One of the things I like best about writing is being alone in our quiet house. Of course, an appreciation of quiet isn’t exclusive to writers. Parents dream of quiet while raising children. And elementary teachers, who spend their days surrounded by quivery masses of energy and noise, relish time alone. So as a writer, parent, and former teacher, my love of quiet aloneness may be triune in nature.
Thanks to nature, I am rarely alone in our old farmhouse on the edge of town. Because of this winter’s snow and cold, the deer who are usually content to hide in our neighbor’s woods have been stopping by for prevening* flower garden snacks on a regular basis. Some prevenings, they divide and conquer, surrounding the house while they munch the dry foliage in flowerbeds outside the living room, bedroom, and kitchen windows.
I don’t begrudge them a few dried hydrangea and marigold blossoms. But they start window peeking, it weirds me out. What is the cause of the look of longing in their chocolate brown eyes? Do they dream of coming inside, out of the cold? Or do they think I’ll strip down to my skivvies if they wait long enough?
When they get tired of waiting for a prevening floor show, which ain’t never gonna happen, they mosey over to our biggest, oldest evergreen tree. They’ve spent so much time pawing away the snow to graze on the dead grass below that the tree is ringed with hoof prints and bare patches. It looks like a mysterious crop circles, only this is a snow circle.
The hoof prints and the deer poop piling up around the perimeter is a pretty good clue that deer and not aliens are the cause of the phenomenon. But you never know with all the crazy alien abduction theorists looking for “mysteries” to exploit. It’s hard enough to get any writing done with deer chewing, burping, pooping, and window peeking. The last thing I need is a bunch of UFO paparazzi swarming around, looking for a new story. If that happens, I’ll have to fly to a warm, sunny, and deserted island to get any work done.
On second thought, maybe I should spread the UFO story.
Then I could pack my swimsuit and head for that deserted island.
Where it’s quiet
And warm.
And I can be alone.
Just don’t tell anybody where I’m going.
*Sheldon, of The Big Bang Theory, created the word prevening to “define the awkward hours between four thirty and six p.m. when it’s too late to be afternoon, but not yet evening.” I think it’s the best new word since “blog.”
