TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 163

[Tobie Shapiro]

February 26, 200000007


Dear Ones too,

	On Sunday, Feyna and I went forth to try 
to find shoes for her new job.  She may be on her 
feet a lot.  She fancied boots, and looking at 
the heels on most of them, I told her again that 
I wouldn't buy anything for her that she couldn't 
run in.  She may need to run.  After she 
exhausted the suitable boots for anything 
sensible that would fit, the saleslady, who did a 
perfunctory but friendly enough job, suggested 
that maybe Feyna look at something other than 
boots.  I'd explained that boots wouldn't be 
comfortable when the heat of summer came around. 
But summer coming around was too far away for 
Feyna to imagine.  She envisioned that by summer 
time the world would be a different place and she 
might be buying her own shoes.  I hate to tell 
her how very rich she might be getting on a part 
time job.  Anyway, she tried on a sensible pair 
of black leather pumps with very little heel. 
They looked perfect on her.  We bought them, 
saving me a hundred dollars from the boots. 
Shoes are expensive.  I just can't shake the idea 
of a pair of Keds for five bazutts (bah ZUTS). 
Last night, Feyna hemmed her pants and gave us a 
fashion show.  She looked like a young woman in 
her twenties ready for important business.  You 
would all have been proud of her.  I was.




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Smithsonian Zoo

	Was it every other Sunday that my parents 
took Dana and me to the Smithsonian Institution? 
That is as I remember it, but of course I'm 
wrong.  Maybe it was once a month.  Maybe it was 
on an ad hoc basis, now and again.  But to me it 
seemed regular, some kind of law that was obeyed.

	"Are we going to the Smithsonian this Sunday?"

	"No.  We went last week.  We're going next week."

	I am sure my own children think that the 
order I have supplied in their world has been 
much more intentional and premeditated than it's 
been.

	The Smithsonian Institution had a zoo and 
this was one of my favourite destinations.  On 
the way there, in the car, we had to ford a 
stream.  This was a great delight.  I'd sit 
there, bursting with glee, leaning out the window 
all the way to my waist, watching the wheels roll 
through the running water.  The cars would all 
slow down before fording and then move through 
what seemed like a river to me.  I don't remember 
a parking lot, or making our way in to the zoo, 
but one of the first things we'd do on our way in 
on foot, was walk through a darkened hallway that 
had tanks on either side.  These were filled with 
green water and the glow that emanated from them 
reflected the movement, the current of the water 
and the sun's influence from above.  This green 
light show all played out on the walls.

	To my left were fish - schools of fish 
which turned and swarmed all at once, a mob of 
silvery creatures who had a secret dance they did 
together.  First they swam this way, then 
suddenly turned to go the other way, then aimed 
up, then down, then in circles clockwise, now 
counter clockwise.  How could anyone ever catch a 
fish?

	To my right was a large tank that housed, 
"Old Man Turtle".  Old Man Turtle was supposed to 
be over two hundred.  He was a hard shelled, full 
grown adult when the raggle taggle upstart 
colonists took pot shots at the British Soldiers 
in their spiffy red uniforms.  Old Man Turtle was 
alive before Mozart was born; he outlived 
Lincoln, Marie Curie, Mahatma Gandhi, Maurice 
Ravel and Einstein.  He would swim around in his 
tank with streamers of moss flowing from his 
shell.  There were whole colonies of sea weed 
attached to him.  His eyes were deep set and 
round as marbles, glistening in the water.  His 
legs were wrinkled and fissured like an 
elephant's.  In fact, that's what I thought Old 
Man Turtle was related to: his cousins, the 
elephants.  I can see Old Man Turtle in my mind 
if I close my eyes, paddling through the green 
water with his green moss undulating behind him. 
He was always swimming.  I don't recall him ever 
lying dormant on the floor of the tank.  I 
imagined that I was his special friend: the 
little girl in the plaid jacket that visited 
every other Sunday.  I asked to be lifted up so I 
could look him in the eye and see the expression 
on his face.

	I would have no trouble at all amusing 
myself on earth for two hundred years, but what 
does a turtle do for that length of time?  I 
wondered if he thought about his life before 
being captured, enslaved, banded and tanked. 
What did he think about in the empty tank with 
the cement walls?  What was there to do?  All his 
food dropped down from heaven into the tank. 
There was no hunting, no struggle.  No other 
water dwellers to discuss matters with.  Most of 
his life, after all, was spent in the wilds, 
doing the death defying things that turtles do as 
they accompany the crocodiles on their journey 
downstream to where human lunch is served.  Were 
there scores of Old Man Turtle's sons and 
daughters swimming around?  From what body of 
water did they catch him?  After they removed Old 
Man turtle from his briny depths, who missed him?

	If I could get the grown up in charge to 
carry me close to the turtle tank, I'd lean in 
and press my face up on the glass, stare at the 
old man in his shell with the mossy streamers, 
and my own close up reflection.  All the thoughts 
I thought about Old Man Turtle were thought in a 
few moments as we moved from the darkened hallway 
into the bright out of doors.  Then the people 
out on their Sunday jaunt were milling about at 
the center of the zoo.  Or at least that's how I 
thought of it.  Right in the center was a huge 
circular enclosure with a thick wooden railing 
along the perimeter.  Every few feet, there were 
placards explaining the exhibit within the 
circle.  I couldn't read yet, and had to ask what 
the signs said.  My mother would read it to me. 
These were the mid sized rodents: prairie dogs, 
chipmunks, squirrels, woodchucks.  I don't know 
exactly which.  I was just at the height that if 
I stood up, my view was blocked by the wooden 
banister, so either I had to be lifted up to see, 
or I had to crouch down and look under the 
railing.  There was a fence to keep the 
chipmunks, squirrels, woodchucks and prairie dogs 
in and the human riff raff out.  People were so 
presumptuous that they'd close in on the exhibit, 
try to feed the animals, or even take one home. 
I never knew what to expect from other people. 
Their ways were wild and lawless.  They 
subscribed to no code of ethics that was 
recognizable to me.  I wandered about in a world 
of whooping, thigh slapping, arrogants, who acted 
as if they owned everything between heaven and 
the core of the earth.  Anything was a souvenir. 
Everything was fair game.

	Yet, I stumbled through, feeling guarded 
in my mother's shadow as I stared at the animals 
inside the circle.  They darted about, nervously, 
gnawing on their acorns and nuts.  Someone told 
me they buried their food so it would last them 
all winter.  What happened to these little heart 
palpitating beasts when winter came and the whole 
zoo was covered in a foot or two of snow?  Did 
the zoo make up underground rooms for them, lined 
with rows of tiny warm beds?  And did they sleep 
there for months until the grass could be seen 
pushing up through the receding snowdrifts?  Did 
they get up in the middle of winter to grab a nut 
from their private stash?  How did they know 
where to bury it?  Did other animals break into 
their hoard of food and steal a meal?

	In the Spring, the chipmunks were 
colourful, and sang in the newborn air.  I 
listened for all the songs of the animals, and I 
remembered the songs, because I had a good memory 
for music.



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Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net