Asides

When I was a little girl, my Mamaw and I would sit on our back porch, raised up about ten feet in the air, wielding a piece of string and dancing it around over the family of raccoons we fed every day. They’d come out right at dusk–8:00 in the spring or fall, closer to 9:30 in the summer–and we would lay on our stomachs on the porch, silent except for the occasional stifled giggle, playing with the baby raccoons and their mother for as long as we could–before it got too cold or too late, or the sound of our dogs barking or the neighbor pulling into her driveway scared them off for the night. Regardless, we saw them every day. Mamaw had a way of knowing just when to peek out on the back porch to catch sight of a raccoon or possum or stray cat. She attracted them somehow; the food scraps we put out helped, sure, but they always seemed to trust her. She could walk right up to a wild animal and they wouldn’t mind. When we found sick or injured ones, we’d nurse them back to health. Mamaw would stick the ailing critter in a storage bin in our kitchen and tend to it like a baby. When they lived, they would come back and visit us on the back porch. If they didn’t make it, we’d have funerals in the backyard. She’d wrap the now-cold rabbit up in a rag from the basement and we’d dig a plot somewhere between the pool and the garage. Mamaw liked to fill them in herself after we’d finished gathering around the hole, her and my sister and I, but never gave us a reason. She’d just tell us to go play. She usually managed to save the creatures she found, but sometimes even she wasn’t magic enough and there’d be freshly upturned grass in the yard again.

When I was of pre-elementary age, maybe five or six years old, I found a toad in the creek by my house. I picked him up and carried him to my backyard where I showed him off to my two friends, Billy and Jake. Collectively, we decided to creatively name him Toady Toad. I brought him into my house to show my mother who was cooking dinner. To my surprise, she would not let me keep him in the house. She made me return Toady Toad to the creek. It was a few days before I returned to the creek again to find my new friend. I remember finding him (or a similar looking toad) on a rock in the creek. This time, I decided not to interact with the toad. But I remember feeling very excited to find him and relieved that he was still alive. I never saw Toady Toad again, but I like to think he is still hopping around that creek.

Bear sightings are very rare around my area.  But, over fall break, I was in the right place at the right time.  I had just driven across the bridge and entered Paulsbo when I saw something I have never seen before in person.  A black bear scampered across the road and into the forest.  I was shocked, I slowed down and looked in the woods hoping to catch one last glimpse but the bear had already disappeared.  Afterwards I was so excited to tell my friends and family that I was lucky enough to have been there when bear decided to cross the street.  After nine years of living here I had finally seen one.  I had only ever heard stories and seen Facebook posts about them.  I realized that they do actually live close by, which is something I hadn’t spent much time thinking about.  I don’t know how they stay so well hidden.

Although I have experienced many things in my life, I rarely get the opportunity to experience some event in the right place at the right time. Luckily, I was able to experience such a thing quite recently. It was when I was walking back from Woosterfest, when I decided to take a detour through some nearby neighborhoods. As I was wandering through them, I was finishing up on a cheaply made chicken-ranch sandwich from one of the many food trucks that were stationed in the festival. As I was leisurely eating my sandwich, almost finished with strolling by the small houses, I encountered a stray cat. It was a young female cat with a mixture of white and black patterns randomly painting its body. It sauntered up to me, just as I was about to head back on Beall Ave, and meowed loudly. Of course, I knew the cat wanted what I was eating. I set my sandwich on the ground and pet it while it happily ate the leftovers. I wasn’t too attached to the sandwich, as it was not the highest quality of food,  so gifting it to the cat caused me no trouble. As it was finished, it hummed with soft purring and relished in affection for another few minutes before wandering away. Since then, I have still thought of that warm moment with the friendly feline. I hope it does well and as the temperature starts to decrease, that its owner will keep it warm and well-feed inside.

When I was younger, my brother an I were obsessed with snowstorms. In Southeastern Pennsylvania we would occasionally get these big snowstorms called Nor’ Easters, in which a low pressure system moves up and along the east coast. As the storm moves up the coast, it very often strengthens and sends heavy snow inland. One time we had two of these storms within the same week. By the end of the two storms we had a whopping 5 feet of snow, which doesn’t happen very often in Southeastern Pennsylvania. Schools were closed for the entire next week, which was awesome. So we were outside most of the day playing in the snow when we decided to make a snowball and put it in our freezer inside. Therefore, when the snow melted we would have a “souvenir” to remember the historic snowstorm. Well, we forgot about the snowball for awhile, and one July summer day I was searching the freezer for ice cream when I came upon this snowball, that had been turned into a round block of ice.

When I was younger, Spring was my favorite season. I paid no mind to the rain or the allergies–I happen to love the rain and I have no allergies to speak of. What mattered most was the transformation of our yard from barren icy wasteland to fairy paradise. I watched as clover, dandelions, and wildflowers popped from the soil. Everyday, I would evaluate my lands. My mother raved about the blooming lilacs and cherry tree. I kept my eyes to the ground, following the ants to the peony bud in the corner of the yard. I watched astounded as they ate the bud’s sugary coating. I rooted for these plants that died and came back each year.

I don’t like heights. Not particularly fond of the idea of jumping out of a plane to go sky diving, although i always say i want to before I die. As a kid, and a proper kid –like under the age of 16– I fell in love with climbing trees. I don’t know why i never felt nervous up there, 2 or 3 stories high maybe. I’d back up from the edge of The Grand Canyon one year after i climbed my tree for the last time, but never did i think about venturing into the coffee filter of adrenaline and serenity of the top tree branches. I didn’t wanna jump or fly, I wanted to be right where I was. Tasting the hard cold that would soon be chased by below freezing temperatures and snow.

We, the tree and me, bent with the wind, moving in living conversation or simply simple co-existence. Thankful to whoever or whatever sent the rushes of spiraling refrigerator wind against and the around my fingertips. Styling my hair differently, naturally. I haven’t changed my feelings towards the trees or the wind, I’ve simply been divorced from my home tree. School, moving, age, laziness, work, all have strained my relations with it. But we still talk sometimes. I never let too many trees breeze past me without reaching out and touching, or let too many winds wind around the forests without having my lungs and blood and brain be a blissfully short detour.

When I was a kid, my brother, mother, and I would go to the pool every day during summer. We would meet up with my mom’s friend’s family and all play together. At the pool we couldn’t be in the water during designated lifeguard breaks. During the first break I would leave some food in the grass with the hopes of attracting ants; it always worked. By the time I came back during the next break, many ants would be taking away bits of my gift. They would form single file lines to and away from it. I was always amazed at how many ants there were, how fast they dissembled the grub, and how much a little ant could carry. Sometimes an ant didn’t get to carry anything so I would break off a different piece of food and put it on his back so the ant could be a hero to the nest. Later in the day I would put a large piece of chow directly in the ants’ path and watch the confusion that would ensue. Should they take the old or new? They would always scramble on top of the new gift feeling it with their antennae. Some ants chose to take the fresh food while others took their original score. Whenever I would come back, there would always be even more ants breaking down my gifts. I had to be careful to not make the pieces too large for fear that my mother and her friends might notice the ants and throw away the food. When did I stop playing this little game? When I stopped going to the pool. Today if I were to have a picnic, I would still break off some food and wait for the ants to march to and fro.