Balloons Are Amazing

Especially the ones that have helium in them. Balloons for some reason seem to be a sign of happiness. I remember as a child when our family would go to the annual Fireman’s Picnic near Labor Day weekend. It was an annual event put on by the volunteer fire department my dad belonged to.

I can’t remember what I loved the most about it. Yet, I could say the helium balloons were in the top three items at that celebration of sorts for me. The hamburgers were a gift from God. Not the kind of food I saw regularly, because it was once a year. I can’t recall any other time I’d eaten a hamburger at home. We could afford chicken. We’d eaten squirrel, which had actually been shot by one of my dad’s friends when firing of what I believe was a BeeBee gun. And venison was had when one of my dad’s friends hit a deer with his late 1960’s early 1970’s suburban vehicle in Maine, totaling it of course.

Too, for a few summers we’d received massive amounts of blue fish for free. It’s still my favorite food. I’d eat blue fish even now over a good chocolate chip cookie. However, perhaps not over a super, deliciously good crumb cake. It depends on how strong the coffee with it is.

The other thing I looked forward to was the Birch beer, which flowed freely from the kegs it resided in. The firemen would pump it out for us kids as the parents drank beer from the regular beer kegs. I think at times the fireman who was pumping the keg for us was none too sober, as the sweetness ebbed past the top of the cup splashing onto the grass or the shoes or both down below. Our mother never was too on us about overdoing the drinking of that sweet root of sarsaparilla either. Once a year, our mother would make us homemade root beer.

So, this one day a year we’d eat hamburgers, hot dogs, drank birch beer, ate watermelon, ate cups of chocolate and vanilla ice cream with our disposable wooden spoons and then there were those amazing helium balloons. It was like a whole world. A world a child needed. Balloons back then covered up harsh realities for moments or days. Yet seemingly never a week, and certainly not weeks or a month for that matter. Sometimes we’d kvetch when the balloon would prematurely run away or pop for seemingly no reason. We were often silenced with the presentation of another helium balloon, we’d treasured more than the first one.

This morning, I remained tired from injury, emotion getting through another Thanksgiving without my husband, new job training, and a variety of hours of solid work—although enjoyable. It’s always good to be employable. And it’s always good to learn something new too. The days over the week before Thanksgiving I’ve found are the hardest for me. Those days cover the knowledge of my husband about to lose to a battle we couldn’t foresee. As

well, they coincide with the birth of the first pet I was ever blessed with at age ten. Too, the death of JFK. Talk about mixed emotions, plenty. One covers the other. It’s the layers of life lived and reckoned with.

There are things I don’t talk about. Surprisingly, some I’ll mention others I can’t always express to help another person understand. One of them is that, everyone else’s birthday means something to me, if I happen to know it. Yet my birthday I declare as the Chinese do at the beginning of every year. And technically, near the end of January would have been when my mother conceived me. So, I accept that as my birthday. It may seem silly, but it works for me. And this way, I don’t have to think that any day in the year is all that special. I truly love general holidays, some not of my religion and some just an American celebration. It’s an excuse to cook fancy for others, that would be my excuse.

It is difficult to tell people my birthday, I told four people this year. One was because a little girl turned eight on my actual birth date this year. Her father had told me, not knowing what my birth date was. It was as I marveled at her bike-riding skills after I’d just a run ten miles, and now was walking to my cooldown for the last 400 meters of my training. I’ve only known a few people who have my exact birth date. This sweet little girl is the sign of the monkey in Chinese astrology. My husband was also the sign of the monkey. Before that day, I had an acquaintance who’s going through a rough time. He works federally. I did him a favor.

One day I had seen him with his son on his birthday just out and about. As we talked about parenting, I told him, “Yeah. My life…” I shook my head and giggled, “I was born on the day we should’ve been royally screwed.” He smiled. I added, “You’d know what the date meant?” Then I told him what had happened as my mother was going into labor during an international event that was thwarted. “Ohhh.” He’d remarked. “Yep. So, there’s that.” I stated. We nodded to one another.

This summer about near the end of July I was looking for some volunteer work. And no sooner had that thought occurred, I’d discovered my next volunteer escapade. Something I’d never done before and most of it was remote and a little cash from me. No big deal. I could still fix things around the house, redo our deck alone, take some college courses, write and edit books and articles. It was perfect for my schedule.

There were two big dates, one where I had to work with 150 people indoors. Not something I’d done in bukoo years, as I’m not into crowds and my practice was primarily one on one. And teaching self-defense had been at most to a small group of young women. The second date was ten days later. It was the project’s primary key date to completing the

volunteering project, and it landed on my birthday. I found it so serendipitous that I’d told only one person, my walking friend Star. She too found it curious.

I then revealed to her that I didn’t celebrate my birthday. And hadn’t since age ten. Yet, my husband always wanted to celebrate me on my birthday and so forth. He knew how I felt about it; however, he’d wanted me to feel as good as he’d felt about his birthday, which I had enjoyed celebrating with him and for him. To the extent, I’d made a couple of birthday parties for him. The biggest was nearly 100 people, I’d tricked him telling him friends were coming over to celebrate my 100,000th mile of running. I cooked for 26 hours and had very little to pick up from any store. It was grand, he’d never gotten curious as I’d hid things for the party that surely represented him for celebration and made it three weeks past his birthday.

I’d sent him out for beer with a friend and by the time they got back with the special beer that would take about an hour to get it and come back, the house would be decorated for his birthday. He was soon driving up our block and seeing from about 300 meters away a big sign hanging from our children’s bedroom on a white sheet wishing him a happy 50th birthday. The friend driving with him, poked him and said, “Happy Birthday Old Man!” And laughed. Hubby still stunned had begun to pull into our driveway, and 45 of the birthday guests poured out from the yard and our home, soon more arrived. Hubby told me two weeks later that I indeed surprised him and that he truly enjoyed the celebration.

Now, over eighteen years later my doorbell rang. I answered and there was my friend, Star holding one of my most favorite things of all, a crumb cake and a helium filled Happy Birthday balloon. I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn’t experienced any celebration of my actual birthday in five years from anyone. And from anyone else in person than my husband in over two decades. Too, our children both sent a few cute and welcomed presents via delivery service. It was like hubby sent them. That same day Star showed up on my birthday, two hours later a couple showed up with awesome foodstuff too, on that evening. Just wow! That was all I could conger up.

So, onto the amazing balloon. The balloon Star presented me for on my birthday this year stayed high up to our living room ceiling. Over the past ten days it gravitated to just over our Guinea Pig’s cage. And it began to lower as if to half-mast suddenly yesterday. It was then a foot away from the living room ceiling, I noticed that change in the balloon that it was nearing a six-week helium held presence. As I noticed, our beloved Cocoa Bean suddenly seemed weak yesterday morning. I held him in his fuzzy cuppie with hay. I stroked him, I spoke to him. He was alert and showed signs of still more life to come. Yet, something told me his end would come soon. Before putting Cocoa Bean back into his cage, I showed him a picture of my husband and said, “You know he’s waiting for you.” I said a prayer that he’d

make it to his 8th birthday, which was December 4, 2024, it was now the morning of December 3rd, 2024.

Cocoa Bean had his first ever emergency visit to the Vet ER on the Monday before Thanksgiving. I was advised he could not be around the bunnies till his eye issues were gone. I felt bad for him, he was used to eating dinner with them every day for an hour or more out of his cage as they are free range bunnies and roam three of the rooms of our home in our most social areas. He also napped at times with our bunnies after dinner, when I was home. They’d nap nuzzling up to each other for forty or so minutes. Then he’d waddle across the living room, back up the ramp, into his cage and eat hay and pellets and then rest. That was his daily routine. Like an old man coming home from his errands, settling in as if the love of his life awaited him in heaven.

This morning, I rose late, knowing I could sleep in a bit. I called down as I usually do, letting our pets know I’ll be down in a bit. When I arrived in our living room, I said good morning to them by name. As I had, I’d realized that I nearly forgot to say Cocoa Bean’s name. And I thought ‘how odd’. I came around the corner seeing our two bunnies lively as usual waiting for morning snack; however, Cocoa Bean was not perched up looking out of his cage at me as he’d done since about January 9th, 2017, every morning.

After giving morning snack to our two bunnies, I went to his cage. I looked, and in the corner slightly curled in a favorite corner of outside his hut he lay. 65% of his body upon touch was still warm, yet the 35% upper portion was now where rigor mortis had already set in and was cold. I texted our daughters in group, so they’d get the news equally. Then I notified the next of the next of pseudo-kin to our not so world-famous Guinea Pig. Yet, famous in our home.

I finished with our bunnies, doing the typical morning cleanings. And then began the chore of carefully collecting his body and putting it in his hay filled padded cuppie. I placed him in a new shoe box, then into the padded box we’d received to take him home that day in January 2017 from the pet store. Our little Cocoa Bean weighed just nine ounces that day. My husband discovered him at a pet store. He told me, “Jody, you got to look at this Guinea Pig, it’s an Abyssinian. I think you’re going to like him. Hurry. He’s special.” And indeed, I did not delay. I scooted off and arrived. Upon seeing him I called hubby who encouraged me to buy the little guy.

This morning, I reminisced as I dismantled Cocoa Bean’s cage and items in it. I separated what I felt would be on the curb for Thursday morning trash pick up and items I knew to discard to not spread germs to any other animals. I washed his bowls, tossed the plastic part of the water bottle into recycling after cleaning it. I sanitized his cage and anything I

would put curbside for pickup on December 5th. Before I contacted friends and so forth. I noticed upon sweeping the hay that fell from where his cage had been, the Happy Birthday balloon from Star hung down from the ceiling. It hovered now about four feet above the floor and approximately 26 inches above where his cage had resided. I was astonished.

I realized that tomorrow will be six weeks after Star had brought me the crumb cake and the Happy Birthday balloon in celebration of my actual birth date. Like the innocent lives of small creatures, Balloons are Amazing!--- Jody-Lynn Reicher