Photo credit: Steve.M http://flic.kr/p/7tJJif

Family stories are things to be stockpiled and brandished like weapons. They’re essential self-defense in those incendiary moments when children are scream-cry-fighting, it’s the end of the day, and you’re at the crackly, threadbare selvage of your wit’s end. A good tale offers distraction, plain and simple, a sparkling silver rattle for the elementary-school set.

“Hey!” you yell over the clamor.

They think you’re about to fuss and threaten. Instead, you bait and switch.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that…” This is the easy part, the attention-getter. Next, you need a hook with meat on it. A story of when you got in big trouble (stole King Dongs from a classmate’s lunchbox). Or some dirt on a favorite uncle (swim trunks came off at the pool).  Whatever it is, to maintain the cease-fire, the hook better be good.  Really good. Kids will kill a query faster than an agent at William Morris Endeavor.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that…that…Squamba invaded our neighborhood?” I said last Wednesday.

There, I did it. I threw down an ace in the first week of summer break.

“Squamba?”

“Yes, Squamba. She appeared one winter day at dusk. The light in the sky was salmon-orange. We saw her long shadow and then, there she was.”

“What was she?”

“No one knew at first. It was a snow day, and all the kids in the neighborhood had been outside since morning, roaming around. There weren’t any parents out. They were all at work or inside making dinner.”

“What was Squamba?”

(Stretching it out.) “Sam Thompson discovered her. He was throwing snowballs at the corner of Fleming and Woodfill. He turned to ping Jimmy O’Connell and that’s when he saw her.”

“Was she a person?”

“Yes and no. Part person, part ice creature.”

“Huh?”

“You know how mermaids are half-women, half-fish? And you’ve seen paintings of half-men, half-horses called Centaurs, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, Squamba was half-mom, half-snowman.”

“Whoa. How?”

“Well, this kid down the street, Donny Keene, made a snow sculpture of his mother in his front yard. It looked just like her.”

(Deflated.) “Oh.”

“But that’s not all. Donny sculpted her life-size. She was naked. Sitting on an ice-toilet. It was so realistic, the whole neighborhood came to see it.”

(Interest recovered). “Her butt and everything?”

“Yes, everything. Donny called the sculpture ‘Squamba.’ Turns out, that’s what he called his mom all the time, we just didn’t know until then.”

“Why did he make it?”

“Not sure. He was thirteen and I think he was mad at her. He wanted to go sledding with his friends that day. But his mom said he had to stay home and babysit his brother while she was at work.”

At this point in the story, my brain bifurcated. One lobe regaled the children with the classic version of Squamba, as told by my siblings and me for decades. How word of her spread like wildfire through our neighborhood as kids ran home and reported to their parents that a naked Ms. Keene was sitting on the pot in her front yard. Moms and Dads donned snowboots and lined up with their kids to have pictures taken with Squamba, like a boardwalk attraction. There were the classic thumbs-up shots, bunny ears, sit-in-the-laps, and mock-flushes (Donny spared no anatomical or mechanical detail).

As always, the story got a rip-roaring reception. My kids were content, and no longer quarreling.

But the other lobe of my brain realized something. While Ms. Keene’s adolescent son was sculpting her grunting face out of freshly fallen snow, she was sitting at a desk somewhere. There may have been a Tab next to her stapler, or a Fresca. She was typing, or filing, or attending a meeting, wondering, in the back of her mind, if there was enough bologna in the deli drawer of her home fridge for her kids to forage lunch. Were they watching TV all day, or playing outside, like she told them?  This version of the story was rated M—for Mature Audiences Only, released in a limited edition for those who are pilloried for being pulled in multiple, opposing directions. I could see Ms. Keene on the movie screen of my mind, rounding the bend of our street after battling icy, rush-hour traffic. Then pulling into her driveway, her high beams sweeping across her frozen, pendulous breasts.

“That was awesome!” my kids yelped. They eyed the sandwiches I’d assembled during the story.

“Thanks,” i said, handing them their plates.

“No, we mean Squamba. We could make one of you.”

The two former combatants sat down at the table. They discussed how they’d customize the sculpture to reflect my physique and our toilet model (big hair, dual flush button).  Was this the peace I’d unleashed?

I trolled the pantry for caffeine and decided never to tell them about Grandpa Will and the knife throwing contest—no matter how big the fight. What’s the expression, “Freedom isn’t free?” Neither is harmony. Nor bologna.

“Charlotte’s the buckle of the Bible Belt, wheeeeee!” My Southern uncle explained his city’s accessory-geography to my Northern step-father on Tuesday at our mini-family reunion in North Carolina. They were talking regional architecture, these two college professors, a subject they both know a lot about. Meanwhile, I, the architect, was busy trolling through crystal bowls of candy. My timeless aunt offers sweets every time you sit down, stand up, or blink. “Want some pecan sandies?” and “You must try these white chocolate truffles!” and “Won’t you enjoy these chipotle chocolate almonds?” She’s as consummate a host as she is an aunt. I aspire to her example with my nieces and nephews, but in my mind, I’ll never measure up.

In remote parts of the world where there are few westerners, your very presence is enough to make you a celebrity. The same is true in remote parts of your family. At mid-life, your bones may be weary,  but they are spongy and new to those who knew you as a child. The adoring eyes of your mother and father’s brothers and sisters are at once a balm and a beckoning door.

“You are a treasure, child, a treasure,” my uncle said to me repeatedly, in his thick drawl. He wanted to know my theories about parenting, my favorite style of architecture, and how I like living in a college town.  He asked about my siblings, who were busy at their jobs 700 miles away. “Tell me about your children’s new school,” my aunt said, settling into the soft spot of the sofa so she could absorb every detail. I’d explain a decision, and she’d affirm it. Especially the hard ones that sometimes still wake me at night. “You did what you had to do, and you did the right thing,” she said. She turned to my dear, fearless mother, now in her seventies, and patted her leg. “And so did you. You raised four children. Four wonderful children.” My mother and aunt were friends in college who married brothers–my uncle and my father. My aunt is still married to one brother. My mother is not. Purple Kisses gleamed in a silver dish under the lamplight.

I was in the sixth grade the last time I was in Charlotte. I know because in the family picture, we’re gathered together on the same front stoop, my hair cut short like a boy’s. Middle school is no time to muddy gender. My uncle and aunt smile out from the photograph—my aunt then, now, and always, a beauty. As a young college graduate, her resemblance to Jacqueline Kennedy was so striking that she landed on the cover of Ladies Home Journal.  “Have some new issues to read,” she smiled, handing me a stack of magazines Tuesday night as I headed to bed. “June 2013” each spine declared. They were still in their plastic wrappers, pristine.

On the drive back home, I thought about my children, who couldn’t come to North Carolina because of end-of-the-year tests. Their lunchboxes were filled with food their Dad had packed: grilled cheeses, cups of applesauce, some sugar snap peas. “My neighbor would see me out her window and bring me a half-sandwich,” my aunt said on Tuesday night, recalling her early childhood. I’d be under the tree in the back yard eating pecans off the ground.” Her family was dirt-poor at times. Hungry.

The signs on Interstate 77 Northbound towards Virginia looked especially green under Wednesday’s storm clouds. Back when I first learned to drive, I’d look up at the oversized placards spanning 1-64 in Louisville.  I thought the giant route numbers confirmed the road I was on. But they were actually announcing highways about to merge or diverge from mine. The signs confirming the road I was on were smaller, and off to the side, tamped into the ground where pavement meets grass. But they were constant, exit after exit, for thousands of miles.

“Who gave you that?”my daughter asked, hugging me as soon as I opened the car door and stepped into our driveway. She ran her fingers up the rope chain of my necklace. “Aunt Mary Lynn,” I said. My son piled on. He held the pendant, feeling its ridged top and smooth back. “Mom,” he said, “it’s just like a chocolate.”

Even for Superman, bending steel can be hard sometimes. So how are we mortals to be strong in the face of insurmountable odds?

I mean, what were the odds that I would catch the early-morning dog walker whose little darlin’ was dumping in our yard every day? After all that work I did last Fall to increase our curb appeal for the bank appraiser: the new lamp post, the ilex compactus hedgerow, the crushed limestone tableau where our giant weedpatch once thrived… In her report, the appraiser noted our property’s “extensive landscaping,” and “parking court.” If she stopped by in April, she might have edited to “Litter Box” and “Crap Magnet.”

The turds first appeared two weeks ago in the gravel where we park.  We’d find them by the back bumper one morning, then under the driver’s door the next. They were like Kryptonite, these piles. No matter how cheery my day began, or how eager I was to check on the garden, I’d catch sight of the poo by our cars and grow weak with defeat. A flurry of question ensued: Who is this mo^&erf&#@$%?

Dear Dog Walker,

Don’t you see my frigging peace pole? You’re not supposed to crap in a yard with a peace pole. It has four languages. What? This is Central Virginia? I thought of that already. Refer to deer rack on my shed. C’mon!

Signed,

Curb Your Dog

In the twilight, my kids would stand on the back porch in their PJs and call to me, “Are you gonna put us to bed?” I’d come through the gate and smile at them reassuringly. “Of course. Just watering the last flower box.” Once they stepped inside, I was back to weighing stake-out options. Which was better, behind the rain barrel (convenient), or the back of the station wagon (dramatic)?

“We just need to put up a sign,” my husband Joe said one night.

“And get it laminated,” I added. He looked at me, annoyed, in that you-know-we’ll-never-make-it-to-Kinko’s kind of way.

“I’ll just print extras in case it rains,” he offered.

“But then we’ll have to replace the signs. That’s as bad as scooping poop.”

We met in the middle, opting for clear packaging tape and a chopstick.

Throughout the next day as I scrambled eggs and clicked my mouse, I told myself not to cling to false hope. Anyone who saw our parking court as his dog’s canvas would not be deterred by a sign.

Then the steel started to bend. I thought about my anger. About how it was disproportionate and irrational, like road rage. Why did I lack the will to fight it, or to think of another approach? Because it’s tedious, painful work to change an attitude.

I pushed myself.

What if the dog owner is elderly?

With that, the poop emerged from a spiritual phone booth in a much more interesting outfit.

What if the owner can’t bend over to pick up the waste? What if his wife died recently, and some loving but misguided relatives gave him a dog to ‘cheer him up’? Now he has the dog, and doesn’t particularly want it, but he hasn’t figured out what to do. In the meantime, the creature has to be walked…

If the piles belonged to that dog, to that owner, well, I could work with that. He could steer the dog’s rear to the curb, and I could package the product and toss it in the trash.

The next day I was late getting everyone out the door for school. Joe was out of town, and I had a presentation to give at nine. From space, the kids and I looked like a slow-moving cyclone of elbows, backpacks, shorts, and black socks. As I turned, I waved to a woman walking down the street. We used to see each other regularly at a local museum. Her grandchildren often collaborated with my kids to dismantle exhibits. As she passed our parking area, I saw that her arm was outstretched. She was being pulled by a dog the size of a Pain Campagne. She continued down the sidewalk, and I remembered that she’s a refugee who doesn’t speak English. During all our encounters when the children were little, we’d used gestures to communicate. A pointed finger meant “your kid ran that way.” A smile said, “hello,” “thank you,” and “see you next time.” Two raised eyebrows meant “sorry the diaper stinks.”

After the kids were loaded into the car, I checked the gravel. Nothing.

Since that morning, the dark piles in our parking court have proved to be just Fall leaves unmoored by Spring winds. Was it wrong for my museum buddy to let her dog loose on our yard? Yes. Was it the huge deal I made it out to be? No. Curbing dogs is the law here, but it may not be a priority on Krypton, or in the remote mountain country she fled. Though it’s been years since the woman and I talked, I thought I recognized an “I’m sorry,” in the bend of her wrist. With any luck, she read “forgiven” in the sway of my fingertips.