Category: humor

Turtle the Chimney “Sweep”

Old Soul Medicine Crow4 Comments

On Monday as I was leaving the office I found, at the bottom of the steps outside our back door, a mother and her teenage daughter mulling over what to do about an injured bird. As our steps lead almost directly to the street, the bird had possibly been hit by a car. It was stunned with one wing oddly askew like it might be broken. I stopped to assess the damage. It was as if we all knew, the mother, the daughter, me and maybe even the bird that I was the one taking it home.

The mother and daughter wouldn’t know this but I had once successfully raised a baby crow who lived voluntarily in our trees for quite a while after it fledged. I could come outside and yell its name and down it flew to land on my arm for a snack. After I thought it was grown and gone it twice returned injured for a safe place to recover. But that was a baby I’d once fed mashed up worms. It remembered it’s mama Crow. Crows have long memories. This bird, which I first thought was a swallow and later proved to be a chimney swift, hadn’t intentionally sought me out…or had it. Injured animals seem to gravitate toward me. I used to take evening walks to the local courthouse to watch the swifts come in. We called them “sweeps”. My work office is less than one block from that same courthouse. The bird had been injured and landed in the path I take every day. Unbeknownst to me a co-worker had seen it four hours earlier and had decided to leave it but check on it later. Then, the mother/daughter duo worried over it but had no intentions of touching or moving it. I am no stranger to animal rescue. I immediately picked it up. Because of Covid I still had plastic gloves readily available. Thanks to the Beverly Hillbillies there is probably a whole slew of women my age who grew up with the nickname Ellie May for their propensity to capture injured animals and try to nurse them back to health. That’s what Mom called me but I was rarely successful. Nature is a great teacher.

It was a hard lesson to learn but it’s often better to let nature take its course…unless I know there is something I can do. I am quicker to recognize impending death these days. But I still can’t leave the dying to die alone. In this case, my instinct to take the bird might have also been driven by my attempt to relieve the mother’s guilt for disappointing a brooding teenage daughter. I could tell they both needed to think they had done all they could. I could give them that. I took the bird because that’s what I do. I couldn’t let it lay in the gravel and grass until a neighborhood cat decided to make it a toy, or the sun dehydrated it. I thought at the very least, I’d give its death some dignity. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d provided this service. Death Doula to people and animals. Even as I placed it in a cardboard box, I dreaded telling my boyfriend/housemate about our new roomy. He wasn’t around for my dog rescue days so he may not be fully aware of my proclivities to drag in injured animals.

First, I took it to the same veterinarian who helped me with dog rescue to see if its wing was indeed broken. “Looks like it is fractured,” she confirmed. She did not set bird wings but gave me the name of another veterinarian who treated birds. Selfishly I wondered what it might cost and if I was willing to bear that cost. Domestic pets, it turns out, are the only birds veterinarians treat. I called three vets who all said to call wildlife rescue. The only wildlife rescue I could find informed me their Kentucky affiliates had no permit for songbirds which meant the swift and I were on our own. As I write this, it occurs to me, my daughter is attending the latest Taylor Swift Album release in a movie theater. She is decidedly a “swiftie”. I have never listened to Taylor Swift’s music but this little bird has turned me into a “swiftie” as well. Its slim cigar-like torso and pointed wings, the gray top feathers melting into a snowy underside and the sweet way it turned its head to look directly at me when I held it in front of my face or slowly closed its eyes when I stroked its back, made me fall in love. Its beak was as delicate and tiny and black as the tip of a cat’s toenails, but not curved. Looking straight on, its eyes and short bill resembled the face of a turtle, so that’s what I called it. Turtle. It should be said that both sexes look alike in this species and I have no way of knowing whether Turtle was male or female. I deemed her female for no good reason at all.

I hate that we rely on google for so much of our information these days but it is a wealth of knowledge. I did read in my old-fashioned bird books as much as I could about the species, but they don’t tell what to do if you find one with a broken wing. Anyway, google said to keep it still and in a dark place to prevent further injury and then immediately take it to wildlife rescue. Immediately. So much for that advice. I did start it out in a small cardboard box with a makeshift nest of dried grass. The way it climbed up and positioned itself on the side of the box made me research further and realize it was a chimney swift. Whenever I picked it up, its talons clung to my finger like a baby’s first instinct to grasp, another tip that it was a swift. Turns out chimney swifts don’t perch on branches like other birds. They fly for hours or even days at a time, taking their food on the wing. They are aerial acrobats, almost always moving. Most of their diet consists of flying insects so they are extremely beneficial to humans in that way, cleaning up mosquitos and other pests. When they do land for the evening or to make a nest, they cling to the inside of a hollow tree…or a chimney or other tunnel-like structure. Their clinging feet are necessary to adhere to vertical, sometimes slick, surfaces. I anthropomorphized this grasping behavior as if the bird were holding onto me for its very life. That kind of oxytocin release reminded me of all the dog rescue I engaged in during my empty nest years.

Hundreds of dogs I took home from the shelter, bathed and housed. (All dogs come home from the shelter with the same foul odor.) It only took the first bath after leaving the shelter for a dog to follow me faithfully and make me their person. I knew what I was doing while I was doing it—avoiding the pain of my daughter’s impending exit, the truth of my dysfunctional marriage—but I ran into all kinds of rescue folk over the years who were unaware of the lonely hole they were desperately trying to fill. It’s easy to believe an animal loves you when you’ve intervened on their behalf. For the most part, I kept my head about me. The veterinarians I worked with liked my ability to be realistic. Once I knew a dog’s personality, I ran a match-making service with local families to place it in a forever home. I became addicted to learning each personality and it’s true the feel-good sensation of unconditional love is immeasurable. Rescue work is rewarding, but dirty and filled with harsh realities.

I was right about my boyfriend’s response. Gregg was mostly concerned about diseases and insisted I disinfect every place I’d even set the box. I explained that the bird was in a small box which was inside a bigger box so there were two layers between it and any surface. He didn’t buy it. I googled again to find that chimney swifts aren’t known for carrying diseases and are no threat to humans. Sometimes their nests attract mites but I had no nest. Histoplasmosis is a fungus that can grow in bird poop once it has composted but it doesn’t exist in the poop itself as it comes from the bird. I hoped this might waylay Gregg’s fears but I doubted he’d be any happier. He insisted I leave the bird and its box outside.

I wondered how I was going to feed “Turtle”.  They prefer to catch insects in the air but that was not likely from inside a box. Although I did catch a couple of spiders and a fly for her. She was either not impressed or still in shock from the jolt that upended her carefree existence. The book said when insects were scarce swifts would eat seeds or berries so I placed both in a shallow dish alongside a saucer of water. I knew not to force feed with a dropper for fear of setting up pneumonia but I did offer a droplet near her mouth and it opened for two swallows of water.  

After the first night, I thought the tiny bird needed some daylight to inspire its recovery. I didn’t have a bird cage but I exchanged its dark box for a small cat carrier. I attached hardware cloth on the door’s grid to prevent escape or the patient’s cock-eyed wing from getting stuck through the openings. The new space brought new movement. That screened door became her favorite roosting spot since it was easy to hold onto. I still couldn’t tell if she was eating but the food got dispersed as she moved about the cage so at least she knew it was there. Gregg knew I was concerned and joked that I could tie its feet to a string and swing it in the air to catch insects. He thinks he’s funny. But then he did have an interesting idea of putting a piece of fruit in the cage to attract insects, which I tried.

I didn’t have any real expectation that the bird would live. I thought at most it wouldn’t die by predator. But as one day turned to two and then three with more activity each day, I started to think of possibilities. I decided I’d give it a couple more days in the cat carrier and graduate it to a dog crate. I have a large one left from my humane society days because with me, you never know. I would create a chimney in one corner so it could roost properly and if I saw it gliding down from there, even for two wing flutters, I would find a safe place to open the cage and see if it could take flight. Then, I worried that it would live but not fly. Was I prepared for long-term care? What kind of life would it be to go from aerial freedom to living in a cage? Neither of us wanted that. I envisioned building a greenhouse, something I’d been wanting anyway, so it could have some semblance of an outdoor life. It was curious to me how many images google had of chimney swifts sitting in the palm of someone’s hand. I had taken that picture myself. Most bird pictures aren’t featured in someone’s hand. Do people make pets of them? I read that some swifts have been known to live as long as 12 years in the right conditions, yet the average lifespan is about two years. I had no idea how old this bird was. She looked so young and delicate to me yet she was the size of a full grown swift.

Then, on Thursday night, she died. It had been her most active morning and I’d seen her climbing the wire door in the middle of the day but by nightfall, she lay face down on the bottom of the cage. She could have starved but she pooped every day so I thought not. Maybe her body couldn’t take the shock. My guess after the fact is that she had an infection which I had not known to treat. I know she would have died anyway, without my intervention. Still, I wish I could have done better by her. I really don’t know how I would have administered antibiotics but I will think about it next time…because…there will be a next time.

 I am grateful to Turtle for bringing me a whole new awareness and appreciation for chimney swifts. They are amazing creatures with a soft heart and a gentle soul. I don’t know if I made what was left of her life better or worse, but I know this: Death is a sacred act. I have witnessed it many times, with humans and with animals. It is sad to say goodbye, but it is an honor and a privilege to hold space in those last holy moments. At least she didn’t die alone. Fly away, little Turtle, fly away.  

Nature-The News to Watch

Old Soul Medicine Crow3 Comments

Anyone who knows me enough to talk to me knows I’ve been obnoxiously in love with my garden over the last two years. “What have you been doing lately?” followed by “Let me tell you about my garden.” Maybe this is because I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who raised and preserved her own food like my parents had or my friend Kim who makes it look easy. But it’s hard work so I’ve failed gardening miserably in the past, ambitiously planting but not keeping up with the weeds. It has taken me years to construct a system that works for me. One that doesn’t overwhelm me when crabgrass takes over. I’ve landed on a series of raised beds that I can tackle one at a time. Flowers here, vegetables there. Some perennials, some annuals. An aesthetically pleasing array, and, oh, the birds! My Merlin Bird Identifier registers 10-15 birds’ songs every morning. We have regular families of Mockingbirds, Cardinals, Redwing Blackbirds, Doves, Indigo Buntings, Flickers, Warblers, Finches, Wrens, Robins, and of course Crows and more. You name it, ours is rich with variety too many to name properly. I’ve even seen a Boston Oriole and a Yellow Billed Cuckoo!  Working with the earth and nature spirits has been my saving grace. Something I can put my hard work and love into and reap the benefits. People will disappoint. Nature rarely does.

After building the raised beds, we hung cattle panel fencing around the garden with gates on three sides. I was so proud of my design I wanted to decorate it with more than flowers. I attached metal art panels on each of the gates and placed a gazing ball in the middle of my herbs, I hung a small metal birdhouse in the shape of an owl’s head with a small round opening for a mouth. A cruel joke but so very cute. From the top of its head was a dainty little chain and hook so I hooked this over a nail at the corner gatepost so I could see it from the house. I truly thought of this little owl as ornamental and not as a real bird house at all, or else I would have attached it with more vigor. Yet, all summer I have enjoyed watching a pair of Eastern Bluebirds return to this box time and again, climbing in and out of the owl’s mouth with dried grass from our compost or food for their babies. The box is eye level so I can sneak a peak each time I enter the garden.

From my usual spot on the back porch where I sit in the mornings with tea and a journal, or in the gloaming of day’s end, the garden with its little family of bluebirds is in my natural gaze. Behind them, a stand of cosmos. Beside me, a pair of binoculars. From my seat to the garden gate is approximately 50 feet. There is a boxelder tree between us that gives shade to the yard and holds a hammock. The garden gets full morning sun and then the tree protects that little metal birdhouse on the corner from getting too hot in the late afternoon. The first time I saw the birds furnishing their nest, I was a child again, only now I didn’t have to tiptoe or have my dad hold me up to see inside. Before long I was counting eggs, waiting for them to hatch. I watched each day as the couple took turns being in the box or keeping watch on the fence adjacent to it. Once I saw Papa fight off a larger bird that came too close. One evening when Mama and Papa bird must have been on a date or on a run to the grocery, I absentmindedly went to work in the garden without peaking at our babies and they squawked at me with their mouths wide open. If I’d had a worm, freshly chewed, I’d have dropped it in their eager beaks for sure. I felt like their nanny. I anticipated seeing them fledge any day and watched them closely so I could monitor my dogs’ activities and keep the little bundles of joy safe as they shored up their confidence. But the next afternoon, they were gone.

My first thought was not the grave one. Had they fledged during the night? Had I missed the flight while I was at work?  Were my bluebirds so gifted at flying that they didn’t need practice?  They were perfect, after all. Of course, I did land on the idea that something terrible had happened, after I went inside my garden fence to find a smattering of downy feathers peppering my beans.

The parents wasted no time cleaning out the box. Before long they were remodeling with new tufts of straw. I admired their tenacity. Maybe that’s how they grieve. I remember keeping myself busy when experiencing my own empty nest for the first time.  And this gardening surge came along at a time when I needed the earth’s grounding and something to look forward to. Again, I watched their progress, counted their eggs and waited. In the meantime, I googled natural enemies and predators of the eastern bluebird. I found all kinds of ideas for protecting the box from predators.

We live in a healthy ecosystem on our farm by the river. We readily hear and see hawks, owls. We even had an eagle land in our yard once, but he was eating a groundhog. Too big for that little birdhouse. Rabbits are everywhere this year. I imagine that’s keeping the pack of coyotes happy who we mostly hear at night, down by the river. We watch parades of deer and turkey daily. We occasionally smell a skunk who’s perfume wafts in an open window at night and signals the dogs to bark. The peepers in the barn lot pond are deafening at times, especially if it’s going to rain. When I run the soaker hose in the tomatoes, I almost always see a fat bullfrog enjoying the puddles left from a leaky faucet.

I know there is death on the farm, I’ve witnessed it. Coyotes having Thanksgiving Turkey, Bobcats catching rabbits. Mockingbirds stalking and desecrating Luna Moths—which  I find especially egregious. Sometimes the beauty and wonder of nature is so brutal it can break your heart wide open. What I haven’t mentioned is obvious. Google says the snake is #1 on the list of suspects. All of the friends to whom I’ve mentioned my bluebirds say, “Snake.” I say “I don’t think so.” Here’s why: 

  1. That smattering of feathers left behind. Another bird or a racoon would leave feathers behind but maybe a snake would swallow whole?
  2. We mow about an acre all the way around our house and garden. We and/or the dogs are actively in the yard every day; claiming our territory.
  3. The bullfrogs haven’t been snatched yet.
  4. Most Important** and this is the kicker:  I made a pact with their leader, a 6-plus foot black rat snake that I found on my porch one night (that’s another story) just after I moved in. I told her we had 140 acres here and if she would spread the word among her kind that I live in the house and the mowed part of the yard, they could choose their territories over the rest of the farm. The house had been sitting empty a few months. Maybe she had been delegated to check out the new neighbor. I requested she take the barn lot closest to the house to keep the poisonous snakes farther away. A rumor I’d heard but she said nothing, although she did as I’d suggested. She already understood the benefits of that location. I leave them alone. They leave me alone. We’re all happy.

     This has been a good partnership for 12 years now. We sometimes see a random snake in a field, near the barn or on the road but for the most part not close enough to the house to have a reminder talk with them. I’ve only broken my end of the bargain once, last year, when I wanted an old wagon wheel for my herb garden. It was lying in a pile of antique farm equipment I call “the boneyard”. Several wheels and other pieces of antique mule driven farm equipment had been abandoned in the barn lot and overgrown in upstart trees, shrubs and tangles of honeysuckle since my dad traded his mules for a tractor in the early 70’s.  It looks like where the 19th century went to die. I’ve seen my snake friend and her family there many times, on my walks. It’s the perfect location between a barn full of mice and a pond for frogs and drinking water. I knew I’d have to breech my contract with her but I hoped to be in and out without notice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still scared of snakes. I don’t want to see one, and especially not be close enough to touch it, although I will give a snake a good talking to if I do see it. I’ve always known she was there and I’ve left her alone. I asked my companion to help me recover the easiest wheel I’d spotted and we donned our knee-high boots and work gloves and hiked over. As he pulled and cut and sawed through tough vines, I talked to her and apologized for coming into her home. I hoped she would forgive me. Turns out, she was wrapped around the very wheel we were pulling on. She disappeared quickly into the brush and we both jumped. I continued apologizing, profusely. I looked like a child hopping on one foot and then another while flicking my hands to shoo her away. I wondered then about payback but soon forgot as the spokes of the wagon wheel—lying flat on the ground—made a great dividing frame for my sage, rosemary, thyme and oregano.  

My little bluebirds continued to teach me about persistence, making 2 more nests in a row. Again, I watched, counted, waited. Nothing. No more feathers were found but neither did I witness hatchlings learning to fly. The evidence was mounting but I hoped and decided that without seeing feathers, I’d simply missed their flights while at work. Three times! I was happy and surprised when the birds came back for a fourth time, cleaning, re-stocking, preparing.

            A few days ago, I went out to enjoy the sounds of morning bird frenzy, as usual to collect a few minutes on a cool porch before the heat set in. Our days have been scorchers lately. To my surprise, dangling from the lowest tree limb of my backyard box elder, within ten feet and direct eyeshot of the owl’s open mouth, was the shed skin of a snake, about 3 feet long! Too bad the owl isn’t real. The skin did not belong to my friend the reptilian Queen, who I’d put in charge, because she is much longer than this interloper. One of her not so loyal subjects had snuck into forbidden territory!  

            As I sat, contemplating how to renegotiate peace talks, my partner told me he’d found a baby copperhead enjoying the heat of the compost pile about a month back. Although he’d killed the one he’d found I realized chaos had ensued without my knowledge!

            “A baby?” I asked, “Only one?  Are you sure there weren’t more?” Youngsters can go rogue without yet knowing the unwritten rules of their elders. That’s understandable. But as every old person says, this younger generation has a different set of values.  Leaving the skin in both my view and that of the birdhouse, is a blatant show of disrespect. Also, I was aware this was supposed to be the year of the cicada invasion. Although our region hasn’t been the hardest hit, for months now, Rosie and Willow—otherwise known as dog patrol or affectionately “the girls”—have been staying out late to dig for beetles or cicadas or whatever other little crunchy larvae might be there. I’d read an article about snakes gathering beneath oak trees at night to eat the emerging cicadas and I hoped my girls were abating that possibility.

            I wasn’t sure if Queen Rat Snake was dead, if there had been a coup for leadership, or perhaps she felt I owed her one after my breech into her territory last year. Maybe she decided staying out of my yard in a cicada year was too much for me to ask.

            I went back to writing in my journal, listening to the usual morning rush of cardinals, jays and mockingbirds as they come into the garden for breakfast when I heard a flush of excitement. The bluebirds were back. They had spotted the skin and were sounding all the alarms. Mama was flapping her wings hard, hovering in front of the scaly replica, and if I had to guess cursing him mightily. I hoped she didn’t have a heart attack. I could almost feel how the realization hit her. Grieving her babies while finally getting closure for where they went. This brought Papa. They flew above it, below it, hovered in front of it, flapping their wings and yelling as if to scare it away. It didn’t budge, of course, except for wavering in the wind. The birds called in the cavalry and here came the flickers and mockingbirds, a larger line of defense. They too used their best scare tactics and sounded alarms which pulled in the officers—cardinals and jays. With all the sirens going off, it was the only show to watch, even the dogs were captivated. We were the rubberneckers at the scene of a crime; all traffic stopped. It seemed the teams had forgotten their colors and all acted as one unit to rid the area of this menace. They did all share the same feeders, after all. When the decomposing skin did not respond to their fury, except to sway with the breeze, they finally lost interest and gave it up for dead.

The skin still hangs as a reminder. My hammock chair also hangs in that tree. It’s the only tree I’ve got whose limbs are hammock or swing friendly. I’m not sure how long it will take me to sit there again, unsure what might be overhead. I know the bluebirds have not returned to their box. As with all trauma, it’s gonna take time. Well played Queen. I won’t be taking you for granted again.

Alchemy

Old Soul Medicine Crow4 Comments

Alchemy: a power or process that changes or transforms something in a mysterious or impressive way.

I went to dinner in Lexington with some women. Friends, and friends of friends. Three of them had birthdays in the same month so not only was there reason to celebrate, after dinner we were attending a reading by another friend who was celebrating the release of her latest book. A night out for the ladies.

Since we had gathered primarily for the literary arts, the dinner conversation began with literature. Who recently read what, which books are must reads, what we’re currently writing, and morphed into general story telling since most of us were writers of one form or another. One person’s story reminds someone else of a similar story, reminds another, and so it goes. In this instance, we traveled the world going from Chicago to Milan to New York and all the way back to Kentucky, where we all currently live. One theme that emerged was housing. From tiny squeeze-ins to expansive high-rise sublets to starter homes, the ladies spoke of lucky breaks, exigent circumstances and turning bad situations into good. I saw a theme emerging.

“Alchemy,” I said.

“What’s alchemy?” my friend asked. I explained poorly that it was a term referring to the medieval attempt to turn base metals into gold. But that today it also meant just what she had been saying, how she’d turned a bad situation into a good one.”

Then, “Martha’s” Kentucky story of purchasing a farmhouse without prior knowledge of the den of snakes who had taken up residence beneath the front stoop drew gasps from everyone.

            “I’d have to back out of the sale,” one said.

            “Or put it right back on the market,” another chimed in. “You didn’t stay there, did you? Is that where you live now?”

The fear of snakes always sparks eeks and cringes followed by other close encounter stories. I’d venture to guess we all have snake stories. These ladies all did. The fear of the serpent is likely the most common phobia. We love to hate these creatures.  

I, too, am no fan and prefer not to get personal with a snake.  I thought about reminding us all that snake symbolism was originally that of the divine feminine and that maybe we had been conditioned to fear snakes based on the patriarchal need to control the innate power of women. According to Ted Andrews’ book Animal Speak, seeing a snake denotes resurrection, renewal, rebirth (shedding of one’s skin to become anew). In dreams, simply encountering the snake is thought to be the subconscious awareness of a pending new cycle of life. Being overly afraid of the snake symbolizes fear of the changes necessary for internal growth. Getting bit might symbolize the level of resistance or blocks you’re throwing into your own path. I’ve had plenty of these dreams throughout my spiritual awakening journey as well as in person sightings. An explanation like this might be interesting, but it rarely does much to allay a well-honed fear of snakes. Thinking of the power of transformation, I juxtaposed one of my own snake stories instead.  

I am the third generation of my family to inhabit the family farm, in a house that was built in 1901. Dad refurbished the house, mid-seventies. Insulation, Drywall, paneling, popcorn painted ceilings and area rugs turned the place around, even before electricity or plumbing was added. Instead, fireplaces, a Warm Morning stove, outdoor toilet and a rain barrel became our every summer adventure, heading back to a small abode with a thermostat and a real bathtub during the school year. We merrily frolicked at the river’s edge, raised cattle, pigs and chickens, the occasional mule, helped Dad with tobacco, hay, planting and harvesting vegetables, hunted arrowheads, shot BBguns, picked blackberries and maintained a healthy awareness of snakes like we lived in the 19th century. In his head, my father sort of did. I was having the time of my life. Today, I am grateful for this character-building years-long sojourn into the past. My parents installed plumbing and a few other upgrades and moved into the farmhouse after all of us children were grown, around 1991. 

In 2012, due to Mom’s cancer and other circumstances, my father bought a house closer to town and nearer to doctors and the hospital. The farm is isolated with sometimes inaccessible country roads. Since I was freshly divorced, he convinced me to take up residency on the farm so that the empty house would not get vandalized or become a drug den.

In the seventies, Dad didn’t believe in the future of electricity or otherwise could not envision the number of useless appliances the next generation would find not only convenient but necessary. He felt ahead of his time including two whole outlets per room. Re-learning how to live in an old house whose electricity has not been modernized to meet today’s standards and whose prior inhabitants had learned how to “make things work” without actually having them repaired, included several “combinations” of actions I needed to learn to keep the house running smoothly. Namely, deciphering the tangled web of which outlets in how many rooms, both upstairs and down, whose wiring led to the same 15-amp fuse. I should have bought stock in Buse fuses for the number of boxes I purchased and went through in those early months, grateful they still existed.

Another thing he made sure to tell me was about the relationship he had formed with a huge black rat snake that lived in the shed out back. As I’ve indicated, snakes aren’t even my favorite subject, but out of reverence to my father, I listened to his tutorial.

            “You know I store feed in that building, for the cattle. Mice get in it and make a big mess. That big snake keeps the mice and rat population down so I like him being in there. He’s not poisonous and he never bothers me. When I go into the shed to retrieve the lawn mower I talk to him, warn him I’m coming in. He may be hanging from a rafter or laying on the ground someplace. I pull the riding mower out and start it up. When he hears the engine, he comes out and makes his way down toward the pond. I guess he’s getting a drink. I don’t see him again until after I’ve finished cutting grass. Later in the evening, when it’s quiet, I can sometimes see him returning to the building. We’ve been doing this for years. We made a deal.”

            “Okay,” I tell him, “I can live with that.” Even though secretly I thought, okay then, I’m not going in that shed, which turned out to be impossible. So, I did indeed follow in my father’s footsteps and tried my hand at snake whispering, which might or might not sound more like clanging and banging and yelling warnings rather than actual whispers. I named the snake, Earl.

Dad cut more grass than the immediate area around the house. He had cleared and tamed almost an acre of land, to keep the snakes at bay, he’d said, even though he made exception for Earl. He thought it wise to claim territory separate from the wilder fields and fence rows that bordered the woodland’s edge to provide a clear view of encroaching wildlife. He advised me to do the same. But since he took his riding mower with him to the new house and I still only had a push mower, I hired a neighbor to keep my lawn tidy. I told him the snake story and asked if he could please respect my father’s wishes and look out for Earl. “It’s been there for years,” I tell him. “It doesn’t want to harm anyone.”

Vernon was on the lookout for Earl, no doubt. His first encounter with Dad’s rat snake shocked them both. He entered the shed looking for a weed eater. The lanky sentry hung from a rafter at eye level as he entered, probably wondering who the hell this guy thinks he is entering Herbert Crow’s field mouse buffet. After that, unbeknownst to me, Vernon began strapping on a sidearm before arriving to mow the grass.

After a month or two of cutting the grass with no further incidents I thought all was well. However, one day, Vernon gave in to his own fears and ignored my sentiment about the friendly cohabitant of my abode. He knocked on my door, and using a hoe to extend his reach and not actually touch the old guy, held out his conquered prey to me the way my dogs string out a dead rabbit on my doorstep…as a gift.

            “That’s Earl,” I say, confused.

            “Don’t worry, I got him,” Vernon said. “I hate me a snake. That’s why I carry this.” He proudly pointed to his waist band where he’d holstered the offending weapon. The story he told was just as my father had described, the snake heard the mower and came out of the building to head down to the pond, minding his own business. Only Vernon didn’t care where he was going. Seeing the snake, he chased it down with his lawn tractor, close enough to get a good shot with his pistol because he sure as hell wasn’t going to get off that mower and possibly get bit. He also wasn’t going to let it out of his sight for fear of where it might go…and…he didn’t want to miss. Poor Earl had made it all the way to the fence row, about to cross the threshold to safety before he felt the blow. Vernon was proud.

My father had warned me about the snake we’d named Earl. But we both failed to warn Earl about the viper named Vernon.

            “Oh, that’s so sad,” said the lady who would have instantly sold Martha’s den-of-snakes’ house.

“I can’t believe he did that!” said another. “Did you let him keep mowing your lawn after that?”

“Do you hear how you have all changed your attitudes from loathing to compassion and concern for a snake?” I ask, “Now, that’s alchemy.”         

Recycling

Old Soul Medicine Crow2 Comments

I wrote this essay many years ago to have a laugh with and about my father. He liked this essay and bragged to his friends that I used him as a muse for my stories. One of his greatest attributes was being able to laugh at himself and tell his own embarrassing stories.

            When Dad had by-pass surgery, Mom’s company was all he wanted. He was like a child, scared to let Mom out of his sight. Having his tender heart manhandled did a real number on his psyche. The rest of us became pegs looking for a hole to fill. How to help him became how to help Mom while she was sitting beside Dad. On one of my visits, I chose to tackle the kitchen.

            I started by washing the dishes which included more cottage cheese containers and peanut butter jars than I care to remember. My parents could never stand to throw away perfectly good containers, with lids! Throughout my childhood, the dreaded empties lined up on the kitchen counter soaking in soapy water. I always hoped they got washed out before it was my turn at the dishes.

I was sure Mom had a real set of dishes, I’d seen them on birthdays and holidays, but they were hidden behind a multitude of Happy Meal cups, margarine tubs and other designs of reusable ingenuity picked up at the local grocery store or fast-food chain. The rest of the country may live in a throw-away society, but not my folks. They don’t throw anything away. With their grandchildren grown, I felt fairly certain Mom and Dad should be able to use the good stuff without breaking it so I took a few liberties with the cleanout. I imagined how happy Mom would be to find I’d made so much new space in her cabinets. Then, I opened the silverware drawer. I expected to see the complete set of table ware that we’d once collected from inside detergent boxes at A & P. I didn’t know I would have to hunt for it beneath the best KFC and Long John Silvers had to offer, separated by color and stuffed into reused plastic bread sacks wedged between the silverware tray and the side of the drawer, which barely closed.

             Being a preacher’s wife meant mom did not have to cook on Sundays. But that didn’t mean she had the day off. After church we visited shut-ins, sick and old, in their homes, in hospitals and nursing homes until supper. ALL of us. Sometimes, if Dad was lucky, a member of his congregation would invite us for a meal after church (saving him money), but, if we were lucky, they wouldn’t. Yes, the home cooked meals were fantastic, but fast food was a rare and festive occasion for us then and Long John Silver’s did not expect the “children to be seen and not heard”.

            Dad never failed to remind us to save our plastic forks, “You never know when you’ll want to go on a picnic.”  His words still resonate. We never questioned it. We lived in a perpetual state of hope for this thing we saw on television which included a red and white plaid table cloth laid out in the middle of some central park like place and a grand basket filled with fried chicken and deviled eggs, our friends frolicking in the background. There may even be a lake involved. The closest we got to a picnic was riding a wagon behind Dad’s tractor down to the riverbank on our farm to watch skiers skim the water on weekends. Mom probably packed sandwiches. Not a bad adventure but we didn’t need plastic forks for that. I wonder if plastic dinnerware is considered a collectible antique after twenty years, like cars? I could be rich!

            Dad was born in 1928, one of thirteen children.

            Recycling wasn’t even a word back then, it was survival. Dad’s skills in saving had been honed to perfection and carried out in our own family. I’m not knocking his frugality; it was a good lesson for me to learn. I still live within my means and re-use everything possible. It’s just that he and Mom kept everything, well past it’s time.

We enjoyed the treasure hunt of yard sales but no treasures were ever found at one of our own. Once my parents were finished with an item, there was no use left in it. Mom wondered why she couldn’t make any money at yard sales like other people did.

            This fork collection though! Mom had gone to the grocery, most likely because she needed out of the house for a breath while I was there with Dad. I felt sure she wouldn’t mind so I started pulling the massive collection from every nook and cranny in several kitchen drawers. Unfortunately, Dad’s reclining chair was positioned with a view to the corner of the kitchen where I began.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

“I’m just cleaning up a bit, Dad.”

“You’re not throwing those away, are you?” I recognized his high-pitched agitation voice from my childhood. I turned to look at him.  

“I’m thinking about it, Dad. We’re all grown now, why would you need dozens and dozens of plasticware you never use?” I asked.

“You never know…” he began.

“When you’ll want to go on a picnic?” I completed his sentence. He knew he was being called out and I knew I’d overstepped my bounds. Here came that high pitched voice again.

“I have no intention for you to come in here while I’m down and go changing everything around. Does your mother know what you’re up to?”

I knew I was treading on fragile ground, here. I didn’t want to cause him more stress.  “Dad, how about this?” I said, “I’ll box them up and label them and you can keep them in storage. But let’s at least clean out these kitchen drawers, can we? I’ll bet Mom would appreciate that. He agreed, albeit reluctantly. I found a shoe box (of course I found a shoe box, they never got thrown away either) and started stuffing all the white forks and knives and spoons into it, realizing I was going to need a second box for the black set.

            A couple of months passed with no mention of the ‘cleaning incident’.  It was late August and time for our family reunion, which Dad always organized. With his recent open heart surgery, they were going to need some help. Mom phoned to ask what I would bring and let it slip that Dad had volunteered to supply utensils. We both laughed. I should have been glad he’d decided to finally use the things. Or, re-use them as the case may be. I know in my head that plastic can be washed, but somehow the idea of these used plastic forks just bothered me. Who knows, the person I might be eating after could be me—some twenty-five years earlier. It just didn’t seem right.

            Dad, one of thirteen children, gifted me with forty-eight first cousins. Reunion Day arrived and so did our relatives, like a gaggle of geese migrating south. Some in fancy cars as if to say we too should have followed them north for better jobs and better lives. I had no intention of telling them about the forks. I actually thought it was a little bit funny. I came, of course, equipped with my own.

            Standing in line for food I noticed my cousin Bobby, a local, with a stainless-steel fork sticking out of his back pocket. His mother and my Dad were siblings. I slid in the food line behind him. “I see that,” I whispered, tapping on the fork. 

            He pulled me aside as if we were about to become traitors to our country.  “Listen,” he said, “my mom saves her used plastic forks and brings them to these reunions. I’d be careful if I were you, which one you choose.”

            “It’s worse than you think,” I said, laughing, “so does my dad.”  I pulled out my fork to show him and we both broke out laughing. He raised an eyebrow and we looked around the room at all those unsuspecting cousins.

            “You mean all the plastic ware on that table have been used already?” he said.

            “Yep. Should we tell anybody?”

            “No way. It’s too late anyway.” Then, we saw Kim, another local, her mother another sister to the two culprits. The three of us had become pretty close as cousins go. We hated to leave her out so we approached as if we had unearthed a murderous family skeleton.

            “Kim,” I began, “Bobby and I want to tell you a secret.”

            “What’s that?” she grinned.

            “My dad and his mom save all their used plastic forks and bring them to this reunion. We brought our own!” We each pulled our stainless-steel forks out of our pockets.

            “Why do you think I’m carrying my own soda can?” Kim said, “My mom brings the cups.”

Rollin’, 2008

Old Soul Medicine Crow2 Comments

(This essay was written in 2008 under the title, “Balls”. At the time, my life was taking a major turn. I was still married, although barely.)

Thanks to the Kentucky River Sweep, an initiative where volunteers in a parade of boats clean the river, our water and its banks contain less trash than they have in years.  My (now ex-) husband and I both grew up on the Kentucky River; him, a water dog and me, a bank dweller.  My parents’ farm borders the river and though they tried their best to keep me out of it, I spent hours on the bank fishing and watching boats go by. His parents owned boat after boat, even living on one for a while. Between the two of us, we have seen almost everything floating in that pool from bleach bottles to cow carcasses and shot most of it with our Daisy Red Ryders. Until a concerted effort was made to clean the unnatural floating debris left by careless polluters, one particular phenomenon escaped us both. That is, the great number of balls that end up there; basketballs, soccer balls, volley balls, kickballs. Easily a natural migration of gravity, or is it something more.  

            On a recent trip between locks and dams, a twenty-mile journey in our 1969 Lonestar Runabout, we spotted at least six different balls. There were virtually no other foreign objects.  So, we figured, with people being more careful, the balls must be getting there on their own. If it is round and filled with air, it eventually makes its way to the river. We were surprised we’d never noticed before. I also wonder if maybe this is new, a result of our throw away mentality.  When I was a kid, a ball, even deflated, held promise of future play. We never threw anything away, using it far beyond its natural life and then holding on to it just in case. What does it say about us today that we allow our kids to so easily discard these loyal playmates, leaving them to fend for themselves.

I love the river. This natural waterway snakes a path in and out of hollows and past people’s homes, gathering knowledge and strength from its mountain origins, never making excuses for humble beginnings. Every drop of water as important as the next, it eventually spills its wisdom into the great fountain that is its destiny. Along the way, it watches the life and death of farms and children as well as corn, cows and marijuana. Towns and Cities gather at its banks as the gentle lapping of water whispers the secrets of its people. Trees line the narrow banks of the Kentucky like arms welcoming a child come home and together with the sun provide a strobe-like prism across our faces transporting us from our daily worries. And, this little piece of heaven is as close as our next breath or our next drink of water. No wonder the balls want to go there. They are drawn, like us, to a better place. Who could blame them?

I thought about the lives these balls had witnessed and the children they had entertained.  Perhaps, even while being loved, they were taken for granted or sometimes abused. No matter how good the intention, a Chuck Taylor to the gut is never easy to take. I have to say, as a mother in the hollows of an empty nest, I know how they feel. Like a helium balloon cut loose after the party, they are no longer needed. They have entered a new phase of their existence. The purpose they served for so many years now finished, they must re-define themselves, find meaning in their last days. I have seen them, left in the yard, un-noticed, deflated, until one day, I imagine they hear the call of a faint song on a distant breeze, “Brothers and Sisters, come on down, come to the river to pray.”  A spa for old balls to soak, carefree on endless days. With no pressure to hold breath against hard concrete or bony fists, the tired, half inflated sphere allows the warmth of the sun to expand its possibilities, breathe in new life.  It waits for the earth to move, a wind or maybe a flood to begin this journey of patience and gravity.  Like aging, only a slow-motion camera could recognize their gradual yet deliberate migration southward.The lesson is not lost on me. We all need patience and perseverance to get where we’re going.

Driving across the river on a one lane bridge, following the railroad track up Miller’s Creek Road, I saw two more balls well on their way. One, a basketball, had made it all the way to the road but landed in the ditch. I wondered how long it would take before a rain would come heavy enough to get it out of that predicament. I pictured an over-loaded logging truck unable to brake on a wet road just as the ball started across. I almost stopped like I do when I see a turtle in the road. I thought tossing the ball over the hill would take months off its journey and ensure a safe passage, but then I saw a kickball down by the railroad tracks waiting for the next coal train to rattle the ground and I realized the path is never safe. There are dangers everywhere. With only six balls in a twenty-mile span, it is clear only the strongest survive. It’s the natural order of things and just because I noticed it, doesn’t mean I can change the outcome. Maybe, no matter how much help they receive, the ultimate responsibility is theirs to stay focused on the goal and take their chances with fate.  It takes guts…or balls to keep rolling along knowing they may not make it. Maybe even inanimate objects know it’s the journey that matters most. Maybe the obstacles they overcome make the destination even greater and the memories, stories they can tell the next generation. Maybe this story has little to do with abandoned soccer balls.

With the passing of my father-in-law, I helped sort through his life’s remains. The things left behind do tell stories, some are hard to listen to while others bring a chuckle. Packrats that we are, children of parents who lived through the first depression, parents of children who are about to experience one for the first time, the need to scrimp and save may come back into vogue. We tried to find a home for any good item we didn’t want, but even with conscious minds, there are some things that never should’ve been saved in the first place.  When the garbage men came to pick up some thirty-odd contractor bags full of trash there was still a basketball on the shelf in the garage, older than our grown children, breathless and bounce-less. I couldn’t throw it away. One of the men said, “What you gonna do with that basketball?”

“It’s yours if you want it,” I said, happy to find a willful home.

“I collect old balls. Pick’em up every chance I get. Sometimes we see them in the ditch,” the garbage man said. “I always stop.” 

 “What do you do with them?” I felt hopeful for one last ditch effort to give these balls another chance.

“We have an awful problem with dogs chasing the truck, but those balls take care of it,” he said.

“What do you mean? You throw it at them?”

“Naw, I’ll show you,” he said as he continued to load our discards. I hadn’t noticed when he’d wedged the basketball between the tandem tires on the back right side and hollered at his driver to pull up. “Hold your ears,” he said. It blew like a stick of dynamite. He straightened his back proud and waited for our praise of his genius. “Stops dogs in their tracks.”

 Clearly, I’ve given this way too much thought but I caught myself feeling sorry for the ball. It hadn’t played for years, but now it would never even make it to the river. Then, I remembered something my son told me while we were visiting his grandmother in the nursing home.

            “You don’t ever have to worry about going to a place like this.  I’m not gonna let it happen,” he said.

            “Are you going to take care of me?” I asked, surprised at his concern.

            “Naw,” he said. When it gets to that point, I’ll just shoot you in the head.” 

“Thanks son, that makes me feel so much better.”

All kidding aside, I know from experience there are a lot worse things than death. So, I’ll continue to notice the balls in odd places and wish them well and think about them as I wander along and hope that wherever my journey ends, the stories of how I got there will be good and the view as beautiful as an autumn day on the Kentucky River.