the pot...Or cut the vegetables...Or baked or whatever she was doing. And she looked down at me.
"What?"
"I'm hungry." As I said this, I rubbed my tummy.
Mom told me to go look in the fridge, as there was something to snack on. "Go look."
I walked over, and opened the fridge. Inside was a wild array of meat, fish that the Indians had brought, baby veggies, leftovers and...Worms. I dug in for the worms. I took them out, and carried them up to the loft while I played.
As soon as the Ziploc was empty, I quietly slipped back down the ladder, and threw the bag in the sink as Mom had always instructed me to do, because 'those magical bags didn't grow on trees'. I found this odd, because, to me, everything grew on trees. Fruits, vegetables, and I thought birds grew on trees. And the fact that they were magical meant they had to be cleaned every day, to be used again. And then stuck against the window when wet, to dry.
Anyway, once I threw it in the sink, I looked over and saw Mom leaning into the fridge. (I remember this clearly).
I went over and asked what she was doing. Mom stood back up, and said, " Where are they!?!?! They're--They're---They're GONE! What happened? Do you know??" She asked me.
I shook my head. Then Mom saw me. And looked in the sink.
"Did you eat the worms??"
I nodded. "You said there was a snack in the fridge."
"But--Those were for your cousins for when we see them next week. Oh...I was gonna surprise them!..." Mom looked so sad. So I looked at her, smiled and said,
"They wouldn't like them anyway. They would think that they were gross. So I eated them."
"I'm sure you did."
Turns out, she had meant the chocolate chip cookies when she said a snack. Who knew?
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