The Baboon Congress

Baboon Redux – The Bear That Ate Jerry

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Header image:  Selsdon Wood Nature Reserve, CR0 (Philip Talmage) / CC BY-SA 2.0

Today’s post by Steve Grooms was first published in 2010.

In early June of 1967, I took a Boundary Waters canoe trip with my roommate, Bill, and his California friend, Jerry Voorhees. Bill was a tall, arrogant fellow who enjoyed barking out commands to Jerry and me. Although I was twenty-five at the time, Bill called me “Steevie,” because he knew it annoyed me. It amused Bill to order Jerry and me about like the drill sergeants he’d suffered under in Army Basic Training.

Jerry is harder to sketch. A plump fellow with thick glasses, Jerry was no athlete and less of an outdoorsman. He was on the canoe trip because Bill ordered him to be. Jerry was a sweet, accommodating soul who lacked self-esteem. Bill didn’t help Jerry’s composure with all the abuse he heaped on Jerry, calling him “fat” a dozen times an hour and mocking Jerry’s stammer. Jerry’s father had been a liberal New Deal congressman in California who became famous because he was the first politician to have his career trashed by mudslinging lies from young Richard Nixon.

The trip was more fun than it might have been. I caught a trophy northern pike whose memory still thrills me. We were out in the bush for six days. When we got back to Grand Marais, we were stunned to read that the Israelis and Arabs had conducted a whole war in our absence, the “Six Days War.”

Other than that, the most memorable moment was provided by the bear.

We slept three across in our little tent. Jerry, as the omega trip member, was stuck between Bill and me. Our heads were at the back of the tent, our feet by the door. It was rather tight in there.

We had gone to bed one night after dinner. It was fairly late, late enough that the loons had finally gone silent. Spring peepers trilled from every puddle in the woods. Jerry snored softly. Bill tossed in his sleeping bag.

I had almost fallen asleep when I heard the bear. Something was shuffling around our campsite, something with heavy feet. We had not been careful enough to run our food packs up into the trees, which should have concerned me. Stupidly, I wasn’t afraid.

Instead of being scared, I was enjoying the moment because I knew Bill heard the bear. Bill’s breathing changed, becoming fast and ragged. I had been with Bill in a violent storm once, and I knew how terrified he could be when he felt himself threatened. I grinned into my pillow, picturing Bill on the far side of the tent, his face a mask of terror. Jerry snored on.

“Jerry! There’s a bear!” hissed Bill.

“Snaaaaark,” said Jerry.

“Jerry, dammit! There’s a BEAR!”

“Snoooooooooooop!” said Jerry.

I pressed my fist into my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

That’s when Bill snapped. In total panic, he grabbed Jerry with his left hand, clamping down on Jerry’s right thigh like the Jaws of Death.

Jerry, dammit, THERE’S A BEAR!”

“I KNOW! I KNOW!” screamed Jerry, now very awake. “And he’s GOT ME BY THE LEG!”

That’s when we broke into laughter. The three of us hooted and whooped until our pillows were soggy with tears and our tummies ached. Whatever the creature in our camp had been, it obviously fled in panic when we began roaring with laughter.

Jerry later explained that he was awakened by the vice-like grip of Bill’s hand on his leg. “I thought he was going to eat me right up,” said Jerry, “starting with the sweetest meat.”

What terrifying moment are you able to laugh about now?

The Baboon Congress

Baboon Redux – Fawn Doe Rosa

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Today’s post by Sherrilee was first published in 2010.

Most of my growing up years were spent in a big city in the Midwest, where the wildlife consisted mostly of squirrels and sparrows. So it was a big deal when we vacationed every summer in the northern part of Wisconsin at the family homestead. We saw deer from the car windows and even the occasional black bear at the town dump. When I was seven, an animal park opened up in St. Croix Falls, which was along the route my family always drove to get to Wisconsin.

Fawn Doe Rosa was (and still is) a place where you can feed and pet a variety of animals, from deer to ponies to geese and ducks. Always looking for a way to break up the long drive to and from up north, I’m sure my parents were delighted to find anything to get us girls out of the car and out of their hair for awhile.

That first year, when I was seven, my sister and I wandered all over the park. Except for dogs and cats, I had never had any interaction with an animal before and was a little leery of the deer, some of whom were bigger than I was. So I opted for the smaller and safer geese and ducks that abounded at the park. At one point, as I was feeding some geese along the little pond, a young elk spotted me.

A Stealthy Approach

Clearly understanding that I was the repository of food, he headed right for me, although I didn’t notice him, so intent was I on my task. My father, who was capturing our day with the camera, snapped a shot as the elk approached me, but didn’t feel the need to warn me. Of course, even though the elk was quite small (as elk go), he did scare me out of my wits and I stepped into the pond and got my feet wet.

It took my mother several minutes to get me to approach the poor elk, who was probably as scared by my antics as I was by his, but was willing to forgive me for my outburst, since I still had food. Within a little bit, I was petting him and feeding him, like he was no more different than the family dog.

Friends for Life

I think about this day often, as the teenager and I still visit Fawn Doe Rosa at least once a summer. What would have been a scarring experience that scared me off animals for a lifetime, turned out to be the beginning of a lifelong love of creatures great and small. We trek out to our two zoos here several times a year, love the Wolf Center in Ely, visit any animal park we find along the way and I believe my love of animals may have rubbed off; the teenager has expressed an interest for a career with animals, although it’s still a little too early to tell.

What memorable childhood experience was captured on film? 

The Baboon Congress

Baboon Redux – Puggi Lives!

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Header photo by Christina Nöbauer  

A Repeat Guest Blog from Renee Boomgaarden, originally posted in 2010. 

Recently we discussed our feeling about news stories, and I noted that there was very little in the news that I could tolerate, with the exception, I now must confess, of stories about animal rescue. I don’t mean shows about animal welfare officers rescuing pets from abuse and neglect-those shows just make me angry and upset. I mean stories about helping animals out of predicaments of their own making. You know the kind-goats stranded on bridges or with their heads stuck in fencing, bears who wander into town, get treed and tranquilized, and fall sleepily into the waiting nets of patient rescuers who transport them back to the woods, ducklings retrieved from storm sewers as their mother quacks anxiously nearby.

I think my favorite stories are those told friends and family. The story about the dog who decided it would be a good idea to roll vigorously back and forth over a decomposing porcupine (both smelly and painful) stands out, as does the tale of the poor, bored, Lakeland Terrier who spent hours independently chasing a ball back and forth over a paved parking lot until it had worn the pads off its paws.

My dad and my best friend tell the most memorable rescue stories. My friend grew up on a farm, and one day after checking the cattle she came upon a Great Grey Owl sitting on the ground under a telephone pole. She was able to walk quite close to it and saw that one pupil was quite dilated. It looked kind of stunned and she surmised it had had a head injury. She somehow managed to get it into a tall box in the back of her car and drove three hours to get it to a raptor center at the University of Minnesota. She never heard what happened to it after that.

My father loves dogs and has had his share of trauma with them over the years. He still speaks with sorrow over a favorite dog he had as a boy-a Rat Terrier named Diamond-who went down a badger hole and never came back up. It still bothers him. His all-time favorite dog, however, was Puggi the Pug, a dog he had after he retired. One day in early Spring, Dad and Puggi went to the city park in Luverne, right along the Rock River, to see if the ice had broken up. The river was still frozen over, but barely, and before he could stop her, Puggi ran out on the ice to get to some birds on the other bank.
A portion of the ice gave way and she went through and was pulled under the remaining ice by the strong Spring current.

She was gone.

Dad said he walked down stream about 100 feet and just stared, thinking to himself that he had lost his dog for good. His eye was caught by an old ice fishing hole in the middle of the river, and to his joy, up popped Puggi. She couldn’t scramble out of the hole on her own, so Dad laid out flat and advanced across the ice on his stomach. He grabbed Puggi and slithered back to shore. He figured she saw light coming through the hole as the current took her down stream and she swam toward it. He took her home and put her in a hot shower to warm her up. My mother was appalled at the risk he took, I don’t think he thought twice about going out on that ice.

When have you come to the rescue?

The Baboon Congress

Baboon Redux – First Grade With Dr. Franklin

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Today’s repeat guest blog was originally submitted by Donna in 2010.

Our school office regularly sends newsletters home to inform families about upcoming events, fundraisers, procedures, and other relevant items. A couple of years ago my colleagues and I were strongly invited to contribute to the newsletter by writing a few notes about the goings on in our classrooms. My turn fell on the week of my birthday, which made it very special … so special, that I submitted two descriptions.

Here’s the piece they rejected:

First graders in room 102 are learning about weather tools that can measure temperature, wind and rain. On Tuesday we taped crepe paper streamers to craft sticks and predicted which condition our tool would measure. Next we took our tools outside and observed what happened when we stood and held them above our heads. Then we tried walking, skipping and running with them. Back in our room we discussed our observations and concluded we had made the perfect tool for measuring how loudly we can scream and shout.

Next week we will take our inquiry a step further and design another weather tool. Scattered thunderstorms are forecasted so we will measure the intensity of lightning. Please send a wire coat hanger and pair of pliers with your child by Monday. Please include a pair of rubber-soled shoes for your child to keep in his locker, since we won’t know until we hear thunder that it is time to take our weather tools outside. Please sign and return the parental release form that you will find today in your child’s folder. And finally, a great big THANK YOU for helping your child explore the exciting world of weather!

“Which of your teachers was the biggest smart aleck?”

The Baboon Congress

Baboon Redux – Second Hand Rose

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Baboon Redux – a series of guest blog re-posts.  This was originally shared in October, 2010.

A Guest Blog by Anna

Halloween in Minnesota is a dicey affair costume-wise. As a kid you need to be sure
that whatever you decide to wear will be recognizable either under a parka or over a snowsuit. It should also be something that will work on the odd Indian Summer evening in the 60s. As a result, there are a lot of ghosts and witches as the size and voluminous qualities of either costume lend themselves well to layering.

I think it was an act of desperation bred in part by lack of time on my mother’s part, but one year I went as “Second Hand Rose.” Sewing something for me was not an option, nor was Mom a fan of cheap store-bought costumes (the masks were horrid), and we certainly didn’t have a lot of money to throw at the problem. So Mom whipped open the closets and decided that one of her large, colorful dresses lent itself nicely to “Second Hand Rose” as a concept piece (and would fit neatly over a parka if need be). Two things that she had not thought of: the average kid growing up in the 70s doesn’t know “Second Hand Rose” from Attila the Hun. Also, explaining a costume at every trick-or-treat door gets old (apparently a lot of adults in the 70s didn’t know “Second Hand Rose” either, so it was good I had been schooled in the singing of my theme song).

Shortly after that adventure I quit trick or treating, at least until college. I went out sophomore year with some pals. We set the whole thing up with a short skit involving a safari and searching for the elusive Suburbanis Shopperus (“take pictures, these are rare”). Once again, having to explain at every door what we were up to got old (but it still got us candy, a few photo ops, and one offer of beer).

As an adult, Halloween parties were hosted by theater and Renaissance Festival friends. Not the sort of affairs where you can dress as a pirate or a gypsy. At these events I was variously: Elvis (with a friend as Priscilla), an Lutheran Church Basement Lady in search of a hot dish, and a pregnant alien carrying James T. Kirk’s love child. One year I “took myself to prom” in a fabulous pink tulle dress, teased and bee hived my hair to a fare-the-well to match the dress, and perched a bird on top of the whole works (friends who had arrived as a haz-mat team were kind enough to drape me in caution tape). With each of these I found if you have to explain it, it should be short and sweet, but best to have something that explains itself (see above: lessons learned as “Second Hand Rose”).

Now at Halloween I’m on the other side of the door, handing out candy to the neighbor kids. Daughter usually goes out with Daddy (in an easily recognizable costume). Barney the Basset Hound hopes that it isn’t a year he is required to wear fairy wings. And we all hope for warm evenings with nary a chance of frost.

Describe a costume you could make out of what’s in your closet right now.

The Baboon Congress

Baboon Redux – Fear of Flying

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Dear Baboons, for the next few weeks I will be unable to administer Trail Baboon, so I’ve lined up a series of classic guest posts for review.  Starting with this one, which may have been the first guest post to appear on Trail Baboon back in October of 2010.

A Guest Blog by Jacque

In my young adult years I worked in a library twice, once in college “keypunching” the stacks during the first computerization of the collections, then later, at the front desk of the Public Library in Grand Rapids, MN. There in that presumably intellectual, quiet, sedate literary setting, I found a noisy, messy, colorful human parade.

It was not at all what I expected.

One day while I was at my front desk post, a quiet man who frequented the library shot through the entry door carrying a bag, making a beeline for me. He abruptly stopped, spun around to face me, then reported to me that he had just returned from a trip to Martinique where he owned an estate. He handed me the bag saying, “These figs are from my estate. They are for you. Next time I go there, you must accompany me.” He turned and fled out the front door. I was stunned. I looked at the bag of figs. The bag was from the local green grocer who was offering figs on a special. The library book he returned was a book about Martinique. Although he was at the library often, he never spoke to me again, silently presenting his books at the checkout station, then moving on.

Another patron routinely checked out grocery bags full of paperback romances—Harlequins, bodice rippers, tattered and torn books. She always returned them on time, then took another bagful with her out the door. However, the patron was so shy she could hardly look at me. When she did look at me she frequently had a bruise on her cheek or her arm, or a black eye. Not a romantic life at all I feared.

Most afternoons at the library between 2:30 and 3:30 p.m. local businessmen would come in and sit in the lounge area near the front desk where the newspapers were located. They would read and chat with each other. It was a party atmosphere.

One afternoon at that time when the area was full of these patrons, a ditsy blonde approached the front desk. “I’m going on a vacation to England,” she announced to me loudly and proudly. “But I am afraid of flying. I need the book Fear of Flying by Erica Jong!” hitting the J heavily.

“Excuse me?” I said, surprised. “Fear of flying?”

“Yes! I’m going to England on an airplane. But I get so nervous, so I want to read that book to get over it.”

I cleared my throat, uncomfortably viewing the room full of businessmen and lowering my voice. “Well, ma’am, actually, you might not want that book. That is an erotic book. It’s not really about air travel.”

“Oh, yes it is!” she insisted. “ I read about this in a magazine.”

“Um, no, Ma’am, it is an erotic book.”

“Erractic?” she said loudly. “Well, of course I’m erratic!. That’s why I’m scared on an airplane! Now, where can I find that book?”

The businessmen were looking at us. She had certainly garnered their attention. Several were chortling.

“Ma’am,” I said in a whisper. “Not erratic. EROTIC. It’s a SEXY book.”

“Well, I want that book.” She demanded.

I gave up, my face reddening, then directed her to that section of the stacks. She brought the book back and checked it out. I thought it might cure her anxiety – surely the subject matter of the book and the shock of the content would distract her from her fear of air travel. But I’m sure that this book was not what she thought it was. She had a significant misconception about the Fear of Flying. I just wish I could have watched her read the first few chapters.

How do you tell someone they’ve got it completely wrong?  

The Baboon Congress

My Journey to Black Belt & Beyond

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Today’s post comes from Joanne Jensen

In April of 2007, I was looking for a quality, individual sport for my 10-yr old son with Autism to help with strength, discipline, focus and socialization. So that month, my two younger boys attended karate together at the Dojo Karate in Monticello.

After watching a few of their classes, I decided I wanted to try it because it looked like fun and good exercise. I still remember my first couple classes when 20 jumping jacks would get me huffing and puffing. Even more so, I clearly remember getting my white belt at my third class. It was just me and Mr. Z, the owner/head instructor – a short, handsome, dynamic Hispanic man. He had me punching a couple small shields like a boxer pounds a punching bag; right-left, left-right, right-left, left-right. I found a rhythm and intensely focused on getting faster and hitting harder. Soon, I was in that sacred place athletes aspire to – the Zone. It was just me, my hands, my body and the punching shields. I was vaguely aware of Mr. Z, his eyes seeming to go wide as he watched me.

IMG_20151006_213111

After presenting me with my white belt, he asked me if I had ever done martial arts before. No, I answered – I was just a dancer in college and sports in high school. Now, I was just an overweight, gray-haired, middle-aged matron who just found an exciting past-time. I’ve called my karate obsession my mid-life crisis. Some folks may start affairs, buy sexy sport cars or have plastic surgery, but I jumped into a body-pounding, intense sport geared for young people.

Many evenings after class, I was so thrilled with learning weapon forms, full contact sparring and brutal defense techniques that I could barely sleep at night. I immediately started competing in tournaments and found I usually placed First in my division and age bracket (not much competition!). Although competing was nerve-wracking, I relished watching the black belts perform high level weapon forms, creative musical forms and lightning quick sparring matches at the tournaments I attended.

In October 2013, I achieved the rank of First Degree Black Belt. On Saturday, September 26, 2015 (at the age of 57), I received my Second Degree Black Belt. In three years, I hope to get my 3rd Degree Black Belt. It has not been easy on my body or my budget.

I’ve exercised myself to the point of exhaustion many times, have a couple injuries and some arthritis in my knees; but I keep going because I can’t disappoint my instructor or myself. I love the challenge, the variety, my classmates and my instructors.

Describe a challenge you found completely captivating.  

The Baboon Congress

Managing the Menagerie Part III: Madame Hildegard

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Today’s post comes from Cynthia in Mahtowa

May:

  • I adopted a 7 year old female English Mastiff named Madame Hildegard Hanson aka “Hilde.”
  • Madame Hildegard 1; red rooster 0. Bad dog!!!!]
  • Exciting week for Madame Hildegard…sighted a deer, chased a rabbit and treed a bear. Oh, and nosed a human baby. The bear trumps all…
  • (Naughty) Hildegard 1: (a second) Rooster 0. .
  • Madame Hildegard continues to believe she is in charge of making sure we have chicken meat for meals. A hen this time. Currently in the crockpot.
  • Madam Hildegard thought it would be great fun to chase the horses; Ising the Icelandic thought it was even more fun to chase Madame Hildegard. Game over, no one hurt…
  • (Not so smart) Hildegard 0: Ising the Icelandic horse: 2 This time she showed Hilde her heels.
HIlde fully integrated

July:

  • Madame Hildegard was in the horse barn tonight and did NOT bark at the chickens roosting 12 feet above her. Good dog, Hilde.
  • Madame Hildegard has traded her taste for chicken in favor of their eggs.

August:

Hildegard at the lake
  • Day 1: Followed me to the edge of the water and stopped in shock as her feet hit the water.
  • Day 2: Followed me as deep as her belly, but when she lost her footing she tried swimming with just her front feet.
  • Day 7: A week at the lake with friends, Hilde learned to swim, to jump off the dock into the water and fetch a stick.

October:

  • Hildegard fully integrated into farm family life.

What is your favorite pet tale?

History, The Baboon Congress

Hummel, Hummel-Mors, Mors

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Today’s post comes from Renee in North Dakota

Clyde’s recent posts about DNA and birch logs made me think about these little carvings I have that came from my mother’s family from Hamburg, Germany.  

The crabby water carrier and the farm animals and other figures were in my house all throughout my childhood.  Mom would never let me play with them. I think some of them were children’s toys. Mom said she thought that some of them were sent from Hamburg by family in thanks for the food packages my grandma sent them during the war.  She was pretty vague about it.  She couldn’t even tell me  how long she had them, or why she had them instead of my grandmother or other family members.  

She also couldn’t tell me much about the water carrier. She said he had something to do with Hummels. I always thought she meant the porcelain  child figures designed by the nun, Sr. Maria Hummel.  

Well,  That isn’t quite the whole story.

I now know that the water carrier figure was a real person who worked as a water carrier in Hamburg in the mid-19th century and who was noted for his nasty temper. He was given the nickname “Hans Hummel”.  The word Hummel sometimes is used to refer to a bumblebee. Hamburg children would follow him through the streets as he carried water, yelling “Hummel Hummel” and he would respond with “Mors Mors” which is low German slang for “Kiss my a**”.  

People from Hamburg often greeted each other this way long after Herr Hummel went to meet his maker. The water carrier is a popular symbol for Hamburg.  Now, why didn’t my mom tell me this? How did those cute child figures get mixed up with this?  I don’t even know if mom knew the whole story. If that is the case, why didn’t her mother or her grandparents tell her the story?

Since my parents have both died I find I have lots of questions that I will probably never get answered. I wish I could go back in time and ask my great grandparents and other ancestors just what is up with all this stuff.  Husband and I are tentatively planning a May trip  to Bremen and Hamburg, so maybe I will find some answers.

What question would you ask your ancestors?

The Baboon Congress

The Handy Apple

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Today’s post comes from Sherrilee

Two weeks ago I received a box from Centerpoint Energy with a couple of new shower heads. It took me a little bit to remember that they had been offered to me several months ago as an energy-saving strategy. Being free, I jumped at the offer but then promptly forgot about it until the box showed up.

I’m fairly handy and all self-taught. I’ve sanded a wood floor, replaced a sash window, changed out electrical outlets and even installed new faucets in the bathroom. I do know my limits – no serious plumbing, no building of anything, no anything that requires I get farther than 5-6 feet off the ground.

So when I got the new shower heads, I thought “I can do this”.  Then I thought about having to find the right wrench, the plumber’s tape and most importantly, the time!  I shoved the box to the back of the counter, figuring I might get to it over the weekend or the next.

ShowerHead1

Last night when I got home and was feeding all the beasts, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the crescent wrench sitting on the counter.  And one of the shower heads was gone from the box.  I wandered upstairs and saw that the new shower head was installed in the shower, complete with new plumbing tape. Since I was pretty sure that nobody broke into the house to change my shower head, the only solution was that Young Adult had done the installation.  Here is our conversation when she got home:

YA: Did you see that I put on the new shower head?

VS:  Yep.  Why did you do it?

YA:  Because you weren’t getting around to it.

VS: How did you know which wrench to use?

YA: I don’t know – I just chose a wrench.

VS: How did you know to use the plumbing tape?

YA:  I don’t know – I just used it.

VS:  How did you know where the tape was kept?

YA: (Now rolling her eyes).  It’s in the bathroom drawer; I see it every time I open it.

I guess maybe she has been paying attention all these years.  If you had asked me yesterday I would have said she didn’t even know where the wrenches were or that she even knew that plumbing tape existed. Guess the apple didn’t fall that far from the tree after all!

What skill/talent would you like to pass down?