How to Catch a Rabid Squirrel and Why
by Tim Reynolds
Rescue missions were our specialty, though up to this point in time all previous missions involved only G. I. Joes. This was our first live specimen, zoological rescue, and no thirteen- and fourteen-year-old, two-kid team was more prepared than Ron and me.
We’d ridden our bikes up to the greenbelt area behind the local tennis courts that used to be the IBM golf course. Ron and I had done our traditional summer-day work out on the high-intensity obstacle course disguised as a playground. We were returning from the drinking fountain when we spotted him hobbling across the playground gravel. The wee squirrel was injured, and it was plain to see it wasn’t just a thorn in his paw. He couldn’t put any weight on one leg, and it was bent at an odd angle.
We sprang into action. You can’t catch a squirrel with your bare hands, so Ron observed Tripod, a name appropriate to his condition, while I went dumpster diving for a zoological specimen containment thingy … Read more in the Summer 2019 issue
Traveling with my Mom
by Tim Reynolds
Although I haven’t traveled much lately, I have always enjoyed my little adventures. Sometimes, though, I find myself in odd situations while exploring.
I was once questioned by a State Trooper in Death Valley, while I was trying to tie my shoes; risked arrest and beheading (okay, maybe not beheading), trying to photograph the British Crown Jewels in the vault of the Tower of London; been yelled at in more languages than I can count for trying to sneak photos in various museums and castles; was kicked out of a bordello-looking place for trying to interview a staff member as research for a novel; nearly died—twice—while hiking in the Rockies; had to pretend to be high on crack to evade drug dealers in downtown Toronto; and was almost shot in Italy.
I’m what I call an “airline brat”—someone who grew up with a parent who worked in the airline industry and took advantage of the travel benefits. Mom and Dad traveled quite a bit to the Caribbean when my two sisters and I were young, though they never took us with them. I suspect they needed the breaks. The first real trip they took us on was to upstate New York’s Finger Lakes District when I was ten. Ever the klutz, I managed to … Read more in the Spring 2019 issue