Quoth the Raven

It is a sunny winter afternoon in Seaboard. Mom and I have just arrived from Durham. I have unpacked the car and I am settled in on the blue couch in the parlor talking to my sister on the phone. I hear a loud rustling in the background, but assume it is my mom in the den. We continue to talk. Mom continues to rustle.

Except.

When I get off the phone I walk into the den. Mom is sitting in a chair as still as a mouse reading a book.

“Mom, er, were you doing anything while I was on the phone?” I ask in a hopeful tone. My stomach has began to drop. I think I know the answer. It is a firm no.

Bird. In. The. Chimney

My heart is thumping. I not quite sure why I have the heebie jeebies about birds in the chimney, but I do. I once pulled a snake out of a birdhouse with my bare hands as if I were just taking mail out of a mailbox.  I have wrestled with biting dogs as if it were a walk around the AKC ring. But Birds In The Chimney are another matter.

Battlestations.

My aged mom thumps into position and balances on her cane at the door near the piano. I dash about, closing blinds to make the afternoon shadows even more shadowy. I move the flotsam and jetsam away from the front of the Buck Stove insert in the chimney and hand Mom her weapon. She grasps the broom like a gladiator.

I open the side door. I slide the latch near the piston to insure it stays open on its own, for it has a job to do. To coyly entice whatever winged dementor from hell is scrambling inside the chimney.

Next I tiptoe to the chimney. My heart is pounding though I have done this many times before. I  squat and unlatch the double doors, first the right and then the left. fully expecting to be bowled over by the desperate fluttering of a trapped bird.  The doors make a satisfying clink as they reveal the inky interior and, to my horror, the skeletal remains of a  once-trapped and now-desiccated  bird. My imagination runs wild as I picture it’s solitary death throes and my adrenal gland puts my heart on high alert.

And now to open the flue. It creaks eerily as I push it true. And, oh dear God!,  the skeletal remains of a second bird flutter to the ashes. I stumble backwards, regain my footing and unabashedly hide behind my my 88 year old mother.

Mom comments dryly “that one is not going to hurt you.”  

We pause a moment and listen. I hear nothing but the beating of my heart. We realize that this is going to be a bit of a waiting game. Mom settles down on the seat her walker still clutching the broom. I ease onto the couch and grab an afghan. (For what? to throw on the bird? To cover my head? In the dusky room I am sure my face is glowing red as I cram it back into the corner.)

Silence. Not even a rustle. Mom asks if I am SURE I heard a bird. Yes. Yes. Yes. There is a BIRD IN THE CHIMNEY. More silence.

The phone jars to life and I answer. My voice is cracking with excitement. It is my oldest nephew.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” I demand and launch into a description of our current situation.

He begins to laugh and tells me it will take him a while to get here, he’s in Richmond. Expletives begin to explode silently in my brain. “When you get here” I say “you are getting the dead ones out!” He finds this funny. I ask that he dial 911 if he arrives to find us incapacitated.

He rings off and we go back to our game. It requires nerves of steel. When we can bear it no longer, I creep back to the Buck Stove and jiggle the flue, backing quickly away.

This time SUCCESS. The blackbird bursts from the fireplace in a flutter of iridescent movement and straight and true takes flight towards the blue rectangle of the open door. The last we see of him is an inky silhouette as he moves up and out of our range of vision.

It is done. We exhale. I close the Buck Stove doors on the skeletons of the two that didn’t make it. They can wait in the dark for my nephew. I bring light back to the room, opening blinds and curtains and shutting the side door. The broom goes back to its resting place and Mom back to her perch on her favorite reading chair.

I sit on the couch in stunned and grateful silence, listening. I am quite happy to have helped this dark bird pry open the maw of death and fly away.  I hope my heart stays as brave and true as the one that got away.

Mary Frances Wears Pants

All my life, Mary Frances has been the perfect model of the perfect  Southern Woman. Or at least HER version of the perfect Southern Woman. ( If she had been my version of the perfect Southern Woman I would have learned how to make mint juleps. But that is a blog for another day.)

Mary Frances taught me that you must always wear an apron when cooking. Dresses should hit your knee and you must wear a slip underneath. Hair should be out of your face. She taught me to stand up straight, be respectful, do my part, care for those in need, and to love God, family, books, and country, not necessarily in that order. She also taught me that real Southern ladies don’t wear pants.

Mom and I in aprons, circa 1988

So to this day, Mary Frances eschews pants.

From as long as I can remember she had only one pair of side-zipped, denim pants. They were not JEANS mind you. They were fitted and tailored and tidy. When she absolutely could not avoid wearing pants she pulled these beauties out of the closet. So she wore them when our Girl Scout troop rode bikes to Ramsey’s Crossroad and when our family went tent camping on the Blue Ridge Parkway or if it snowed.  I’ve seen a photo of her wearing them at the beach. Though a bit proud of her ability to be sporty, she seemed genuinely embarrassed to be wearing them as if she were being caught in the act of doing something highly disreputable. Something like wearing eye shadow (Real Southern Woman find eye shadow vulgar.)

Mama wearing pants, but hidden behind the Impala. 

So when the temperature dipped in January on the same day as Mom’s scheduled permanent the morning went something like this.

ME: Mom, it’s 9 degrees outside. You will need to wear pants when we go to Earl’s. (YES, it is true that my beloved hair guy and my beloved husband share a name. Obviously the two most important men in my life.)

MF: I don’t need pants.

ME: Yes, you do.

MF: No I don’t.

ME: Yes. You. Do. Here is a pair of black sweat pants. You can wear them with a blouse or put them on under you skirt. But it is too cold to go without.

MF: (Pointing at her gossamer thin pantyhose) BUT I HAVE ON STOCKINGS!

ME: No, Mom. It is 9 degrees. What if we get in an accident? Then you will freeze solid in those stockings!

MF:  I am fine.

ME: (AFTER A DEEP BREATH.) OKAY. Here’s the deal. It is too cold to go outside without pants. You can either put on the pants or I am calling Earl and canceling the appointment.

MF: (genuinely horror-stricken) We CAN’T cancel my appointment!

ME: Yes. We can. And I need to know now so I can let Earl know as soon as possible!!

MF: (Thrusting out a hand, disgusted.) Give them here.  

MF: (Sweatpants are now caught on Mama’s shoes, which she did not take off.) I can’t get them on. I don’t have to wear them.

ME: THEY ARE CAUGHT ON YOUR SHOES!!!

Together we pull and tug and soon enough the sweatpants are on, under her skirt. As we head towards the door where more coats await Mary Frances again voices her displeasure:

MF: These pants are heavy. They make it hard to walk!

We march to the frigid car and drive to the salon. It is very quiet. The queen is displeased. Mama enters with a regal air but as if she has been abducted from her throne and made to wear burlap. I explain to Earl about the pants. Clearly they are beneath her. Earl gives me a sympathetic smile,  helps her into her chair, whisks a protective cape around her shoulders and proceeds to give her a humdinger of a perm. 

My "other Earl" and Mary Frances AND the pants.

Mary Frances, Mid-perm

At the end she has forgotten about the sweatpants and looks radiant with her new do.

Then she stands and realizes she is still wearing pants.  She wrinkles her nose as if she smells spoiled milk. And then fires one last volley.

MF: IF I FALL, IT IS BECAUSE OF THESE PANTS!!!

Pondering Christmas

But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

- Luke 2:19, King James Bible

I love this verse from Luke. It is about Mary, who even though she was the mother of Christ, tried to remember everything that happened on Christmas long ago. I mean, I’m pretty sure she did ALL the Christmas prep,  welcomed the shepherds (they did NOT call ahead), cleaned up after the gifts from the three Wise Men, and now she’s finally trying to get some sleep after her big day but keeps going over everthing that happened in her head instead.  

I can relate.

I am pretty lousy when it comes to  pondering things so I made  a few notes about my 2013 Christmas. 

My mom and I welcomed the Christmas  by attending a beautiful Christmas Eve Service at Resurrection United Methodist Church.

I spilled wax on my only clean pair of jeans. Both legs.

On Christmas morning I jumped out of bed before my boys and my mom to get ready for the morning.

I couldn't remember for the life of me where I stashed the candy!

Soon everyone was up and multitudes of carefully wrapped gifts awaited us.

Earle and I waited for the boys to wake up and when we did, the four of us waited for 

Grandma to wake up.  She will not appear in public in her bathrobe and pajamas so then the four of us waited some more.

Soon we were up to our elbows in a sea of paper surrounded by the gifts of the season.

Grandma got seven boxes of Chocolate. SEVEN. She was thrilled. She also got books and a Barnes and Noble giftcard.  She demanded to know why Barnes and Noble didn't open on Christmas.

I was especially pleased to see how much my sons enjoyed their gifts.

Nat really liked his  Star Wars Lego Jabba’s Sail Barge with 850 pieces for ages 9-14.

Zack and I fought over which came first, the Princess Bride book or movie.

I certainly loved mine!

Including the books I bought for myself and wrapped for myself.

And so did Earle!

But the additional Christmas expenses, not so much.

He cooked our traditional Christmas breakfast, blackberry pancakes, and we dug in!  

Note to self. Buy canned blackberries next year. The large fresh ones that looked so tasty in HT rose up out of the batter on the griddle like marbles in a plate of soup. 

After breakfast it was so nice to just relax.

While the guys played video games and Mom dove into the newest Anne Perry, I took an hour and a half morning nap with a full belly. It was a good thing I had to wear sweat pants.

We gathered around the table for a quick lunch before heading to the movies.

Cookies for lunch.

I chose 47 Ronin because it looked so horribly bad. Surprisingly, I really enjoyed it and when the lights came up I saw Earle had a few tears in his eyes. We were looking at each other and silently reflecting on the somber ending when I heard Nat say  “That may be the worse movie I've ever seen.”

After the movie I learned my sister had been discharged from the hospital.

Good news indeed.

Then I prepared a Southern Living Pecan Encrusted Salmon recipe for Christmas dinner.

We scraped off the pecan topping – ick. The yeast rolls were still frozen in the middle but hey, the salad was good!

And then more relaxing after dinner. Mom and I tuned into some fine Christmas programming.

I Love Lucy Christmas Special.  Fred and Ethel looked so much younger than I remembered!

In the evening Zack headed to Winston Salem to spend some time with his girlfriend.

His  safe arrival text reading “Yes, I am alive” was one of my best Christmas gifts.  

And we settled in for an early night and sweet dreams.

We always settle in for an early night. I couldn’t sleep. It’s 2:05 AM. But I’m happy to have time to ponder this perfectly imperfect Christmas in my heart. And more importantly the birth of the perfect Christ born into this imperfect world.

May he bless you, mankind and my cooking in 2014! 

Mary Frances Visits Duke Eye Center

Mama had an appointment at Duke Eye Center yesterday. She was up early and dressed. Not just dressed, but decked out in a suit, a tasteful fitted brown plaid affair with a white lacy ascot.  She looked like a fine English lady ready for the sound of the horn at a fox hunt.

As we left the house, I reminded her that it was still brisk and she’d need a jacket. As we headed to the door, she was not wearing one.

“Mom, you need a coat.”

“No, I don’t need a coat.”

“Yes, you do need a coat.”

“Well, I don’t need a coat, I don’t feel the cold anymore.”

“Just because you don’t feel the cold doesn't mean you don’t need a coat.”

“I don’t want a coat.”

“Mom, what if we got in an accident and were on the side of the road and it was cold and you needed a coat?”

“I don’t think I will need a coat.”

I picked up the coat and took the mountain to Mohammed.

“Put on the coat.”

She acquiesced, but the look she gave me confirmed that she genuinely was not happy with the decision.

We loaded into the car for her 1:45 pm appointment. And yes, it was cold but you didn't hear her say so.

The parking lot at the Eye Center was characteristically overflowing. We were actually seeing her specialist there a month early. The ophthalmologist she saw in Roanoke Rapids at her last 6 month checkup was not her usual one. He discovered that her corrected vision in her left non-dominant eye had fallen to 20/200. I had watched her take the eye test and in growing horror realized she could just barely read the E on the top of the eye chart and nothing else! She struggled and tried, but nothing. This meant either surgery or injections and Duke would tell us which and when. It was not a happy thought.

After checking in at Duke we settled into two chairs to begin our long wait. The place was jammed as usual, a TV set was blaring on the wall, and snippets of conversation drifted our way.

“How on earth did you let someone hit you in your bad eye with a rubber band?”

“We let my son take the easiest high school classes because who really needs algebra?”

“ The snow is supposed to start this afternoon…”

Ready for a long wait, Mom started reading her book and I,mine. We were antsy to get going knowing that this appointment would result in a path of that was not of our making. We were about to board a train and we didn't know when or where we were going.

Mom soon uncharacteristically abandoned reading. I continued with my book, it was awful and I abandoned reading too. The two of us sat and listened for “Mary Draper” to be called. We did a lot of sitting. And a lot of listening. After an hour and half we won the golden ticket back to our first stop: vision testing and pressure screening.

We were escorted back and I anticipated a replay of our previous appointment. Again, I could see the eye chart from my position and as expected she proceeded with flying colors with her right eye. “About the same” the technician assured us. On to the left. I held my breath, and then the most beautiful sound: “P E C F D.” She was reading the eye chart! She continued to other random letters and the technician said again “About the same as last year.”

What the ?!!!

Before I could absorb this new development,  Dr. M’s Fellow  stepped in with a clipboard and consent form. “Pictures with dye this time.” Mom signed and we moved to our next location.  Her eyes had been dilated and she asked if she looked like the pictures of puppies with big eyes. She definitely did. 

 

After another 30 minute stint we were rewarded with another “Mary Draper” and a very slow moving gentleman took Mom in for the test. I settled in to read again, but this time chose Mom’s book instead of mine.  I got off to a good start and then a very large man wedged into the chair next to me. He filled his space, the shared armrest and a good bit of my space. I tried to shift right in my seat, away from his bulk, but there was too much of him to escape. He didn't speak, but instead made heavy sighing noises and occasional snorts and I tried desperately to be transported by my book to a place where I could exhale without touching a stranger. What was taking so long?

At last Mom’s voice. “My daughter’s over here.”  The slow moving man handed her over and we haltingly crept back to the primary waiting room.

As we slowly walked Mom looked over her shoulder with disdain. She said under her breath “That man was so slow. I never saw anyone so slow.”  He must have been slow indeed.

We settled back into our original seats and waited. By now we were about 3 hours into our visit. As Mom couldn't read we began to bond with our neighbors, learning about their problems and how far they’d traveled. The family across from us had been there since 10:00 am!  Eventually a volunteer distributed candy (thanks!) and coffee (no, thanks!)

And just when we felt we couldn't wait another moment, the Fellow reappeared and called us back. (Mama got a little cheer from our neighbors.) He then  very carefully reviewed Mom’s pictures and history and started his exam. By now it was about 5:45 pm. He was polite and thorough, but he couldn't understand why Mom couldn't keep her right eye focused on his ear while he examined her left. (1. She is 87. 2. She had been waiting over 4 hours.)

Usually Dr. M. joins us immediately after, but as he was running behind we were sadly relegated back to the waiting room. The sun set. The desk closed. People went home. Still we waited.

At last a nurse called “Mary Draper” one last time escorting us to yet another exam room. When Dr. Mruthyunjaya walked in, he brought in a wave of peace and calm. His warm smile and genuinely affectionate manner made us feel our wait was completely worthwhile. He visited with Mom, noticing her ensemble and asking about  small details of her life. He included me in the conversation and a feeling of warmth pervaded the room. In a relaxed manner he described what the day’s exam had shown: no change from a year ago! He said perhaps her poor score prior was probably the result of dryness the day of her exam and recommended some OTC eye drops.  He wants her back for a visit in a year, unless, he stressed, something changes, in which case to contact him straight away.

He left then, telling my Mom Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas, and stopping to give me a hug on his way out the door. We were both elated! Mom said the good news was all she wanted for her birthday. I said it was a miracle! We both thanked God and remembered the prayers that were said on her behalf.

As I reflected later on the visit, I realized that the meeting with Dr. M was a small reminder of what it will be like when we at last stumble into heaven. All the trials and tribulations leading up to that beautiful moment will be worthwhile and all our earthly worries and concerns banished. We will be at peace and recognized as  unique children of God and appreciated for who we are. And most of all we will be loved. What a beautiful promise we have from the risen Christ!

When Mama and I left the exam room, it was pitch black outside and the waiting room was a ghost town. We floated outside and stepped into the chilly night.

Mom let out a quick “brrrrr” and concluded “Good thing I brought my jacket!”  

The Thrill of the Hunt

Growing up in Seaboard in the 60s and 70s, no one had yardsales. Or garage sales (not many garages!) or tag sales. They were strictly big city, like MacDonald’s, shopping malls and swimming pools.  They sounded like fun but who knew? Besides, did we really want or need anyone’s castoffs? 

As a young woman in Durham I found myself in a leadership position with the United Methodist Women where I was introduced to the wonderful world of yardsaling. Once a year, we solicited donations and plopped them right in front of the sanctuary during the community yard sale and then watched the quarters, dimes and nickels roll in. I learned about pricing, haggling and early birds. When it came time for our second yardsale, I invited the parents thinking this might be fun for them. 

Dad was all in! He was hooked from his first perusal of boxes and baskets and kitchen ware and trinkets. Anything was possible: finding tools, kitchen wares, tools, fabric, tools, old toasters, typewriters or tools.  For my VERY financially conservative father, part of the thrill was that he could buy ANYTHING he wanted; it was ALL within his budget. Guilt free shopping. And the chance for tools.  Pretty soon he and Mom were making regular pilgrimages to Durham to yardsale with me. 

Mom however had to be wooed. She minced around the first few yardsales and in fact WAITED IN THE CAR for most. Obviously sifting through other’s personal and used belongings was beneath her. I took items to the car to try to win her over and she would regally nod yes or no. 

At one Chapel Hill yardsale Dad and I spilled out of the car onto the vast front lawn of a genteel house. It was yardsale heaven. In particular I found a 1940s deck of playing cards with models of the world. These cards were bedecked with nude beauties holding strategically placed items representing their country of origin. For example a plate of spaghetti over the naughty bits adored lovely Italy and wearing a red, white and blue tophat ONLY was gorgeous Miss USA! And a steal for only 50 cents!!!  I showed them to Dad and he added them to his stack of stuff and bought them for me, probably shelling out 3 or 4 dollars total. As you might imagine Mom was HORRIFIED at the nudie cards and even more HORRIFIED that my father had unabashedly purchased them for me. Had we no shame? I was thrilled and continue to hold this purchase as the bar to which all yard sales are measured! 

Finally my mother came round. It was the books that did it. She finally realized that books were one of the universal items to be found at yardsales (along with mugs, frayed baskets and acid washed jeans.)   She scoured stacks for children’s books, old books, bestsellers, any and all books. 

Eventually Mom and Dad bought maps of nearby Roanoke Rapids, purchased the Friday papers and mapped out yardsales for the next morning. They prioritized based on the juiciness of the ad copy and neighborhood. And they set off before dawn. Yes, my parents had turned into Early Birds. 

Their skills grew as Dad eventually learned to haggle and especially enjoyed the “what would you take for the whole box?” strategy. He was happiest when he returned home and sorted through his prizes. My sister got into the game as well and found scads of things for her grandchildren. 

Dad checks out the yardsale setup at Seaboard UMC in 2005.

Mom and Dad loved playing this little game - a 2005 yardsale find! 

Yardsaling became a way of life for us. I went with my Durham girlfriends and my family regularly and my boys suffered from an overabundance of books, games and puzzles. But I enjoyed every minute of it and they may not admit it, but they enjoyed the spoils as well. 
These days yardsaling is not easy for my mom. She can’t walk very far with her “push buggy” and wheelchairs are tough to maneuver in yards or drive ways. So as you’ve read in these pages we’ve converted our hunts to thrift stores and flea markets. 


Sunday brought us the opportunity to do both kinds of hunting. We attending the TROSA yardsale at the State Fair Grounds and the Flea Market. It was only a touch warm, sunny and beautiful! We didn’t find much at the yardsale, but of course managed to snag a few books including another battered copy of Clyde Edgerton’s Raney. (I always buy and give away any of these I find – one of my favorite books! )

 Mama at the TROSA Yardsale 8/4/13

And once we wrapped up the yardsale, Nat’s girlfriend Lilly joined us and we trailed up and down the aisles indoors and out to find the perfect going away gift for Zack’s departure for Berkely. The yardsale gods and goddesses shined on us. Here it is!  

Zack's Going Away Gift 

This little vintage ceramic monkey will be on his way to the great state of California. I didn’t buy him at first, but  more I thought about him the more I had to have him! I was relieved to find he was still waiting for me. The owner was taking down his stand, but the little monkey was still there and priced at $16.50. I offered $10.00, the owner counter offered $12.00 and we both ended up happy.  Dad would be so proud! 

I was not sure what this jaunty little monkey was really for (soap dish?), but I came home and found him pretty quickly online.He is a man’s caddy – you put change/cufflinks in the bowl, hang your watch on his arm, and tuck your wallet into the slot on the side. Obviously it is what every young man needs! Zack didn’t know he needed one, but is relieved, I’m sure, to have it. 

So gather your  (ceramic or dusty artifical ) rosebuds while you may! If its nice this weekend, fill your pockets with quarters, hit the road, keep a keen eye out for yardsale signs and find what you never even knew you needed! After all, it's the thrill of the hunt...

Man vs Beast

HEAT  #1

Last Saturday, we returned from the beach and were happily unpacking. I had just popped into the “potty room” part of our bathroom when I saw a movement behind the plunger and squealed for Nat. It was the giant anole lizard that Zack had spotted lounging by the fireplace earlier in the week. Our four attack pugs must have ignored it for days!

Nat grabbed a plastic container and we shut the exterior doors to the bathroom, blocking the space under the doors with towels. My heart was pounding like a fat man on a trampoline. Nat handled the front line, tossing out the flotsam and jetsam near the toilet bowl. The anole had frozen in place. Standing safely behind Nat, I assumed  goalie position and was ready to spring if Nat missed. Luckily for the anole and my heart, Nat snagged him on the first attempt. The anole went WILD wriggling and writhing to get out. Nat quickly secured him by slipping a lid underneath and handily took him to the fire road behind our backyard.                                                         MacHardys: 1. Wild Kingdom: 0.

HEAT  #2

             On Monday, I am fixing breakfast for my mom. I step over to the microwave which is on a little stand away from the rest of the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye I see what appears to be a large piece of rope between the microwave and the door. I blink. It’s not a rope. It’s a snake. Mama is watching me as I say to her very firmly “Go to your bedroom and shut your door.” You may remember that Mary Frances is terrified of snakes and closes her eyes even when they are on TV. (She tells me later that when she saw my face she thought I was having a heart attack!)

          

  Luckily my ace animal wrangler is home. Nat has not appeared yet this morning and so I begin to call him. I stand barefoot before the reptile which seems to be growing larger as my calls become frantic.  The four pugs asleep on the couch mere inches away don’t even flick an ear at all the noise.

Finally Nat emerges.  This time my fat man is doing somersaults on the trampoline. Nat very logically puts on shoes, long pants, and work gloves and then take my position so 

I can do the same. Again, I grab for a container and relieve him while he looks for some sort of tool to actually pick up the snake.

But the snakes goes on the move, bunching his body up against the corner and this time I slam the plastic container against the door. SCORE. He’s trapped and writhing in fury. After a bit of creative maneuvering Nat gets a lid on container and out to the fire road he goes again.

MacHardys: 2,Wild Kingdom: 0.

I suppose the black cat that crossed my path today should have given me the heads up for HEAT #3

HEAT #3. .

Mom and I arrived in Seaboard today and I just went upstairs to the room I sleep in to open it up and air it out a bit. The heat pump doesn't always cool it down, so I sometimes I turn on the window unit before bedtime.

When I open the door I freeze. Someone has been in the room. Items have been swept off of surfaces and the pictures on the wall hang tilt-a-whirl crooked. A large lamp has been knocked over.  I get the eerie “ghost walked over my grave” feeling as I try to think why or even how someone would get in Mama’s house and trash this room. It doesn’t add up.

Then I realize I left the closet door open last trip. And it connects to the furnace room downstairs which connects to under the house. An animal?

I look closer. The window frame near my bed has been chewed. Chewed frantically by some creature that desperately tried to GET OUT. I see weather stripping recklessly torn out of the window. And scratches on the glass. Now I am feeling the need to GET OUT.

I look but I don’t see a critter. I don’t hear a critter. I don’t smell a critter, living or dead. The bedding is undisturbed. But I am still creeped out. I turn on the AC, close the closet door and scamper downstairs where I sit writing this. I will eventually man up and inch my way upstairs and I will get ready for bed and I will pull up the covers and I will try to sleep. But I will sleep with one eye open.

It’s not over, but I think it’s safe to call it.

MacHardys:2, Wild Kingdom: 1.

Marlin Perkins would be proud.