mealworms and 500 waxworms, which arrived in two cardboard boxes riddled with dime-size airholes. Inside the first box was a muslin bag tied shut with a wire twist-tie. Inside the bag were five or six sheets of crumpled newspaper, and within the newspaper were the mealworms. When I held up the bag I heard the sound of soft rustling, like gentle rain.
In the second box were four light blue plastic containers, each poked with airholes and filled with soft wood shavings, and each containing 125 waxworms.
âKids!â I called. âCome on! The worms are here!â
Mac hurried down the stairs. As he looked at me expectantly, the large lump beneath his shirt started moving slowly across his chest.
âOuch!â he said. âGet out of there, Zack!â
He pulled the collar away from his neck and a small head appeared, beady eyes flashing. The yellow-collared macaw climbed out of Macâs shirt and onto his shoulder, eyeing me and laughing giddily, as if he wanted nothing more than to have me join in the fun. I was wise to this little strategy, however; it meant that if I put my hands anywhere near Mac, Zack would rush down like a velociraptor and try to bite my fingers off.
When the kids were toddlers Zack had been relentless, chasing them from room to room and biting them whenever he caught them. âGet rid of that bird!â John said finally, exasperated.
âNo way!â I shouted furiously. âZack was here first!â I ran interference between the kids and the outraged macaw until Mac turned five, when for no apparent reason Zackâs world started to revolve around one of the children he had previously wished only to maim. He treated Mac like a human perch, climbing up his leg, clinging to his belt, and riding on his shoulder; when Mac sat down Zack snuggled under his chin, fluffing out his feathers and grinding his beak in contentment. In the space of a day I went from Zackâs favorite person to his mortal enemy, from the loyal owner of a strong-willed but loving bird to the despised jailer of a homicidal mental patient.
âThis is why parrots shouldnât be pets,â Iâd say, removing the hysterically protesting macaw from Macâs shoulder by sandwiching him between two thick oven mitts. âOnly one person in a million can put up with them.â
âDonât remind me,â said John.
Zack had softened over the last few years and would cozy up to me as long as Mac was not around. Taking him away from Mac with bare hands, however, was still out of the question.
Skye appeared, covered with dirt, at the sliding glass door. âI just built another room onto the kelpie house,â she announced.
Skyeâs world was filled with fairies. Her own personal fairy was Marigoldy, who, on certain magical nights, would write tiny notes in tiny handwriting and leave them, colorfully illustrated and accompanied by a real marigold, under Skyeâs pillow as she slept. Marigoldyâs friends were the fairies of the clouds, the sun, the rain, the hemlock trees, and every natural wonder, and each one would eventually leave a tiny letter containing a self-portrait, news from the fairy world, and helpful hints on how to deal with the trials and tribulations of first grade. Sometimes the fairy idea well would run dry and suddenly all the fairies would decamp to the moon or the bottom of the ocean, leaving a farewell note saying âBack in a monthâ and âBye! Weâll miss you!â Skye wouldretreat mournfully to the backyard and lavish her energy on the kelpie house, which she was carefully constructing from flat rocks and various pieces of forest flotsam.
Telling the kids about kelpies seemed to me to be a fun way to pass the time and to pay homage to my Scottish ancestors; it was only later, when I watched Skye describe them to a group of friends and their mothers, that I realized why the Brothers Grimm had lost their popularity.
âKelpies
In the second box were four light blue plastic containers, each poked with airholes and filled with soft wood shavings, and each containing 125 waxworms.
âKids!â I called. âCome on! The worms are here!â
Mac hurried down the stairs. As he looked at me expectantly, the large lump beneath his shirt started moving slowly across his chest.
âOuch!â he said. âGet out of there, Zack!â
He pulled the collar away from his neck and a small head appeared, beady eyes flashing. The yellow-collared macaw climbed out of Macâs shirt and onto his shoulder, eyeing me and laughing giddily, as if he wanted nothing more than to have me join in the fun. I was wise to this little strategy, however; it meant that if I put my hands anywhere near Mac, Zack would rush down like a velociraptor and try to bite my fingers off.
When the kids were toddlers Zack had been relentless, chasing them from room to room and biting them whenever he caught them. âGet rid of that bird!â John said finally, exasperated.
âNo way!â I shouted furiously. âZack was here first!â I ran interference between the kids and the outraged macaw until Mac turned five, when for no apparent reason Zackâs world started to revolve around one of the children he had previously wished only to maim. He treated Mac like a human perch, climbing up his leg, clinging to his belt, and riding on his shoulder; when Mac sat down Zack snuggled under his chin, fluffing out his feathers and grinding his beak in contentment. In the space of a day I went from Zackâs favorite person to his mortal enemy, from the loyal owner of a strong-willed but loving bird to the despised jailer of a homicidal mental patient.
âThis is why parrots shouldnât be pets,â Iâd say, removing the hysterically protesting macaw from Macâs shoulder by sandwiching him between two thick oven mitts. âOnly one person in a million can put up with them.â
âDonât remind me,â said John.
Zack had softened over the last few years and would cozy up to me as long as Mac was not around. Taking him away from Mac with bare hands, however, was still out of the question.
Skye appeared, covered with dirt, at the sliding glass door. âI just built another room onto the kelpie house,â she announced.
Skyeâs world was filled with fairies. Her own personal fairy was Marigoldy, who, on certain magical nights, would write tiny notes in tiny handwriting and leave them, colorfully illustrated and accompanied by a real marigold, under Skyeâs pillow as she slept. Marigoldyâs friends were the fairies of the clouds, the sun, the rain, the hemlock trees, and every natural wonder, and each one would eventually leave a tiny letter containing a self-portrait, news from the fairy world, and helpful hints on how to deal with the trials and tribulations of first grade. Sometimes the fairy idea well would run dry and suddenly all the fairies would decamp to the moon or the bottom of the ocean, leaving a farewell note saying âBack in a monthâ and âBye! Weâll miss you!â Skye wouldretreat mournfully to the backyard and lavish her energy on the kelpie house, which she was carefully constructing from flat rocks and various pieces of forest flotsam.
Telling the kids about kelpies seemed to me to be a fun way to pass the time and to pay homage to my Scottish ancestors; it was only later, when I watched Skye describe them to a group of friends and their mothers, that I realized why the Brothers Grimm had lost their popularity.
âKelpies
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