The story of the plumber, a loose bird, and my two kids

When my kids were still preschoolers, we bought a funky little house in an even funkier area outside of San Diego, called Harbison Canyon. No matter what you've heard about Harbison Canyon, I assure you it's true. This was in the days before the big fire, or the other big fire, which devastated most of the area (from what I've heard). Anyway, we were attracted to the little house because there was a tiny wet-weather stream behind it, and it had a huge tree in the yard.

True to the famous Harbison Canyon funkiness, the area had a few issues. The back door swung open to the outside rather than into the house, so there was no screen door to protect us from the goats and chickens that sometimes wondered into the kitchen (I'm quite serious here). It wasn't unusual for me to have to shoo a few chickens out onto the steps or push a goat's head out of the doorway when I came in from another room. Still, though, we had the tree, and the almost-stream in the back yard.

But this story isn't about the stream, or the goats, or the chickens. This is about our two birds, Fred and Myrna. Well, it's mostly about Myrna. Pets were endangered species around my kids when they were little (remind me to tell you about Gus the Rat in another hub). The kids were good (well, sorta), but very curious. Each was born with way more than 10 fingers - I was never able to count exactly how many they had, though, they moved too fast. Oh yeah - they also never slept.

Fred and Myrna were a little pair of finches we bought, just so we could have a few pets. We figured they would be safe, since they lived in a cage suspended high off the floor and away from any furniture that invited climbing. They'd gotten along fine in our previous home, and we knew they'd love the flora and fauna (chickens and goats) out there in the canyon. So we packed up the kids and the birds and moved out to our new little house. All we needed was to hang the birdcage out of reach, and everything would be fine.

On about Day Two of our Canyon Odyssey, I stupidly decided I needed a shower. Selfish of me, I know, but I'm known for being inconsiderate and demanding. Unfortunately, the birdcage wasn't yet hung up out of reach (you can see where this is going). So, in my best Mom voice, I cautioned the kids not to open the cage. All I needed was about 10 minutes of safe time to jump in the shower and wash my hair. They couldn't do much damage in 10 minutes, right? Wrong.

As any mother knows, you rarely get bathroom time all to yourself. Someone, usually someone you gave birth to, will insist they have to go right now, or they'll burst in with a news item that can't wait. You learn how to be quick in the shower, even if you're washing your hair or shaving your legs. At any minute, you might need to grab a towel and dash out to stop bleeding or put out a fire. Emergency medical technicians and firemen are amateurs compared to moms - we can deploy, armed and ready, in only seconds.

Back to the shower. Just as I got my hair good and lathered, both kids burst through the door, screaming, "Myrna's loose! Myrna's loooose!" While it wasn't quite a five-alarm alert, it was indeed an emergency; I turned off the water and grabbed the towel and dashed out to find her.

Before I go further, let me describe our linens during that era. This was back before I could afford decent sheets and towels - it was years before I knew about thread counts on sheets, and most of our towels were small, scratchy freebies we got in boxes of detergent (remember those?). Point being, these were not those huge cover-it-all towels we have now. These were tiny little postage-stamps made from terry cloth.

Since we'd just moved in, I had only one towel unpacked, so I left the bathroom with my head covered in bubbles and my body covered in, well, not much. If I bent over and walked sort of hunched, it kept me from being R-rated. But I needed to find Myrna before the kids went even crazier.

Sure enough, the door to the blasted cage was open. Fred, no dummy, was sitting in their by himself. He knew he was safer there. But Myrna, being adventurous and irresponsible, and flown the coop. With the mess from moving all around us, I had no idea where to look. I tiptoed carefully amongst the boxes and junk, trying not to disturb her, and then noticed something awful. The back door to the kitchen was open. No screen door, remember? My heart sank. I shut the door, and told the kids, "I'm sorry, she's probably gone . . ." More screaming. I was certain Myrna was gone, but just to humor the kids, I kept looking.

A minute or two later, there was a knock at the back door. Several things happen simultaneously. I yelled, "Don't open the door!" and tried to grab the kids with my spare hand (the other one held the towel). The kids, being faster than me, ran into the kitchen and threw open the door; there stood a man, wearing a utility belt. The kids screamed, "Myrna's loooose!" as I stood in the background, stark naked except for my not-very-big towel, with shampoo dripping down my shoulders.

The man, certain he was looking at Loose Myrna that very minute, averted his eyes and said, "Um, I'm just here to pick up the old phone." Back then, installers came to your house to put in the phone and to remove it when you moved. We still had the phone from the previous owners, and ours hadn't been delivered yet. I told him I'd get the phone and I quickly shut the door.

The phone, along with everything else we owned, was lying on the floor of the den, amidst boxes, the #!!@%&! birdcage, and the other crap we hadn't unpacked. My thought was to get the stupid phone and make the kids hand it to the man, so I could avoid further embarrassment. But as I lifted the phone, Myrna flew out from behind it and darted off to another part of the house, with the kids chasing her, screaming, "There she is! Get her!"

It was just me, the towel and the phone. Oh yeah, and the man at the door. I stooped down in an effort to make the towel cover me more, returned to the kitchen, opened the door and snarled, "Myrna's a BIRD!" I shoved the phone into his hands and closed the door.

After considerable chasing, we finally capture Myrna and over the next few days, we got unpacked settled in. I consoled myself with the thought that I'd never, ever have to see that man again. Maybe he'd get a job in another city (heck, after my little floor show, he could work in Las Vegas or just about anywhere and not be surprised). Either way, I could put it behind me. But noooooo . . .

Remember the part about the old days, where they brought phone equipment to your house and installed it? You got it. Guess who came to the house a week later to install our phone?

I'd like to say he didn't recognize me, since my hair was dry and I was wearing clothes. No such luck. To his credit, he didn't say a word (didn't have to - the impasive look on his face said it all).

As he wired the phone lines and installed the equipment, I made a few half-hearted attempts to explain about the kids, the birdcage, the shower, etc., but I could tell he didn't believe a word and just wanted to get out of there. Fast.

After all, he'd met Myrna the Loose, the Madwoman of Harbison Canyon . . .