We've all heard the phrase, "Raised by wolves." From the moment I had cognitive thoughts, I knew what that phrase meant. I often felt that if my family were "wolves" then I was a coyote. I managed to blend from a distance, but a closer look would reveal that not everyone in the pack was a wolf. "Who's the ruffled gamey looking wolf in your pack?" "Oh, that's my daughter, Melodee. She's a Coyote-Dog hybrid pretending to be a wolf, and my son, Darren, he's a Sloth in a wolf costume."
I've always related to the Coyote. It's a scavenger, hunts with other animals like raccoons, skunks, badgers, other dogs, foxes, opossums... it's a reasonable animal that tries to get the job done without making a big deal about the hunting process. The Coyote is looking for results like, "will I eat sooner if I hunt with this smelly ass skunk?" It doesn't think, "Oh, I'll eat the skunk and that will be my din din on Thursday." No way. It realizes that the skunk is a valuable partner in the quest, the on-going quest for survival. You can't eat your own personal "Seal Team 6," and expect to slay Osama. It's just not a good move.
I set all of this up to say this- I was definitely "raised by wolves," or as I like to call them, Germans.
Don't get me wrong, Germans are incredible. They are organized, hard-working, efficient, industrious, hearty and strong. They can be tender hearted, loving, and compassionate too. However, not without showing you all the reasons why you are in the perilous situation you are currently in, forcing you to face those flaws, and then shaming you into asking them to "save you from yourself."
Hilarious.
Speaking of hilarious, they aren't. They aren't funny in the way that I am funny or the way you might be funny. A German may not even read this post because it's a waste of working time. They will not slack on the job, ever. They are like ants. Hoisting up things that are 100 times heavier than they are, and schlepping them to and fro' until 5pm when the bell rings. Then they go home, eat, and then sleep in a reasonable sleeping position. They are elated to get up at 5am and do it all over again.
There's NOTHING in my DNA that finds this awesome. Nothing. I appreciate it, but my brain is far too philosophical and rational for the rigid methodology the German's have. My Dad will think, "Obviously we get up when the sun rises because that's the natural order of things." Whereas I may think, "Let's let the sun have some alone time for a while and then we can casually join up with it later when everyone has fully come into the joy of the day."
By the time I was 7 years old, I was fully capable of running most of the large industrial machines in my Dad's steel working machine shop. I knew how to weld, use the heavy grade Drill Press, change tires, use the tractor, cut metal into mathematically perfect pieces according to a blueprint, and routinely picked metal shavings out of my skin. If I wanted to do "kid things" or coveted "kid stuff," I got the German version of those things.
Example: My friend who lived down the street, Eric, got a tree house. His dad went to Home Depot and bought a pre-fab tree house and followed the instruction manual to install the fun into a pre-existing tree on their land. I was highly jealous of this tree house. My brother and I asked my German Dad for a treehouse "like the one Eric has." We were questioned for at least 45 minutes about our plans for this tree house and the purpose of it in our lives. My Dad was only sold on the idea when I managed to say something about wanting to learn more about the constellations, thus it would serve as a sort of "observatory." The next week, my Dad pulls into the back 4 acres of the land with trees he had cut down, metal wedge pieces he had fabricated in the machine shop, and bolts that would've changed the destiny of the Titanic.
He had a blueprint he had drawn up himself using a great deal of math. He began the back breaking work of digging holes in the ground. Why was he digging holes in the ground? I asked him this.
"Melodee, now, listen, you must have stabilizing posts for something like this or else the storms will knock it down and then what?" I remember thinking, "isn't the tree itself a stabilizing post?"
My Dad wasn't using a tree as anything other than the wood to build what would soon be a ready made World War I replica fort. This thing could've lasted through another Texas/Mexico revolution. Santa Anna would have had NOTHING to say if he rolled up on this thing.
There were 3 different access points to the fort. You could use an army ladder that would come up through a trap door with solid stainless steel hinges/latch. You could use the solid OAK ladder that was hinged onto the side along with removable options incase of invasion. Thirdly, you could potentially use a rope that was perfectly tied in military scaling knots attached to the very apex of the structure. Choose wisely the way you will enter the fort. If you chose the easier route, my German Dad would question why you are uncomfortable with the flimsy helicopter rescue ladder or the rope. That happened.
In fact, before we were able to actually play on the fort, we had to practice climbing into it using all three methods of entry. By the time you COULD play on the fort, your arms were burning and all you wanted was some cold Kool-Aid from inside the house. To ask for such things; Kool-Aid, Gatorade, Water, you would be admitting to my Dad that you were quite inferior, thus not worthy of the fort. So one would just sucked it up, stay up there, sitting quietly for hours, mentally dried out of fun ideas or creative play.
He must've known that at some point the "treehouse/not treehouse/fort" would be a valuable tool for saving our lives. One summer night back in 1988, there were reports of various scary cult type people infiltrating farms in the area. They were mutilating animals, kidnapping kids with green eyes(my eye color), and performing Satanic rituals in abandoned sheds or on the back acreage of people's farms.
German's have a sense of humor but it's not sarcasm, nor irony, and definitely not silly story-telling. They have a MEAN sense of humor, finding nothing more hilarious than to laugh at your expense via a practical joke. Usually this practical joke consisted of a huge amount of planning on the part of the joker.... Well, if you're German that is.... they are always planning.
It was around 10pm one night....
My brother and I were playing "pirate games" in the fort. I was always Capt. Silver, had my peg leg made from a wooden stick, barking orders at my brother to "hoist the sails, lower the ramps" or whatever made-up Pirate thing I could think of that sounded legit.
We had recently installed canvas flaps on the west side of the fort that were originally for blocking out the setting sun. (My Mom was always concerned about us getting too hot, but we were fine because my brother and I are brown people in the summer)
My Dad always told us to "put up those canvas flaps at night because people could hide in there and you would never know it, then what?!" Lots of warnings like that coming from him all-the-time.
We had the flaps down. We had lanterns and we had my Dad's flashlights... all of them. We were deep into playing Pirates because it was more believable at night. We couldn't see the ground much, i.e. the ground was more believable as the open sea. Get it? Kid logic.
Germany had plans, mean hilarious scarring plans.
My Dad had an array of ski-masks and various helmets for welding. He had military shit or "gear." He had a lot of things that we weren't allowed to touch, yet, or at least not until we were given proper instructions/lessons concerning those things. He was an excellent trap builder. Vietnam style booby traps were kind of "his thing." Living out in the country, you are always on high-alert for any noises coming from the back acres. In Texas, noises could be anything from a Bobcat to a black panther. (no really, we have big ass jungle cats in parts of Texas- google if you don't believe me)
My brother and I heard some groaning sounds coming from underneath the fort. Deep groaning followed by a rhythmic thumping. We had the flaps down. Fear set in. We can't lift the flaps because we have that fear thing going on. I mean, we were Pirates a few minutes ago but now we are trapped prey in a fort with all the ladders fully accessible to anyone who might want to climb up. Whatever this sound is, it's coming from under the fort. Hell no we ain't gettin' down! Nope.
We were trembling in fear and thought that whatever it was, it would eventually get bored and go away. I began hearing muffled sounds coming from the barn. The barn was parallel to the fort about 100 yards back. It sounded like talking or chanting. I remembered at that moment the stories from the news about the cult people. I told my brother (he was about 5 years old) that we needed to get out of the fort and run as fast as we could to the house. I told him that he needed to just run and not look back. (The story of Lot's wife in the bible always bothered me on a deep level... I was sure that I would at some point be faced with someone turning into salt)
We waited. I put up my Long John Silver's peg leg stick prop, and we had to figure out what exit to take. Forget the flashlights and lanterns. No time, no time. I knew the fastest exit was the rope. I hated the rope. HATED IT. We could jump? We could jump from the back part of the fort where there were no ropes or ladders! Yeah, that's the easiest thing and nobody will expect us to be coming from there. Yeah, we will jump!
I told my brother he had to jump first. (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha) He was crying and I kept hitting him saying "shut up idiot! SHUT UP! They will hear you!!!!" I think, but I'm not certain of this, but I think I pushed him off the fort? Yeah I know... Whatever, he's fine.
Whatever happened, he jumped. I was waiting for the "thud" sound and then the sound of him running his ass off through the brush. I heard none of that. I heard NOTHING. "How is that possible?" I kept thinking that thought as repeating loops in my head. I decided I had better jump too.
I jumped and instead of hitting the ground, I kept falling. I fell into a hole full of hay and foam and the more I struggled the more I noticed a net wrapping around me. Then I saw a huge man with a black mask on and scary blacked out goggles! He was holding my brother who had a potato sack over his head, kicking and screaming.... "HOLY COW! NO!!!! " (The term 'holy cow' was really big then)
I still heard the voices coming from the barn too! I started yelling, "DAD! DAD HELP! THE CULT PEOPLE ARE HERE HELP!" This went on for what felt like forever. It was probably only a few minutes in reality. The man in the mask groaned at me and said in a growly voice, "you want your Dad's help?" I was screaming saying, "YES! YES PLEASE I WANT MY DAD! PLEASE!"
Big reveal:
The mask comes off, it's my Dad, and he's laughing so hard he can't breathe. He bounds off toward the barn(still laughing) and turns off the radio he is playing in the barn. The station was on KNON and it was the Native American portion of the show that use to play at night. He grabs the Jam Box and showed it to us while laughing harder than I can truly explain with words. The kind of laughing where you are actually concerned about the possibility that they will run out of air.
We were just blankly staring at him. I knew my 5 year old brother was probably, rest assured, in ACTUAL shock. My Dad kept saying, "that's why y'all need to put those canvas flaps up. I was waiting under there for 2 hours and I could've been anybody, not your dad, but any ol' person just waiting to kill ya."
Point taken Dad. We got it. We also got PTSD.
I have at least 100 more stories like that. AT LEAST. No, I'm not joking. We always fell for it. The one time we didn't fall for it, it wasn't my Dad and I still don't know what that was. (@Kristen Walker- you know what I'm talking about... Bigfoot? Demon? Zodiac Killer?)
In the months that passed, my Dad would obsessively ask us if we raised the canvas flaps at night. We always raised them after that night. Later that year, I failed my science test. The test was about planets and stars. The fort was then outfitted with graph paper and a telescope. My Dad expected me to chart the stars and quizzed me on latitude and longitude as well as being able to tell time based on the North star, Sun, and position of all of the above. My Dad told me that I wasn't a real pirate, nor could I be a real pirate if I didn't know how to navigate using the stars. It was "just silly to think you could be a pirate on the open sea without knowing where you are going Melodee." Riiiiiight, but we are on a fort in Texas, surrounded by land... but whatever.
To this day, my Dad puts us through multiple tests. Just yesterday I was quizzed on when to plant Garlic, and where to plant it to achieve maximum mosquito free living during the summer months. I also wanted to use his shop vac and he forced me to take apart the bottom piece so that I could see how over stuffing it with filth could damage the area where the lithium battery was held. I had no plans to overstuff the shop vac by the way. I don't lack common sense.
Here I am in 2015... Writing about these memories. I'm so thankful that this Coyote, i.e. Me, had a chance to be raised by wolves. I may still be a Coyote, and my brother is definitely still a Sloth, but we are better scavengers than we were born to be. We have built many metaphorical forts in our lives and we know how to exit and enter them without fear. We've been caught in life's booby traps, and we always raise the canvas flaps to our "fort." I now realize that this is his form of "story telling." He must pass on the things he has learned so that when he's gone, he can go in peace knowing that all of us can change a tire, fend off cult leaders, climb a rope, change a tire, fabricate metal things, grow our own food, and if we are lost at sea- we can use the stars to get to dry land.
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