Motivated By Dive-bombing Bats
Monday, July 23Ð
3:20 p.m.-
A skirt of lily pads rings the small lake. Except at the boat landing where a thirty-foot dock juts out from shore, and an adjacent concrete apron drops quickly to four-feet deep. Small sunfish glide by in the clear sunny water, hovering and darting, a companionable crew.
EZ strides in right up to her neck, then paddles out far, turns and treads water to scrutinize us. Caleb dives in first from the lip of the dock. I follow him quickly, water streams over my skin, warm, then cooler in the deep, up to the surface, back into the heat.
EZ paddles circles, two eyes and a black doggy nose, long claws stroking strong, seeking our hide. She's given us scratches in previous swims, red welts on our arms, claw swipes on our backs, so when she comes near we back off from her track.
A young woman about 20, pushing a stroller with a baby inside, and a sister about 14, arrive at the beach. Mom picks up the infant and sets her in a yellow inflatable floater. They move down into the water, baby shrieks with delight, hovered nearby by two tender caretakers.
"How old is she," I ask.
"A year and a month."
EZ is courteous, staying clear of their bounds, though drawing near once in a while to show off her big grin.
The young women spend an hour with us at this spot. The mom has a genuine sweet smile, a natural blonde ponytail, friendly and sensible. I'm charmed without end and consider marriage as a proposal. They finally pack up and pass down the road wishing us "good afternoon."
Once they went, the three of us spent the rest of the afternoon there, swimming out far where the surface was warm, diving down deep and into the chill. EZ came with, she's one of us too, furry long tail floating back, a rudder she steers. Then back to the shore to dry in the sun. EZ sits watching at the end of the dock as Caleb does hand-stands and dives for big rocks. Try as we might, coaxing and urging, she will not jump off, no matter how much we show her. We stand in the water ten feet off the end, clapping hands together, inciting her daring. She stands on the pier, barking and wagging and prancing side-to-side, toes on the lip where it's wet, OOPS!, she almost slips in. But alas she'll not dive, so we give up the try, wade to the shallows where she runs off the dock and prances right in.
While swimming, I noticed alertly, farts released underwater create wonderful pockets of trapped gas inside swim shorts. Depending on volume it would float me much better. I demonstrated for Caleb at the next opportunity; he thought that was swell, an idea we could sell. He tried it himself, then huffed a quick whiff, and confirmed right away that bubble-farts afford enhanced smell. Some time later I created a gigantic cloud, held it in place like a helium balloon, floated over to my son and said, "get the likes of this!," and blurped it out.
"Eew gross! I don't want to smell that!" But when I looked
away--then quickly looked back, I caught him leaning in for a sniff.
It's a guy thing, I don't know how to explain it. Most girls and a few nice ladies would disdain it.
The sun gradually lowered behind a large pine, casting frayed shadows across our late afternoon. Water play came to a halt when at 5:58, Caleb abraded the top of his pate. He had been doing distance dive launches off the sloping boat ramp, holding his breath in the shallows then plunging head-long into the deep. The conclusive last dive wasn't headlong enough, or was maybe too deep. He hit the water, then came up right quick with a disheartened sore gape and an ugly top lip. I'd seen nothing untoward when he dove that last time, but he'd angled too deep, head wrongly too steep. He sat on the ramp and massaged the great pain, checking for blood was his concern top and mane.
We arrived at The Woods shortly after 2:00. The outside thermometer read 88, inside: 90 degrees. We got the cabin opened up. Caleb propped a two-by-four under one window to keep it high, a broken length of downspout under another. Screens installed, panels wide, but there was no breeze to stir the thickly wet air. We sat by the firepit and wondered what to do; flies love the heat, they were maximizing our meat.
EZ panted.
We thought to go swimming but didn't like the thought of the river, too buggy and murky with big rocks on which to get hurt. So on to the lake. It has changed just a bit since I last swam there thirty years ago. Houses have sprung up along a new lane called Sky Blue Water Drive, but mostly it's still wild with a developer's edge of civility.
6:45-
Back at the cabin we've changed and dried off, the humidity has plummeted. Caleb is breaking up branches at the firepit, determined to build a big fire. He's read the account of the last visit with Chelsea and is going to do better than her, though he's got great advantage: it's not nearly so wet. He amasses large heaps of sticks on the pit, after submerging scraps of birch bark and wadded up trash. I started to explain fire-building mechanics then repented my mouth. Told him this was, "your fire to do as you wish. You'll hear nothing from me about these errors you're committing, I will stay silent. You'll get no help from me."
So I sat speechless, and watched, both lips bit silent beneath tremulous teeth.
He disappears around back where the woods gets more rural, then appears, dragging craggy old deadwood by cord-tonnage in plural. He gives me a glance that says, "I know how to do this, so keep yourself mum. By the time I am done here you'll be backing your bum."
Some of the trees are too long to knee-break, so he finds two close trees and sticks them between. By leaning back far and grunting and pulling, they crack cleanly in two and he ends up butt on the grass. This goes on for quite a long time, a construction scene of breaking and piling, the tower takes on a noteworthy lean. But I keep to my word, the clearing is silent, his trudging and assembling interrupted only by deerfly-dissuading swishes.
Now. The pyre is complete except for ignition, into the cabin for a long handled lighter. He stoops at the side and flicks the flame on, then pokes it down under to touch a birch tinder. Around and around he stalks, seeking good places to light, birchbark tips and cardboard tatters. A flame curls out and licks at a stick, another begins to burn. The blaze builds up fast, it's doing its work, Caleb looks over with a smug little smirk.
Smoke is spiraling and flames are snapping, and I mention the fear he'll burn this woods down. He sits across from me in a chair, glad of his labor he gives a proud sober stare. EZ grabs up a stick. I relinquish and yawn and back up my chair, then grab the mower, start it, and cut the long lawn.
7:05-
Caleb cooks a weenie on a stick. It's stuck in the fire for long flaming seconds, then drawn out and held up near the ear.
"Listening
for sizzle," he explains as juice drips onto his shirt. Not cooked enough,
though blackened complete, it goes back in the flames, which have grown higher.
Smack back in the inferno, much hotter and cheaper than Sterno.
The wicker ticki
tacky Tiki lights were brought out and a discussion commenced on where they
should go. I point to a spot on the lawn, Caleb stabs the bamboo pole in,
but the tip bounces away like it's hit grim hardened sin. I grab a'hold too,
and between our combined weights, we drive them down in. Only an inch, maybe
two, but they stand passably straight with only faint leanings, one west,
the other one worse.
10:15-
Sitting inside after
dark, candles and lanterns lit on the table. We played a grueling round of
Yahtzee. Once again, in keeping with Woods policy, it is unnecessary to mention
that he won. As we started in on a new game of cards Caleb had taught me (Yiddish
Rummy or Bulgarian Sly, I don't recall) a strange and haunting hiss poured
into the cabin, from out of the north side of the mostly dark woods.
I have heard deer before, gasping at me in the night, but if this was a deer it had a dissonant lisp.
"Deer," I said knowingly, confident and unruffled, a man of the woods who's had numerous deer scuffles. We went back to card throwing (maybe it was Egyptian Flip) but the hairs on my neck were straight at attention. I feigned nonchalance and slapped cards on the table, captured two aces, but tipped over my beer. My son guffawed at Dad in the straits, then he pounded hard, and capsized his own beer on a pair of red eight's. Just as I laughed came a formidable rasp, east of the cabin, and through the black glass. We froze at the sound, stared back into our eyes, knowing for sure this animal was real, and was now stalking our wagons. We rose out of our chairs, and boiled up a sheet. (It's what men do when faced with defeat.) This sound in the forest was scratchy and hoarse, it reminded us both of a ghoulish dark force. Caleb rummaged for a flashlight, I came up with dab of a candle. He said, "don't be so drab," then clicked on the switch of a battered old flashlight. A feeble beam drooped out as though afflicted with blight.
10:26-
I step out through the door and stand in the yard, Caleb comes too, still holding a card. We warily proceed east, crunching sticks and dead leaves, loudly pronouncing our position.
"Rraaaaagr," slashes through the silence behind us to the south. One of us blurts "whoa!"
We alter our course and aim toward definite doom, shuffling and jockeying to see who can hide behind whom. We dawdle through ferns and stoop under long branches, spiderwebs pasting wetly across two frightened faces. Out to the road we break, stumbling and flapping our hats, motivated by a pair of dive-bombing bats.
The creature is sounding rattled and tense, throaty hisses echoing off trees across in Herb's woods. We still don't know for sure what it is, but it had gotten over, or under, his electrified fence. The flashlight is undependably winking dim ... bright ... none. Caleb gives it two knocks, then shines it at the forest while I grab up some rocks.
"I see it," he blurts. "Two orangish eyes moving this way. Holy cow! That's scary."
I run to see too, but the light turns sickly and dark, so I lob a small stone, in toward our mark. Another gassy hiss discharges further back--it's moving away. I've not had a look, so stride to the fence, pull up the top barbed wire (only the middle of three has current running through it), and step tippy-toe over, to avoid a crotch charge.
"What are you doing!? Dad, you're crazy," says son who is slapping the light, unscrewing the base and jostling the batteries. "There's no way I'd go in there."
"C'mon, let's find it," I urge onward, lecturing that animals are usually more afraid of us, than us them. I hold up the fence top and he wriggles gloomily through. We face into the woods, the light beam turns on with a last rush of power. Two orange coals the shape of cat eyes, glow out from the dark, forty-feet back. It's lower to the ground than a deer ought to be. The light winks off suddenly, and here we stand naked, barbaric big teeth--dripping with blood--close by. This beast can see better than us, and is circling to kill. Deadly hot breath stalking near to our left, we back toward the road and I step on a toad. I hold the fence up for Caleb's quick exit, and assumed he'd be there holding it for me.
He was. Then a vicious harassed gasp, above in a tree I'd just passed, urged him to flee, and let the fence be. The electric wire, held steady by the top wire's arc, "boinged" into my groin and zapped with a jolt. I sang a quick note, and hopped through on one leg, then rolled on the ground, and wished to be finished by this cruel nocturnal beast.
In the morning we asked at the Store about strange animals. Evidently there've been recent sightings of bobcat in the area.
But another event is likely too. An exotic animal ranch lies a few miles east, where lions and tigers are housed in big pens. They are kept there for zoos and released when rented to circuses. It's possible some had escaped and were visiting our woods. That may explain a strange pile of scat on the road, containing inedible scraps of pork sausage and bits of a hat.
10:45-
Time to spray the hornet's nest. The instructions on the can of hornet killer ("shoots 20 feet") instructs human users to kill after dark, when the victims, "will all be at home." Caleb carries the good Maglight (found in the car), I trudge ahead, shaking the can. We stop thirty feet away, he narrows the light beam. In three weeks the nest has grown to the size of a basketball, bulging down and out like a cornucopia. The entrance itself is about an inch wide. Three or four hornets are sleepily guarding the hole. I walk up closer, push the spray nozzle hard and a white stream of fluid gushes out. It's forceful, makes a sound like water spraying into a gallon milk jug. The nest starts to shred at the bottom. I aim higher. Loud angry buzzing begins to erupt, foamy white poison pours off gray paper skin. The hard damaging spray soaks the outside, the bottom half droops, but hangs dreadfully on. Snarling multitudes are fully awake, wings panicked inside, bodies drop out. The can grows light, so I stop the assault.
"Let's get out of here." We run for cover and sit down inside where it's light and safe and nobody is trying to kill us with poison.
I dislike having done this. It's not a matter of choice, but I mourn living a life where killing is necessary. I know the rationalizations of, "it's a matter of us or them," but it doesn't soothe immediate regrets. It's the way it is, but I do not take satisfaction from it.
A little while later we cautiously climb into the sleeper, darkly and quietly, and laid down softly. Dying wings droned up under those eaves, youngsters and ladies, the men with them too. It kept me awake, that sorrowful sound.
Tuesday--
10:45 a.m.-
We had some excitement just now. I walked to the road to get warm in the sun; stood there and blinked and had a good think. I turned toward the east and stared down the road, saw off in the distance two cows eating, heads down in the weeds. They were both outside the barbed wire and loose on the lam. I started the car in a flurry of hurry, headed down closer to verify sight. As I approached cautiously, a mom and her cub glanced over at me, then looked away in adamant snub.
"We'll just see about that, you oafish old bovine," I said, and made ready to tell Herb. Just as I slipped the gear into first, Mom wheeled around, strode around front and stopped in my way. She dripped a great clot of weeds from her mouth, chewing and chewing, until it all went down. I honked the horn, (a pitiful sick shrill), then baby came over and nuzzled the grill. I pounded the horn button again and again, but this pair wasn't moving, to back where they had been. So I withdrew from the east and turned the car around, then reversed my way back, now aiming toward west. Mom knew her back from my front; she hurried again to stand at the front and hinder my passage. I slammed it into reverse with a little delay, and backed my way fast to the road far away. A man on a mission must not be delayed, when rushing to report a serious cow outage!
Fly to the store, vault in through the door shouting, "Cows running amok!" The lady on duty runs to a radio, presses a button, "Cows on the loose!"
I sit for a minute letting the fervor subside, when a four-wheeler goes shooting out of the yard, followed quite fast by a dust-clouding truck, hell-bent and hard. I surge out and jump in my car, slip it in gear and take up the rear. Herb and Leon are already on-scene when I get there, scratching their hair. No cows are errant, they're all back inside, munching sublimely on this morning's hay. I assure Herb and Leon I wasn't seeing things, or playing a tragic bad joke. Herb mumbles, "fence ain't broke. Must've crawled under."
I returned to the cabin by 10:30. All was still quiet, although EZ sat in the driveway wondering over my riotous departure.
I'd given Caleb the lecture when arriving yesterday, about doing what we liked, not letting the clock or responsibility get in the way. I poured a cup of coffee and sat by the fire. EZ took up her watch at the sleeper, laying by the door, sleeping in the sun, waiting for Caleb to come out and play.
I took a walk to the river. Daisies are gone now, but clover blossoms are sweet purple, heavily scenting the air. Monarch butterflies are numerous, one escorted me along, stopping to rest on oak leaves and grasses, fluttering ahead as I neared.
11:04-
The sleeper door opens. Caleb peers out. EZ leaps up, twirls three circles and streaks through the clearing with joy at his showing.
12:30 p.m.-
Sandstone. We've refueled the car. Caleb suggests we vacuum it out, a chore that's not been done in the year and a half I've had it. We park by the fifty-cent vacuum and open the doors, shovel out junk and put it in two piles. One to throw out, one to save. (Never know when I'll get around to reattaching that broken piece of black trim back on to the seat.) We whisk and suck sand, and acres of dirt, out of the carpets, and way down deep where smelly things lurk. The back seat cushions look like they're made of mohair, stringy long furs of two winter's dog hairs. The task ends and I can't hardly believe that this is the same car. I hate to let EZ, or me, back in.
Need to check oil. I go to the front after unclasping the hood, reach down to release the latch. I spy tattered feathers jammed under and spraying out of the narrow space, the nitch in which I have to poke a finger to sweep the safety catch over. A small goldfinch got slammed and bent around it as we drove over yesterday, wedged in and killed where it hadn't a chance. I really don't want to reach in with bare fingers. Caleb grabs a small American flag, begins poking and nudging with the stick to prong the latch free. The hood springs up, we stare at this death, a battered small bird, feathers and feet and a tiny yellow head, torn into shreds.
He pokes it with the stick. It falls to the ground and lays in a blasphemous heap.
2:30-
Brother-in-law Chuck has heard that mulching young trees will help them grow fast. It seems that grass and other ground covers prevent water from soaking efficiently down to the roots. So I got out the chainsaw and grabbed an oak chunk, laid it on a tarp to catch sawn wood chips, then surrounded the two young trees with fluffy soft mulch. I'll let you know how they grow.
4:00-
We walk to the hornet's nest to see what's happening. Nothing. The bottom half of the nest is gaping, drooping and tattered, a hundred dead bee bodies clinging, lolling out, exposed, inert. Papery gray sheets dangle lifeless, inner chambers raped and laid bare, silently swaying. On the ground underneath is a holocaust pile, fifteen-inches wide, four and five bees deep. Hundreds of bodies scattered, laying on their sides, slightly curled, mixed in with dead leaves. Quiet dear life is nowhere down there.
We'd talked about revisiting the haunted old farmstead, Caleb wanted to go at night when the ghosts would be most active.
"We'll see," I say, putting him off.
The day became late afternoon and he mentioned it again, "what time are we leaving for the farm?"
"We can go soon if you like."
"Yeah but, we've got to wait until dark."
"It's a long drive, about twenty miles. Besides it doesn't get dark until well after nine."
6:10-
We got in the car. Caleb, owner of a new learner's permit, wanted to drive. We decided to go via the new bridge now that the "ROAD CLOSED" sign is gone.
It's become a showplace attraction for the neighbors around here, cars parked along the shoulder, visitors strolling in fresh Sunday dress, chatting in small circles, pointing, posing for snapshots with the glamorous new bridge in the back. Two girls are selling popcorn and cotton candy. A man is hawking hot dogs and T-shirts with silk-screened images of a 'Frisco-ish suspension bridge, and the slogan "Big Bridge - 2001."
Leon is standing on top of a yellow tank truck, directing a fire hose, shooting water arcs onto the new sod, children shriek dashing through the spray. EZ runs wild, is seen over yonder, darting and grinning, between her front teeth a cigar-ish brown wiener.
The sun is tender. We spend some time looking at the wondrous architecture, greeting visitors, exchanging business cards and promises to write, before choosing to move on. The old farm is a half-hour distant, I whistle for EZ, and three other mutts come running. I shag them away and whistle more loudly. EZ appears from under the bridge, a can of red spray paint clutched in her armpit. I yell a sharp "NO!" the can tumbles out, she kicks it behind a spray-painted rock. She slouches over to us, the scent of graffiti rising off her hair. I smell cotton candy then look again. There are wisps of sugary pink on her cheeks and slobbery mustard smears on her lips. Into the car she leaps, and almost gets away with it. Tied to a holster dangling under her butt is a small sack of peanuts. I wrench it off and toss it aside, two untidy mongrels start a dogfight and fling it up high.
We depart to the east for a mile or two, then begin a discussion how pretty the girls are in Sandstone. Caleb had noticed this earlier in the day, a secret I'd kept. Yes, most are okay.
"Would you rather go into town and check for chicks?"
"Yes."
I sigh with relief
to avoid Blair farmhouse witches, so it's okay by me if the evening's plan
switches. We head for town due west, him driving straight into a sinking orange
sun. The testosterone is surging, 
two
dudes seeking girls. An older guy with crows feet tip-toeing his face, and
an age fifteen son who picks up the pace. Along the way I request a side trip
to refill my teacup. He swerves onto a dirt road and lets me get out.
Turning around requires
a sharp turn mid-road, then reverse just a smidge ... right into the ditch!
The car dips down, scratching at saplings, I yell a quick burst, shouting
"what are you doing?!"
Caleb gives me a
look like 'don't be such a bore.' He puts it in first, shoves the gas to the
floor, spins gravel wildly, some even "pings" off of my door.
Just as we pull into town an alarm screamed of emergency. Around a corner came a firetruck in a hurry. Motorists pulled to the side, we did likewise. It pulled off the street and turned off the siren. The driver (still revolving his red lights) did a U-turn in the parking lot; the electric garage door opened, and he backed into his slot. The convenience of boys with their toys.
We park in the grocery store lot facing right at the door. Ten minutes goes by.
EZ, in the back, begins a loud snore. We agree with her opinion, are bored to the core. Caleb starts the motor and we drive north through downtown. Two boys on bikes, a cat's on a hike, bank temperature sign reads 61. Nothing else is in sight.
"Let's go to the Citgo station. I saw some girls there in April."
He turns left on the highway and gains some momentum, then brakes hard and veers right as Citgo comes into sight. He parks near the door. We sit. An elderly woman goes inside. A teen-aged boy walks out, tipping a bottle of Coke. Neon hums. A tractor chugs near, goes by. I slap a mosquito. Lights blink. Caleb sighs.
A red Taurus pulls in. Stops. Pretty head of hair through tinted windows. Hmmm. A young woman gets out of the far side, rounds the front fender. Caleb starts winking, then stops quite abrupt. This girl likes her Twinkies, her butt is corrupt.
Maybe the Conoco Station out by the interstate. Caleb starts up. We back out, move on.
Nothing. No girls. A red pickup truck is parked in the back. A bread truck door is open, a man carries trays.
We head onto the freeway, toward Hinckley ten miles south. As we near town I see tall light towers, brightly lit in the sunset. A county fair? Stock car race? Monday night flea market?
Negotiating through back-streets toward the scene of the lights, Caleb notices a girl pushing a carriage. Too young. As we move through the intersection the village savant drives up, honks at her, gesturing "C'mere."
We drive on.
The lights appear through canopies of trees, coaxing, directing us to our hopeful goal. A fairgrounds it is, with a ballpark and bleachers. A game's going on, we pull up near the gate. But the game is enclosed behind an eight-foot fence. We contemplate climbing the two-by-four gridwork, then check to see if admission is free.
It is. We walk through the gate, men stand talking, it's only the third
inning, we're not too late. Caleb leads us up into the seats, long wooden
benches, a roof overhead, a scattering of fans yelling at an ump's crappy
call.
We sit toward the top and breathe it all in, smack of leather in gloves, well-groomed diamond, girls. Sitting.
Pretty girls. Young girls biting fingernails dangling out of large droopy sleeves. Girl legs in shorts. Short droopy girl tank tops, gaping above waistbands in back. Panty-top lace. Downy blonde hairs, sacral dimples, smooth skin, soft necks.
This is what a guy sees.
A runner steals second, shouting breaks out, a body slides prone in a yellow cloud of dust. The ump swings his arms wide, like he's clearing his desk; the runner looks back, and a run scores at home. The fans are tense, hands are rung tightly, the visitors aren't much fun, the score is now tied at three runs apiece. A bat "boings" hard aluminum, the ball heads up high, then slams down on sheet metal above us.
We tire of the game
and leave the wrought-up stands, EZ's in the car and needs a potty break.
We drive through the park and spot a huge oak, the nearer we get the more
enormous it grows. Stop near the trunk, let EZ
free; stare at this tree. The bark is caricaturish, something from Disney,
but it's aged and real, at least two hundred years old. Caleb goes crazy with
desire to climb up, but the lower branches are just out of reach above the
car top.