The Sea Monkey Diaries, Day 5: An unauthorized manual for the care and feeding of your inner child.

“Feed the babies on Day 5 after pouring in pouch #2.” 

That’s what the Sea Monkeys instructions say. Only I don’t see any babies. I remove the red lid of the Ocean Zoo. Tiny red-brown specs cling to the uppermost sides of the tank. They didn’t even make into the water, poor little specks. There’s a drowned gnat floating amongst the poor, little specks. I dip the yellow plastic official Sea Monkey feeding spoon into pouch #3 and distribute the Sea Monkey Growth Food amongst the poor, little floating specks and waterlogged gnat. When you feed goldfish, as soon as the flakes touch the water, the denizens of your aquarium mob to the surface, gulping sustenance to prolong the life of their underwater imprisonment. I imagined seeing a little movement when the pollen-like food descended amongst my Sea Monkey specks. This is it! This is the moment of truth! Nothing. Poring over the instructions, I’ve missed a multi-colored table at the top of the page: the Sea-Monkeys Hatching Time Temperature Chart. 75-80 degrees is optimal for hatching. Lower than 65 degrees and you’re looking at 7 or more days to hatch. How do I know what the temperature is? I don’t own a thermometer, and my Sea Monkeys Ocean Zoo didn’t come with one. Is that an opportunity? Sea Monkey branded thermometers to leave in your Ocean Zoo? I’ve never seen one. You can get thermometers for fish tanks. They’re a critical tool, particularly for tropical fish. I learned this when I was researching how best to pimp out the aqua palace for Marlo and Thomas. (RIP Marlo and Thomas.)

The best luck I’ve ever had with fish was when we had a fish pond in Barnack, England. Heck, that was the best I’ve ever had with any pet. No, that’s not true. I, along with my family, successfully raised a Jack Russell Terrier born in Barnack named Sophie. She accompanied us over 9 years, and moves across three countries and two continents. Moves are supposed to be one of the top stressors for humans, and interminable for our pets. My family moved one last time when I was a Freshman at Vassar College. Sophie didn’t make it.  (RIP Sophie.)

You can’t move a fish pond, though. We placed a few fish in that pond. I believe my brothers named them. And they flourished. Not quite Koi, but not carnival baggie goldfish, either. The mice I rescued from the newspaper barn didn’t last beyond the week. The newborn stopped moving within a day. I did my best to create a home in my magic prop box, an old shoebox my dad has spray painted black and silver, with a stenciled star on the lid. I placed it in my desk, in my bedroom. This was a viable strategy because I remember seeing tiny chicks in an incubator at my Great Grandma’s. Wait a second: why would my Great Grandma, living on her own in a massive house in the heart of West Virginia have an incubator to hatch baby chickens? It wasn’t a farm (although she did raise turkeys). Now I’m thinking it was more like a cardboard box rigged around a space-heater. In other words, a fire-hazard. (RIP Grandma.)

I had a radiator in my bedroom, but I didn’t place the box near there, because I didn’t want to get caught with a mouse in my room. The teenage mouse fared a little better.  He had a full coat, and appeared to drink the milk I brought for them. I could also comfortably handle him, so I picked him up, and placed him in the front pocket of my long-sleeve flannel shirt, and headed out to church.

The Anglican Church in the middle of the village was so old (how old was it?) it was so old it had been burned down by the Vikings. The youngest tombstone in the graveyard belonged to the sister of the oldest person in our village, dated 1897 or so. The bells rang every Sunday, pulled by volunteer congregants. I had been invited up to the tower to play the bells once. Four or five hand-pulled ropes, the mechanics of which escaped me at the time. Just think: me, 8 years old, easily pulling cords connected to an ancient bell chorus, resounding throughout the village and beyond. It’s true what they say about hearing the bells from adjacent English villages. These tiny rural neighborhoods are a few miles apart, and the sounds of their respective church bells carry for miles around. Each bell was tuned. I wish I had the wherewithal at the time to write down the notes, and then return at a later date with pop melodies chosen specifically for the scale of the bells. Then one Sunday, after ‘Morning has Broken’, the village awakens to hooks by Bob Marley, or the Beatles, like an Anglican Ice Cream Truck on High.

The youngest resident in the cemetery belied the age of the residents entombed with the church. Memorial plaques embedded in the stone floor reminded you of the wealthy family members resting beneath your feet as you walked over them to receive communion. The choir changed behind the organ, where life size stone sculptures of deceased gentry lie in repose, providing delightfully awkward purchase for the young bum of yours truly. (RIP Lord and Lady Kingsley). Amongst the company of the stone corpses we would doff our coats, and don the robes of Her Majesty’s Church of England.  First, a red alb (is that what it’s called?). No, it’s a cassock. Then a white surplice, that white drape with a whole cut out for the head, kind of like a liturgical poncho. Finally, a white starched collar, to frame our cherubic cheeks. My mouse friend moved slightly in my pocket, but seemed fairly comfortable. Once I was robed (or cassocked) I surreptitiously patted my left chest pocket periodically to assure him that everything was okay.

The church service starts with a processional led by an acolyte dressed in white carrying the cross, then acolytes bearing lit tapers, then the choir in two columns with the Vicar bringing up the rear.  We haltingly ‘Praise God for Whom All Blessings Flow’ from our changing tomb, halfway down the length of the church, turn left to make our way to the center aisle, then another left to head towards the altar. The floor plan of the church is more or less a giant cross. Very Anglo-Saxon Chic. The choir splits into halves, flanking the aisle. We’re seated on either side in front of the congregation, behind the elevated pulpit, but in front of the altar. I gently tap my robe over my pocket, feeling the soft shape of my friend through the fabric.

When it’s time for communion, we rise and sing a verse before making our way to prostrate ourselves before the altar. Once back in our seats, we continue in song to accompany the rest of the congregation as they partake in wine and wafers. I tap my pocket before turning the page to the next hymn. It feels different, but at this point my taps are mostly perfunctory, a reflex. Mrs. Snow, our octogenarian organist is playing the prelude and I tap again, this time with intention. My pocket is empty. Where’s the mouse. WHERE’S THE MOUSE?!?!?!?! The sopranos start a descant, first warble then piercing:

“Hallelulujah. Halleluuuuuuuhjah. HalleluJAAAAAAAGGGGHH!!”.

A mezzo jumps to her feet, followed by the entire row of altos. The basses blunder on as the boy sopranos crane their necks to look behind them, attempting to stifle snickers as they maintain the melody. I grow cold, because I know why the soprano screamed…

I snap out of my chaotic reverie when Guy, on my left, prods me with his elbow.

“Stand up,” he hisses. I stand, still touching the empty pocket. I peer behind me as the descant starts. The sopranos offer a condescending look as if to say “Don’t be rude, turn around and sing.”  Where’s the mouse? Where’s the mouse? Where’s the goddamn mouse? (Sorry God.) My skin prickles from the base of my skull as chills run down between my shoulder blades. This is not going to end well. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, working their way up my head. I reach my hand behind my head to ward off the chills, and almost shriek. I freeze, because there’s something between my hand and my hair, and it’s warm, and furry, and prickly and OHMIGOD the mouse has climbed up out of my pocket, and is now nestled in the stiff, starched folds of my collar. I slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y collapse my fingers around his warm, shivering body, careful not to crush, but firm enough to prevent his escape. One thing you grow adept at as a young member of a church choir is how to move imperceptibly slow so as to avoid detection. This aids in the retrieval and sharing of sweets, passing notes, and now, in my most daring display of choir boy insolence ever, in returning a mouse to my pocket. I place him under my surplice, down the neck of my cassock, into my pocket and button the pocket flap. And then I just sit...frozen...waiting...

Surely someone has seen. Maybe the sopranos saw the whole thing (they sit elevated behind us, imperiously adjusting reading glasses, unwrapping lozenges, and tucking used tissues back into their sleeves). Maybe they have more resolve than I give them credit for. Maybe they wouldn’t caterwaul if they had seen the mouse. I don’t move, so as not to draw further attention, but also so I don’t disturb my mouse friend. The service ends, the choir processes back to our changing tomb. I continue to cradle my pocket with my hand on my heart, covering this awkward pose with a look of contrition. Once away from the adults, I shared my charge with Guy before gamboling home to replace the mouse in his box in my drawer. Within a week, the mouse had died (RIP church mouse.)