With this eyesight my Mother has become the Stink Bug Stalker since moving to Rural PA. She has a cool ultra modern house with sixteen foot ceilings, soaring red brick walls, clerestory windows, and handmade tile floors from the Moravian Tile Works. There is a WHOLE lotta brown. She can be sitting in a dark room with only a light on to read by, at eleven PM, and see a stink bug moving 20 feet away on the brick wall. Meanwhile if the damn thing doesn't land on my father's head, it doesn't exist.
Every day, there is a "FRANK! Get the shot gun, there is a bunny in the yard heading towards the Kohlrabi." shouted from the kitchen in the general direction of my father. This is usually followed by a soft popping sound and my mother grabbing a shovel. My father is a great shot, and he always has been.
In recent years, he shoots at the mourning doves which bustle about on the feeders on the deck, the ground hogs which seem to be everywhere, rabbits eating everything in the garden, and a few aggressive raccoons. There is a new, fat raccoon who has taken up residence on the bird feeder. Initially my mother would bang on a sliding door to frighten him away. He is quite pretty, and my mother has named him Percival. Because he has been named (and my father had a pet Raccoon as a young teen when he first moved to the US) my dad can't shoot at Percy now.
While driving recently my parents were discussing what to do with Percival, when they came to a flooded out area, which is pretty common this time of year. Our area is quite swampy and has some beautiful fens between hills and in the deep valleys. As they approached the flooded out area, my mother exclaims" Ooooooh. What's that?"
Gazing to the right, there is a brown lump bobbing along, slowly working its way towards the edge of the flood on the grass. "Frank! I think we have a beaver!" Now my father has a scientific back story for everything, from how gneiss is formed, to how slogans came about. "Well, we do have beavers up here...Mwah mwah Mwaaah Mwa wah." As they sit watching the beaver laze about in the water, a second couple out for a stroll in the rain wander up.
Saying hello, how are you, and exchanging polite pleasantries, the newcomers say, "Can't get through huh? It's even worse up by Olde Philly Pike" "OH no!" replies my mom, "We are watching that beaver over there." "There is a beaver? Oooooh a beaver, honey. You know there was one up by the lake that the game commission chased away." The lady half of the couple states. "Ahhh" goes the male half of the couple, which to my father sounds like he has an accent, and causes a string of German words to come bubbling from his lips.
This is met with the great Blank Stare. My father goes glumly silent. My mother now exits the car and she and the lady begin moving closer. "Is it napping? It isn't moving very quickly." "I don't know,"says my mother, "Are they like otters in California? Can they sleep in the water?"
"Is it dead?" says the stranger lady,"I hope not, I wonder if someone shot it." "I hope they didn't poison it, you know that killed some of the goats from down the hill that way" replies my mother. "I didn't know that! We had them in our fruit trees a few years back. You know, they are QUITE hard to catch." the stranger lady comments.
"Look! it's moving!" the stranger man says. "Ooooh" go my mother and stranger lady. "Whats that?" stranger lady asks. "It has a stick!" my mother exclaims, "I can't believe we are this close!"
"Wait, what is that?" my mother asks. "I don't know" replies stranger lady. "Oh dear god," my mother suddenly says. "FRANK! Frank, get out here, just get out of the car. Frank just get over here." "Is that a log?" my mother asks. "Have we been watching a log this whole time?"
Yes, the beaver was a log. Thirty minutes of commentary, conversation, and standing in the rain, watching a napping log loll around in a flooded road. I can't wait to retire.
No comments:
Post a Comment