Heroes of the Beach
Remember Furbys from the 1990’s? If you were lucky enough to have missed them, they
were furry toys with huge weird blinking eyes, big ears and a beaky kind of mouth. They were
supposed to be a kind of pet for kids and even spoke their own kind of language, “Furbish.”
“I HAVE to have one!” six-year-old Catherine said to us with huge lonely eyes. She was
our only child in an apartment that didn’t allow pets. She was born knowing exactly what and
where our guilt strings were, and she could and did play them like a virtuoso. There weren’t a lot
of other kids in our complex either, a fact that would no doubt comprise the second movement of
her latest composition, “For vocal and watery eyes, No. 97, B-flat minor (‘I need a Furby’)
Op.13, No. 9.” The Furby duly appeared. Its little voice chirped and babbled endlessly at the
exact frequency of fingernails on a blackboard. She loved it.
She’s grown up now, and the Furby is buried deep in a box somewhere, possibly with a
stake through its little electronic voice box. But yesterday out of nowhere, she sent us a
horrifying text to let us know that Furby’s have gotten even worse. If you have a strong stomach
you can look up the, “Furby DJ Furblets Pepp-Oh-Roni mini electronic Plush Toy with Funny
Stretchable Sounds Effects & Music, Speaks Furbish, Pizza colors” on Amazon. This is every
bit as scary as it sounds. It’s like a kind of nightmare Franken-toy, combining the worst elements
of several toys in a way that makes the whole much worse than the sum of its parts. Apparently,
at least fifty have been sold so far. If, in ten years, we’re wondering what is wrong with the rising
generation, this item might well turn out to be the root cause.
At least Catherine’s Furby, with some imagination, could be considered cute, visually
anyway. At the time, her best friend, Kayla, had one too. This led to one of the most heroic
sacrifices ever made by anyone in our nation’s history. We were living in Houston when Kayla’s
parents offered to take the girls WITH their Furby’s to Galveston beach about an hour and a half
away. Catherine came back from the trip blissfully happy. Kayla’s folks however, returned with
deep bags under their eyes and facial tics.
This brings to mind another beach experience that probably caused permanent trauma to
the one involved, but that I found hugely entertaining. In college, I went on a road trip to
California with some friends. In our group was Stephen from Germany who had never seen the
Pacific Ocean. More than anything else, he wanted to see it and swim in it. We were all more
than happy to go to the beach, but warned him that the water would be way too cold for a swim
at that time of the year. He laughed at us and told us we were all chicken-hearted weenies. After
all, the Finns chop holes in the ice to swim. We informed him that the Finns didn’t spend a long
time in the water and also, we hadn’t thought to bring along a sauna.
The day arrived and not only was it cold, it was so windy that the seagulls were flying
sideways. Not surprisingly, we had the beach to ourselves. Telling us that we would regret not
having brought swimsuits, he trotted off to the one open bathroom to change. Then, waving to us
merrily he jogged into the ocean. I’ve got to give him credit. He went all the way in. The next
thing I saw was a flash of blue suit across the sand as he shot out of the water. The sonic boom
nearly knocked us off our feet.
I must say that I thought Stephen was very brave. Not just for jumping in the ocean, but for
putting up with all of our smug looks and snide remarks for the rest of the day with good grace.
It just goes to show that there are many different kinds of courage.
were furry toys with huge weird blinking eyes, big ears and a beaky kind of mouth. They were
supposed to be a kind of pet for kids and even spoke their own kind of language, “Furbish.”
“I HAVE to have one!” six-year-old Catherine said to us with huge lonely eyes. She was
our only child in an apartment that didn’t allow pets. She was born knowing exactly what and
where our guilt strings were, and she could and did play them like a virtuoso. There weren’t a lot
of other kids in our complex either, a fact that would no doubt comprise the second movement of
her latest composition, “For vocal and watery eyes, No. 97, B-flat minor (‘I need a Furby’)
Op.13, No. 9.” The Furby duly appeared. Its little voice chirped and babbled endlessly at the
exact frequency of fingernails on a blackboard. She loved it.
She’s grown up now, and the Furby is buried deep in a box somewhere, possibly with a
stake through its little electronic voice box. But yesterday out of nowhere, she sent us a
horrifying text to let us know that Furby’s have gotten even worse. If you have a strong stomach
you can look up the, “Furby DJ Furblets Pepp-Oh-Roni mini electronic Plush Toy with Funny
Stretchable Sounds Effects & Music, Speaks Furbish, Pizza colors” on Amazon. This is every
bit as scary as it sounds. It’s like a kind of nightmare Franken-toy, combining the worst elements
of several toys in a way that makes the whole much worse than the sum of its parts. Apparently,
at least fifty have been sold so far. If, in ten years, we’re wondering what is wrong with the rising
generation, this item might well turn out to be the root cause.
At least Catherine’s Furby, with some imagination, could be considered cute, visually
anyway. At the time, her best friend, Kayla, had one too. This led to one of the most heroic
sacrifices ever made by anyone in our nation’s history. We were living in Houston when Kayla’s
parents offered to take the girls WITH their Furby’s to Galveston beach about an hour and a half
away. Catherine came back from the trip blissfully happy. Kayla’s folks however, returned with
deep bags under their eyes and facial tics.
This brings to mind another beach experience that probably caused permanent trauma to
the one involved, but that I found hugely entertaining. In college, I went on a road trip to
California with some friends. In our group was Stephen from Germany who had never seen the
Pacific Ocean. More than anything else, he wanted to see it and swim in it. We were all more
than happy to go to the beach, but warned him that the water would be way too cold for a swim
at that time of the year. He laughed at us and told us we were all chicken-hearted weenies. After
all, the Finns chop holes in the ice to swim. We informed him that the Finns didn’t spend a long
time in the water and also, we hadn’t thought to bring along a sauna.
The day arrived and not only was it cold, it was so windy that the seagulls were flying
sideways. Not surprisingly, we had the beach to ourselves. Telling us that we would regret not
having brought swimsuits, he trotted off to the one open bathroom to change. Then, waving to us
merrily he jogged into the ocean. I’ve got to give him credit. He went all the way in. The next
thing I saw was a flash of blue suit across the sand as he shot out of the water. The sonic boom
nearly knocked us off our feet.
I must say that I thought Stephen was very brave. Not just for jumping in the ocean, but for
putting up with all of our smug looks and snide remarks for the rest of the day with good grace.
It just goes to show that there are many different kinds of courage.