Nestled in the Woods

I grew up in the country, but it was more than thirty years before I could return and take pleasure in the open spaces, fresh air, gorgeous views, wild flowers, and wild animals. Something spiritual occurs when a stately deer stands against the forest or the first burst of yellow violets peep out from beneath last fall’s fallen leaves in the woods, and you are privileged to witness it. These joys are always tempered by the fact that nature was here first, and I am only an intruder. That is why we have a dog.
When Kriket, our family hound, barks inside the basement, it is a signal that our life has infringed upon nature, and there is trouble brewing.
The basement door remains open when we are home to give easy access to Kriket and our cats for shelter and food. At the same time, the basement is vulnerable to other critters. We have encountered a variety of visitors such as several mice, a rat, birds, a ground hog, toads, a couple of raccoons, and of course, skunks.
Although not true hibernators, for the duration of the cold winter months skunks hunker down to a sluggish dormancy. Snow covered the ground for two months, and as the days began to lengthen, hunger drove one little beauty into the basement in search of food. A few days earlier, he had come inside and helped himself to Kriket’s food, which is parked by a small refrigerator and a defunct freezer currently used as a pantry. Between the two appliances is a space approximately four inches wide … wide enough for a hasty retreat. I first saw him there. He was a real good looker.
Kriket barked with serious intent; she tucked tail and guarded her dish, taking staid exception to the intrusion by Peter Pooh upon her supper. The skunk left a reminder that he had been there and departed. Deodorant sprays and scented candles little by little dissipated the scent of Pete’s aftershave, and we thought we had escaped for the duration.
Larry, my husband, was in the bedroom, and I settled down to watch an intense cop show and crochet. In the quiet of what we hoped would be a quiet evening, Kriket announced the return of her visitor. I dropped my crochet hook and tiptoed to the basement steps. Sure enough, Pete was there to bum again. Kriket cornered him in between the appliances to keep him from her food. She would grab a bite of food and eat it, always keeping her eye on the skunk.
Larry has Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) and uses oxygen 24/7. He was already hooked up to his oxygen concentrator and in bed for the night. I alerted him to the situation.  The only solution would be to shoot the critter, but in my seventy-two years, I have fired a gun five times, none of which were pleasant experiences.
“Can you go to the basement and kill the thing?” I asked kindly.
“Well, yes I can, but … but we’ll have to use bird shot. If I use a regular bullet, it might hit the concrete and ricochet back on us. Bird shot might not kill it. Then we’d have him stinking up the place. But, yeah, I can do it.”
I went and got the pistol and all the ammunition … I don’t know one bullet from another.
Meanwhile he moseyed out to the kitchen and refilled his portable oxygen fanny pack and sat down to catch his breath.
I brought him his slippers, hat, and coat. “This is taking too long! Pete will be gone only to return again and again.”
Next we had to remove the bullets from the pistol and replace them with bird shot.
“He’ll be gone or hide back behind the junk under the storage shelves. We’ll never get him,” I worried. 
Finally, Larry was suited up. He almost never does the stairs. He crept down the steps as I followed him with a flashlight and a long pole.
Larry’s history of marksmanship is second only to his love affair with firearms. He is the one who, mellowed out on pain pills for his jaw surgery, shot a blue jay dive-bomber in mid-flight, as he chatted with our brother-in-law. I had no fear that he would miss.
I shined the flashlight into the skunk’s hiding place. All we could see was the black and white tail fanning out from the refrigerator. He had crawled inside the motor housing. Larry got within three feet of the back of the refrigerator and aimed in the general direction. He shot all six chambers. The first shot frightened the skunk out into the space between the appliances; the second shot was effective; the other four were insurance. Larry is my hero.
Thank goodness Pete didn’t spray his methyl and butyl thiols … that notorious after shave he uses. I pulled the refrigerator out and dragged him out. Using my garden gloves, I picked him up. Such a tiny fellow he was, but his long hair flowed with beautiful grace over his body and made him appear much larger.
As Larry slowing climbed back upstairs, I took the skunk out to the porch. I slung it as far as I could. I heard it hit a rhododendron bush at the edge of the lower driveway, and hoped it would be far enough not to perfume the house.
The next day I went to look for it. Nowhere in sight. That concerned me a little.
I shared my thoughts. “Maybe it was only stunned and walked away.”
Larry said, “No, it was dead. I’m sure of that.”
I found him with his head caught in the fork of the branches of the rhododendron bush. Again, I tossed it. It landed in the Christmas tree field. Good fertilizer.
So long Peter Pooh. Kriket can now get back to her job of barking at deer, raccoon, horses on the lane, and other dogs who dare to invade her territory. We can only hope that the Mephitis Mafia will not seek revenge.

Thousands of volumes
Millions of verses
 line the shelves
 of libraries
 book stores
 stacked away in attics

Poems of autumn
 scents…
 spicy wild flowers
 decaying leaves
 apples
 pumpkin pie
 sights… 
  golden rod
  purple iron weed 
  joe pye
  birds
  packed for a trip south
 sounds… 
  turkeys chirp in the woods
  crackling fires
  tractors turning tufts of summer down
 savors… 
  grapes
  new potatoes
  cider
 sensations…
  chill after summer sweats
  noses tickled by ragweed pollen

What about the country festivals?
What about the craft fairs?
Need I elaborate?
All these images…
 overdone
 sometimes trite
 
Autumn rather may suggest
 that winter
snaps at its heels
Lucy says,
“Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“As if you could kill time without injuring
eternity,” opines Thoreau.

What remains to place in store
 for children
 of a later year?
Will they know
 that we have
 walked our season?

Those million verses
 nostalgic
 sentimental
no harm to fill our senses
 with the memories
 with the images
They are our own
 to savor and enjoy

Yet…
 values
  tucked in
  next to the pumpkin pie
 beliefs
  shared
  on a walk down memory lane
 encouragement
  sprinkled with the sparks
  at fireside…
These a greater legacy
 for seasons yet to come

Hope is Just Around the Corner

 After a long, cold winter we hope for Spring.  I’ve got good news: spring’s hope is just around the corner.  I could see it in the yellowing of the willows and the reddening of the maples, and the increase of the bird population.  It wasn’t official, however, until I saw the first wild flowers blooming in the lane.  Today I was surprised (as I am every year) to see my patch of coltsfoot lifting their bright yellow faces to the sun.  Coltsfoot (Tussilago farfara) is the first real wild flower to show itself in our hollow.  Notwithstanding, there are always a few dandelions that are foolish enough to bloom in the dead of winter…they don’t count.

Spring is a metaphor for hope.  I’m neither an optimist nor a pessimist.  I’m somewhat pragmatic without subscribing to pragmatism, but I believe in hope.  I believe that no matter how long and cold the winter of our existence may be all things will work out for God’s glory and our good.

War, death, dysfunctional families, foolish choices…the list could go on…all contribute to our wintery outlook.  Yet peace, eternal life, perfect union in God’s family with his perfect guidance throughout eternity is the hope of the Christian.  As we celebrate Easter we are encouraged for the Hope our own newness of life.  “Even so, come, Lord Jesus!” (St. John).