No It All

A couple of years back, we had an unfortunate encounter with Rat Bacon. And it’s now the pinnacle of Fucillo Family Folklore… eliciting enthusiastic reenactments and giddy giggles as I fight to control my gag reflex.

Meanwhile, last Saturday evening, the sun begins to set. We’re enjoying our post-dinner interests when we’re alerted to panicked poultry cries of alarm. Spaz is hooping and hollering so loudly you can hear her through noise-canceling headphones. But her name is Spaz for a reason.

She’s going on and on, “Help! Intruder! Oh my God, we’re all gonna die! Intruder! Run for your lives!”

Nate and I creep out. No weapons. No protective gear. Is the fox watching them? Is the bobcat back? I don’t see anything except two hens losing their shit, and the other two cowering on the highest roost in their coop.

Then I smell something.

I peer into the little coop window and a black and white tail peers back at me. It’s. In. The. Coop.

The sun is setting and I’m remembering how I’ve found cracked eggshells in the nesting box. The straw has been pushed all around in a weird way. Based on my emergency training, I point to the nearest bystander and assertively assign him the task of getting my phone. We need light. And Google.

Unfortunately, the internet convinces me I must confront the intruder. Apparently skunks can maim and/or kill your chickens. Nate gets me a big leaf rake. I get the hose and put it on the most powerful setting. Then I stealthily fling open the side door. But it’s gone. I hear it thumping and pawing on the opposite side. I shine my phone light in but I can’t see anything. For a few minutes I wonder if it’s fallen through the weakened floor of the nesting box and is trapped in the food storage area. But no, it’s just easily evading me in this expansive eight square foot house.

I fling open the second door and hide around the corner. Then I’ve got three of four doors ajar and it’s go time. I send Nate up the steps to safety so he can coach me but not get sprayed. I open the last door and blast water like the confidently untrained sister-in-law of a professional fire fighter that I am.

It runs down the ramp and into the pen instead of jumping out the nesting box doors as I’d planned. It’s circling the enclosure but can’t seem to escape. Just as I contemplate my next move, it turns itself into a ribbon of rat bacon and slips between the wood foundation and the bottom rung of metal fencing, disappearing into the night.

The coop should be condemned and I have dodged the worst of it, but we all agree my hose hand smells like skunk. I read tomato juice is a myth. After I prove them right. That night we leave our clothes outside, turn on the AC and the air purifier, and I drift off in my unfortunately located skunk bunk.

We spent this past weekend in Santa Cruz so when we got home today, Nate and I were on Skunk Patrol. I wasn’t home to put the ramp up at night, and little Pepe has definitely been back.

We do some detective work. The foundation is swept clean of rocks and straw exactly where I saw it leave– probably by a little baby skunk belly. We set up our Cabela’s Outfitter Gen 3 Trail Camera Combo to see if we can capture some nocturnal footage. We sprinkle the perimeter with red pepper and build a rake barricade at the suspected point of entry. Nate asks if we’re going to try the “rags soaked in pneumonia” method, but I haven’t had time to pick any up.

Grandma and Granddad think I should trap this baby skunk and then… well, the next part of that plan is unclear. Geoff’s skunk killing tale is not what I’d call a success story.

Nate comes in after reestablishing our wildlife trail camera and says, “Mom, I set it up and hit the griddy a few times to make sure it’s working.”

The Skunk Patrol is looking forward to tomorrow’s footage.

Speaking of movie quotes… this is undeniably one of my top personal weaknesses. It has inspired true disappointment in the eyes of countless guy friends as they strategically insert the perfect movie quote into a conversation and I smile… but not with my eyes. They can’t believe me. How can I not know this? How can I not reenact this scene with them?

Must I remind you of the time my parents made me attend a Kenny G concert instead of the biggest party of the school year?

And yet, I know I’ve seen hundreds of movies. James was a movie maniac. A cinema connoisseur. A feature film fanatic. I’m pretty sure the very first movie we ever saw together was Inventing the Abbotts. He totally had a thing for Jennifer Connelly. Some of his faves were Blazing Saddles, Coming to America, Three Amigos, The Princess Bride, and A Christmas Story. His favorite Saturday evening was, hands down, dinner and a movie. In the theatre.

Over the years we saw so many movies. And I can’t quote any of them. I like to think I’m just completely present during the show– immersing myself in the story and just letting it wash over me. Plus I have enough to remember. Why would I devote valuable space to recording movie lines on the disk drive of my brain?

The last movie we saw in the theatre together was Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, in Kahului. We had an entire day to fill before our plane ride home from Maui. It was dark. And it was raining. Of course all the boys had already seen it. James cried during the post-credits scene, when we meet Black Panther’s son. Apologies but a spoiler alert was ruining the flow…

In late December, James waited to watch A Christmas Story Christmas with his sister, Erin. It wasn’t nearly as good as the first, but it felt exactly right.

A few weeks ago, Nate and I were talking and somehow I said the word “forever” as part of the conversation. And then was possessed to say “For-eh-ver. For-eh-ver.” Yeah it was weird. Me quoting a movie? What is happening…

I look to Nate and I’m like, “That’s from a movie, right? Daddy always said that. Where’s that from?” And he says, “It’s from the one with the big, scary dog. Where they play baseball.”

Totally. Sandlot. Dad’s so proud.

Back when I was an intern, yeah, waaaay back, I had a boss named Richard. One day he asked me for my perspective on something and I expressed uncertainty about what I thought. And he said, “Jaimie, you’re here to have an opinion. So you better have one.” Clearly I didn’t need to learn that lesson twice… I most certainly have never gotten that feedback again.

So when James and I discovered that one of the core contributors to our harmonious life was that Nate rarely had a strong opinion, we got to work. He naturally defers to his brother. Or his buddy Cruz. He has these tricky stalling tactics like answering most decisions with an “I don’t know.” He is masterful at the noncommittal grunt. Or asking me what I want. Or what I want him to choose. He’s genuinely unbothered by handing over his choices to more dominant voices. In many cases, I genuinely believe it makes absolutely no difference to him. But speaking up for oneself and being in touch with what you want is an important life skill and so we practice it regularly.

A couple of months ago, I took him to Target for Gatorade and asked him to choose. He couldn’t decide. He tried to get me to do it. So we broke it into smaller choices.
“Well if you narrowed it down to two colors, what would they be?” (Yes, Gatorade comes in colors, not flavors.)
“I guess red and blue.”
“Great. Red and blue. Way to narrow it down. Now which do you think would be better, red? Or blue?”
“I don’t know. You pick it.”
“Nope, this is your decision. Let’s think about this. You know you like red, right? And that blue is new so it could be good?”
“Yeah.”
“OK, so red is the good and safe choice. And blue is a risk and something you want to try, yeah? Which do you choose… the safe bet or take a risk?”

He chose blue. I like that he took the risk.

Over Spring Break, Nate asked me if I wanted to watch a movie together. He loves doing this. Just like his dad. He proposes we watch Coming to America. Also just like his dad. I’m certain he nominated this because it was one of James’ faves, and I’m also certain he was thinking about the topless bathing scene… he told me as much.

James always quoted this movie… one of his main go to’s was “Whatever youuuuu like.” He would drive me crazy when trying to come up with weekend plans with a string of sing-songy “Whatever youuuuu likes.” Luckily Nate hasn’t picked-up this trick.

A few weeks later, Cruz’s dad asks me if Nate wants to go to a week of soccer camp in Santa Barbara this summer. Nate already has two overnight camps on the calendar. Plus a week of soccer day camp. He’s on the couch and I ask him to pause his game.

“Nate, do you want to go with Cruz to a week of overnight soccer camp in Santa Barbara?”
“Yes.”

No pause. No hesitation. No analysis of pros and cons. Impressive improvement.

Nate, you’re here to have an opinion. So you better have one. And I don’t mean just one Kiddo.

I was recently reminiscing with Jake about all the warnings he used to create and post. He’d draw signs and tape them to his bedroom door. He’d surround his Lego projects with threatening notes to the cleaning crew– they usually had a skull and crossbones at the top. We credit Pokémon for Jacob learning to read… and threatening adults for why he learned to write.

I got to thinking this blog may need its own warning label. One of my friends read a post during hospice and thought I was changing careers to become a nurse. Making me realize that I must warn all my readers that I use a lot of sarcasm. Like a LOT. I like observational and self-deprecating humor. And clever repartee. And puns. If it gives you pause… I’m usually joking. Sometimes I’ll tell you. Sometimes I like the idea of making you squirm. So for my more literal readers… I’m most definitely not planning to become a nurse… and Genevieve is a beautiful bathtub.

After my last post I got the best text from our friend. It makes me smile to know he and his wife are reading this blog…

“By the way we love your new tub and we thought for a second you were dating a woman <crying laughing emoji crying laughing emoji>

Which would be fine except please not a French <crying laughing emoji>”

He’s Italian. <crying laughing emoji>

And I got ’em good.

Consider yourselves warned…

Thursday marked our twenty-first wedding anniversary, also known as May the 4th Be With You. And no, we most certainly did not have a Star Wars themed wedding, *gag*. I was hoping to spend the day doing James and Jaimie things, but the hours got away from me with electrician work and some guys who came all the way from Redondo Beach to fix the French doors we’ve had zip-tied all winter (Grandma’s good idea). I did make a dinner reservation at one of our favorite spots so the boys and I would have a date to look forward to.

In the morning, I stepped outside to check James’ little bonsais and gather my handful of beach rocks drying in the sun. I have a little morning ritual where I put one rock into a little bowl of water and tell James something I miss about him. It’s a special little marigold-colored bowl I bought at the Portland Japanese garden. My rocks are a diverse collection from the beach in Avila. Once I’ve used all my rocks, I pour the water into a little bonsai and start again. As my grief counselor says– we can adopt anything that helps make this easier to carry. So I’m all about appreciating little signs. They make me reflect, laugh, wonder. Things we can all use more of.

Which is why the boys and I light a candle every night when we sit down to dinner and place it at James’ spot at the table. We take turns as the boys are not confident users of the lighter (skill issue), and share a story or something we miss about Dad. The boys recently shared that when they were little they thought their Dad had special powers. He’d countdown at stoplights and predict exactly when it would turn green. Pure magic.

So on Thursday morning I place my rock in the bowl, make my way downstairs, and freeze in my tracks. There’s a little rainbow on the floor. We have a bit of a thing for rainbows. Have I ever seen this before? That’s so weird. I can’t find where it’s coming from, but there it is, in the center of the foyer so we’ll walk right through it on the way out the door.

I drop the boys at school and am driving up Highland. My eyes are blurring with tears. There’s something about this spot… just up the street from where we met… the exact spot where he told me he loved Hawaiian pizza. Through my tears, I have a bit of tunnel vision. And then all I can see is a guy on an electric scooter zipping up the hill past me– he’s wearing beige shorts and has The. Worst. Wedgie. I literally laugh out loud and say, “Oh that is not a good look.” It’s like James has sent me this menswear inspired laugh at this exact moment.

I stop for coffee and have a typically challenging and rewarding workout with Casey. The week before I’d given her two big boxes from the shop, hoping her husband Clay would find some things he likes. She shares their try-on experience and it is so nostalgic and heartfelt. We get some Kleenex and hoist the boxes back into my car.

That afternoon I sit down for a moment with my journal. As I’m taking some time to reflect, two little birds keep coming and going… landing on the tiny horizontal grilles of the French doors. Last summer, James brought home a baby fiddle leaf fig from the shop that wasn’t doing well. It was the Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree of fiddle leaf figs. Over the winter, I accidentally left it on the deck one night where a storm battered it so badly all the leaves fell off. I was pretty sure it was dead. But I watered it and placed it by the aforementioned zip-tied doors. Where it has remained as a leafless, lifeless stick for countless months.

Until I’m watching the little lovebirds and a tiny green leaf catches my eye. A new green shoot. I’m dismayed.

After Nate’s practice, the boys and I head downtown to the Bear and the Wren. We pick-up a tradition James and I started on our first anniversary… we each articulate a goal we have for the year ahead in our journal. Nate proclaims the Bee Stang the best pizza of his life: red sauce, mozzarella, spicy calabrese salami, basil, and calabrian hot honey. I’m envious he has found the pinnacle of pizza perfection at the age of twelve.

We head home and our sweetest Auntie Jill has door-dashed us a little anniversary treat. I open the bag and I’m just laughing and shaking my head. It’s filled with these brightly colored French macarons from downtown. A shop that James and I visited recently, but just once. The macarons are covered in glitter. And after he ate them his face was sparkly for days.

I love you so much Jame. We miss you every single day. No amount of time would ever have been enough. Thank you for the rainbows, the laughs, the new growth, the sparkles. And the magic.

When the boys were little, they loved to talk about spirit animals. I have no idea how it started, but it’s one of my favorite sources of interesting thoughts and questions. Plus I felt especially prepared when I was sipping wine at an afternoon winery work function and a colleague leaned over and asked, “What’s your spirit animal?” And without missing a beat I casually replied, “Hummingbird… you?” And he replied, “Red-tailed hawk.” He’s a ginger.

So I’ve been quite steadfast about my spirit animal for many years. Until I started noticing other animals circling me.

One time I had a particularly stressful day at pandemic zoom work. I headed out to walk the loop and clear my head and Jesse found me. Jesse is our neighbor’s elderly black lab. She somehow walks to our house most days because she loves trucks and construction and tradies. She can’t hear anything… except my heart. She walked the entire loop with me that day– my sweet therapy dog.

Then after the great bonsai bunny mystery, my friend Arlene was convinced bunnies were my spirit animal. She was seeing them everywhere. She may be right. But in my typical style, I pointed out it was almost Easter.

Then one afternoon, I’m on the phone with Alesia and I look out to see a bobcat perched on the edge of the hill in the front yard. She was about the size of a spaniel. I’d forgotten about it until two Sundays ago… I’m doing laundry and Nate’s playing X-box and Jacob’s at the movies with Hollis. I come out of the laundry room and freeze. The bobcat is napping on the concrete patio next to my fig tree. She’s beautiful and relaxed and lulled to sleep by the constant monologue of Nate sitting on the floor playing Fortnite.

Someone recommends looking up the meaning of bobcat spirit animals and I find the following:

Bobcat symbolism and meanings include self-reliance, perception, moxie, stealth, friskiness, beauty, and affection. The bobcat spirit animal embodies the famous quote penned by Shakespeare: “This above all: to thine own self be true.” The bobcat reminds you that learning to trust yourself and to stand on your own two feet is an important part of your spiritual growth.

I also learn that there are spirit animals and totems and spirit guides. I like to think of her as our spirit guide. This past weekend I spent several hours chasing turkeys away from the doors. They keep coming up, fanning their feathers, strutting around, and then fighting themselves in the glass. ‘

Yeah, I’m pretty confident I don’t need to manifest more turkey energy in my life…