Cowgrit called me on my cell phone to let Calfgrit7 tell me about his exciting find. While at the park, playing with a friend, they found a bunch of caterpillars. He collected several and brought them home. When Cowgrit got back on the phone, I mentioned that I think caterpillars are dangerous for yards, trees, and flowers. I remember a bunch of trees being eaten to ruin by swarms of caterpillars at my grandparents’ farm, way back when I was Calfgrit7’s age. I said it was probably fine that Calfgrit7 had some to play with, just so long as they stay in control — locked in the bug box. (Both our boys have a small container for keeping insects for study.)

When I got home I learned that Calfgrit7 had collected about a dozen caterpillars. Whoa, that’s a lot! He wanted to research the critters on the Internet, so we got on my computer and Googled them. Every site we came to identified caterpillars as pests, and much of the information was directions on how to kill them and stop infestations. And here we already had 12.

So I explained to Calfgrit7 that we needed to take the caterpillars back to the park, their normal home, so they can eat the plants they’re used to and need, and so they won’t eat any of our plants and trees. He said he could keep them under control, and suggested we get the plants they like and bring them home. But he kept bringing one or two into the house to show us (the bug boxes stay outside, always), and one time he found one that secretly hitched a ride on his shirt. I mentioned to Cowgrit that even worse than having all of them loose in the yard would be for one or two to get loose in the house.

So we gently convinced Calfgrit7 to take them back to the park. He released them and said goodbye, “have a good life,” to all of them. But then his friend, who had been at the park with him when they found the caterpillars, mentioned that he was keeping his (only two) until they turned into moths. He even brought a limb with leaves, from the park trees, to school to give Calfgrit7 for his caterpillars.

Calfgrit7 asked if he could go back and get one or two caterpillars to watch them make cocoons and transform into moths. Cowgrit and I discussed it and allowed him to bring two home — one for him, one for Calfgrit3. Not surprisingly, we ended up with three bugs — two for CG7, one for CG3. Well, at least that’s better than a dozen. And he promised to abide by the rules of no caterpillars in the house, and none loose out of the bug box.

Both boys are very excited about their new “pets,” and they check on them outside a couple times a day. They keep leaves and bottle caps filled with water in the boxes for the critters. So far, all is well. I really hope all goes well with this experience. I’ll feel really dumb if one or all get loose and we end up with an infestation next year. But, if no ruinous plague comes of this, then the boys witnessing the natural transformation of a caterpillar into a moth will be a pretty cool thing.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

Calfgrit7 went to his first Cub Scouts Pack meeting, and we were all excited because he was to get his first badge — Bobcat. He was supposed to get the badge at last month’s meeting, but that meeting got canceled.

I had explained to Calfgrit7 how the badge ceremony would work: there’d be a lot of Scouts and parents in the big room, they’d call his name to go up in front of everyone, and I’d go with him up there, the pack master would say something, give him the badge, and then we’d sit down. I had been looking forward to this for several weeks, and I had assured him that I’d be with him when he went up.

There were no chairs in the meeting room (odd, that) so everyone either sat on the floor or stood against the back and side walls. Cowgrit and Calfgrit3 were with us, though we had gotten separated during the opening of the meeting. I was sitting on the floor about 10 feet behind Calfgrit7’s cub den, and Cowgrit and Calfgrit3 were sitting on the floor on the other side of the room.

Calfgrit3 didn’t want to just sit, and he wiggled and moved constantly with Cowgrit. Eventually he got up and crawled over to sit with me. That was fine, but he’d have to go back when they started the badge ceremonies. When the pack master started talking about the badges to be awarded, I knew it was time to transfer Calfgrit3 back to his momma. But Cowgrit was looking straight ahead at the pack master, and I couldn’t get her attention without making a scene in the middle of the room.

I stared intently at her, hoping to get her attention, but she wasn’t feeling my glare. Then Calfgrit3 said he had to go to the potty. Oh no.

“OK,” I said, “walk over to mommy and tell her you need to got to the restroom.”

“No,” he said, “you go with me.”

I knew the badge ceremony was about to happen, but Cowgrit still had not looked over at us. There was no way for me to pass Calfgrit3 off to Cowgrit without making a scene in the middle of the meeting. I was starting to get upset. I didn’t want to miss the ceremony. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, and Calfgrit7 was expecting me to be with him, like I had promised. “I have to go pee-pee,” Calfgrit3 whispered.

I ended up taking Calfgrit3 to the restroom myself — Cowgrit never noticed us move out (we left through the back of the room). When the little guy and I returned to the room, Calfgrit7 and Cowgrit were standing up front receiving the Bobcat badge.

I won’t lie — I was mad and hurt. I felt really bad for not being there for Calfgrit7 like I had promised I would be. I could just imagine him looking behind himself when they called his name, looking for me to be getting up to go with him, and not finding me anywhere in the room. I felt terrible for not doing what I had promised. I felt like a very bad daddy. Dammit!

After the meeting, I apologized to Calfgrit7 for not being there for him like I said I would. He said it was alright, but I could tell he was disappointed, at least a little bit. Dammit. Nothing will make a man feel lower than knowing he let his son down. I felt like crap, and that feeling didn’t go away for a few days. It still upsets me off when I think about it, but at least now I can quickly shove it back to the back of my mind and not sit and stew on it.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

We discovered a dead ‘possum [I’m spelling it the way we say it] on the street just down from our home. It was in the middle of the road, on our usual route in and out of our neighborhood, so it was obvious to everyone in the mini van. Both boys were interested in it, and trying to distract them when we passed it didn’t help at all.

Calfgrit7 put out the idea that it might be playing dead, as ‘possum’s are said to do. I’ve never seen one play dead. All the ones I’ve ever seen that looked dead, were most definitely dead. This one was no exception — it had obviously been run over. (Sorry for putting that image in your mind. Be glad I didn’t take a picture.)

I explained the situation to the Calfgrits: how animals don’t understand about roads and cars, and although most people try to avoid hitting or running over animals in the road, sometimes it happens. Calfgrit7 suggested we stop and get it out of the road. He’s very conscientious about things like that. I then had to explain how we don’t mess with dead animals, or even wounded animals. We have professionals who handle animals — living, hurt, or dead.

I promised to call animal control when we got back home and could look them up in the phone book. When we did get back home, Calfgrit7 made sure to remind me to call about the ‘possum carcass. I tried looking through the book, but I couldn’t find a listing. I then promised to look them up on the computer after they went to bed.

The evening went fine, but Calfgrit7 mentioned the dead ‘possum a couple times, and Calfgrit3 repeated the questions I had already answered — he wanted to make sure he understood this whole situation. (There’s nothing quite like discussing a squashed varmint to diminish an appetite.) I don’t think either of them have noticed a dead animal before this. I and Cowgrit have seen dead animals on or beside the roads while the boys were in the vehicle, but we’ve usually managed to distract them, or else the sight just didn’t register with their brains.

I did as I promised, after the boys were in bed, and I looked up the local animal control department. I called first thing the next morning and left a message with their voice mail about the carcass needing clean up. It was still there when Cowgrit took the boys to school in the morning, but it was gone by the time they came home in the afternoon.

Calfgrit7 was happy that the poor animal had been removed from the road and “buried.” He loves animals, and he has a strong sense that things should be handled properly and politely. It would have hurt his sensibilities for that critter to stay in the road too long. I’m glad our town crews are on the ball with things like that.

Cowgrit has one and only one joke in her humor repertoire, and it’s related to this subject.

Cowgrit: “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

Bullgrit: “I don’t know. Why?”

Cowgrit: “To show the ‘possum it could be done.”

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

Cowgrit bought tickets for a Friday morning breakfast with the Easter Bunny in a local park. We arrived early and met Calfgrit7’s best friend’s family there.

We expected the breakfast to be something simple, like a continental style, but it turned out to be even simpler: mini donuts and mini bagels. Eating the bagels was like chewing leather. I broke my no-sweets diet by eating a couple of the mini crullers — I was hungry.

None of the boys wanted to sit with the Easter Bunny, but they were curious enough to view him from a distance.

After the breakfast, we walked through the park to see the fun stuff: a road train, blow-up bouncing houses, fire trucks, a juggler, a climbing wall, and a few costumed mascots. We wanted to start with the bright red road train, but the engine was smoking heavily. I asked what was wrong, and they said the battery caught fire. Okay, that was out.

So we visited the fire truck, McGruff the crime dog, and the boys and I played in one of the blow-up bounce houses. We watched the workers raise the climbing wall, and the other mom with us asked if I was going to climb the wall. I mentioned how difficult it would be to climb it with a coat on (it was pretty chilly, still, that morning). She said I was making excuses.

“Alright,” I said. “She’s questioning my manhood. Hold up Cowgrit, I’m gonna climb this wall.” I took off my coat and handed off my cell phone.

I stepped up to the gate of the fence around the wall and told the guy there I wanted to climb. There was no charge, but I had to sign a waver. Yeah, that’s a sign of a hardcore challenge. I entered the ring and looked up at the wall from directly below.

“Wow,” I commented.

“Yeah,” said the attendant adjusting the harness for me. “You don’t realize how tall it is until you’re standing under it.”

The attendants said the wall is 30 feet tall, and I could see the angle was not a straight up 90 degrees. It leaned out over me, so not only would gravity be pulling me down, it would be slightly pulling me away from my grip.

I’ve climbed some short walls, but never one so high that I needed to wear a harness. I’ve seen the harnesses, and they look quite uncomfortable. The way they strap around and under, I always imagined they would at least pinch sensitive parts.

I got the harness on, put the helmet on, and turned to look at my family and friends watching me. They were taking pictures and joking about how I was holding up the little boys and girls in line behind me. I wasn’t the only adult wanting to scale the wall, but most of the participants were under 12 years old. [That’s probably a 10-year-old girl up on the wall in the picture.]

So I reached up and grabbed ahold of a couple of protrusions and began my climb. Scaling a good climbing wall is as much a mental challenge as a physical challenge. You have to figure out the puzzle of where to reach and step to set up your next reach and step. And every moment you’re holding on thinking is another moment of wear on your muscles.

I work out regularly, and though I’m no where near anything like a body builder or super hero, I’d have thought my muscles tone enough to handle climbing 30 feet up a wall. But this exercise uses some muscles I’ve never really worked. My forearms and wrists were tiring fast. By the time I reached the top (and I surely did reach the top), my forearms were burning. It was all I could do to hold with one hand to use the other to reach and squeeze the bulb on the air horn — the victory trumpet.

Toot, toot! The attendant far below me called up for me to just let go and let the winch slowly lower me down. That’s easy to say, and easy to think about, but actually letting go is much harder. It’s so unnatural to just lean back and let go while hanging 30 feet above an asphalt parking lot with just trust in a rope and winch. I decided to just climb back down, but I found that was going to be impossible — not only were my forearms and wrists sore and tired, I couldn’t see below me well enough to judge where to step or how to shift my grip. It seemed like I was going to fall one way or another: by slipping or by releasing.

I swallowed the big lump in my throat and leaned back, let go of the wall, and fell. To my immense relief, the rope held and the winch unwounded very slowly. I gently lowered to the ground. Also to my immense relief, the harness did not pinch; it was not uncomfortable at all even with all my weight in it.

Once I got my feet firmly on the ground, I turned to my fan club and pointed at the mom who had questioned my manhood. “HA!” I shouted. The attendant helped me untangle from the harness, I took off the helmet, and I walked away from the wall a victor. But my forearms and wrists hurt all the rest of the day.

* * *

Hopping the Pond

Today I start my long flights taking me to Sweden for the week. I leave my home airport, Saturday, at 4:30 in the afternoon, headed to Chicago. I leave O’Hare airport at 11:00 at night and arrive 9 hours later in Copenhagen, Denmark at around 2:00 in the afternoon on Sunday.

I plan to continue blogging from Sweden, but because of the time difference, and probable jet lag, I don’t know what kind of schedule I can keep. I’m excited and anxious. The next time I post here, I’ll be on another continent.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com