The Combat Zone

Oh how I love my podcasts!

As I was listening to one of the segments on Tell Me More, one of my favorite programs on NPR, East Africa correspondent Gregory Warner used a term that hooked me and took me straight back to braces in Boston: the combat zone.

His reference to the combat zone had to do with a refugee camp located in the spot between the heinous group M23 and the not so impeccable Congolese army.  My point of reference had to do with the porn area in downtown Boston.

When I was 14 I got braces.  My mom took me to Tufts University dental school the first couple of times for the consultation and the "putting on" but after that, I took the bus and subway downtown on my own for the routine adjustments.

On our first walk through that dirty neighborhood, literally speaking, who was I to judge the wonts of others in the figurative sense, I was flabbergasted!  Despite my Catholic school uniform, what transpired between people in the sexual realm was not a secret, but I had never seen so much of the not-so-secret in just a few blocks!  This area was called the combat zone.  And there was no getting around it to get to the orthodontist.

The first time I went to an appointment by myself, I was intimidated walking through there alone.  No one ever made any inappropriate gesture or comment, that I can recall. Had they, at that age I imagine I would have let out with a razor sharp come back. Perhaps it was the plaid that kept others on their best behavior.



PS
If you don't much about what goes on in Congo, take a listen to this segment and then listen to the one following it.  The doctor Denis Mukwege was a Nobel Peace Prize nominee this year.  Or just listen because this is a truly an inspirational human being.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=243720241

Happy Sweet 16, Pooker!

It's hard to believe...Pooker is 16 today. She is a healthy, happy, assertive and very pretty cockatiel.

It was 1994 and I was in Seattle over the winter holidays visiting my friend, Justine. My parakeet of 8 years, Misha, had died that spring. That was quite sad. It was the first time (unfortunately not the last) that I had to make the decision to euthanize an animal. Besides being sad, it was traumatic.

So Justine in her just get it done manner took me to this parrot market "just to look" at birds. I really was in no mood to acquire another bird. Until I met the girl. She was just a month old and the parrot porter was taking her out of a box and putting her in a cage. Younger than this, they do not have the dexterity and strength to hold themselves up on a perch.

He put her on my hand and she immediately scurried up my arm and onto my shoulder and as many birds will, she nestled deep into the nape of my neck. It was darling. There I stayed with her for some time.

The next day, we went back: "just to look." We opened the cage and she did the same thing. Trouble. I really wanted to take this bird home but I was living in the dorm at Mt. Holyoke at the time, sharing a suite with Jill. Oh, and there was a no pets rule (Misha excluded.)

I called Jill from Justine's land line--my cell phone only worked in my car-- "what do you think?" Jill was easy going and a mom of 4 and was quite open to a new addition to our sunny 2 bedroom suite overlooking the apple orchard. Then there was the flight back to Boston to consider. Mind you, it was 1994, pre-TSA.

We took her, well first let me say this, the parrot porter said he was almost certain Pooker was a he. Anyway, we bought the necessary accessories for my new cockatiel and took her back to Justine's house. I had fantasized about another bird and had a few names already picked out. We tried calling her Colvin. Nah. Miles. Nope. And she cried and cried. What had I done?! A baby bird who eats formula from a syringe! To comfort her I made cooing sounds and out came Pooker.

Oh, the story of getting her back to Boston. I had to ask the flight attendant for hot water so I could make her formula during our layover. Then I had to defend my new bird when another flight attendant into Boston insisted that I put her cage under the seat in front of me in freezing winter weather. I most certainly did not. No air marshals or vigilante passengers to worry about.

Pooker became a love to all, or most, who lived at Dickinson Hall. Anne-Sophie would come get her and bring her to her room while she studied. For the most part, we all denied any knowledge of a bird living amongst us.

She stayed with friends and family while I went on a 6 week cross country trip with Alina. The next year Pooker moved with me back to Boston. She stayed with my folks while I lived in Argentina and still when I returned to the US and traveled for work for 2 more years. Then my folks brought her out to me in Long Beach. Now here in Bend she is back to her Pacific Northwest roots.

Yes, Pooker is a she. Sometimes it still catches those who knew her back then off guard; they want to say "he." But when I uncovered her one morning and found an egg and then found another 8 over the course of 2 weeks, we were pretty sure she was a girl.

She has given us many stories and laughs. She is an affectionate creature who loves to be kissed and cuddled. A cockatiel can fit in the palm of your hand, and there she will sit perfectly comfortable and unafraid.

To all of you who have cared for her or played with her or just know her through stories, she joyously celebrated her 16th year full of all of our love and kindness.

Happy Birthday girl!