Summer Fun at Vacation Bible School

 As a kid, I loved going to Vacation Bible School. Even as a four-year-old, I could tell the day’s structure was perfect to educate a youngster. Children, teachers, helpers, and leaders gathered in the sanctuary to begin the session with prayer, music, and a chance to plunk coins noisily into a metal offering plate. At that age, I didn’t appreciate the time grown-up leaders spent organizing classes, activities, and snacks.

Back then, it seemed like everything just happened. It never occurred to me our music teacher not only had to play the piano, he or she had to keep track of what songs students had sung  the past few years of VBS and select new ones.

 As we marched into crafts, I never stopped to think that our teacher had to come up with age appropriate and inexpensive projects for at least four classes. That individual also had to make sure the activities weren’t repeats of past years and that they were difficult enough to challenge older youngsters but easy enough that little ones didn’t end up with glue and cotton balls in their hair and up their noses.

Those who taught Bible stories didn’t have to worry so much about repeating the story as they did about what a three-year-old can do compared to a fifth grader. Ten-year-olds can interact with the actual lesson much better than those little ones! Questions big kids ask usually have something to do with the message. That isn’t necessarily true in the toddler session where stories of cats, dogs, bugs, and other subjects can derail the teacher’s original topic.

Our recreation coaches made similar adjustments. What engages a big kid is usually different from what entertains a tyke. If a little one can’t pull the trigger on the squirt gun, the water games won’t be fun. Twenty minutes take forever if activities don’t match interests and abilities. When they do, times zips by.

With all this play and studying, participants needed an energy boost—just the job for the snack committee. After townspeople donate goodies, the kitchen crew manages those twenty-minute shifts with military precision. They prepare, serve, and clean while navigating around energetic little ones.   

Just as they did when I was a kid, church communities still unite each summer to offer local children a chance to learn about God while having a glorious time. To get momentum going, someone volunteers to organize the whole shebang. This person usually manages a home and day job in addition to picking VBS curriculum, finding helpers, ordering materials, and setting dates. Remember, this event takes place in the summer so that means coordinators work around vacations, fairs, and ball games.

In modern times as well as the past, little ones entertain and inspire grandparents, parents, and neighbors with energetic songs and memorized Bible verses in the final program. That short presentation lasts about as long as it takes to eat Thanksgiving dinner and reminds VBS staff that their jobs are important. Like that famed holiday dinner, VBS requires hours of planning and effort before everyone enjoys the outcome.

A Pelican in the Wading Pool

Nobody told me when I married a game warden that a pelican would take up temporary residence in my children’s wading pool. Nor did I realize my two tiny daughters and I would spend a couple of days throwing our hooks and lines off a bridge over Big Creek trying to catch enough fish to satisfy that visitor. On the other hand, that eating machine never expected to vacation at our house either.

This event occurred in the late 80s somewhere around Memorial Day weekend. City workers called to explain an injured pelican was devouring gold fish in the  power plant pond. Despite their efforts to banish it, the bird was in the water gobbling little fishies.

This intruder had to be evicted. Every kid in town, little and big, loved that rock pool where they tossed breadcrumbs and oatmeal to tempt orange and white swirls to the surface. Even to feed something as exotic as a pelican was no reason to sacrifice the community fishpond population.

While my husband already knew about pelican beaks, the girls and I learned swiftly to stay out of range of that powerful weapon /lunch sack. Mr. P wasn’t at all happy about his forced removal and tried scaring us with clacking sounds manufactured by snapping jaws. It wasn’t worth risking hand or finger amputations to save frantic gold fish.

 I distracted this fellow while my brave partner snuck behind to slide a huge rubber band around that slashing defense mechanism. Once we had it disabled, we could see a broken wing had driven the creature to the city watering hole for dinner. Who knows how far the crippled bird had walked to fill its rumbling belly. We carefully swaddled it in an old blanket and hauled it home to figure out a plan.

Three decades ago, cell phones and instant communication were a thing of future, and the rehabilitator Wildlife and Parks used wasn’t answering the phone that weekend. As a result, we brainstormed a strategy to care for this creature our daughters had named LA Looks for the spiky top notch on it crown.

The girls volunteered their little blue wading pool to house our guest and their services as fisherwomen. Each had a Mickey Mouse pole they used to cast off the wooden bridge east of our house. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so their dad left us baiting our hooks as he drove off on patrol.

After catching a few palm-size fish, our youngsters released them into the water-filled container Mr. Looks now called home. My husband had unbound the critter’s beak so it immediately slurped up our meager contribution. We stared in disbelief at how swiftly he scooped our catch into his mouth and how far his pouch distended once full of flopping protein. It looked like an expandable bag until he slid those critters down his gullet. Then it shrank immediately back to its previous size.

The bird immediately searched the water for more food. Obviously, a few little perch weren’t sustenance enough, so the girls and I headed back to the creek. We filled a stringer to feed our guest, and once again, his response dazzled us. 

It occurred to me there was no way the human part of this equation could keep up with the pelican’s appetite. I needed to make a trip to the IGA fish department. All the way there, I wondered what it was going to cost to board this fellow until he went to the rehabilitator. I prayed my budget was as big as his stretchy pouch in case he had to stay more than a day.

Along with fish the girls and I caught, we supplemented LA’s diet with frozen whitefish. These codcicles confused him at first, but he eventually slurped them down the hatch. 

While I’d never want to feed a pelican week after week, hosting one for a couple of days was delightful. We were happy to learn LA Looks survived  surgery to show off how many fish he could tuck in his pouch for nearby zoo patrons.

Ellis Bugs Invasion

Like death and taxes, I count on box elder beetles invading every year.  These nuisances creep into every crack and crevice of our house, silently multiplying until nowhere is sacred.  I have even had them fall off a showerhead while I shampooed my hair.

Unfortunately, I don’t know much about these creatures other than that they show up like a bad penny every fall. They squeeze through airtight windows, out of electrical sockets, and under door jambs like Mongol hordes.  What lures them, I don’t know.

 I’d be curious to discover if they, like salmon and geese, migrate to their birth places to reproduce.  But how will I ever know?  They all look alike. 

I don’t think they have a very long life span, thank goodness. Guessing from the carcasses I sweep frequently, they can’t survive much longer than the common house fly--which is not very long.

The good news about these insidious pests is they don’t bite or sting--humans at least.  The next good thing about them is that they don’t appear to mind when children play with them.

Oddly enough, these tiny beetles fascinate many youngsters.  Our little blondes thought it tickled as the bugs crawled on  their arms and legs.  One boy I knew liked to eat them until he discovered how upset his momma got when she caught him dining on little orange and black insects.

Now that my girls are grown, they see these creepy crawlies the same way I do--as royal pains. In fact, time has erased their recollections of when box elder bugs intrigued them instead of disgusting them. Of course, these black and orange beetles were never as interesting as lightning bugs...but... they were slower.  That meant that toddlers and pre-kindergartners could capture scores of them to pack into little bug houses. 

The benefit of being able to catch the slow moving critters means it keeps tikes busy and out of serious trouble as long they understand they shouldn’t devour them.  The disadvantage is that small children bond quickly with anything they capture and perceive as a pet.  This means you might end up with more box elder bugs than you normally would find in your house, and they’d each be named.

The neighbor girls liked these bugs as much as my girls did, so all four young ladies spent a great deal of time catching and discussing them.  Imagine my surprise when I overheard my friend’s 3-year-old  asking my 2-year-old  if we had Ellis bugs too.

Ellis bugs!!! What???

After thinking about it, the explanation was quite logical. The little girl’s big brother played football for the Ellis Railroaders, a team that wore black and orange uniforms.  His little sis assumed that since the insects were orange and black they must be for Ellis--hence the name Ellis bugs. 

Since then, I never see one of those annoyances without thinking, the Ellis bugs are here. Somehow it makes them a bit more welcome.

Moms Are Moms No Matter the Species

            Each spring’s cycle of birth and renewal reminds me that all mothers are essentially alike.  One look at a momma cow with her calf lets you know you don’t want to mess with her baby. 

Over decades, my students have written many essays detailing results of interfering with young animals.  Mothers aren’t only tender.  They are tough when necessary.  Just a few days ago, a family of fledgling wrens reminded of how much my family is like theirs.

            After recent rains, I was checking my greenery to see how plants were growing under the unusual wet conditions.  Our portion of the creek had gone dry, and our buffalo grass couldn’t have been more dormant.  I didn’t know if it was too late to save the foliage or not.  An old grape vine down by the creek particularly interested me.

            While I counted clusters and imagined jars of wild grape jelly, a rising crescendo disturbed my reverie.   Since we have a wren family living off the back porch, I recognized the “shirring” and scolding. However, I had never heard so many wrens in an uproar at one time.

            Evidently, I interrupted a mother and her fledglings as she taught them to find their own insect dinners.  Not six feet behind me was a rotten log just loaded with tasty morsels for her and her babies.  I interfered not only with her lesson, but also with some high quality dining.

            Not meaning to threaten them, I quietly turned to watch this mom and her young. Apparently, even my statue-like presence created too much of a threat because she “shirred” and scolded more intensely.  Like many a child I have seen in the grocery store’s candy counter turning its back and ignoring its scolding mother, these juvenile wrens did exactly that.  They looked at mom and then at me.  Then they returned to finding crunchy bugs.

            This drove the mother nuts.  She flitted away and back and away again.  With each flit, her tone intensified at least an octave.  I am not a wren, but I understood what she meant.  Finally, all but one of the little birds reluctantly left the dinner table to fly to shelter.  I couldn’t see them, but I could hear mom and fledglings’ raucous comments.  Nobody in that tree was happy.

            That left one little wren at the log.  Most families have one child that doesn’t learn from others’ experiences.  This little fellow wasn’t concerned that mom and now siblings were fussing because it hadn’t fled the threat with them.  Its mother intensified her vocalizations and still didn’t receive a second look.

            I know how Momma Wren felt since we recently fledged a youngster.  As our daughters moved into adulthood, I find myself apologizing to my mother or thanking her for being so patient with me.  It is no easy task letting children go, especially those who must learn through experience.

            Finally, my mother’s heart couldn’t take Momma Wren’s frantic cries any longer. Since her baby wouldn’t respond, I left, removing the threat that alarmed her.  As I walked away, I recalled my own mother’s wish for me: I hope that baby wren has a young one just like it.  

            

First Hunt: The Stories Begin

Parents mark children’s lives by firsts: first tooth, first word, first step, and first day of school.  As youngsters mature, firsts come further apart.   However, for a youngster who hunts, the list of firsts continue.  If my husband and his friends’ experiences are any indication, not only continue but  are infinite.  Hunters live for their stories, which always include a first. Perhaps this is a hunter’s way to cling to childhood’s elusive magic.

Last weekend my daughter joined a select group.  She got her first turkey.

 Hunting requires certain before, during, and after rituals.  For  dedicated outdoors enthusiasts, it is not bagged game that is the goal.  It is the  preparation.  Kelli and her dad spent months discussing their upcoming hunt: where to hunt, what to shoot, how long a shot to take,  and how one makes sure to shoot a tom.

 As opening day drew closer, she kept asking, “When?”  Finally, it was time. 

To build Kelli’s confidence, the two practiced shooting targets.  Considering she hadn’t used a shotgun much, Kelli showed promise.  But, there’s a big difference between a standing target and a moving tom.  Not a problem for Kelli. 

The night before the safari, she laid out camouflage and hunting boots.  She would be ready when the alarm sounded, even though she never shows such enthusiasm on school mornings.  Copying her dad, she set out her coffee cup. 

Those two were so efficient in their leave-taking I barely noticed them rising at 4:30 a.m.  This signaled new dedication from my daughter.  She never gets up early for any other reason.  This alone made a campfire story.

I figured she would hunt and return with tales of turkeys she saw and missed or couldn’t shoot.  After all, she’d heard plenty of these from her dad. 

By nine a.m., my crew returned jubilantly from the woods, lugging a big turkey! Underestimating the situation, I asked the adults, “Who bagged the gobbler?” Imagine Kelli’s joy as she proclaimed, “I did!  I got him in one shot.”

I wanted to hear the whole story, but I, too, had to follow the ritual.  Pictures first.  Kelli alone with her turkey, tail fanned out.  Kelli with turkey draped over shoulder.  Kelli with calling partners, Dad and Wes, on each side. At last, a photo of our aged dog creeping out to sniff Kelli’s trophy.  I can date the years of our marriage by photos of past hunts.  Now my daughter’s beaming smile added to those memories.

The photo op completed, Kelli could tell her story. The telling is so important.  It isn’t the shot--it is the preparation.  Arriving on site before the birds fly off their roost, listening to morning come to life, watching and waiting for gobblers to come to the decoy. 

Kelli provided Easter dinner, and she accomplished more than putting meat on the table.  If she had come home empty-handed, her hunt would have been successful.  She joined an elite group initiated into rituals of hunting preparation and storytelling.  In this group, she can count on many more firsts.