Debbie - Part VIII

aka, Part the last

• A few months after the move to Falls Church, Debbie and I split, this time permanently. My father began referring to her as "my former future daughter-in-law," or "former future" for short. But she and I remained friends, as did she and my dad. They wrote each other and once in a blue moon visited with each other. She and I wrote, telephoned, and later emailed, and she even returned to Falls Church for a couple of visits.
  
  
• On her first visit I told her that she was to do absolutely nothing regarding the state of the apartment - no moving things, no cleaning, no nothing. After a couple of days, as she prepared to leave, she said, "You know, there's something to be said for not emptying an ashtray every time it has one cigarette in it."
  
  The evening that she arrived I took her to a restaurant that was new to her, and on the way I had her smoke a little grass, something she hadn't done for several months. It really got to her.
  
  We arrived at the restaurant and found that it was mobbed. I gave my name to the hostess and Debbie and I went into the bar, miraculously finding an empty booth. She grabbed it and I went to the bar to get drinks. Returning, I sat opposite her and we contentedly sipped away.
  
  I began chattering about something and she finally said "Don't talk to me." OK, she's stoned. I can live with that.
  
  But I couldn't. The problem was that I was now stoned too and I kept forgetting that I wasn't supposed to talk. Finally, she leaned across the table toward me and said "Look into my eyes."
  
  I leaned forward and looked into her eyes and she said "There's nobody *in* there."
  
  
• Her final visit came about because I insisted that she go with me to see John Fogerty perform in Manassas, Virginia. For the first time in many years he was going to do the old stuff, the Creedence Clearwater Revival stuff.
  
  Fogerty put on a wonderful show for a very appreciative audience, an audience ranging in age from perhaps eight years old to octogenarians. But as good as Fogerty was, the drummer, Kenny Aronoff, nearly stole the show and at the end had to take several bows to standing ovations. If you ever get a chance to see him, grab it.
  
  
• Eventually I moved back to Illinois. Debbie and I stayed in touch, both by email and telephone. From one of our very last phone conversations, circa 2001:
  
  Donnie: "When I look at you I see you as you were in 1969."
  
  Debbie, after a brief pause: "I'll be right out."
  
  
• Debbie remarried and for a while our emails continued, but at some point she and her husband moved to Maine, she changed her ISP, and my emails apparently started falling into a black hole somewhere. Wherever she is, I wish her well.

Sam Conure, R.I.P.

Sam was a conure, about ten years old, owned by my friend Bobby.

When Bobby draws from a bong, he draws deeply, which usually results in a minute long fit of squeaks and sputters as he tries, sometimes unsuccessfully, to avoid coughing.

From long experience, Sam knew what was coming the minute he saw Bobby reach for the bong, and he would begin imitating Bobby's squeaks, sputters, and coughs. This was usually rewarded by the single finger salute from Bobby, along with a two syllable curse, the second syllable sounding like "q."

A few years ago, Bobby got home from work to find Sam sitting in the bottom of his cage, which was a little unusual as the cage door had been left open for him and his wings weren't clipped.

Getting Sam to hop up on his finger, Bobby set him on his perch in the cage. Sam teetered a little and then - flop! - back to the bottom of the cage. Bobby took him out and examined him, then set him back on the bottom of the cage. Before long Sam had leaned forward and was supporting himself with his two feet and his beak.

Somewhat alarmed, Bobby took him to a veterinarian. The vet examined Sam but could find nothing wrong. He told Bobby he'd never seen anything like it, to take Sam home, and if he wasn't better to bring him back in the morning.

Bobby took him home, set him in the cage (three point stance again), and kept an eye on him for the rest of the evening. On waking in the morning, Bobby found that Sam was back to normal.

Several nights later, Bobby grabbed a little grass for the bong, sat down, and began to smoke it. The usual series of imitative sounds from Sam ensued, followed by the usual salute and epithet. And then, and then . . . Bobby watched as Sam flew down to the baggie on the table and began eating the marijuana buds!

Obviously, the bird had gotten himself stoned, causing the crisis of several days before. Equally obviously, he liked it and was doing it again. Bobby acquired the habit of putting the baggie in a drawer where the bird couldn't get to it.

But there's a sequel. Bobby sometimes gave Sam a small twig from the bag, and Sam diligently chewed it up, getting a little stoned in the process. And when I visited and Bobby and I got pizza, a stoned Sam would eat it with us - and no, not just the crust, but the cheese and sausage as well. Soon after that Bobby would put Sam in his cage and Sam would be out for the night.