KÜBLER-ROSS SAID THERE’D BE DAYS LIKE THIS

When I was a hospice nurse, visitors taking in our panoramic view often said,  “What a wonderful place to escape all that suffering, disease, and death at the end of the day."

Our home is the perfect place to revive and renew. What could be better than lying in the hammock on the screened porch after work watching brown creepers scurry up a tree trunk? Creepers are disguised as bark, and they just can’t help but do that funny creeper thing. They start at the bottom of the tree and hippity-hop all the way to the top, circling the tree as they go, then fly back down to the bottom of the next tree and start the trip over again. At first glance it looks as though the bark is all jittery, and that can mess with your head. But that’s the point­, isn’t it? Such wonders clear your head and refresh your soul. Being in the wilderness brings your attention back to the splendid variety and persistence of life. It is a dandy antidote for sad, stressful work.

But escape suffering and death by living in the country? I don't think so.

Let’s start with the trip home from town. It’s a 25-mile-long road-kill slalom course. My first week living in the country, I ran over a cat. Since my own cat sleeps on my pillow by my right ear, this was tough for me. I was ready to move back to town. Some evenings, an entire family of raccoons––mom and 3 or 4 babes––will be strewn across both lanes of the Black Diamond Road.

We found out early on that a pheasant flying head on into your car can do $1000 worth of damage, while a raccoon who stands up just as he goes under your car can run about $2500.

Possums actually wait for cars to draw near before they cross the road. I think they want to take advantage of the better lighting.

And the deer. Dozens of them crouch along Old Man’s Creek waiting for their draft number to be selected. “Your turn, Bucky.” You can never get that hair out of your grill or your side mirrors. My husband once swerved to miss a big buck, and luckily he did miss it. Not to be dissuaded, that buck immediately turned around and rammed into the back of the car.

Escape death by living in the country? A quarter mile from our mailbox I came upon a vulture feeding by the side of the road. As I passed by, he rose into the air and dragged 5 feet of coyote colon right over the hood of my truck.

The week we bought our property, I brought a friend out to see it. I wanted to show her how lovely the pond is at sunset, but as we crested the hill, we saw 7 bloated, keening geese lying on their sides in the pond. Dying––slowly. Shot––for fun.

One day I was sitting on the bank of the pond with another unfortunate friend of mine. We were admiring the cedar waxwings perched on the willows when a Red-Tailed Hawk shot out of the woods and flew just over our heads. Dangling from his talons was a rabbit, a rabbit who was screaming at the top of its little rabbit lungs. Who knew rabbits scream? Poor little guy’s options weren’t too good; stay put, endure a rough landing, and be eaten or get dropped into the pond where the snapping turtles were licking their lips. You can’t fault the screaming.

I love my dogs, but they side with nature most days. I hang orange ribbons in our hackberry tree every spring for the Orioles. Those beautiful orange and black birds spot the ribbons from the sky, and soon they are weaving their teardrop-shaped nest in our yard.  Those two Orioles fly from as far as Costa Rica and come back to build on the very same branch in our yard every year. We, however, can’t remember where we left the car in the Target parking lot. Last summer, I opened the door for Stella, who was looking unusually proud, even for an Australian Shepherd. She pranced in and deposited an Oriole on our living room rug. And this after I’d  carefully explained to her that she must catch the English sparrows, not the more colorful birds.

A few years back, a deer stumbled down our lane. It had been shot but not killed. (This absolutely never happens. Ask any hunter.) The poor thing limped across the meadow and down to the pond. Our Husky-Shepherd, Obe, took after the deer. Ordinarily, the deer could have left her in the dust, but not on this day. The deer ran into the pond, and Obe slid into the water right behind it. Our 95-lb. dog swam slowly, keeping her distance. I watched them swim the length of the pond numerous times. The wounded deer became more and more frantic and swam more slowly. I stood on the bank crying and screaming at my dog, the most gentle animal you could hope to meet, but she was more at home with the natural order of things than I am. Eventually the exhausted deer climbed onto the bank and collapsed. Obe did what animals do, and I did what I do.

Hospice work is hard work. It dishes out a whopping dose of sadness. One must care for one’s self to be able to care for others over the long haul. For me, a good walk on our dirt road after work was very soothing. One evening, I walked a mile west and when I came to our neighbor’s cattle barn, I saw two farmers working the business end of a cow. The cow was tethered to the fence, and her belly was hanging low. What great, good luck––a calf was about to be born, and I had my camera hanging around my neck.

“Mind if I watch?” I asked.

“No problem,” one of them said without looking up.

So, I watched them tug and pull and twist themselves nearly upside down trying to help that cow give birth. The cow dug her hooves into the dirt and bellowed. The men were shoulder deep trying to turn the calf, wrestling it into position to be delivered. One put his boot up on the back of the cow to get more leverage. I steadied my camera on a fence post, so excited to see this amazing event at close range.

One of the men stood up, wiped his brow, then picked up a frightening tool, a cross between forceps and long-handled tree pruning shears. He looked over at me. “You know the calf’s dead, right?”

No, I did not. Would I be standing there grinning like a goon if I knew that? Did they think I was some bovine necrophile strolling along hoping to get a prize-winning shot of a dead calf? Might we have mentioned this a little sooner?

Yes, the countryside does breathe life back into you when you are tired of seeing people suffer, when you are shredded after watching a young mother die as her children stand by. Nature fills you back up with beauty, miracles, delight, and a sense of order. Nature also reminds you that life is fleeting so you’d better not be wasting it.

What you see in the woods and meadows makes you grateful, too. As a species we have a fairly good success rate for getting across the road, and on a good day we do not have to watch over our shoulder for the shadow of a hungry Red-Tail Hawk.

More on screaming rabbits:

http://www.soundboard.com/sb/Rabbit_Bunny_Sounds_audio.aspx

More on Brown Creepers:

http://www.seattleaudubon.org/birdweb/bird_details.aspx?id=336

THE MOREL OF THE STORY

I anticipated many wonderful experiences when we headed for the boonies, but one particular benefit never occurred to me. We had our own woods. Twenty acres of woods. What grows in the woods, children?  Think hard. Under the leaves? Around old elm trees lying on the ground? I never dreamed I would go out my own front door, walk fifty feet, and find a glorious, magical patch of morel mushrooms.

Morels must secrete pheromones. Isn't the deal with pheromones that they trigger a response in those upon whom they fall?  Well, when I see a morel, my responses are righteously triggered. Have you experienced that surge of endorphins when you spot the first morel of the season? Have you come upon a huge patch and become faint? Have you wrapped your hand around that treasure, heard the sound of them sizzling in the frying pan, smelled them browning in butter? That much pleasure is a first-order sin in the Amish country around here.

I grew up on a small lake in Michigan, and in our neighborhood, morel hunting was a no-holds-barred competition. My aunt never did reveal her secret morel spot even to her beloved brother, my dad.

One of my dad’s happiest days was the day he cut up a sponge and made a basket full of fake morels. He got up early and planted them on our neighbor’s lawn. Then he made a couple of fried eggs and some of his famous boiled coffee and sat back to watch. When the sun came up, our neighbor burst out of her house screaming with joy and ran to gather the morels. She picked up the first one and––slowly she raised her face toward our house with a feral, menacing expression. She threw down the sponge and stormed into the house. Morels were serious business. 

And that is why I experience an even deeper level of pleasure at being the mistress of morel manor; not only can I pick far more than I can possibly eat––and I am willing to eat them until I vomit­––but I also can lord that over my sisters back in Michigan. I take dozens of photographs  (including one pile that completely covered the kitchen counter,) and I send those pictures to my sisters in the Water Winter Wonderland. The first time I sent the mushroom pics, their replies hit my inbox within seconds. I have to tell you––I was not aware one could send such language into the ether. After 7 or 8 mailings, they refused to open those emails. So, I had to change my tactics; I re-titled the photos. Who could resist opening HotIowaFructoseCoveredStuds.jpg? I love thinking about them opening those attachments and getting another face full of morels.  Iowa morels. My morels.

Having a private stock of morels is awe-inspiring. My sisters not having the morels? Well, as they say in Ann Arbor––Hail to the Victors.


More on morels:
http://www.morels.com/

UNDERNEATH IT ALL

You could have broadcast a daily wildlife show from the basement of my childhood home in Michigan.  We had bats, we had raccoons, we had a rogue 3-legged cat for whom my dad made a prosthesis out of a clip-on clothespin. After that, it sounded like Captain Ahab lived down there. Trips to the basement to stoke the furnace or fetch potatoes and carrots from the root cellar were trepidatious for a kid.

But the basement of our new country home––now that’s a different story. We have no outside access–-not a window, not a door. No squeaking, no chirping, no clawing, no guano or other gridoo.

In this lovely basement, I was changing a light bulb in the ceiling.  I heard a strange sound nearby, but I couldn’t place it. Since I was up on a three-step stool, I had a good view, but nothing was out of place. No haunted canning jars were spinning on the shelves, no tools were dancing Fantasia-like on the bench. Yet, there was this soft, constant, swishing sound. If you get bored, you could recreate it by dragging a shoelace slowly over a plastic grocery bag.

The sound seemed to be coming from my sewing supplies about a yard away. I had discovered those wonderful giant plastic bags that zip shut. They are waist high so one can stuff in winter coats or pillows and zip them safely away. I use them for fabric scraps. I had two bags full, each the size of a third grader, a woven history of my failed sewing projects. The bags were dead still, their usual and expected state of being.

Or were they? Did one of the plastic bags move? Just a little? Maybe it was tipping, settling. No, the side of the bag was indeed moving, softly breathing, up and down. I wasn’t alarmed. I am not afraid of quilt squares.

The zipped edge of the bag wasn’t actually zipped all the way across. There was a 2-inch gap at one end. I noticed this because a tiny tongue was darting in and out of the gap. From inside the bag.

Then some tiny lips protruded through the gap as well. And the telltale beady eyes.

You know those screams that by-pass your voice box entirely? The ones that exit through your navel and surprise even you? Well, mine surprised both of us––me and the large fox snake winding his way out of the plastic bag. When I screamed, the little guy became quite agitated.

Did I say little guy? When he finally slithered halfway out of the bag, sliding onto the shiny, green basement floor, it appeared the first half of him was about 2 feet long. His diameter was about an inch. In town, I never once thought about snake diameters. Never. I am not afraid of snakes. When they are outdoors. When I see them coming. I need advance notice. I was not getting down off that stool.

When my husband heard his name shrieking up through the register in the floor of his den, he finished his book, made a sandwich, and came right down to see what was wrong. He was not that fond of snakes, but he grabbed the handle of our snake-removal tool—a paint roller––and approached our scaly visitor. To our surprise, he easily rolled that snake right up on the lambs wool roller. I held out a big Christmas box, and he made a deposit. I put the cover on--it had a beautiful antique painting of Santa on it. For just a moment, I was thinking of re-gifting that package to certain individuals that came to mind. My husband took him out to the field.

While they were gone, I continued fussing with the light bulb, but when I glanced at the corner of the room, something was not quite right.

This one was much bigger but had the same beautiful black and brown diamond pattern. It had wrapped itself around the corner of the room in a weird triangle clinging to two walls and the floor.

This half of the duo was not so amenable to being rolled up. When my husband approached him, he lunged forward, opened his mouth wide, and hissed. So did the snake. We did not want to hurt the snake, but with the help of the roller and the lid to my Crock Pot, we eventually got him into the Christmas box. This one was relocated out near the north fence.

From that day forward, about half of the fabric scraps seemed to have brown and black spots. The other half appeared to be moving. And, it was never quite the same reaching into that bag.

More on Fox snakes:
http://www.herpnet.net/Iowa-Herpetology/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=52&Itemid=26