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:
More on Brown Creepers:
http://www.seattleaudubon.org/birdweb/bird_details.aspx?id=336
