CSI,* YORK TOWNSHIP

40 years ago D.B. Cooper hijacked a 727 airliner, extorted a $200,000 ransom, and parachuted into the great Northwest. Extensive FBI and amateur searches have found no trace of him. I’m thinking a trace might be a pretty optimistic chunk considering the altitude where D.B. deplaned. The FBI searched Washington and Oregon, and while it’s preferable to be in Washington or Oregon, there’s a fair chance he populates the soil on both sides of the border. The case remains unsolved.

The disappearance of D.B. Cooper is a major FBI unsolved crime, but they wouldn't have any better luck figuring out the everyday goings-on at Gron-acres. It’s these niggling little mysteries that eventually drive you crazy.

Bart and Homer live about a mile down the road. I’m not sure how these mutts found us because our house is down a thousand-foot lane and out of sight from the road. But here they came, trotting toward my 3 dogs. I figured I was about to see something that would make Michael Vick shudder in anticipation, but I was wrong. Those 5 dogs––Bart, Homer, and my dogs––Obe, Ellie, and Norah––did the requisite stern-to-bow meet and greet, and everything was copacetic.

We have wide, mowed walking paths through our property, and Bart and Homer joined us on our morning stroll. They came back every few days, and all 5 pooches had a great time.

I became a little concerned about my dogs catching something from these otherwise nice visitors because there were no rabies tags on their collars and they had more ticks than Big Ben. I am not a wuss––these engorged ticks were the size of green grapes. Additionally, some chunks of Bart's fur weren’t as tightly attached as others. So, I decided we’d better end the visits. I loaded them in the truck and delivered them to their own yard.

I have no idea how those two got back to my house before I did, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. Our front gate has a latch on the outside , and you must lift it straight up by hand, not by paw. Yet, the gate was open, my dogs had split, and Homer and Bart were lying on my front porch. I schlepped them home again. 

     Obe                         Norah                          Ellie 
The right dogs on the right porch at the right time

When I got home, my 3 were sitting there with that “What’s yer problem?” look that dogs get after they’ve broken a rule.

Homer and Bart came back a couple of times a week, unlatched the lock, opened the gate, released my dogs, and then took up residence on our porch. When our girls did return, usually they were wearing sand-burr body suits, head to tail. My worst worry was that they wouldn't return at all. 

I called the dogs’ owner and explained the problem. She said she’d take care of it, and she did.

The question is how? When I drive past their house, I see Homer and Bart running around free as birds, yet they never come back to our place. No one would mistake them for obedience class valedictorians, so I doubt a simple discussion did the trick.

And now I feel guilty. Who says dogs don’t have feelings? 

I kind of miss them.

* Curiously Strange Incidents

More about ticks:

http://entomology.ucdavis.edu/faculty/rbkimsey/tickbio.html

More about dogs navigational systems:

http://www.petplace.com/dogs/homing-behavior-in-dogs-and-cats/page1.aspx

To read a pitiful FBI account about failure to find D.B. Cooper:

http://www.fbi.gov/news/stories/2007/december/dbcooper_123107

AH, SWEET MYSTERY MISERY OF LIFE

My husband is allergic to strawberries. By allergic I mean if he touches the tip of his finger to strawberry yogurt and puts it near his tongue, he swells up like the Michelin man in a red body stocking. He was, however, kind enough to encourage me to put in a few strawberry plants for myself at our new home.

“No reason you can’t enjoy a fresh strawberry,” he said.

I promised never to bring a berry into the house and to keep any paroxysms of joy at a low volume.

I planted just a few berry plants, but the very next spring, a surprising number of strawberries popped out almost overnight. I quietly stepped into the garden and picked the biggest, reddest berry, turned my back to the house, and bit into it.

 

I had never had food before. I had never been happy before. If this was my last meal, I was okay with that. My friends, we have forgotten what strawberries taste like. We eat big red polystyrene berries. They look right. They may feel right. But they do not explode in your brain screaming, “STRAW-BER-RY!” People talk about the Big O only because they can’t describe the Big S.

“How are the berries?” he asked when I came in.

“Not too bad,” I said. My skin stood still but my subcutaneous parts whirled around, beat out a soft shoe, and shimmied like my sister Judy.

There is a price for such happiness. I hadn’t lived in the country for a long time, so I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that you can’t see them––they are only 1/150^th of an inch long––but when they get together with their buddies, they will put a hurtin’ on you. Can you guess who was marching around on me looking for creases and crevices? Under the elastic? Under the leg bands? Neckbands? In the socks? Reveling in my armpits? Gleeful in my groins? The less likely you are to scratch a spot while waiting in line at Sears, the more likely these little guys are to select it for an infestation.

Did you guess an insect? You are wrong! Chiggers are the larval form of an insect, specifically of the mite. Mites are arachnids, cousins to spiders. I’d much rather have spiders in my pants than chiggers, I can tell you that. If you don’t think so, come sit in my strawberry patch and check back in the next day.

The saliva that chiggers inject is an enzyme––it doesn’t irritate your cells; it dissolves them. The itch this creates caused me to rummage like a madwoman through the basement looking for the wire brush I use to strip paint from old furniture. Scars seemed a small price to pay for relief.

After 6 or 7 years of enjoying strawberries, then spinning in bed like a wind turbine for the next two weeks, I’d had enough. I got out the Round-Up and ended that berry patch. It is a pitiful woman who revels in her triumph over a chigger. A larva. Something that isn’t even something yet.

Hey, Defense Department––think outside the Pentagon. Here’s the most cost-effective weapon ever developed. Drop chiggers on both sides, and war will cease. We will itch our way to détente.

CHAIN SAW MASSACRE, YORK TOWNSHIP, IOWA                                                                                             

Who among us doesn’t get excited about a huge, beautifully wrapped birthday present, especially one you can hardly lift? Even you fibbers who say, “Please don’t get me anything,“ would quiver at the gorgeous offering my husband placed on the table in front of me. I ripped it open and pulled out not a peignoir, not a cashmere sweater, but a chain saw.

In his defense, my husband knows I hate cute. When we were newlyweds he brought me a souvenir from New Orleans. His colleague brought his wife some glittery pasties. My husband brought me Holly Hobbie stationary. I would have hated those pasties, but there’s a lot of territory between pasties and Holly Hobbie, buster. I gave him a look he’s apparently never forgotten. In 42 years, no more cute stuff. With the bright red, petite-size chain saw, you can see how far from cute we had come.

Who else has a best friend you can call, tell her about your new chain saw, and know she will be as excited as you are? “We can trim trees! We can cut firewood! Be there in half an hour!”

Never having touched a chain saw, Pam and I actually read the directions. One in particular caught my eye. It explained that if you do not hold the chain saw just right and you hit a knot in the wood, the saw could fly back and split your forehead open. I do admire wide-set eyes, but I already have enough trouble finding glasses that fit . I started to repack the chain saw, but Pam urged me to “just give it a try.”

We selected a small tree, about 3-inches in diameter and 30’ high.  My forehead tingled in anticipation. We pulled the starter rope, and the motor roared. Hey! We were already good at this. We cut in about 2-inches, and the saw stopped. It was jammed. This on a tree so small I could make a soprano recorder out of it. We handled this little setback, however. We were, after all, woods-women! We pushed the tree over. One tree down.

We proceeded through the woods making cuts as far as 6 or 8 inches in all the dead trees in our path. None of them fell. Most pinched down on the saw and wouldn’t let go. We had philosophical discussions about starting from the uphill versus the downhill side of the tree trunk. (In addition to the saw-pinching problem, there is an issue of kick-back when a tree falls; as the top of the tree hits the ground, the cut end, newly freed, can leap up and catch you under your chin.)

We came to the creek, and I held the saw while my friend leaped across. She took off from the east bank, became airborne, and landed with her feet stuck firmly in the mud on the west bank. The rest of her didn’t quite make it that far––she sat back down in the middle of the creek, which consisted of an inch of water on a bed of black mud. So, Miss Chain Saw of 1998 wasn’t quite so enthused about our venture now. And I bet she never wore white pants on her deforestation soirées after that.

Back home, my husband had been hearing that chain saw make its way through the forest for nearly 3 hours. He figured we'd be able to farm that land the next spring. 

We, by gum, were going to succeed in felling at least one tree before we gave up. Our final victim was a good-sized dead locust. We made it darn near 9 inches in but once again could not finish that last inch. Now we had a 50’ tree that was cut 9/10ths of the way through. And 13-years later, we still do.

Since 1998, we’ve had 2 tornados and one hurricane-force wind go through our place and plenty of winter storms with gusts up to 50 mph. Even though Pam and I had created a 20-acre Pick-Up-Stix game, those trees still have not budged. I’m feeling pretty good about the future of our woods.