Ducks

In the latest in a long string of goofy things going on at our house, my wife and I recently played overnight host to two newly-hatched ducklings, courtesy of our daughter Sophia’s fifth grade class.

We had seen the set-up in Sophia’s classroom on Back-To-School Night. This is the teacher’s 16th year of doing this activity with her students. Five of the little quackers had already emerged and were living it up and pooping on each other in a small cage. One had broken out of its egg but was still getting his wits about him in the incubator, and one was struggling to peck its way out even as we sat there. This was something I had never witnessed in person, and I was glad that Sophia was having the chance.

Curiosity hit me, however, and I had to ask the teacher a difficult question: what do you tell the kids if one dies? She could only recall one instance where a hatched duckling had failed to make it back to the farm from whence it came. But if it were to occur, she did have a nice “circle-of-life” type answer for the kids, something about not every seed you plant turning into a flower. They’d buy it.

The funniest part of this process for me was hearing the names that the kids gave the ducklings as they hatched. “Pinky,” “Bird Brain,” and my favorite, “Disco Steve,” so named for the mohawk-like coloration of the down on his head. Thirteen of the little fuzz-muffins eventually emerged, all clamoring over each other, flapping their tiny wings and peeping away.

I thought that having “Picasso” and “Phantom” as overnight visitors would be an exercise in keeping our cat out of Sophia’s room all night. But despite nearly becoming apoplectic at the sight of the birds and squirrels in the yard, she couldn’t give two hoots about the ducks. The only time she came into Sophia’s room she took one look at the ducks, meowed in a tone easily interpreted as “Oh, brother…”, then turned around and left.

We kept our web-footed visitors in the cat carrier, ironically enough, as its lid was a steel cage that could be opened and closed conveniently. So we shone a reading light on one end of the cage for warmth as instructed, gave them plenty of water and some food (Duck Chow, swear to God) and everything was just, well, ducky! I checked in on Sophia later that night, and she had fallen asleep sideways on the bed with her head hanging over the edge of the mattress towards the cage. The ducklings, despite briefly opening a wary eye at my arrival, were quite content to sleep the night away in silence.

We cleaned their cage the next morning, giving them a short hiatus in an inch of water in the bathtub, which for them was like a trip to Disney World. They both darted around the tub, splashing their feet, kicking water all over themselves and each other, wiggling their bills and peeping like they won the lottery. So with fresh food and drinking water in place, we plunked them back into their cage and let them spend the rest of their visit in peace.

* * * * *

My wife called me late that afternoon with bad news. When the ducklings at school were first born one of them was weaker than the others and had difficulty walking. For a day or so he perked up and was able to move slowly, but that morning when we returned Picasso and Phantom the weak one was stationary again. When the kids came back from lunch that day they found him dead.

Sophia was crushed. She had chosen the name “Small Fry” for this particular duckling, and had been monitoring his progress. She left school in tears, and was inconsolable by the time she got home. My wife had made an attempt to make her feel better, but the teacher’s circle-of-life explanation was useless in our situation. You see, Sophia herself is a flower from a seed that might never have grown. She is about half the size of her classmates. She’s in a wheelchair. She can’t walk either.

“Why did he have to die? Why didn’t anybody try to help him?” she sobbed. These are easy questions to answer when the questioner wasn’t born with exactly the same problem. The MedEvac helicopter ride to a neonatal intensive care unit in a neighboring state just hours after birth and a lifetime of treatment and therapy is justified when the patient is a little girl. But even the relatively small cost of a vet is too much when the patient would have tasted good with an orange sauce and some fresh asparagus.

Had Sophia been born when I was born, she might not be with us. But thanks to centuries of human advancement, millions of hours of research, and billions of dollars of equipment, facilities, and services, she will live her life not too differently from other kids her age. What she experienced with the ducklings was a lesson in natural selection, where the weak are left to die so the strong can thrive and make the species healthier. It happens millions of times a day. As humans we do not believe in this for ourselves, and we strive mightily to ensure that every life we bring into this world has a chance to grow into a healthy and happy individual.

We do not, however, extend such care and passion to waterfowl. Maybe the teacher should hatch lizards or some other grotesque critter, so the kids won’t get so attached to them.

Now that a few days have passed, perhaps Sophia will be able to discuss her feelings about this without tearing up. And hopefully I can turn this situation around and explain to her that she lives in an age of wonder. We can talk to people on the other side of the world just by touching a few buttons. We can send people to other planets and bring them back safely. We have mapped the floors of the oceans and charted the stars in the heavens. Fewer than one in a hundred babies born in the industrialized world dies before its first birthday. And for the ones that aren’t born healthy, advancements in medicine in the last thirty years give hope that every one of them will live happy and productive lives.

For those babies, the need for doctors, scientists, researchers, chemical engineers, and other specialists has never been greater. Humankind is on the verge of defeating some of the most challenging enemies it has ever encountered. It will mean summoning the smartest and most dedicated young minds to take up the torch left to them by their predecessors, and continue our journey towards a time when the suffering of children is but an unpleasant memory.

Perhaps one day Sophia will answer that call, and join the ranks of those striving to ensure that every life brought from its mother’s womb to the cusp of our world will have the chance to breathe its first breath, learn to walk, and watch with the rest of its fifth grade class as tiny ducklings hatch from their eggs. If she does, then the short life of a disabled duckling named “Small Fry” will have served a most noble purpose.

Alumni Game

I can make my wife act like she’s five years old. She jumps up and down and claps, her eyes get really big and she smiles wide enough to expose her wisdom teeth. All I have to do is let her see me skate.

We dated in high school when I was on the hockey team, and so anytime I get out on the ice it’s a trip down memory lane for her. Which is, in part, why the events of the past few weeks are so disturbing.

I was born in Toronto, Canada, so hockey is like a religion to me. I played street hockey with my friends as a kid, and then ice hockey when I got old enough, continuing right through high school. I still remember those as my glory days, with all the sights, sounds, and smells that went with it. The faces of the guys, the pranks we pulled, and the girl that was waiting for me when I came out of the locker room smelling like yesterday’s vanilla milkshake soaked into a dorm-room carpet. But looking back now, there was more to it than what I perceived at the time.

Primarily, I was in incredible athletic shape. We used to practice for 2-1/2 hours, twice a week. Some of those practices consisted entirely of a drill called “side-boards.” You skate from one side of the ice to the other, stop, and touch the boards. Skate back to the other side, stop, and touch the boards. Go again. And again. And again. Two. And. A. Half. HOURS.

What’s surprising is that I could do it! And I didn’t hurl or wind up on a ventilator or collapse from exhaustion. Coach blew the whistle, my feet started moving and I went. I was 16 years old, 6’ 2”, and 165 pounds.

Now I’m 36. I’m still 6’ 2”, but I tip the scales closer to 240 these days. We were looking at some old pictures recently, and I seem to have stayed below 200 pounds until I was about 27. After that I look like I swallowed a Harbor Seal. I attribute this to three things. Number one, I used to eat everything in sight, and for the most part I still do. Number two, I haven’t gotten any exercise in over a decade. Number three, I don’t care. I’m busier than I have ever been in my life, diet and exercise are last on my priority list, and I’m fine with that.

* * * * *

When the weather turns cold they put up an outdoor ice rink at the park a few blocks from our house. I see those boards go up, and I start to go a little loopy. My brain still wants to do the things my body could do twenty years ago. And I start thinking, “Well you know, if I just stop eating ice cream and get on the NordicTrac every night (the second NordicTrac I have bought and never touched), I could be in tip-top shape in no time!” In my more lucid moments I realize that this would be like trying to turn Dennis Franz into a Chippendale’s dancer.

I got out to play at the park a few times last year. I had to take some “senior citizen breaks,” but all in all I didn’t do too badly. It did teach me some hard lessons, however. My slap shot is still terrible. Guys talk about having lost their “jump”: mine has mutated into a “lurch.” And my last time out I was getting beaten around the outside by a 13-year-old… girl. She was making me look foolish every time she got the puck. The guys who saw me standing there shaking my head must have thought I was going to cry. It didn’t help that her father was there with a huge grin on his face.

Longing for the old days has other consequences as well. This evil thing called the internet gives you the ability to find out pretty much anything if you set your mind to it, including some things you wish you hadn’t stumbled upon. I knew my old high school team had a web site. What I didn’t know was that they still held…

…their Alumni Game. Ah, nuts. This is where my wife starts jumping and clapping and smiling at me with that look in her eye.

Next thing I knew I was opening an envelope with an official invitation, and calling my brother in St. Paul, another alumnus, to see if he had any equipment lying around. Hardly any, it turned out, which was good news. No equipment, can’t play! Aw, sorry honey. Maybe next year.

“Well, what would it cost to buy new equipment?” my wife asked me.

“Oh gosh, probably $500 or more. That stuff’s expensive.”

“Are you sure?”

Well, to be truthful, I wasn’t sure. So off I went to the internet again to get my second round of bad news. I had skates, gloves, and a stick, and by raiding the closeouts and bargain bins I could get the rest for only $150. And again with the jumping and the clapping.

So now it’s real. I have to entertain the possibility that I might just do this. I loved playing back then, and even though I limped off the ice some nights, I always came back out for the next practice. I was in fantastic shape, no denying that. I wonder what kind of shape I’m in now?

There are some easy ways to find out, but not all of them are advisable. For instance, heading back to my desk the other day I tried double-stepping up two flights of stairs. The result? Four people stopped to ask me if I was okay. Before I reached the top. Of the first flight. I need to ease into this. I need a personal trainer. I need a doctor’s permission.

I need to have my head examined if I really think I can still do this stuff!

* * * * *

The score was still tied at the end of two sudden-death overtime periods. My partner Dan (“Ringo”) and I had been taking double-shifts, and we were both slumped over the boards gasping for air when the ref blew the whistle for the face-off.

Coach thumped my shoulder pad. “Atta-boy Stretch, can you stay out there?”

“Yep, I’m good,” I said without even thinking. Ringo said the same. It never occurred to us that we would take a break. This is when doing a thousand side-boards an hour pays off. I hoisted myself up, still trying to catch my breath, and glided back out to the blue line, ready to start the sixth period.

I don’t know how much longer it took, but I remember looking up the ice and seeing Ringo’s little brother John (“Smiley”) throw a high wrist shot from the left circle that handcuffed the goalie and sailed over his shoulder into the net. That was it. We won. And we didn’t just win, we had beaten the defending champs to earn a bid in the Illinois State Championship game.

There were over a thousand people in the stands, and they exploded into a frenzy. Some kids had (*ahem*) “borrowed” hundreds of towels from the school gym, and everyone in the crowd was waving them like they were trying to stop a train. The whole team including the coaches and goalies jumped on Smiley in a 20-man dogpile that took forever to unravel. We were throwing sticks and gloves and helmets into the air, and screaming at the top of our lungs.

Nothing short of serious head trauma could possibly erase my memories of what that felt like. The crowd yelling so loud it made the roof of the building rumble; the sight of our equipment strewn over every corner of the rink; and the feeling of near-fatal exhaustion that melted away under the searing heat of pure adrenaline the moment that puck hit the back of the net. This was what I had been dreaming about since I started playing at age eight: that euphoria of knowing that I had worked harder than I ever had in my life, and accomplished the impossible.

* * * * *

I hang on to that memory, because I realize nothing like that will ever happen to me again. And I suppose that’s why thinking about playing again gives me such mixed emotions. That game was like nothing I had ever experienced before or since. It would be silly to think I could relive it. The inside of my helmet would still smell like mildew and foam-rubber, my stick would still rub the same hole in the palm of my glove, and I would still gnaw my mouth guard nervously while I waited for my next shift. But no matter how hard I played, no matter how good I was or how much fun I had, it would never come close to that feeling from 20 years ago. And that tiny smile on my face… well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be thinking about the game in front of me.

I think my wife and I will go watch the Alumni Game, and I may drop by the locker room to see if there is anybody I know from the old days. I think Ringo and Smiley are still around here somewhere, and I know Jay lives out west of town. I saw Grady at the train station about two years ago, and he said he worked with Scotty and Kurt, so there might be a few faces I recognize. B.R., Lobo, Kenny, Boyd, Petey, Freddie, Ronnie, some of them might be there.

And I’m sure the locker room will smell exactly the same as when we sat there, sweat dripping off us like rain from leaky gutters, letting the feeling of victory wash over us as we threw tape balls at each other and gave Smiley a hard time for stealing all the glory. We didn’t know that a week later we would settle for second place by losing 4 - 1 in the title game. We also didn’t know that this night, this feeling, would be one we remembered for the rest of our lives.

Meet The New Boss

Let me make one thing clear at the outset. I supported the invasion of Iraq. I’m 100% in favor of wars that we are going to win. But now that the dust has settled, however, I’m stuck with two words in my head: now what? Unfortunately I have an answer to that question, and it isn’t a pretty one.

The elements of that country that want us out of there will continue sniping from the shadows, taking one or two lives here, three or four there, until we declare the situation stable and leave. Then whatever shaky autocracy we leave in our wake will crumble under the force of assassination, coup, or outright rebellion, and civil war will erupt. The regime that wins will be the one least likely to believe in truth, justice, and the American way, and Iraq will be in the hands of a ruthless dictator all over again. It’s a classic case of history repeating itself.

I have done some reading on the subject of Irish history, which is nearly as complicated as the current situation in Iraq. Reading about Ireland I came away with one lasting impression: the Irish people only obey a government they recognize as legitimate. For the radicals in Ireland, majority rule only applies if you are part of the majority. If you aren’t, the government has no authority (according to them) and you are free to ignore or rebel against it. Such has been the prevailing philosophy for generations, and the Irish people have pioneered a veritable how-to manual for maintaining political instability. Here’s how it goes.

And what have we seen in Iraq? With elections on the horizon the ranking Sunni cleric called for a general boycott of the elections since Sunni candidates were not represented on the ballot. Apparently somebody else has been reading Irish history too.

The population in Iraq, like most countries in the region, is made up of numerous ethnic and religious factions that detest each other. Were geography and the natural order of things left to do their work over the centuries, these enclaves would be countries unto themselves. But because of wars and regimes and borders and maps and such, these sects all find themselves inside the arbitrary lines drawn around the hunk of desert known as Iraq. So now they all get to try to be friends and get along whether they like it or not, damn it. But don’t fret, the United States is here to show you how!

The only problem with this concept is that there isn’t a Sunni, Shi’ite, or Kurd that wouldn’t strap an ICBM to themselves and detonate it at the UN before they would submit to a government under the control of either of the other factions. It’s not like the U.S. where the worst form of political dissent we see after national elections is derisive t-shirts.

We have this bizarre notion in America that whatever outcome an election produces is fair, honest, and represents the will of the body politic (all evidence to the contrary). So we go along with it. This is not necessarily a bad thing, in fact it is largely responsible for keeping order and ensuring the peaceful transition of government for the last two and a quarter centuries.

But apparently we are foolish enough to believe that we can also export that attitude to any country we “liberate” just by showing up and passing out leaflets. People talk about the lesson we learned in Vietnam, but few people really get it. The military goofballs say that we didn’t commit enough resources to get the job done. The peaceniks say that we should have reached a solution that didn’t involve armed conflict. But the real lesson is this: people in other countries don’t share our political philosophy, and no measure of either diplomacy or napalm is going to change that.

Such is the situation in Iraq. Americans have spent more than two centuries ingraining our majority rule attitude into ourselves. Iraqis have spent more than two millennia learning a different philosophy: we will live by our own rules (some of which may involve oppression, torture, mutilation of young women and execution at the hands of angry mobs) and we would rather die than live under somebody else’s rules. Call it radical, extremist, barbaric, backwards, uncivilized, ignorant, whatever. It is what it is, and as a result there aren’t enough smart bombs, TOW missiles, or Abrams tanks in existence to prevent Abdullah from turning himself into a walking grenade at the local school, market or bus stop if he dislikes the outcome of the elections.

Right now Iraqis only want democratic elections if their side is going to win. Otherwise, they’re perfectly willing to wreak havoc in every corner of the country until they get their way. There are three ethnic groups vying for control, and only one of them is going to prevail: that leaves two ticked-off and motivated religious sects collecting C4 and loading clips for their AK’s no matter what the election results yield. Translation: no matter who wins, everybody loses.

The point here is that if you want Iraqis to respond to the election process like Americans, you’re going to need about 200 years of prep work first. Obviously in Iraq we don’t have that kind of time. Within months the American army will be gone, the insurgency will gain strength, the civil war will begin, and before you know it there will be another power-hungry despot having murals painted and statues built all over Baghdad.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Brought to you by Uncle Sam. Tune in next week when you can cast a vote on your Cingular Wireless^TM phone to determine which tyrannical regime we will invade next, with similar results.