The Hero and the Stewardess

In about a week, we will bury my grandmother next to my grandfather in Arlington National Cemetery. I've been thinking about this and about her passing, so I wanted to share something I wrote years ago after my granddad passed away. Granddad was a successful military man, rising up the ranks and earning accommodations. I don't think he could have done it without my grandmother. She was supportive, vivacious, adventurous, creative, and caring. Her amazing spirit touched us all and taught us to be lovers of life; she was a hero too. She was always by his side and she will return there on Monday. Tutu, we love you.

      The Day After  

The sky was heavy and grey like the uniform of a cadet, like the walls of my mother’s memory. She has told me of the monochromatic, Virginian army base that was once her childhood home. Purple violets creeping through the stones were the only things that, for her, broke through the cloudy shades of slate; they were the only vividness among the endless uniforms, the neighbor’s dusty Labrador, the rock walls, and the loneliness I am sure she felt. Her father was an ambitious officer and her mother was an ambitious officer’s wife. Years later, far removed from this Army base of my mother’s memory, the grey pangs of loneliness had returned, but they were felt by all of us now. The General had died.  

We had gathered in Arlington. That day was one of those autopilot days, a day when everything happens around you, when you numbly witness events as if you’re riding on one of those long, moving sidewalks in the airport terminal. The funeral day was cold and crisp but full of sun; it was also full of pomp and circumstance. My senses witnessed the grand military band, the black shiny horse pulling the black shiny carriage transporting the black shiny casket, the bagpipes’ haunting moan and the fully-kilted musician, the canons, the stars and stripes, the fields of flowers weaved into wreaths, and the ceaseless rows of bone-white headstones—my senses witnessed these things but my heart could not fully appreciate them. I was an anesthetized observer; although I was surrounded by trumpets, vibrant flags and garlands, to me, everything appeared in muted grayscale. I appreciated all of the honors because my Granddad, the three-star General, deserved them, but my Granddad, the cartoon-loving, bird-watching, story-teller didn’t seem to be part of them. 

The following day, our hearts sank further into that lonely sadness of loss; our spirits were dim like the cloudy sky. The sunlight was heavily veiled. My brothers and I decided to return to the grave site to say our final goodbyes. On this day, we encountered groups of tourists, busses, and did not have the band leading us down the long pathway. We struggled to find the grave because we were not allowed through the same entrance; on this day, we were the general public.

After hiking  quite a distance, and using a map to find Granddad’s resting place, we stood before the temporary headstone as a mist of rain began falling on us. We were quiet. There were no pipes or prayers. We hung our heads, letting our tears fall with the rain. We heard only the sounds of our internal dialogues “Goodbye Granddad, I love you. Thank you.” Then something encouraged our weighted brows to lift towards the sky. The dull background above was contrasted by moving black and white, and the honking sounds of geese interrupted the wall of silence. A few feet above us, three large Canadian geese flew low in perfect formation. After they passed, my brother and I instinctively turned to one another. The geese, like the ones he loved to watch, were his three stars. We recognized the same thought in each other’s tear-filled eyes, “It’s Granddad.” We felt connection. We felt comfort. We embraced. On the day after the funeral, that dreary unceremonious day, we truly felt the spark of his spirit; the black and white bodies of the birds moving across the overcast sky became our violets in the wall. 

❤

Nostalgia, a Norwegian, and the North Lawn

Looking around the church, I saw members of the congregation smiling and nodding while, using the tree metaphor, the priest compelled us to understand the greatness of God’s love. Watching the congenial haze of spiritual blossoming, I felt my body tense with guilt as I continued to recall myself yelling profanities without hesitation because the lawnmower noise diminished my potty mouth. I frequently end up screaming at the trees because I risk injury trying to go as far into their branches as possible---for if I don’t mow the grass underneath them I’ll surely face a passerby’s harsh judgment. I push the mower forward into the trees, groan, squint, pray, and bend my body back, straining and contorting myself into unnatural poses in order to avoid being skewered. Sometimes I try to lift the branches out of the way and sneak under them—a technique that has nearly caused a shoulder dislocation and evisceration. One day I was so fed up with being poked that I killed the mower engine, marched to the shed, and got my extra-large Fiskars lopper. With grumbles and gritted teeth, I awkwardly snipped/sawed away at branches, some 3+ inches in diameter. I even pulled a large one down and stood on it while I tried severing it from the tree---another precarious maneuver. I’m sure me wielding those clippers like a mad Edward Scissorhands in a pink visor was quite a sight to behold. 

Remembering that and other mowing scenes, I felt anger brewing while I sat in the church pew: “[bleepity, bleep, bleep, bleep] stupid trees!” Fortunately, I kept that to myself and avoided a verbal outburst during the sermon. By the time “Peace be with you” rolled around, I managed to shake off the negativity and shake hands. I smiled too. Guilt set in, and I thought the ridiculous thought, “I hope the priest sees my tree necklace and knows I understand the metaphor, the lesson, and the goodness he spoke of even though my mind went to the dark side during his talk.” I thought that such a recognition might forgive my lack of attention and tree-murder fantasies. In fact, I do very much love and appreciate the beauty and majesty of trees---when I don’t have to mow under them.

Post North Lawn Fight,
Pre- Pink Visor

The “north lawn” is my summertime nemesis. It’s just the space on the north side of the house, but I view it as something similar to the land beyond “the wall.” Sometimes I look at the north lawn, consider mowing it, shrug, and then just walk away. I tell myself “It’ll be okay until tomorrow or even a few more days. It’s shady over there so the grass isn’t really that tall.” Or I start mowing all the other areas on the property and hope I'll eventually conjure enough ambition and courage for the north-side venture. I start with the easy part, the “south lawn”—the section with very few trees and obstacles, where I can mow in pretty straight lines and imagine fancy checkerboard designs like those of some expansive English manor-house garden. Sticks rarely get in my way and the only things I typically need to watch out for are baseballs, baseball bats, baseball gloves, and snakes. Unfortunately the mower blades did gobble up and shoot out two (or four) balls during a July mowing. It’s amazing how far they travel. Snakes are far less aerodynamic.

After the south lawn is cut, as I move closer to the house, the mowing difficulty increases. My route must be more strategic and less decorative as to avoid careening snakes, balls, sticks and stones into windows. (There was something of a “glass door” incident a few years ago.) It seems simple enough, but for some reason, the lawn/bush/tree configuration always forces me in the wrong direction and the debris field inevitably points towards home. I end up mowing in reverse far too often---a truly dodgy direction_for me_on a mower. But I’m improving, and I’ve even refined other skills, especially the “nudge method.”  The technique was developed because I kept repressing the existence of a turkey-butchering log that sits near the barn. My brother took a tom’s head there once and there the log (thankfully not the head) has remained. Every time I mowed, I was surprised by the butcher block in my path. Eventually, I didn’t bother to get off of the mower to move it and instead decided to use the machine to push the wood chunk out of the way. I’ve since perfected this mowing tactic and have used the method frequently--pushing soccer balls, bicycles, large branches, chairs, and even merry-go-rounds out of my way. Let me be clear, I do not use this technique because I’m lazy. It’s just that sometimes, after one has picked up 101 sticks, it makes more sense to push stuff out of the way instead of interrupting the mow flow. (About that merry-go-round---it’s a push-pull version with tractor seats, and it’s the highlight of the north lawn. Children love it, but I’ve started to view it as a tortuous death trap and one heck of a mowing problem because it weighs a ton—I got the mower stuck on it using the nudge method once.)

When not in strategic mowing mode or cedar peril, my mind wanders while I’m bouncing around on the John Deere lawn tractor. The entire process takes me a minimum of 3 hours, so I have lots of time to ponder random things---schedules, to-do lists, conversations, memories. Sometimes my daydreaming leads me to the strangest of places. For example, the last time I mowed, I thought about the movie my son and I watched a few months ago---The Soccer Nanny. It was incredibly bizarre. Sure, I should have known it wasn’t going to be your typical feel-good family film when Traci Lords’ name popped up in the opening credits, but in the moment, I simply furrowed my brow, thought “something isn’t right here,” and watched on. Luckily the movie was only strange and not particularly unsavory---and my son lost complete interest after 15 minutes. I, on the other hand, was coerced into watching because of the weirdness. Traci plays a widowed mother of two boys---one ten years old and one teen aged. For some reason, she needs nanny help for them because she lives on a buffalo ranch in Kansas. So, her and the boys go to the airport and pick up their Norwegian (you betcha, he flies in from Norway), soccer-playing nanny named Oddmund. I expected Oddmund would win the hearts of the boys and their mother by forming an amazing small-town soccer team from a group of ragtag kids and winning a tournament against a powerful team of bullies after adverting some small crisis.  However, the movie went in an altogether different direction and instead involved the ghost of the boys’ cross-dressing father, teen drinking, accusations of sexual abuse (just because Oddmund was a male nanny), and Mama Traci falling in love with a doltish PE teacher. The only soccer involved was Oddmund’s constant soccer ball juggling. I avoided having to try to explain the lack of actual soccer play and the “complex” situations to my son because he left the room shortly after Oddmund unpacked and got acquainted with the buffalo---the lengthy buffalo-feeding-while-soccer ball-juggling scenes were less than entertaining.

As I crisscrossed the yard, I attempted to analyze the film’s existence, but before long, my thoughts drifted to a more appealing dalliance---manny hiring. As I rounded the lilac bushes, I thought: 

I could really use a manny--except I would like one from Sweden, one who resembled Alexander Skarsgaard. Yes, I would pick up Alex from the Sioux Falls airport and drive him back to the farm. He could play soccer, baseball, football, and basketball with my son while I mowed. 

I imagined a perfect slow-motion scene of me watching them frolic in the freshly cut grass as I gleefully performed a mowing ballet around the cement cistern covers. 

Alex would love it here and he would be more than happy to accept room and board and mulberry pies and ebelskivers (sure, they’re Danish, but he won’t mind) as payment. He would do some chicken chores and help me fix things around the house---maybe he’d even like to throw some straw bales. 

As I threw the mower into reverse, I sighed, smiled. 

Oh, yes, Alex would make a wonderful manny. How I would enjoy his company, and I could actually get some things done…I could clean out the dreaded toy room [the other thing on my nemesis list]. Grrr…I loathe that toy room! Why, despite my attempts, do all well-organized boxes of teeny-tiny animals, superheroes, cars, and Legos get dumped, thrown, and occasionally dipped in bottles of Gatorade?! 

And suddenly, as I approached cedar row, my thoughts abruptly switched from manny-Alex wonder to toy-room angst.

My adrenaline began to spike. I thought about the toy room and the trees ahead. I zipped under a cedar, bent back, grabbed a dead branch, and with a fierce battle cry, snapped the twig. When the twig broke, my train of thought took a detour. The cedar-induced stress and aggression must have made me a bit emotional because when I started thinking about the toy room again, I wasn’t frustrated or angry--I was sad. It struck me---“pretty soon he won’t need a toy room” and before I knew it a pathetic, little tear dribbled out, and when I wiped it, I smeared dirt, dust, and lawn refuse all across my face. I began anticipating nostalgia (a recurring theme lately). I imagined the toys disappearing and playtime being replaced with sports activities and homework. I thought of how soon he would lose interest in all those small figurines. I thought of the ending of things and I proceeded down that mental path as I continued to duck under branches and mow beneath the cedars.

Leaning to the left as far as possible to avoid a particularly pokey limb, I squeezed

between the mailbox and a tree. I wiped my face again and kept thinking too much. I recalled mowing in the same spot last summer when a big, old champagne-colored Crown Victoria pulled up in front of the house. It was windy that day, and I was worried about how I looked because I was completely covered in yard grit. A tall man got out of the car and walked towards me. I saw a middle-aged woman in the front seat and an elderly woman in the back. He introduced himself and told me that he brought his mother to look at the property. Apparently in the late 1920s, during the summer months, she would visit her aunt who used to work in the house as a switchboard operator (the house contained a room designated as the community’s telephone exchange). The man and his wife helped the woman out of the car, and we began chatting as we meandered across the yard. The old woman told me how she loved to come to the farm as a child and that seeing the house now brought back so many wonderful memories. I imagined what it must have been like here during that time when the farm and the community was full of hustle, bustle and promise. The farm had its own creamery, and the little town that surrounded the place had a harness shop, blacksmith shop, general store, and a Model-T garage. In the mid-30s, all of that disappeared. I pictured the small, grey-haired, hunched woman as a little girl sitting in the corner of the small room, watching her aunt at the switchboard. I imagined her little-girl self running around the farm. 

As I remembered the woman’s visit and continued to zigzag through cedar row, I began anticipating ends again. I imagined that one day my son might drive me here to visit, and I felt the pain of memories that hadn’t even occurred---of all that will become a “had been.” Since we do not own the farm, that day is inevitable, and as an act of preparation, I tried to place myself in that specific future moment. Perhaps I thought if I tried to feel it in the present, I would not feel it as strongly in the future---it would sting less. Then, of course, a few more tears mixed with splinters, grass, and leaf crumbles trickled, making it difficult to negotiate the rest of cedar row.

Well after that mowing moment, I considered my nostalgia-infused anxiety attacks and all of my whining about mowing and sticks. I wondered how it all connected--the yard work, my tendency to mourn what’s not yet gone, the things the priest said (including my internal cursing), and my daydreams; I tried to determine a singular lesson. I knew that being appreciative and being present were at the heart of this thought process, but I wasn’t completely sure that was the point I was to understand. Wasn’t it too simple? I didn't know how to wrap up this reflection. I spent the afternoon wrestling with ideas. Then, that evening, it all seemed to come full circle: God, the universe, and/or my own recognition of great coincidence, resolutely emphasized the lesson via 80 mph winds. Nature asserted its dominance—the sky darkened, the wind whipped, branches bent and snapped. After the fast and furious storm, my son and I tiptoed out onto the lawn filled with thousands of leafy sticks and several very large tree extremities. We surveyed the damage and discovered that one of the cedar row tenants lost its top half. The storm made it very clear for me: be thankful. We were safe. I still had a home, a yard to mow, and many beautiful trees to contend with. All of the whining, wishing, wanting, and worrying was pointless or perhaps just part of the path to truly understanding how extremely fortunate I am. In that moment, I acknowledged how lucky I am to have a home and such an amazing space for my son to grow up. It’s strange how easily we can get so hung up on little annoyances even when we know better---like all those clichés that we throw around but don’t fully practice in “real” life (“you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” and “see the forest for the trees” come to mind). Stress and worry take over and we fail to see the beauty of it all; fears of what might happen remove all the bliss from what is happening.

A week or so after the storm, I sent my son off to second grade. It was a tough morning—another end and another beginning. In addition to navigating that emotion, my coffeemaker broke down before I could get a cup; my phone screen went dark (not a good thing for an anxious mother who just sent her son off to an unfamiliar school); I discovered that the university bookstore failed to order my students’ books for classes set to begin in T-minus 4 days; and I couldn’t stop obsessing about how devastated my son would be when he found out that I forgot to sign him up for fall soccer. Thinking of all of these things, I pulled into my driveway that morning, whining and worrying, feeling defeated and overwhelmed. And then I noticed something odd: my mailbox was missing. Driving closer to where it was supposed to be, I realized that it wasn’t actually missing, it was buried under an enormous tree branch. I saw the little white mailbox through the leaves, and I started laughing. Okay, okay---yes, God/universe, I understand!

Santa’s Binge Watching _Bar Rescue_ on Amazon Prime

The newly seven-year-old boy stood stark naked on the arm of the green, overstuffed, comfy chair. Looking like a cow with a mouth full of cud, he slowly chomped the remainder of the Hubba Bubba Bubblegum tape Santa left in his stocking. He tried to grin but only managed a quick lip curl which dripped spit and revealed the giant pink glob. While chewing and proudly displaying his nakedness, he jumped and attempted to taunt me as I aggressively vacuumed the living room floor. His actual intention was tough to discern because his communication was mostly gurgled, drool-filled mumbles, but I believe he was threatening to spit the Bubblicious blob at me.  I felt the mischievous glint in his eye was clue enough; however, I ignored his provocation, repositioned the neck of my t-shirt over my nose, and continued sucking the floor (vacuuming while simultaneously spraying Vanilla & Blossoms Lysol and trying to keep your t-shirt up over your nose is no easy task). 

Moments earlier, I had discovered the Bubblegum Bandit involved in a nefarious dog wrestling ring: he was wrestling the dog in a ring he had outlined in the carpet.  Although the four-legged family member had been confined to a corner of the kitchen area, I was alerted to his unapproved relocation by the strange smell that wafted its way into the den where I was focused on perfectly placing delicate Christmas bulbs into a large, red, Rubbermaid storage container ($2.57 at Walmart). As I gingerly wrapped Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle balls (green ornaments adorned with googly eyes atop colorful ribbon masks) and unwound lights, my nose sensed something foul. It was a slowly accumulating awareness that, once the smell surpassed a certain olfactory threshold, became a shock and awe assault.

Pungent dog odor filled the room like tear gas. Even though he had just received a 4-star shampoo and soak in the tub, the hound generated a less than amiable scent; he’s kind of like a canine version of Pig Pen, never quite “fresh.” Usually spending his time outside, his fetid nature isn’t an issue; however, during the cold winter days he and his perpetual stank comes in. My “oh my God”s elevated from whispers to yells, and I abandoned the tree take down only to find the boy buried under the great fur that was my nasal malcontent.  The boy laughed and wiggled. Like a French chin flick, the dog’s tail rudely fanned more of the smell in my general direction. Mommy monster (kind of like the Hulk without the green or the muscles) then made her appearance. To the dog: “In_ the_ kitchen!” He quickly ran to his designated area. To the boy: “What are you doing?! Oh, my God! Oh_my_God! It smells HORRIBLE! Take off those stinky clothes and get in the bathtub right now! I told you that he wasn't allowed in….” The boy, peeling off his socks, interrupts the tirade with a scold: “Mom, you said ‘God’.” (If he only knew the words I was thinking.)

---And, with this evening event, so concluded our three-week Christmas “vacation.”

 Martha-Mode Carved Gourds

Oh, how the wonder of the season changes. In the beginning, there is baking and decorating, shopping and gift making. For me, the extra time is an opportunity to go into what I call my “Martha Stewart” mode. Without papers to grade or classes to prep, I can carve miniature gourds into ornaments and bake Pebber Nodders (traditional Danish cookies). As time slows and the holiday approaches, everything seems a touch more agreeable. The little boys and girls are on their best behavior because the big elf is on his way and the threat of “Santa is watching” is at its highest level of effectiveness. (Yes, I debated long and hard about using the belief in an imaginary creature to manipulate and how doing so may also solidify a strong commitment to materialism, but, in the end, after taking a mini-football strike to the head, I decided to forgo my lofty principals.) The glow of the hanging lights makes the winter world whimsical and the house is ever so cozy. It’s not odd to find yourself perfectly content watching Home Alone, Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, and even Home Alone 3. And, from the expansive Air Bud franchise, Santa Buddies (starring Christopher Llyod as the dog catcher curmudgeon) even manages to bring a slightly pathetic smile to your face.  Then, sometime after burning the peppermint-infused chocolate cracked cookie balls, wrapping presents until 1:00 AM, and building the 5^th one-thousand piece Lego kit, the mood changes.  How quickly the eggs are nogged and the merriment spent; the holiday sickness (like lovesickness) dissipates.

One day you're sitting in a warm, evergreen-scented room happily performing Web searches for a LEGO Gollum and hot toddy ingredients, and then, just a few days later, the monotony of life returns. Tasks are no longer sugar-plum fairy dusted. And, suddenly, you find that you're all out of turkey food and since you spent your last dollar on a LEGO Gandalf, you must scour the farm for some kind of grain. The Christmas whimsy is a distant memory as you precariously balance on a 5-gallon bucket on top of a straw bale trying to throw your snowpants-ed leg up onto the bed of an old Peterbilt truck (not an easy feat because the snow pants have become even more restrictive due to overconsumption of Nog and Pebber Nodders). Someone (possibly your father) told you that there might be grain in “that there truck” (he didn't say it like that, but you imagine it that way) and after all grain-on-the-ground searches produce nary a kernel, you feel it necessary to scale the Peterbilt.  After throwing a shovel into the truck bed and performing an action movie kind of jump and roll, you proudly stand, brush off the snow and prepare to scoop. Excited by the big grain prospects, you swing the shovel at the snow-covered mound. Then, suddenly, like a cartoon character, you find yourself rapidly and violently shaking from the intense reverberation of a great clang. The pile is only frozen dirt (or some other brown, farm related material).  Feeling defeated, standing in the truck, holding the still vibrating shovel, and receiving  frigid wind slaps to the face, you look across the tundra and the thought enters your mind: When the shovel hits the frozen ---- (well, you know), the grain is all gone,  and your snow pants no longer fit, the magic of the season has taken a deathblow hit.

Shortly after the big day, the “time off” becomes a routine-less, power-struggled filled, toy minefield dodging nightmare. Rationality and common sense are lost as one is sucked into some peculiar post-Christmas parallel universe.  The LEGO kits are partially dismantled and pieces are mixed in strange and unnatural ways. The LEGO King of the Dead signs autographs with the LEGO Aragon at a LEGO Lakers/Cavaliers game. A Mordor Orc is stuck in the net. The child constantly moans “I’m bored” and frequently tries to engage his mother in another game of Headbandz. Food prep is no longer a fun or creative activity. Hours are spent fashioning meat pies from frozen Pillsbury crust and ground turkey (not one of my turkeys, not because there was no grain). Making the pies is tedious and takes abnormally long because trying to guess the image on the card stuck to one's head (Headbandz) and watching the scullery maids’ desperation on every episode of the show Manor House can be kind of distracting. Television is no longer restricted to small, daily doses which adds to the insanity. It is neither wrong nor pathetic to stay up past midnight watching multiple episodes of Bar Rescue. There even comes a time when, for some reason, it seems like a good idea to watch the movie Labyrinth and the Steelers/Ravens game simultaneously. After switching back and forth between the gridiron and the Goblin King a few times, in a sudden moment of clarity (following a profoundly troubled look), the boy sighs heavily and loudly determines “Wow! That guy cannot sing! I just want to watch the game,” and the rest of the evening is spent watching “Roethslesshamburger” (the boy’s pronunciation) move a touch too slowly. (No offense to Bowie or Roethlisberger fans.)

"I Am A Bathtub."

Finally, during a much needed trip away from the toys and the TV, the surreal nature of the holiday break’s tail-end reaches its pinnacle, when zipping down a country highway trying to beat an impending ground blizzard, I happen upon a huge cornstalk bale blocking my lane.  And, instead of just passing by, I find myself stopped directly in front of the massive stock roadblock thinking of Per Hansa’s fate in Giants of the Earth (I won’t specify as to avoid a spoiler but crawling into a bale during a blizzard is involved). I snap a picture with my cell phone and wonder if the bale in my lane could be some kind of omen. Is there trouble ahead? Is this some kind of metaphorical warning for the new year? I squint and ponder and look around for a farmer. Then, I think “can turkeys eat corn stalk bales?”

    

And, just when it all starts to become unbearable—when the Bubblegum Bandit pushes it to the limit and the dog regurgitates a pheasant head on his designated rug (yes, that happened, and it happened after the stink ordeal), and sustaining turkey farts in the face while bending to retrieve frozen chicken eggs becomes commonplace (due to the birds’ out-of-the-ordinary diet –“nary a kernel”), and you believe it’s a good thing there isn't a gas oven in the house because Sylvia Plath begins to make perfect sense, it’s back-to-school time and there are only 352 days until next Christmas!

Night of the Coonbell

Night of the Coonbell

If there were a competition for dogs finding dead animals and bringing them up to the porch, my dog would win. Release the hound and a half-eaten raccoon will be found and enthusiastically delivered within 6 minutes (or the road kill is free).

Transporting an 18-lb., frozen, raccoon carcass with a plastic snow shovel is no easy task. Last winter, I had the opportunity to experience this wonder firsthand.  Approximately 6-7 minutes after letting my golden retriever free to stretch his legs and attend to business, I opened the door to a big, furry horror. This was not the kind of business I had intended him to complete. My eyes immediately focused on the teeth and grotesque whiskers of a dead beast. I looked at my dog, and he smiled. While living, the raccoon probably weighed 22 lbs., but it had lost its middle since its expiration date. Now, it was only head, shoulders, knees, toes and ringed tail.

The dog gleefully wagged his tail and three curious farm cats circled. I knew I couldn't just leave the dead thing there, two feet from the front door---what a distasteful welcome mat! The half-eaten corpse certainly did not align with my Anne of Green Gables aesthetic. So, I pushed the door open, took one hesitant step out and then abruptly jumped back in---I needed to give myself a pep talk. After repeating “you can do this” to myself about ten times, I crept out onto the porch and resolved to keep my eyes up.  I thought it would all be fine if I just didn’t look down. Like a Looney Tunes character who had been flung into a lion cage, I skirted around the edge of the porch staying as far away from the dead body as possible. After passing the crime scene, I accelerated from a careful walk to a get-me-the-hell-away-from-here jog, venturing into the night to find the Suncast steel core shovel my boyfriend gave me last Christmas. (He gifted me that along with a cheaply made garbage can and an endless list of fitness models I could friend on Facebook. It didn't work out.)

Luckily, in the old hog shed turned upcycled chicken coop, there was just enough moonlight for me to spot the shovel glimmer. As I grabbed the handle, the shovel scraped the cement floor and a chorus of odd, guttural displeased clucks creaked out from the darkness. Chickens don’t like it when their dreams are interrupted. The low-toned clucker moans made the dark shed very spooky. Then, of course, I started imagining a masked Michael Myers type stepping out from behind a wall, so I didn’t waste any time dragging that shovel out of there. 

Shovel in hand, I awkwardly charged back across the snow-covered yard, my semi-determined gait repeatedly thrown off balance whenever my foot broke through the hard-crusted snow. Approaching the house and bemoaning my choice to put on sneakers instead of boots, I breathed heavily and noticed a white spindle had been dislodged from the porch railing. Allowing my misery distract me from the unpleasant task at hand, I performed my best grumpy old man impersonation, cursing and grumbling about wet socks and sloppy carpentry as I climbed the porch steps, but then I looked down---because I had to.

Due to the below-zero temps, the raccoon was frozen solid and resembled a kind of varmint dumbbell of matted fur and frozen blood, bone, guts, and tissue (remember, he lost his middle). I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of frozen air, coughed, and then focused my determination on ridding the porch of the atrocity. Looking down again, I carefully positioned the shovel and tried to slide it under the coon cadaver. I soon realized that a dumbbell form isn't easily scooped. The ergonomic digger was not doing the trick, but I guess it wasn't really designed for dead varmit removal. Unwilling to admit defeat, I pressed onward. Pushing and wiggling the shovel under the heavy body, I gagged and vacillated between courage and terror, repeating inner dialogues like Toughen up! You live on a farm--you should be able handle this! and It’s not going to come alive. IT HAS NO ABDOMEN! Apparently, for some reason, I think all dead animals have a kind of Pet Cemetery power and can spontaneously reanimate. In that moment, I felt more pre-teen girl than tough farm woman.

Fighting back raccoon-resurrection images, I continued to hone my shovel dexterity when I noticed that my 6-yr-old son was standing in the doorway watching the deed with his eyebrows raised. His blond hair and bulky, red, fleece robe backlit by cozy kitchen light were uncanny contrasts to the carrion nightmare on the dim porch. I kept trying to scoot the coon dumbbell onto the shovel and it kept slip sliding away. The cats continued to circle and mew, reminding me of the movie Sleepwalkers, a ‘90s horror flick that ends with (spoiler alert) an army of cats  defeating a couple of supernatural beasts. Why couldn’t my cats provide a little assistance? Perhaps they could pounce on the dead coon and make it burst into flames (that’s what the movie cats did). I could easily sweep a pile of ashes away. But no, these cats sauntered around with their tails high and only provided an eerie mewing soundtrack to my gawky dead body removal. I tried to refocus, but when I pushed the shovel, one of the raccoon’s little baby-like hands waved at me, and I gagged---again.

The next time I looked up at the door, I saw my sweet little boy precariously holding two coffee creamer containers and a carton of milk. While I desperately attempted to load the coonbell onto the snow shovel, he juggled the items and yelled “I need help getting the chocolate milk!” Immediately, rapid-fire, anxiety-fueled thoughts zipped: He can’t have chocolate milk--it’s after eight o'clock (the coon wobbled); oh God, what if he drops all that--then I’ll have to mop up puddles of Fat-Free Hazelnut and Almond Breeze after I move this stupid coon” (the back end of the raccoon dangled over the shovel edge; its ribcage caught—I repositioned my grip); we have to make 8:30 lights out time; I’m sure there’ll be an epic asking-for-a-snack-after-brushed-teeth battle, and we have to read that library book about the magic tree...” At this point, I lost all coonbell-balancing concentration. The dog whined, and I yelled “You’re SO naughty! I’ve had it with you!” He put his head down and flashed his best pouty eyes. My little boy stared with wide saucer-like eyes. The creamers shook. And that’s when the furry, frozen-gut-exposed critter completely slid off the shovel, taking a whiskered nose dive and thudding end-over-end down the cement steps, finally balancing against my Christmas-garland-wrapped stair rail and corrupting a clip-on poinsettia flower. I shuddered, stepped down, and kicked the masked bandit onto the sidewalk. I no longer feared the gutless beast; I was actually angry at the dead thing.

Even though my adrenaline level had spiked, I decided that I wasn’t going to maneuver the body anymore. It was past 8:00 pm on a Midwestern winter night, and the designated dead animal pile, aka the dog’s “collection,” was all the way across the farm. So I turned away and added “coonbell removal” to my morning list, somewhere between making a Wow Butter sandwich for my son’s school lunch and drying my hair. I balanced the shovel against the railing, sneered at the smiling hound once more and went in to get the boy his chocolate milk. After witnessing this episode, he deserved it. 

My dog is a small-animal serial killer. Well, I don’t think he’s really driven by bloodlust and, to be fair, he’s seldom committed actual murder. He just loves to retrieve things—dead things. Maybe he’s better described as a kind of Dr. Frankenstein because he does seem to prefer collecting the deceased and their miscellaneous parts. To date, I've removed a calf leg, multiple mice, a deer leg, a deer head, a deer torso (one section every morning in 3-day succession), a dead cat (no, not a family cat--an outsider, a drifter), chickens, turkeys, other assorted birds, and various undetermined critter parts. Hunting and calving seasons exponentially increase the possibilities for extraordinary dropped-at-the-door gifts. He has killed fowl. But, in his defense, he was bred to be a “birddog.” I don’t know, maybe he’s a canine Ed Gein. The day I open the door and see him sporting a turkey-skin mask and feather hat, I’ll have to consider drastic reprogramming options. I have tried some behavioral modification, but I haven’t been able to get the morbid collecting obsession out of his system. I wish he would go back to the days of innocence, when he would only bring me pairs of the neighbors’ shoes, welcome mats (the appropriate kind) or bags of bread to the porch. But no, he grew up to be a retriever of death, and I’m forced to be his “cleaner” and question my level of sophistication and my place in life on long winter evenings such as the one previously mentioned.

Interestingly, even after the coonbell struggle, I’ve developed a strange sort of anticipation for what I might open the door to next. Is it possible that I’m actually excited to see what vile gift will be delivered? Do I like to wonder what gore will be the next to contrast my heather-grey floorboards? Has country solitude conjured a perverted desire for this retriever-delivered nuance? Anne of Green Gables would be appalled at how I entertain all the ways my white-spindled space could become the setting for a Rob Zombie Wind in the Willows adaptation. 

I’m certainly not saying I “enjoy” it, and I shudder thinking about any animal meeting its end, but perhaps what I might value is the way the disgust punctures any chance at perfection—being forced to interact with the death mess violently interrupts my simple-life-on-the-farm fantasy. All the little bodies reveal that the idealistic vision of a quaint, peaceful, wholesome farm life is a mirage; they reiterate nature’s chaos because they are unpleasant, visceral---real. And that realness makes the little kid, mud handprints all over the white railing more than okay. The dog’s gifts remind me that there will always be crooked spindles, layers of dust, wind-chipped paint, cricket-infested laundry rooms, dead kitties, blight, drought, floods, blizzards, and loneliness. I don’t have to work so hard for the dream because the dream is actually this---blood, guts, mud and all. Perfectly precise landscaping, chicken tending, garden planting, and child rearing does not guarantee a gut-free front porch. The dog’s treasures make me think this, and I breathe. Yes, that must be why I managed a partial smile mid gag when I discovered a colorful inside-out rat burger on the third step yesterday. (I’ll blame that one on the cats.)

Blog Proper

My maiden blog post was rambling mania; I called it poetry. This time I will attempt paragraphs.

This morning began with another harsh, dream exodus. In my own lovely REM land, I was attempting to capture the perfect photograph. In my dream, it was an autumn day and golden leaf piles covered the ground surrounding an idyllic lake. The water was mirror smooth and reflected the remaining fire-red and burnt-orange leaves of the trees. From the shore, I noticed a small row boat floating into my field of vision, and, of course, the boat was filled with chocolate lab puppies. Although they were confined to the boat, they frolicked like they just popped out of a Hallmark movie. In the middle of the puppy pile was a towheaded boy, laughing and loving the puppy love. The boat was drifting slowly across the lake; I only had a certain amount of time to capture the scene of perfection. With happy anticipation, I raised the camera, centered the bliss image and “click,” nothing. “Click, click, click!” ---nothing, nothing, nothing. I looked at the camera--a switch was bent. I tried to adjust it. I pushed and yanked and fought the switch. The boat was floating past. The puppies were licking the boy’s face; his head was tilted just so in the autumn sun. His smile was like no other smile ever smiled. “Click, click, click!” The camera continued to fail. I was failing. I started to hold my breath; I started to panic. I couldn't let this moment go. I couldn't fail to capture the perfect perfection of it all. I continued to fight the camera, the boat continued to drift by, my breath held, and then, suddenly, it was all gone. “Mom, get up. Get up, Mom!” I exhaled loudly, like I had just resurfaced from a dive in the deep end of puppy-boat lake. The puppies, the lake, the leaves, the boy abruptly faded away. Another boy (maybe the same one) tugged on my blankets and demanded a Netflix show, a Pop tart, and assistance with Lego construction (in that order).  My breathing leveled as my feet found the cold, wood floor. I felt a little twinge; I mourned the puppy boat.

Perhaps this photography-themed figment developed because this has been a week of capturing moments. Pictures are important this time of year: the children’s music program time of year. After my son’s 1^st grade music program, the children were forced to maintain their positions on wobbly risers so the audience members could sufficiently capture the moment. Phone cameras were held high in the air, people were weaving, bending, ducking and contorting themselves through the crowd to get to the best picture-taking spots. As I watched the zombie-like press towards the stage, I was reminded of the time I made it to the front of the crowd during an Aerosmith concert. When I finally wiggled my way up to the middle of the ever-shifting-fan pit, I was nearly sucked under when a hulk-like security fellow picked me up by the seat of my pants and sent me on my merry way back to the very back of the arena. Of course, the music-program crowd wasn't quite as intense. But, I did detect a bit of panic in the air--the panic of “I need to get the perfect picture. I must capture this moment in time---the moment when my child sang an innocent song through a mouth that still contained baby teeth—the moment when he was still six years old.” 

While the parents and grandparents tried to ease that panic with a wild flicker of flashes, the children fidgeted and smiled their baby-teeth smiles. Static electricity caused their perfect coifs to rise and wave. The little stars of the show began elbowing each other and expressions lost the smiles and changed into goofy looks and scowls. And then, like one final, flash-powder burst, it was all over. Everyone grabbed the coats, grabbed the kids and flooded out into the night; the race was on to find cars, buckle car seats, and get out of the parking lot as quickly as possible.  That designated moment to capture was gone.

A few days later, I found myself trying to seize the moments of my son’s seventh birthday party. On a mildly wintry Saturday afternoon, he and twelve of his friends sported wildly in a gym for two hours. They didn't stop running, jumping, throwing, rolling, crying, yelling, and feeling the thrills of victory and the agonies of defeat-- the entire time. The gym morphed into a pinball machine with twelve balls bouncing around it. In the middle of it all, stood my sixty-six-year-old father. He had a small, orange plastic whistle tied with grey yarn around his neck. Unfortunately, the whistle sound didn't convey much authority; it sounded more like a chicken sneeze. The boys played like they were in a championship showdown while Dad tried to ref, blow the chicken sneezer, and make the tough calls. It was a sight. I clicked, clicked away with the camera. Dad blew his party-favor whistle, indicated first downs, called dead balls, and declared timeouts for tears and intense play debates. The boys, like pinballs (or roller derby participants), collided and zipped around him, and I tried to capture it all. When I reviewed the photos, I found that most of them were blurred because the shutter wasn't set for such action and speed. But, I managed to get a few of the game, the cupcake and Gatorade stained faces, and the gentle glance and smile of the ref. I wanted to keep those moments forever--for my son, for my dad, and for myself.

Beyond the music program and the birthday party photos, the washing machine and turkey images (see previous blog post) still lingered. And, well, I did it; I tweeted a picture of a washing machine to Shia LaBeouf’s Twitter page, and I photographed the turkeys in the glow of headlights. And, by doing so, I deduced that I may be experiencing some kind of mid-life crisis.

When considering the Twitter post, I thought, “Why not? Just do it. What the hell--it’s kind of funny.” But after I clicked “send” and the picture of the Maytag top-loader zipped off to be reviewed by Shia’s page police, I felt oddly guilty, like the act was offensive. I mean, sure, I didn't whip him or anything but isn't the weirdness of posting a picture of a washing machine somehow assaultive? I included the caption: “Because art is both purging and cleansing and sometimes random and sometimes not” and hoped Shia would understand. (Yes, insert sarcastic tone.) I thought that he might determine the washing machine a symbol of his artistic revolution. But, he hasn't replied to the Tweet, so who knows. I hope it wasn't too much (more sarcasm). We’ll see, maybe it will end up on the Today show or something.

The turkey shots, however, were slightly more satisfying. I think my old, “dumb” phone captured the turkey glow by Envoy lights quite well. The eye of the bird kind of reminds me of the eye of Peter Benchley’s beast or maybe some other leviathan. Okay, maybe that’s going too far, but the quote “it’s got eyes like a doll’s eyes” did come to mind. The good news is that, that particular bird has still got its head---he’s photogenic.  

As I think of all the pictures from puppy-boat dream and music program to Maytag and turkey-eye glow, I find myself pondering the fragility of life. Yeah, I ended up there. I suppose this dip into mortality negotiation corresponds with my recent birthday and all the events of late. It seems, that we all reach a point, depending on experience and age, when we really sense the vulnerability of it all. It’s not something of the future. It’s not something to be imagined. It, a kind of visceral acknowledgment, is actually felt in every cell. A veil is lifted and the heavy expectation of time passing and loss becomes painfully clear. Moments can’t be captured. They pass. Things end. We end. The snapshots are just little pseudo-sensory time machines that let us repeat a twinge of what actually was. So we wiggle and bend through the crowd, we frantically adjust the shutter lens, we post Maytags to Twitter, and we try to hold on. Maybe the trick is to hold onto the seconds rather than the “puppy-boat” moments—to hold onto the tug of the blanket, the little boy whine, the cold wood floor underfoot, the Strawberry Shortcake smell of the Pop tart, and the confounding frustration of the missing Lego. Perhaps the way to get beyond the fear or the desire to capture it all is to hold on to each second for just that second.

(Or, maybe we should all just post pictures of Christopher Walken’s treasure chest to Kim K’s Twitter page.)

An Early Morning Birthday Present to Myself

I was going to start this blog project last August. My first post was going to be one entitled "Adventures in Summering: 'Mom, I Pooped in Nature,'" but, as they do, the other things of life got in the way, and I never finished it; now, it's November 30th. So, this morning I wrote a little diddy thingy, and as a birthday present to myself, I'm using it as my maiden blog post. Here goes nothing--

Little Frilly Red Birthday Dress of My Imagination

Purging and cleansing--the satisfaction of erupting ideas and emotion and making them tangible through artistic expression. I don’t think I can get the same thing from carving miniature gourds. I want artistic aggression. I want to throw gallons of neon paint on the barn or to burn something (not the barn).

I just realized I didn't put the chickens in---there may be carnage. Blood and feathers everywhere. Why not?  It is my 38^th birthday. 

As I woke this morning, the words “Just ignore it; go back to sleep” kept repeating in my head. I didn't connect it to anything until now. Every time that little voice played, I would switch sides and reattempt sleep--until I forgot about it and got up. Yesterday, I dreamt that I posted a picture of a washing machine on Shia Labeouf’s Twitter page. I guess that’s where the cleansing and purging idea originated. I also imagined photographing turkey heads in the glow of headlights (I often park by the coop when I come home after dark and have to knock the turkey rafter off the rafters and secure the gang for the night.) I got a strange look from one of the birds the other night; the eye, the open beak, the pink and purple wrinkles stuck with me. I wonder if that’s the one that lost its head.

“Mom, what time is Thanksgiving?! What time is your birthday?!” (repeat 10 times).

I listened to automatic weapon fire while I hung Christmas lights and old stinky garland on the house yesterday. All the décor is brittle and not quite right anymore. In the distance, hunters or kids or big-kid adults found joy in playing war; I swear I heard canon fire each time the plastic garland broke apart in my hands. I thought of Bambi dodging bullets like Neo and then I realized the red ribbon and giant fake poinsettia flowers did momentarily detract my attention from the odd smells, the war, and the mud on the white spindles.

After listening to an NPR interview, all I want to do is read PD James detective novels. 

The sound of little hands digging through a TMNT pencil bag full of tiny Legos. 

This really has no beginning, no arch, no end, and I like it; it’s defiance. My son wants me to play Ninjago now. Erupting art with interruption is a challenge---satisfaction is segmented and never quite whole.

“Mom! Guess how many guys I have?!” “7” “Er, keep guessing!” “Mom! Guess how many guys I have?!” “10” “Er, keep guessing!” 

I guess this does have an end. I must work on my defiance.