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The Marks Chronicles: Early Marks


THE ELECTRIC TURTLE

As a new teenager, I sincerely believed that my calling in life was herptology: the science of amphibians and reptiles. There was nothing more delightful to me than finding a box turtle on Grandma Ormeda's farm. You can count the rings on their carapace (that's their top part) to find out how old they are - just like a tree. I had a number of fourty-year-olds. Some were so old that their rings were smoothed over from wear. Did you know that an early settlement in Rhode Island was nearly wiped out because they ate box turtle soup? I did. Seems that box turtles like to eat poison mushrooms. I did a creative writing report in high school on turtle racing. But I digress.

It was time for the science fair and I decided that I would do my project on turtles. I had read somewhere that turtles were so dumb, they did not know they existed. So I went to my turtle corrale in the basement of our home in Garfield Heights and got Seymore, a twenty year old extraverted box turtle. (Only a small percentage of box turtles are extroverts. When handled, most clamp up so tightly in their shell that not even a butter knife can be inserted.) I placed Seymore on our rubber welcome mat and taped two leads to his shell. The other end was attached to a wall plug. Watching for reactions very closely, I inserted the plug into the wall. No reaction..

I unplugged Seymore and, with detached objectivity, wrote in my notebook that either the stupidity hypothesis were true, or turtle shell does not conduct electricity. I stripped more of the insulation off of the wire and made electrodes of Seymore's right front and left rear feet. I plugged him in again. Nothing. After unplugging him, I undid the connection to his front foot and wrapped the wire around his neck. In went the plug and ... nothing. I took some more observational notes and unplugged him again.

My conjecture was that electrical conduction was not occuring. I filled the basement sink with water and mixed in a generous amount of Morton table salt. After a thorough bath, Seymore was again placed on the welcome mat. I plugged him in and ... there was a reaction! He momentarily retreated into his shell. His head then peered out cautiously and he began to try to escape. This was science at its best.

I tired of the work, however, and ended up doing my science project on the mathematics of music. Seymore died two years later from unknown causes and was burried in the back yard of Dad and Mom's house in Garfield Heights, Ohio. He proved to the world that turtles know they exist.

A PAIN IN THE DONKEY

As I mentioned, my science project during my junior year in high school was on the physics of music. I was sitting upstairs on the front edge of an arm chair doing some cutting and taping on one of my displays when my addiction to nicotine beckoned. I lit a cigarette and forcefully sat back in the chair. A pair of pointed barber scissors I had been using demonstrated its displeasure at my intrusion by poking themselves an inch and a half into my right buttock. I shot up at twice the speed with which I had sat back and ran to the top of the stairs. The scissors, finished with their mischief, fell to the floor. Instinctively, I yelled "Mmmooooooom!". A black window shade was pulled down across my eyes and I passed out.

When I awoke, Mom was cradling my head asking me what happened. I explained to her the situation in a single brief sentence that contained the words "scissors" and "rammed". She giggled. We walked slowly down the stairs and outside to the car. Mom drove to the hospital. I sat kind of sideways.

At emergency, the nurse at the window asked what the problem was. Mom stifled a chortle. I explained. The nurse stifled a chortle. The doctor gave me four stiches and a tetnus shot.

A few weeks later, I returned to the scene of the chortles to get my stitches out. They made me put on one of those robes without a back and ,in this big hospital room, lie face down on one of those doctor's tables. As the nurse took the stitches out, we chatted cordially. Actually, she did most of the talking. After the task was completed, she remarked "Oh my! Your wound has healed quite nicely". Her head turned to the rear of the room where some other nurses were doing some sort of filing. "Doris, Linda, Alice. Come here and look how nice this wound has healed!" They did too. I just lied there with my eyes closed waiting for it to be over. Truthfully, I do not know whether or not they were putting me on.

This incident with the barber scissors is a possible explanation for the aversion to haircuts I experienced later in life.

TALES OF HALDEMAN

Doug Haldeman was probably my closest friend during my college years. We lived and studied together, played in a band and both worked at an FM radio station. We also swapped roommates. I traded Doug for for his future wife's roommate, Connie. We played music at each other's weddings and have even coauthored an arrival journal paper together. Here are three Doug Haldeman stories.

1. Doug did not enjoy cooking. He approached me and proposed that I be the house cook. He, in exchange, would do all the dishes. What a deal! Unfortunately, my cooking r was small. I could fry hamburgers and eggs, bake biscuits and make pancakes. After an academic quarter of such culinary delights, Doug began to feel a bit sick. He went to his family doctor in Ohio who diagnosed that he had acquired a mild case of scurvy. After that, we ate out a lot.

2. The worst part of cramming all night for a test is the fatigue that invariably overcomes one between 4 and 5 AM. I originated an ingenious method of napping for 15 or so minutes with a guaranteed alarm clock. Lodge the filter end of a cigarette at the bottom of the V between the middle and ring finger . The cigarette will not fall even when the hand is waved mildly. Light the cigarette and snooze. In about 10 to 15 minutes, the heat from the cigarette and the conscience fear of being burned awakes you. A second cigarette can be lit if desired. (Warning: Experience due to hind sight would not be surprised if this practice is the third largest cause of self incineration in North America). Before we roomed together, I explained the procedure to Doug who at the time, like me, smoked. There was a big test the next day which required all night study. Doug, however, did not show up for the test. I saw him later that evening. He had quite a nasty burn scab at the bottom of the V between his ring and middle finger.

3. This one's kind of gross. Ever since I wore those pointy tipped shoes in high school, I've had these awful calluses growing on my toes. When they get to big, I simply slice off a layer with a razor blade. (The trick is not to cut to deeply and get into the living skin). One November, I sliced off a delightful set of matched calluses. They were nearly perfect matches. Each was oval in shape and measured about an inch in the long dimension. While they were still fresh and plyable, I used our paper hole punch to form two perfectly off center round openings. The pair were placed over a heating vent where over the next two weeks they turned a splendid shade of yellow. They shriveled and hardened a bit, but were still a perfect match. Using a pair of needle nose pliers and two plyable paper clips, I transformed the calluses into a magnificent set of earrings for pierced ears. They were placed in an elegant jewelry container and given to Doug's wife Dianna for Christmas. Doug and I thought it a wonderfully clever gag! Dianna did not.