Zoology

Yesterday I spent the day at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo. The best part (or at least what I thought was the best part) was the primate house. In it I got to gawk at a month-old monkey and its mom for about 15 minutes. I love newborn animal-babies. And I love their mothers as well.

In this particular case, the mother was nursing her babe when we arrived. It was clinging close to her chest and people, unable to see the baby from where they were standing, kept thinking the mother had two tails. Once the babe was finished nursing, it kept trying to run around and explore. But the mother kept hastily snatching it back to her breast. She seemed to be afraid of the other male monkey in the cage. She never let it escape from her view. Not once. And she kept that baby pressed close to her heart the whole time.

I remember when I was little and we used to go to the zoo. Looking back, I realize that my parents had a REALLY good system down. We always started in the same place--with the elephants--and had the same routine each time. Elephants and pachyderms. Then the petting zoo area where we would excitedly lavish our time. And then my younger sibs would stuff into the wagon my dad was pulling with us and he and my mom would drag us all up the hill to the primate-house. And it was a big hill. He usually was the one who pulled us and always covered up his huffing along the way. At the top, we'd spread out and eat a pre-packed lunch from the cooler in the wagon. Then we'd hit the monkey area.

I remember once I was there, I was pressing my face flat against the glass of the baboon area. They were running around crazily as usual. Suddenly, one ran up right to where I was standing, its hemorrhoidic red ass waggling, and began to pound on the glass and wail. This of course sent me erupting into tears.

I've never been a fan of baboons since.

Then we'd wind our way down the huge wooden ramp and head off past the pond to look at the giraffes. From there to the bears. On the way, we'd usually stop underneath the huge bridge where our parents would finally give in and buy us ice cream--here I usually got the rare and cherished chocolate covered frozen banana. Alas, the zoo does not carry these anymore.

In the bear area, we'd always be sure to point out the Kodiak bears (we had a husky named Kodiak for a while and were always gleeful that they shared the same name).

Then from there to the polar bears and the seals. The seals always signalled that we'd nearly reached the end of our zoo adventures, and we'd always stand around and look wistfully at the kids who were allowed to buy fish to throw at the seals.

Then we'd head to the exit, stopping to gawk at monkey island and the zebras along the way.

Being at the zoo makes me think of my parents.

And thinking of my parents just opens a tidal wave of thoughts:

How they'd always shout AROUND THE WORLD! AROUND THE WORLD! when we were eating ice cream as kids, which was a secret-code that our ice cream cones were dripping and that, in order to redeem ourselves and save the day, we had to lick around the dripping mess before it made its fatal fall and left its stickiness all over our palms.

How one of them bought me a safety book for kids that talked about not talking to strangers and all that. How my sister and I always laughed about all the pictures years later. But how I still remember and utilize one of the directions in the book: when walking by yourself, picture a small ball in the center of the area right below your chest. Focus on this area. This will make you walk taller and more certainly, as though you know where you are walking and aren't afraid. Always be sure to do this when walking by yourself.

How our piece of shit station wagon used to break down all the time on important journeys: once on the way to the post office picnic, once right on the exit as we headed to the Akron zoo. The former involved my parents carrying several toddlers while all of us ran across several lanes of the freeway, crawled over a divider, and then ran across several more, climbed down a grassy incline, and stumbled around some neighborhood until someone finally, by the grace of god, let us into their home to use their phone.

The time my best friend Annie and I decided we were going to imprint our hands into the newly-laid street but didn't realize that TAR does not work the same way as CEMENT. And we also didn't realize that TAR won't come OFF once you get it on your skin. My mom's infinite patience as she poured gasoline over our hands and kept scrubbing. How we told her that some bully from down the street pushed us both into the tar and she stomped down the street with my brother in a buggy to chew his mom out.

The time my dad spent hours helping me perfect my California Raisin easter egg that I was going to enter in a school contest (and which, by the way, ended up winning first place)--how I would tell him, "That looks so pretty so far" and he'd retort, "Yeah, pretty--pretty UGLY!!!" and we'd both roar with laughter.

They were good parents. Not infallible ones, and they had their fallible moments that you resent as a kid. But they were good.

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