LAST STOP

                                O              O      

                                         

As beautiful as the countryside is, there is a relentless effort to trash it. On almost every farm, there are wonderful ravines full of old cars and washing machines. Rusted out farm machinery fills rolling pastures. Trees grow through abandoned tractor windows. One nearby gulley is filled with twisted metal, an old mobile home long since buried and grown over. One summer a fox raised her kits in a cave under its corrugated side panel.

In the field behind us there was an old school bus. It was buried in the ground up to the bottom step. There’s no access to that field, and it’s a good half-mile off the road. I have no idea how it got to its final resting place.

Our little seven-year old friend spotted that bus in an instant. We set out through the marsh. When we stepped inside, it was clear someone had actually lived in there. It had a refrigerator, chairs, dishes, old bus seats, and broken glass throughout. The arrangement had to be the result of a rollover.

This was a little boy’s dream. He sat in the moss covered driver’s seat and turned the huge steering wheel. He shifted, checked the gauges, pulled knobs. He stood on top of the bus, king of the swamp.

Turns out the bottom field wasn’t the final resting place for that bus. One day it simply disappeared. It didn’t sink into the earth like the cow did. (See entry for 2/22.)  It would have taken a crane to lift it, but the crane would have to be airlifted in. I believe I’d have noticed that. And the bus was such a rust-bucket that surely it would fall to pieces under its own weight. The more obvious question, of course, is who wanted that pile of rubble? This carjacker must have been smoking pokeweed.

A few weeks later I was driving along a country road and spotted the bus in a farmyard 2 miles away. It was above ground, but it didn’t look any better. That bus did not need restoring; it needed resurrecting. If they get ‘er done, it will be the triumph of hope over impossibility. 

IT’S A BIRD!

 IT’S A - BIRD?

Do you look at a 737 and wonder how it’s possible to get such a thing up in the air? The wild turkey has even worse aerodynamic qualities. My old dog, Obe, once stepped on a turkey in the field. It screamed and took to the air, and that’s putting it generously. It lumbered into the air, heading for the woods. Turkeys are very slow to achieve a cruising altitude, and Obe grabbed its foot a couple of times. It escaped to see another turkey season.

You’d hope that if you can’t run fast or get off the ground efficiently, you’d be extra smart. Turkeys, consider the dinosaur. Heed the brain-to-body size issue.

We have wilderness all around us, but one turkey laid her eggs right by the house. I knew our dogs would use those turkey babies (poults) for dog treats.

So here I go again, this time building a turkey preserve. (See Feb. 23 entry.) I dragged a fence out there and staked it. It had to be quite large; turkeys have a wingspan of 5-6 feet. But I was realistic-with a brain the size of a chestnut, we weren't going to have any precision landings in that pen. She abandoned her eggs. One of them still sits by our Haviland china.

The Song of the Turkey is never going to catch on, either. Their gobbling sounds like they’re falling down stairs.

So-not great flyers, not great singers. No grip whatsoever on location, location, location. Good thing they’re attractive; well, good thing they're unusual.

Turkeys have both waddles and snoods. (Sounds like a country duo from the 60s, doesn't it?) Take the waddle. It’s a chunk of tissue that hangs below the beak. It’s also called a dewlap. And a caruncle. Everything about this bird is unattractive, even its parts list. Even weirder is the turkey snood. That’s the nasty-looking piece of skin that hangs from the bird’s forehead, waving in front of its eyes. It’s a cockscomb, and it’s used as a garnish in France. In a cream sauce. With turkey or chicken kidneys. Honest. The turkey may not be too bright or graceful, but unlike people in France, you would never ever see one eating creamed snood.

To see songs about turkeys:

http://festivals.iloveindia.com/thanks-giving/songs-poems/short-turkey-songs.html

To hear a turkey sing:

http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Wild_Turkey/id

PRINCESS SUMMER-FALL-WINTER-SPRING

There must be a gene that compels kids to build forts, hideouts, and tree houses, to throw a blanket over a card table in a pinch or hide behind the long dresses in the closet. I myself moved into a well-house when I was peeved. I was 3-yrs. old.

I suppose most kids outgrow this compulsion when they get an actual house or apartment. Not me. When we moved out of town, there was this flat spot along the south fence that was begging for it. So I ordered it. It was my own tipi. At last.

This was no sissy tipi; it was made by the people who made the ones in Dances with Wolves. They work out of Bend, Oregon.

A very puzzled looking UPS driver backed up to our garage and unloaded 16 lodge pole pines, each one 16 ft. long. There also was a very large box with the rest of the tipi ingredients. I read that two Native American women could put one of these things up in 1-2 hrs. Piece of cake.

The first step is raising the poles. Thing is, they go in a very particular order. And in a very specific position. At exact angles. That seemed easy enough. Bruce and I got started, and when all of that was accomplished, we noticed one little problem. The bottoms of the poles were not at the assigned distances apart. We moved one pole. That threw off all the angles and began an afternoon that made one yearn for a card table fort. Next day we completed the task and wound the rope around the poles near the top to secure them.

Next came the canvas. Spread out in the field, it was the size of Philadelphia and weighed about the same. The tipi was going to have a 16-foot diameter if we managed to get it up. One attaches the canvas to the last pole and then rolls the canvas around it. Next step is to raise that pole into place. Of course that pole with the canvas attached is not easy to lift into a specific notch 16 feet in the air. Two Native American women? Come on!

We wrapped the canvas around the frame, which was not coincidentally shaped like a tipi. It was as beautiful as I’d imagined. The canvas had to be laced together, and this was akin to lacing Kate Smith into Kate Moss’s corset. This had to be done while standing on the top of an 8 foot stepladder, and yes, I know those other two women did not have a step ladder. This is a delicate moment in the life of a tipi. It’s fully upright but not yet staked and tethered to the ground.  It is a bad time for a wind to come up. The one that did was not just any wind; it was a terrific gust, and it lifted the tipi straight up like Apollo 13. The ladder was half in and half out of the tipi so it went right along for the ride. And on the ladder, one old squaw from Iowa County rose into the air about 8 feet before crashing down on the concrete base.

 The tipi did eventually go up, and it lasted a long time. It was beautifully painted with buffalo all around. One white buffalo was added as a symbol of peace and harmony. A soaring eagle was painted near the top and was silhouetted by the setting sun.

Little friend Jake and I burned our smudge sticks made from homegrown oregano and lavender  wrapped with dental floss. We had a secret box with treasures in it. We had a not-so-authentic Tupperware box full of books on Indian life and a not-so-authentic futon with an Indian blanket on it.

We shared the tipi with countless mice, a few reptiles, and on many occasions felt as though we were starring in  Dances with Mosquitoes. But there was nothing like seeing the sun rise in the door, just as it’s supposed to do.

And then the flood came and the tipi blew down. We couldn’t reach it for weeks and the canvas succumbed.

Truth is, I can’t quite let it go. A little piece remains in our front yard, decorated with red, white, and blue lights, an irony not lost on anyone.

I haven’t ruled out another such fort. Seems to me the older you get, the wiser it is to have a hideout handy.