Bird by bird; or, Don't Look Now, but there's a squirrel on the wall.

Am I the only person who finds hanging that first picture and those first curtains in a new place completely and totally nerve-wracking? There is something about blemishing a perfectly smooth, freshly painted, and clean wall that causes me to live with stacks of framed photographs, paintings, and posters lined up around the perimeter of every room in a house for weeks or months at a go. 

I finally gave in, got out the hammer, and went to work. Thirteen pictures on the wall, probably three times that many crammed in a closet, little by little, it's going to get done. I'm starting to feel like I actually live here and we're not just squatting amongst 15K lbs of fine quality junk that I really, really wish I would have gone through years ago. 

One of my favorite books on writing (and life) is Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. If you are an English teacher/major and haven't read it, or if you like to write, do yourself a favor and go to a bookstore or library and pick it up.

Keeping in mind that it's been years since I've read it, and my apologies if I get some of the details wrong, here's the origin of the title as I remember it---and a phrase I've come back to so many times in my life: 

The author's brother had several weeks to get a big report on birds due, and he did what so many kids do---he waited until the night before to do most of the work, and found himself totally and completely overwhelmed, exhausted, and frustrated. 

This was SO me as a kid, bawling my eyes out and pulling a near all-nighter to do a science fair project, a book report, a research paper. I totally empathize with this kid---AND his poor parents. 

Anyhoo, he is crying and ready to give up, when his father sits down beside him and tells him, "Just take it bird by bird." 

Ahhh. 

So when I process dozens of new books while trying to answer emails, stay on top of scheduling, and take care of everything else at work, or I'm trying to cram boxes Jenga-style into a garage or closet until I can finally get to them, I tell myself it will get done, bird by bird. 

One little bird, or in this case, squirrel, who is doing great is Rodney. 

Why did my grandfather feel the need to shoot a squirrel and have him stuffed to put on their wall? Nobody really knows. My grandparents had it on their Crystal Springs wall for all of my life plus some. When they moved from that house to the house next door to my parents, the squirrel did not make the cut. They were actually going to throw him out. 

I rescued him from the trash heap and took him back to Texas. I can't tell you how ridiculous he looked, all taxidermied into a state of half-shock, half-oblivion, riding atop the dog's carrier in the back of our Expedition for the 10 hour trip. He was just "Squirrel" until we hung him on the wall, and my husband christened him in his new home as "Rodney." New beginnings, new name.

Just like my sister and I had to fight the urge as children to touch him every time we got near him, my youngest was grabbing at his tail as soon as he could sit up and focus. And now, Rodney is at home. . . in Cuba. He is, to my knowledge, Cuba's only squirrel. 

A group of teenagers came by Saturday to pick up our oldest to go to the beach, and the conversation between one of the girls and myself went something like this: 

Yeah, we're going to Windmill Beach because we have the two little kids and the waves aren't bad there, plus it's fun to play in the sand there and OH. MY. GOD. IS THAT A REAL SQUIRREL ON YOUR WALL????!!!!! 

Then the little kids-- a 3 year old nephew of one and a 5 year sister of another---had to be picked up so they, too, could touch Rodney. He just has that effect on people.

I'm not 100% sure, but if you look at him just right, Rodney seems to have a bigger smile with his little crooked squirrel buck teeth than usual. I really think he likes Cuba. 

One taxidermied squirrel and a vase of artistic sticks. 
Bet you can't find THAT on Pinterest. 

But I imagine you aren't reading this blog because of my non-stop ramblings about unpacking--- you want more about Gitmo, right? 

So how's this for a weather report? This was last Thursday: 

Most buildings around here require a sweater, jacket, etc because of the chill factor. In order to keep the humidity (and mold) down, you apparently have to freeze it out. I have to dump gallons of water out of several dehumidifiers every day because humidity = mold, and books + mold = librarian's nightmare . Storing moldy books just spreads it to non-infected books. It's a constant battle, keeping the mold at bay. I guess it would be ironic (or just sad) at this point for me to admit that I'm allergic to mold, yet I chose to spend my career in a place that seems to attract it, so we'll skip that part of the story.

I took these sunny day pictures as I was on my lunch break, getting gas. I know, a quick trip to the gas station during lunch, no biggie, right? You know, you queue up at the tanker truck which is between the car wash and outdoor movie theatre because the only gas station on post has been closed for months. I hear the pump broke and the part is "on the barge." It's full service, which I guess is good considering it's $4.09 a gallon.

the gas station in all its glory

But you see blue skies and the sun blaring off the car windshield? 

Driving 25 mph only a few miles to work every day, carpooling with my husband, getting home long before dark, I can't ask for everything to be perfect, right? I walked home from work tonight and it took a whopping 25 minutes. That was about 2/3 to 1/2 of my commute time each way to work until we moved here. So, in the words of our youngest, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." 

And that is how we roll here in Gitmo.