tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7573506.post-65682894433098717042007-01-11T18:40:00.000-05:002007-05-02T10:35:26.335-04:00One Man’s First Crack at Motherhood<br />by Valentine J. Brkich<br /><br />Just recently I became a mother. Let me preface this by saying that I am a 31-year-old man. <br /><br />It all started when I returned home to find three baby birds on my driveway. One was deceased; the other two were alive but obviously shaken. There’s a nest in the awning above my front porch and I assume they attempted to fly before their time. Kids.<br /><br />After a brief funeral service for the deceased bird involving a shovel and a garbage can, I turned my attention to the two newest additions to my family. My in-laws are always asking us for grandchildren. Well, I guess beggars can’t be choosy.<br /><br />I carefully placed the birds on an old sweatshirt, which I then placed inside an empty planter. Then, with the birds resting comfortably, I grabbed my spade and set out to find them some proper nourishment. <br /><br />A few minutes later I returned to the nest for my first official bird feeding. This was sure to be a daunting task considering I still have some trouble feeding myself (just ask my wife). Lacking a beak, I was forced to think of another way to feed the birds. In a moment of inspiration, I went to the garage and retrieved a pair of needle-nose pliers. In some weird, comforting way, the pliers almost resembled a beak. Best of all, they enabled me to feed the birds without actually touching the slimy worms. Ugh.<br /><br />When I returned to the “nest,” I found that the birds had buried themselves within the folds of my sweatshirt. I was stumped. I remind you: I am not a bird. How could I get these baby birds to come out and eat? Of course I did the first thing that came to mind: I chirped, not too confident that it would work.<br /><br />To my surprise the two birds emerged from underneath the shirt and opened their mouths in anticipation. One by one, I lowered each slimy, squirming worm into the mouths of the hungry birds, one of which nearly swallowed the pliers whole. Next I fed each bird one or two of these beetle-type things I found under a rock. The sparrows inhaled them like chocolate cheesecake. <br /><br />It was an amazing moment. Here I was, a 31-year-old collector of Star Wars memorabilia, successfully feeding and caring for a pair of orphaned sparrows. It was a proud moment.<br /><br />I haven’t figured out what to name the two birds just yet. I read somewhere that “Jacob” and “Emily” are the two most popular names for babies nowadays. Then again, why bother naming them when they’re just going to fly away someday and leave me forever. How’s that for gratitude!<br /><br /><br /><br />Dancing Turkey Corpses and Other Cherished Holiday Traditions<br />By Valentine J. Brkich<br /><br />Ah…the Holidays! A time for family and for tradition. The food! The presents! My grandmother chasing us around the house with a turkey dupa dangling from a piece of string. Yes, ever since I was old enough to run, my Polish grandmother has celebrated Thanksgiving by grossing us out with the amputated derriere of the family turkey. Although she no longer bothers to chase me, specifically, I still get to sit back every year and watch as she emerges from the kitchen with the turkey tushie and causes my younger cousins to run for their lives.<br /><br />This bizarre ritual may seem strange to most, but it is a time-honored tradition in my family and one I cherish dearly. My grandma wasn’t the only one to put her own special twist on a particular holiday. My mother is a big holiday fan herself and had a unique ritual for just about every one.<br /><br />Every Christmas morning my sisters and I would find half-eaten cookies and a note from Santa himself thanking us for the snack and for being good throughout the year. Every Easter Sunday I’d awake to find “bunny footprints” dotted all over the carpet. I always enjoyed following the footprints to my hidden basket of goodies. Although, it always struck me as strange that the Easter bunny’s feet were covered with some strange powder-like substance that only left footprints on indoor surfaces.<br /><br />Lots of families practice unique traditions as a way of celebrating the Holidays. My friend Julie’s family also claims a bizarre ritual on Thanksgiving. Apparently, when she was younger, her mother would wake her and her siblings up at the crack of down just so they could watch her dance the turkey around the kitchen before plopping the poor fella into the cooking pan. What a lowly life a turkey leads! It’s bad enough that we chop off its head and stuff bread up its butt. Then we dance its naked corpse around the table in a final dance of shame. How sad.<br /><br />On thanksgiving in my family, we have a cherished tradition of our own. After dinner, the men-folk slog into the living room, plop down on a sofa, loosen our belts, and gradually fall asleep as the Detroit Lions beat some other team on the tube. This is one of my favorite traditions, mainly because it involves three of my favorite things: food, football, and sleep.<br />Another friend of mine, Susan, shared with me how she and her relatives would gather at her grandmother’s house for the Christmas holiday. However, before they were given their gifts, the children would have to first sing a medley of three Christmas songs led by her Uncle, who was dressed in a Santa hat. This is nothing short of extortion in my opinion.<br />It reminds me of a similar tradition we had where my sisters and I would have to sing “Happy Birthday” to the baby Jesus before being allowed to open presents at my grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve. I never understood why we had to sing to a miniature ceramic baby figurine. But looking back now, I guess it was pretty darn cute.<br /><br />Now that I’m married, my eyes have been opened up to a whole new, bizarre batch of holiday traditions. First let me preface that my wife is an Italian. Because of this, there is one steadfast characteristic that accompanies all holidays: pasta. It doesn’t matter if it is Christmas, Halloween, Easter, Yom-Kipper, Flag Day and so on. If it’s a holiday, we’re eating pasta. Heck, even Thanksgiving cannot escape this favorite food of our Italian brethren. Every year my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law prepare us a delicious fest of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and about four pounds of spaghetti, ziti, macaroni, or whatever type of pasta they happened to choose that day.<br /><br />And let’s not forget the cheese. My in-laws go through more cheese in a week than most mice do in a lifetime. The holidays are their favorite time to bring out the real smelly stuff: the provolone, the asiago, the lucatelli. For Halloween they pass out mozzarella to the kids. For Christmas they leave out cookies sprinkled with fresh parmesan. I just don’t get it. Then again, on Christmas night, my grandmother requires us to drink shots of tequila before we’re allowed to use the restroom. So who am I to judge?<br /><br />I’m really looking forward to starting some new Holiday traditions with my family. I can’t wait for the day when I can sit back on the sofa with my belt unbuckled and watch my mother chase my own children around the house with some sort of meat substance. That’s what the Holidays are all about.<br /><br /><br /><br />Welcome to My New Office! Feel Free to Pee Anywhere!<br />By Valentine J. Brkich<br /><br />I have a new office. It’s a wonderful place, really: breathtaking views, plenty of natural light, green grass below my feet. You see, my new office is wherever I choose it to be. Today it’s on a park bench overlooking the mighty Ohio River. Tomorrow it may be in a café or at the library. This is one of the advantages of being self-employed. Of course, in my old office, I didn’t have to watch my step for dog droppings; but it’s a small price to pay for the comforts of outdoor living.<br /><br />I’m sitting here writing this column on a pleasant, 70° afternoon. Although it is quite peaceful out here, the spring landscape is alive with activity: A cardinal is gathering twigs under a bush; a squirrel is surveying the land for buried nuts; a shirtless, overweight man is sunning himself on a nearby bench. It’s Nature in all her splendor!<br /><br />Across the river, I can see the end (or the beginning, depending on which way you were going) of the Old Brodhead trail, named after Daniel Brodhead (1736-1809), commander of the Western Department during the Revolutionary War. Brodhead’s command included frontier forts like Fort Pitt (Pittsburgh), Fort Wheeling (West Virginia) and Fort McIntosh (Beaver, PA), which was located just up the block from here. Looking across the river at the trailhead, I can’t help but envision the courageous Brodhead leading his armies into the wilderness to wipe out various Indian tribes so that one day we could have land for giant, box superstores and strip malls. It’s an inspiring image.<br /><br />On the hillside in front of me, yellow Forsythias shine brightly as hints of green begin to appear on the stems and branches of the surrounding plant-life. These various trees and plants make much better decorations than the ones in my old office, which consisted solely of a U.S. National Parks calendar and a fake landscape that I drew on my dry-erase board.<br /><br />Up river, a freight train blows its whistle as it crosses the majestic P&LE Railroad Ohio River Bridge, towering high above the water’s surface. This mighty, black iron structure, built almost completely by manpower, has been providing trains with safe passage across the river for nearly 100 years now. As I admire this amazing span and all the hard work that went into building it, I can’t help but think: man, I’m glad I’m a writer and not an iron worker.<br /><br />Working in an outdoor setting such as this, you get to see a lot of interesting things. For example, right behind me a juggler is practicing his trade in the warm afternoon sun. This is something you just don’t see in an indoor office (mainly due to low ceilings). Sure, maybe the sound of his pins hitting the ground over and over…and over again makes it difficult for me to concentrate, but that’s okay. I’m sure some teenagers will be along soon to ridicule him relentlessly until he runs home, humiliated.<br /><br />Out here my only co-workers are the occasional ant, honey bee or hopping spider. But unlike in a real office, these miniature colleagues are no bother to me. If they do begin to “bug” me (rim shot), I can just swat them away or, better yet, squash them into oblivion. This kind of resolution was frowned upon back in my corporate days.<br /><br />Don’t be too jealous of me, however. There are also a few downsides to my new office. First of all, unlike at my old job, there’s no free coffee, donuts or office supplies. On top of that, if I get drowsy, I can’t just shut the door and take a nap. Also, out here dogs are able to run freely and urinate wherever they please (hopefully not on my leg). Speaking of urination, there’s no bathroom out here either; that is, unless you count the large sycamore next to me. I know the dogs have no problem with it, but I’m not sure if I feel comfortable taking a whiz on the floor of my new office just yet.<br /><br />Who knows where my “office” will be tomorrow? That’s the beauty of the freelance lifestyle. Maybe it will be out in the woods. Maybe it will be in the comfort of my own home. It’s all up to me! Then again, if I don’t sell an article or two soon, my office and my house may be under the bridge inside a cardboard box (which, by the way, would still be better than my old office). <br /><br />Valentine J. Brkich is the author of Cageball, Poker, and the Atomic Wedgie (Trafford, 2003), which has sold over 2,500 copies. He is also a speaker and freelance writer. Visit his Web site at www.BrkichWriting.com.Valentine Brkichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03924529724841930923noreply@blogger.com