Monday, June 24--
2:45 p.m.-
Regarding last night ... there is no way to know from the stern of
a boat what's in store out of sight, next door over the trees. It's seat-of-life
living away from Weather Channel television radar and I don't carry a cell
phone to ring-up my psychic. Without input arriving from any front but the
one flashing and booming in the north and west, we did what we do best. Run!
A quarter mile downstream another bolt of lightning blasted irrefutably,
seeking us, and rain resumed. I kept our course close to shore and the throttle
cranked as the downpour quickened, heading for the tunnel of trees inside
my summer office--no safer, but a better place to die. Rocked through the
narrow inlet of the secret channel, banked left, then right through tight
curves. Scraped along Serenity's Clench, using momentum and current to pull
us through. Under the overhanging trees, turn around quick, splash down the
anchor, gather the camera bag and briefcase around and under my legs--to hell
with the sacks of sunflower seeds--and "whoomp" open the umbrella.
And say "damnit," a few times at 9 p.m., give-or-take 3.
Lightning zinged sensationally as natural daylight dimmed. The leafy
canopy tried but was pitiable protection. Rain strengthened, transforming
the river into dull gray steel. EZ stood and studied a clump of dead grasses
drowning on a branch and seemed not to notice the rain. I hunkered, trying
to keep stuff relatively un-soaked.
The murky woods sighed and tree frogs trilled.
I waited twenty minutes for letup--thank God for Wal-Mart's oversized
Chinese umbrella. Like an acute toothache that torments its victim each tick
of a minute, conditions did not alter or show any evidence of easing. Thunder
moved east, but the rain didn't.
Pulled anchor at 9:23 and drifted out of cover, moving briskly with
the current. Motor started, we hastened three hundred yards through the meadows
to the obstacle course entrance, furled the umbrella, squeezed through, then
increased the pace.
Lightning flashed an encore in the west. Slipped into the main channel,
poured on the gas, leaned forward and yelled at EZ to "lay down,"
to minimize our attraction to lightning. Especially because the load of rainwater
in the boat was too heavy for us to reach a flat plane, the bow pointed at
the sky. The final part of our flight home is through the mile-wide rice marsh,
where we presented a tall moving target for electrical jolts.
Oh well.
Pound fast through river bends, slowing hardly through the gap sawn
three weeks ago, through the shortcut and out into the wide-open lake. A bug
smucks into my eye. Lightning is prowling and growling, seeking us out. It
illuminates our passage and explodes a giant white pine at the boat landing
where we must go. Rounded the final stretch and slowed slightly in respect
for "NO WAKE" markers--which raised a higher wake than going fast
or very slow would've, which I wasn't in the mood to do. Plowed onto shore,
gathered camera bag and briefcase and squished running to the car. Let EZ
in, throw stuff and myself in too, back the trailer to the ramp. Lightning
stabbed and "blammed" in the northeast as I loaded the boat, right
into the office where we'd worried just minutes earlier.
EZ shook herself and sparkled the rear windows.
It's good we left when we did. Weather Channel radar showed a hundred-mile
train of severe storm cells moving through my county, bulls-eye over the office.
Yellow and orange and even some gloomy maroon colors, which if you're marooned
under, as we had been, are likely downcast or dead by 10:30. It's the sort
of tribulation we don't chose to go through, discovering ourselves there through
no fault of bad judgment or idiotic poor choice. Can't say I liked it, but
I did know I was alive. And the whole deal had become funny by the time we
got home. Though the memory of EZ, sitting alone head-down on the front deck
of the boat in the gloom--rain hitting her hard, will never be funny.
Today, 5:30 p.m.-
We are mostly dry, again, anchored in the outer office in the shade
of four maples. It's about eighty degrees and the air is scented with wet
woods and blossoms. Another sudden storm failed to announce its approach and
caught us mid-afternoon, me trying vainly to anchor in fast current under
a tree, then blasting across the river into the shallows, sheltering under
the umbrella and tossing out curses, with every mosquito in the woods biting
my body. Hundreds of buggers biting rainy legs and sculpting red itchy welts.
I'd been considering a swim at Grand Sandbanks, then noticed a tiny
gray cloud had blotted the sun. But the juvenile cloud was building itself
big and soon was practicing sound effects and experimenting with high-voltage
electricity.
It rained and lightning boomed, then passed over and built beautiful
high columns of white and gave tourists in the east a hell of a show.
5:58-
A delirium of flies just stormed in. Similar to houseflies but three
times bigger, one lands on a hand. I shake it away. It circles and lands back
on the same spot. I flip it. It lands on my arm, on my head, then the other
side of my head, a cheek, then an ankle, a toe and a knee, feeling me up with
an elephant foot feeler. I scream. At this moment there are twenty-two of
them sitting on the seats; some are exploring my socks and shoes, which are
off of my feet on top of the tote. Two are shadow boxing along a length of
red bungee cord. Five are trying to take a photo, stacked Cirque du Soleil-ishly
high on the camera's shutter release. Six or eight are rummaging for something
interesting to do inside the clothes bag. At least they're distracted by something
other than me.
6:23-
Just for fun I counted every fly I could see on or in the boat. Fifty-three;
just wanted to see if I was suffering as much as I thought.
8:22-
Couldn't stand it. Had to get away. Loaded up and went back into town
to get more gas and check my answering machine. Caleb and I have been wanting
to see the full moon from the lake and tonight is the night.
Oh, and checked the Weather Channel radar. A Mother of All Storms is
gathering itself in western Wisconsin and moving my way. It's even been delineated
in a Severe Weather rectangle. So, with three gallons of gas and eight ounces
of oil to smooth the works out, I am re-anchored in a minor meander of the
wide-open rice flats for maximum scrutiny of the darkening sky. A family of
young ducks is being shown how to swim. Red-winged blackbirds are "Ka-chinging"
in 360-degree-stereo on tall reedy stalks. A Great blue heron is vulture-ously
perched on a tripod of stumps, and dragonflies--the big ones that eat mosquitoes
and are our friends--are flitting and hovering. One just flew up close and
set down on the keyyyyyyboard. The air is an unmoving eighty-two.
EZ was left home.
We tussled this morning over her taking her meds. She did fine when
the Clavamox pills were slathered in peanut butter. She never knew what she
was eating, but understood that peanut butter tastes good. That was the point.
When the Vet upped her ante with two additional brews, she smelled a bad fish
and spit out the first and refused to consider the second. She has a rough
early history.
Her first five years were spent under abominable violence at the hands
of an ignorant woman who didn't know dogs; she only wanted litters to sell.
So EZ was beaten and shamed and psychically damaged. Five years of her first
life has set fears close to the surface and right near the edge. She shuts
down quickly and cowers and cringes when anything traumatic occurs. She senses
bad moods and she sensed mine this morning when she spit out her pills, even
though encased in strong fatty liver sausage. It was the Vet's advice to replace
peanut butter and it worked fabulously for the first three days. She'd sit
drooling and devour it all in one gulp when I said "okay."
But she must have sniffed something suspicious yesterday, or crunched
into one bitter pill, and this morning only sniffed my gift with distrust
and backed herself back. I offered her a pure, non-medicinal clump. She sensed
it was not toxic and chewed it completely, but with her tiny front teeth,
making sure there were no poisonous chunks. Then came the big, pill-laden
gob. She took it in, worked it around, got all the luscious stuff off and
plopped two white slimy pills on the carpet and went to her blanket and laid
down, facing the bookshelf.
"Bitch," I said to myself and anyone else nearby with ears
to hear. I tried the third pill, a salmon-colored formula the size of my thumb.
She wouldn't come to me, or acknowledge my voice, but laid looking away at
a slick Weather Channel host.
So, off to the pet store for The Final Straw!". The Vet's front
desk girl told me about it; shaped like a straw with an internal plastic pill
pusher. A pill goes in one end, then it's "Effortlessly!""
inserted into a defiant dog's mouth, toward the back of the throat. The pill
is then plunged out deep where involuntary dog contractions can't eject it
back out. $2.98.
I brought it home and loaded it--giggling--with a three-dollar bullet,
told her eyes syrupy lies as I leaned over, pried her muzzle open and stuck
it inside. EZ flinched and screeched and leapt high and away.
I'd had the Final Straw!" and that was enough; too painful for
us both. Called up the vet's girl. She said she'd get out our chart and consult
with the Doc.
While at home to drop EZ off and get ready for the full moon jaunt
with Caleb, I'd attempted the evening's doses. Similar results. So, I am done
trying to give a dog pills. Surgery is the next step. Or I'll wait a week
and see if she's better, but I sure feel bad that she is so afraid.
9:35-
Waiting. The dark end of dusk. Night breeze is stirring, tree frogs
are chirping and the mosquitoes just began their food-seeking flight. The
evening star is showing through haze and I am pleased and dismayed that the
storm may not show up. No sign of the moon yet. But that's okay; Caleb's not
supposed to be here for another half hour.
Fireflies are sending out Morse code messages.
9:47-
Secret splashings in the shallows. Once in a while something ripples
the glass water surface. Spent bullfrogs are moaning and mosquitoes are dining
elsewhere, thanks to Repel. Someone just kicked into passing gear out on the
highway to get somewhere quicker; will need an extra drink because of it.
Wouldn't it be funny if something ugly with a big pincer took up residence
in the P-Pipe and gave me a pinch?
10:10-
Five minutes ago, a short squeal of tires, then "Thud." Now
a siren from town, shouting voices, out where flinty hard chrome and dusty
moth wings sail.
10:24-
Caleb arrived grumpy from a cell phone discussion with his mother over
where he was and was planning to do so late. He turned 17 just over a week
ago and is corralling carts for a home improvement chain.
He wet himself down with Repel and upriver we went, full moon bright
and dim as high cirrus clouds floated through. We anchored in the meadow of
the summer office, shut off the motor and sat drop-jawed. Thousands of fireflies
flickered over the clearing in every direction. Tree frogs and peepers screamed
out a continual screech and bullfrogs punctuated the cacophony with squawks
and punctuating bass grunts. The moon, finally free of obscurant clouds, described
a bright night scene and shuffled crepuscular cards along shore.
An extraordinary metamorphosis that cannot be imagined, the difference
between daylight's familiar matinee and nighttime's prime operatic performance.