Who-oo's Mary Jemison: It's against the law to kill an owl

Ahhh...June. The winding down of the school year. Full of introspective thoughts. Poignant reflections. Wistful recollections of the year in review. The eager embrace of summer with months of nothing to do but sleep in, catch up on Netflix, and let loose by going potty WHENEVER the urge strikes.Wait...WHAT?!?!? No! June. Month six of Satan's school calendar. "Mrs. Mosiman...I couldn't do my homework because I had baseball." "Mrs. Mosiman, please fill out these fifty color-coded sheets in triplicate and have them to my desk by Friday." "Mrs. Mosiman, the 2017 office supply catalog, edition #6, that you signed out in February is missing. Return it or you'll be blacklisted." "Mrs. Mosiman, have you logged in your class's county fair art submissions yet?"

Tomorrow, we begin the process of fabric painting our Field Day t-shirts in between committing the Star Spangled Banner in sign language to memory. We're still learning decimals which one of my honeys pronounced "deka-mals" today. And I'm ready to throw the thousands of fidget spinners that occupy my room out the window. They light up now and some can even feature a blue-tooth speaker. What a marvelous tool to promote focus and learning!

So...I'm a little tired. Which means that the appearance of a little owl outside my bedroom at 3 am was not the magical experience that some would lead you to believe. "Who-oo...who-oo!" I lay there, sweltering, in the flannel sheets that I've neglected to change because I had baseball. I mean color-coded sheets...textbook inventory...fair admission tickets...wait...what?...Father's Day is approaching? What am I going to do for Father's Day? Blink, blink. I stared at the dark ceiling. "Who-oo. Who-oo." And then suddenly..."Bark! Bark!" The dachshund addressed the owl issue in no uncertain terms. "Fly off, dummkopf!" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark!" I buried my sweaty head beneath my pillow. "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "SHUT UP!" I shrieked, throwing my pillow at the dog. "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" I lurched off the mattress to go to the potty, forgetting (for the thousandth time) about the up-turned wooden crate set up to allow the Rottweiler easy access to the bed and slammed my toes into the side. Not proud of the words that emerged as a result of that little incident.

I sat in the bathroom, crying at this point. I'd hit the June Wall. My husband, who had been shockingly silent up to this point, asked if I was alright. It was then that I was struck with some insight. "At least we have toilet paper," I sniffled, "poor Mary Jemison didn't even have toilet paper." For my readers beyond the scope of Wyoming County historical lore, Mary Jemison was a little girl who was captured during the period around the French and Indian War and traversed, through great hardship, on foot and by canoe, from Gettysburg to our own Letchworth State Park. She built her own cabin by hand. One of her sons turned out to be a murderous ass (in the vein of Cain and Able). Brad was understandably confused. "Look," I said, underscoring my point by turning on the faucet to wash my hands, "poor Mary Jemison didn't have indoor plumbing. She'd be grateful if the only thing she had to worry about was color-coded sheets and coming up with an alliterative team name for Field Days." Please note that my entire bathroom conversation was accompanied by the background sounds of "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark" "Who! Who!" "Bark! Bark." "Mary Jemison would want you to come back to bed," Brad said. "She had to sleep on the ground, poor thing," I hiccuped sleepily, crawling back between the hot-as-he// flannel sheets. "Who slept on the ground," Sydney asked from the bathroom, awakened by the noise. "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" "SHUT UP!" I screamed.