OH 'POSSUM!

On a morning when I was atypically still asleep at sunrise, husband woke me, drooling in deep sleep, by shouting - "Mumma, there's a possum out here who's sick!"  Since I panic when he calls me "Mumma," (It always means he's in desperate straits) I leaped from my four poster and ran downstairs in my gowntail to see a healthy older oppossum trying frantically to free himself from the garbage bag tie that had noosed around his privates and rendered him helpless, among other things.

After much sturm und drang, I got a pair of sissors and clipped the tie.  He still wouldn't move so I put a basket and cover over him to allow him time to recover.

Meanwhile, Husband had called Mathews Animal Control, which is manned by compassionate people who actually care about animals.  That is some definite progress in these parts.  I commend them with extreme praise.

On arrival, Mr. Horne (the Animal Control Officer) picked possum up by the tail, unraveled the plastic tie, and put him under a bush.  He headed for beneath our deck, with his poor testicles conspicuously hanging low, and prepared to return to normal or a little less.

We haven't seen him since, but Mr. Horne says he'll be fine but will probably be cured of his desire for sex.  I, for one, can live with that.  I left him a little food in case he gets hungry. 

And life resumes on Waverly Lane.

EXERCISE FOR THE SOUL

Walking is good for your health whether it is accomplished on an expensive treadmill with various speeds and levels of difficulty, or on a brisk trip down a tree-lined dirt lane.  I choose the latter because I require the prospect of the unexpected.

On a treadmill, you can trot away in the same location to your favorite tunes, or watch TV and hope your feet don't get confused and launch you backwards.

On a real walk you can see this:

or this:

and this:

and sometimes this:

Sounds of birds, frogs and neighborhood dogs punctuate the stream of thoughts that wash through consciousness once immersed in nature.  It's impossible not to have thoughts.  Today on my walk, I thought about how much I love living things; about the inconsequence of a single life; about the contradiction of death to the proposition of life.  And then I realized that one's own death is an imperceivable state, a sudden midnight with no new dawn, and our bit of time ends but remains part of all of time.  Try that on a treadmill...and then take a real walk.

TIPPING OVER THE SILO

In the summer of 2009, the silo came down.  As part of our shoreline project, Husband managed to include the demolition of the very old and dangerously crumbling silo nested closely to the old red barn, which is our Waverly trademark.  Inhabited seasonally by ravens, black-headed vultures and other things that go bump in the night, we had mixed feelings about its demise, but reasoned it could only end up hurting someone with its occasional masonry tile exfoliation.  Each section was brick-heavy and capable of killing.  So, over she went.

As I captured the precise moment of death on camera, a lump lodged in my throat and a still, barometric depression began forming in my chest.  "Is it just a heart attack," I thought, "or am I going to cry?"  Neither happened.  And then "Ca-Smash."  Quiet is the time after an event so transforming.  The former brown, shiny, stoney silo was an elongated ridge of broken pottery.    White dust hung in a cloud  over the slain corpse of our long-time companion and the grave diggers with metal arms loaded the remains onto a huge dump truck bound for landfill interment.  Goodbye forever, old friend.

After a respectable period of mourning, we visited the death scene and were pleasantly surprised to discover a cleared, beautiful, fertile, loamy garden space that had been hiding under our deceased friend.  A great place to sow seeds for a late fall garden.  The impetus of the universe from cosmic to quantum emerges tirelessly, a last act/first act melding of everything, destruction fomenting the beginnings of new and wonderful possibilities.

THE MOTHER'S DAY GIFT

   
    Mother gardened for pleasure.  Father planted vegetables while Mother grew and maintained a large strawberry patch of the "Red Rich" variety and flowers in the form of climbing roses, gladiolas, hollyhocks, verbena, four o'clocks and portulaca.

    Once I observed her creating new rose plants from cuttings.  I took careful note of the process and secretly took a cutting, planting it at the far end of Dad's garden, placing a rock over the base of the future rose plant.  By Mother's Day, it had taken hold and was gaining strength and growing out.

    As a nine year old, I had no money to buy presents, so I drew and colored a card and put a bow on the fledgling rose bush.  On Mother's Day, I told my mom I had a big surprise for her.  She followed me down to the garden and her surprise was genuine and touching. 

    Never again did I surpass the success of that particular present or fail to understand the power and awe of love and enthusiasm for life, transplanted from parent to child.

    Happy Mother's Day.

ICABOD, THE SNAKE

Long ago, my Father-in-Law claimed acquaintance with a member of the wildlife community inhabiting one of the many dimensions of his grassy barnyard on Waverly Lane.  He dubbed his friend "Icabod."  I suppose it was the first name that occurred to him gazing into the eyes of a fully mature and robustly healthy black snake.

Icabod Poses

Father-in-Law seldom mowed the grass, owing to his gas-burning frugality, and when he did he used a bush hog.  As its name implies, a bush hog takes care of bushes leaving grass pretty high.

Perhaps it was Icabod's effect on various visitors that Father-in-law enjoyed most.  In particular, one of his wife's friends - a city slicker from California - who never ceased recounting the horror of her encounter with Icabod in the tall grass.  As her voice climbed higher and her gestures became more frantic, I detected a naughty smile curling the corners of his mouth.

Father-in-Law Enjoying a Smile

On meeting the big snake, I usually screamed making apology to Icabod for being so unsophisticated.  He took it with his usual aplomb, disregarding me as he slithered on his way (no doubt some grumbling sexist explanation crossing his primitive reptilian mind).

Icabod, Ready for His Closeup

Over the years various descendants of the original Icabod, who we still call "Icabod" remain with us.  Grandaughter was nearly crowned by a tree-climbing Icabod, who took an inadvertent fall.  Everyone recovered.  On the hottest day, one climbed our front steps and had to be gently removed with a shovel to the shady bank.  Recently the young men reinforcing our shoreline with stones described their chilly bumps when witnessing the size of an Icabod in the brush.  I explained he was a family member in good standing and meant no harm.

Now He's Getting Nervous

All the Icabods love duck eggs and show up regularly to dine, the ducks objecting vehemently.  What it must be like to cause such a stir everywhere you go!  Since he hardly missed a day touting the serpentine magnificence of Icabod, Father-in-Law would take pride.

FLOWER SEASON

Old man winter will soon suffer death by daffodil.  Blooms are in the late-planning stage on Waverly Lane, as my hopes for another deep snow are giving in to anticipation of gardens to come.  When the yellow and white tide arrives, the pall of winter's depression will lift and we'll all be ready for Spring.

Daffodils Facing the Sun

When I was a child, everyone in these parts had daffodils - including my parents, who shipped and sold some from our acreage of flowers.  The weather was always temperamental in our flower field and the March wind blew from every direction, including straight up and down.  One year I picked so many, I became sensitized to the pollen and developed a wheeze.  My parents were unimpressed.  I didn't die, but the end of "flower season" was cause to celebrate for me.  Some poor souls developed "flower poisoning," which resulted when flower sap managed to insinuate itself in an opening of the skin.

Later Varieties Have Sweeter Fragrance

Our current crop is long neglected, but we still manage to pick some, sell some and give away some.  They have returned to the wild on Waverly Lane.

Mrs. Backhouse with Salmon Pink Trumpet