helicopter parents (la merced and dodger blue)
Be that as it may, this goat is possibly superior to myself in that she doesn’t curse like a pirate around her kid. Anthropomorphizing as a habit is to be avoided, along with corny puns, I suppose. It’s true I do my best to not indulge in it excessively around the boys for fear of giving them a bad grasp on the natural sciences, animal behavior or whatnot although some of the most passionate, favorite wildlife biologists of mine fall prey to the tendency.
This will be the final image in my Non-Native Wildlife of the Olympics series featuring goats with dingleberries and leftover, tattered winter coats. It’s probable these two will have been airlifted out of this part of the range by the end of August, part of a campaign to remove mountain goats from the Olympic Peninsula. Jesus Christ, some of them are even getting helicoptered out with mind-altering drugs and cushy blindfolds! As for the cursing, I’m neither potty mouth nor puritan, the boys delight in chastising me over my slightly more than semi-occasional lack of self-control which is gratifying to me, accountability is a paramount virtue in our household.
Wednesday saw me dropping Adam off at the ferry terminal for Camp Orkila. While I was inclined to stay until the boat arrived he encouraged me to leave. During the drive north to Anacortes, that fishing village cum retirement mecca and jumping-off point for the San Juan Islands, I stole glances at my handsome, oldest baby boy with those tiny prepubescentish dotty pimples begging for recreational popping and goofy death metal straining the tinny speakers of his headphones. As we descended into Skagit Valley, his voice cracked like a dinner plate. Yipes! Two nights ago in our very dungeon-like, unfinished basement (having graciously volunteered to crash there on a musty old sofa across from the washing machine in order that his cousin visiting from Lake Michigan Country could have his bed so she didn’t have to sleep like a sardine with Grandma in the back room) I kissed him goodnight on the forehead. He looked up at me in surprise so I wheeled around, kissing him again and he laughed like I told him a corny joke and ever since I’ve been struggling with an acute case of phantom limb. This morning I wrote him a letter because he should have something to tuck under his tearstained pillowcase, like everyone else. The letter was mostly blabbations regarding the history of La Merced, that landmark old schooner with trees growing out of it that anyone on the way to the Anacortes ferry terminal will see, it’s down in Lovric’s shipyard. What I’d written seemed a little dry around the edges so I enclosed a few old Dodgers baseball cards and cut out the latest box scores. Adam’s a huge Dodgers fan, in the beginning it was because of Dodger blue, legitimate as any reason when you’re ten years old but now he’s actually become something of an authority on the team. I’ve thought of taking him down to Chavez Ravine later this summer for a game. You know, as if LA is just a couple hours down the coast……