by jphilo | Feb 11, 2011 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
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.”
by jphilo | Dec 28, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Well, the Christmas card season is winding down for most families. Ours will be in the mail soon (this year’s excuse is the new book manuscript), once inspiration hits. In the meantime, Hiram and I will keep chuckling about the funny story shared in our neighbors’ letter about their college-aged son. Here it is verbatim, so you get the full effect.
John and a few of his track teammates live in an old house on the edge of the Truman State campus. A few weeks ago one of them shot a squirrel with a BB gun. Not wanting to be wasteful, Brandon Decided he wanted to cook and eat it. Once he had the varmint in the kitchen he noticed it still twitching. So, with the squirrel lying on the kitchen counter, he took a big wooden spoon and bonked it on the nose. This sent the rodent into a flopping frenzy and at the same time snorting blood all over the place. After the squirrel finally gave up Brandon realized he was late for class so he wrote a quick note and left. Jon arrive home a few minutes later…walked into the kitchen to find a dead squirrel on the counter, blood splattered all over and a short note that read, “Skin, salt and pepper lightly, and bake at 375 degreed for 90 minutes. I’ll be home in time to eat and help clean up. Brandon.
Are you thinking you’d like to meet this kid, Brandon? I sure am.
And I can’t wait to share the letter with my brother-in-law when he arrives later this week. He’s had his own personal squirrel vendetta for years. Maybe this story will inspire him to detail his story in a comment.
If you have a squirrel story of your own, leave your comment, too. This post could become a repository of American Squirrel Lore. Pretty cool when you think it started with a Christmas letter, huh?
by jphilo | Dec 22, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
A heat wave hit Monday. Twenty-two degrees at 7:00 AM, warm enough to walk outside for a change. So I bundled up and took advantage of the balmy weather.
From the looks of things, our yard has been crawling with critters during the week and a half I’ve been holed up inside. Our three inches of picture perfect snow is pock-marked with deer tracks. I’m not talking a meandering trail here and there, I’m talking a hooved frenzy, a dancing-in-the-moonlight conflagration, a forest full of Bambies in our back yard.
The situation is giving me the willies. Not just because we moved to the edge of town to get away from the crowds. No, I’m spooked because the greatest concentration of hoof prints – and we’re talking snow so full of holes it makes a bad case of teenage acne look good – are right outside our bedroom window.
So what’s with our four-legged forest friends? Are they a bunch of Peeping Bambies? Or are they so hungry for July and August that they’re munching the woody stems of the two Endless Summer Hydrangea bushes beside our bedroom window?
The second theory is preferable to the first. I mean, I love the hydrangeas and don’t want them to be some woodland creature’s lunch. But the thought of a crowd of eight point bucks and doe-eyed doe witnessing our age-related sleep apnea, timing our snores, and watching us drool on our pillows is enough to give a person insomnia.
But Hiram won’t be too excited if I suggest he slog through the snow and freeze his fingers while covering the hydrangeas with chicken wire. And we don’t have a BB gun to scare them off. So I have a different solution. I’ll hang a poster of my brother holding his shotgun and wearing his hunting vest in our bedroom window.
Take that, Bambi.
Take that, eight point buck.
Take that, doe-eyed doe.
Take that and find a different place to park your peepers. You’re weirding me out!
by jphilo | Dec 9, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
The other morning, I was nearing the end of my walk, trudging up a steep hill in the park . Not wimpy steep. This hill is truly steep. And long. Very long.
A tall jogger approached from behind, huffing and puffing and gaining rapidly – so I moved to the side of the path. His arms pumping, he barely lifted his feet off the ground as he wheezed past. Still, he flashed a broad grin and gasped, “It’s a beautiful hill, isn’t it?”
I nodded at his long, lean, retreating back and thought of the young adolescent boy I’d seen a while earlier in the morning on this very same hill. I was on my way down the hill, and he was wobbling along on his bike, heading to the middle school.
We go to the same church, and I’ve watched him with interest over the years. Diagnosed with high functioning autism some years back, life hasn’t been easy for him. Social cues often escape him. Impulsivity is his enemy. Subtlety, irony and tact are lost on him. But thanks to supportive parents who love him unconditionally and realistically, he’s learning to cope.
As his bike swerved up the sidewalk, I stepped into the grass to give him more room. Then, I greeted him, the same way I always do on the mornings when our paths cross.. “Good morning, Fred!”
Most days, Fred’s response is a brief nod with eyes averted, nothing more. But this time was different. Fred braked, put a foot on the ground to balance himself and looked my way. “What’s your name again?” he asked.
“Jolene,” I replied. “Jolene Philo.”
Fred looked me straight in the eye and smiled. “Good morning, Jolene.” Then he swung his other leg over the bike and pedaled up his truly steep, very long hill.
I watched him tackle the steep incline he faces every day of his life. It is a beautiful hill he’s climbing, I thought as he reached the crest. A beautiful hill indeed.
by jphilo | Dec 2, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
The calendar says winter begins on December 21, but around here, people know it’s here. Even without snow on the ground, there are plenty of clues it’s already begun. Here’s the top ten list I put together on recent morning walk.
You know it’s winter when…
10. Your desire to put up Christmas decorations has nothing to do with fostering family
and everything to do with turning on more lights in the living room.
9. Your front lawn is a “shivering deer on parade” spectacle several times a day.
8. 26 degrees + no wind + gloomy clouds = great weather for a morning walk.
7. The neighbor’s rooster waits until 7:15 AM to cock-a-doodle-doo.
6. Box elder bugs and Asian soy beetles join you under the covers at night.
5. You see a squirrel hanging upside down while snacking on the shriveled, disgusting
fruit on your tiny crab apple tree.
4. The turtleneck sweater given to you by your mother – yeah, the one with the cutesy
snowman on the collar – suddenly looks warm and cosy.
3. The mice are huddled next to their space heaters in the garage walls and refuse
your invitation to feast upon the peanut butter and crackers you’ve left out for them.
2. It takes longer to bundle up for the walk to the mailbox than the walk takes.
And now, the number way you know it’s winter is when…
1. The valiant, little daisy that stood brave and straight and tall through five hard
frosts, three inches of cold, November rain, and two blustery days, the one that
gave you such hope two weeks ago when you photographed it, now lays bent
and broken on the ground.
by jphilo | Nov 8, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
It happened again – another Marlin Perkins wildlife moment – near the same place as before on the walking trail. This time six deer, almost within touching distance, moseyed across the path near the little stream that runs through the cemetery and the woods. So there it was, the shot of deer I’ve been aching to capture for years, so close it would have been a fabulous shot, even without my telephoto lens. But because of my sore back thing, I was once again cameraless.
Sigh.
But it gets worse. (Or if my camera had been at hand, better.) The deer weren’t one bit frightened by a human presence. They didn’t bother hiding in the tall grass. No, they started grazing on the slope beside the walkway. Such a charming tableau, six deer nibbling at green grass beside the flowing, burbling stream, with an old stonework culvert as a backdrop.
Double sigh.
But it gets worse. (Or, to an equipped, think ahead photographer, even better.) Two of the deer, perhaps slightly unnerved by a whiff of female human stink, got up close and personal with a dainty doe. In the blink of an eye, they sipping mama’s secret recipe, warm and fresh from the spigot.
Triple sigh.
But it gets worse. (At least for Mama Doe.) Her two tipplers were not tiny, sweet spotted fawns. No, they were old enough to be spotless. Tall enough to look their flesh and blood faucet in the eye. Mature enough to munch grass after their little drinky-poo. Close enough to adult status that by the time I can lug the camera around, they won’t be nursing any more. As if I could ever get this close to six deer again. Which will never happen.
Quadruple sigh.
So my latest Marlin Perkins wildlife moment will forever be an in-the-moment moment.
The great shot that got away.
My personal digital fish tale with no one to collaborate or deny the story.
But it’s way worse for that poor doe, nursing teenage twins too lazy to pour their own milk and chop their own lettuce. Poor thing!
I wonder, do deer sigh?
