We woke to steadily falling snow. The wind is whistling through the eaves like the sound effects in a particularly corny old movie, and the predicted snow totals have risen to a minimum of nine inches. We already have at least six, and it’s supposed to snow all day.
The dogs are in the kitchen, lying on their tummies to better savor their breakfasts of turkey bacon and eggs. There is a fire here, and fresh tulips on the mantel. My cup of coffee steams nearby.
People are stranded on the local highways, and I am betting the blowing snow makes the rural roads impassable. Semis are unable to make their way up minor slopes on the freeways. I hope they will all be merely inconvenienced.
I had planned to run out this morning on a minor errand, but that seems unnecessary. I cancelled the electrician, thinking that standing on a ladder working on light posts seemed unpromising in this weather. He seemed to agree.
Very soon I will need to bestir myself to accompany the dogs on a morning walk. Eli will not go without me, but I don’t mind. I have boots and a good parka, and sufficient inner child to find it fun.
I may have to spread the 160 pounds of bird seed I bought yesterday a bit sooner than planned. I saw the deer chewing on brush yesterday, and things will be harder now. Another child’s adventure.
The local weather guy says we may or may not meet the specific criteria for a blizzard, but why quibble?
Seems like a perfect day to stay home and design new cocktails for Roger. If you know, you know.
We live in the woods, and partly because our property is contiguous with other large wooded areas, we have diverse wildlife. It is endlessly fascinating. I spend more time looking out at the activities beyond our windows than I do watching television.
But I’ve never really paid much attention to squirrels. We have approximately eleven million gray squirrels, and a rapidly increasing population of red squirrels, whose aggressive habits chase other mammals from the territory, and cause destruction to human property. You can hear them scold if you dare to walk beneath any of their trees. They are smaller than gray squirrels, but they box above their weight. All together, squirrels are the most common animals on our property, and I take them for granted. They are not mysterious and fascinating like raccoons or possums; or innocently beautiful, like deer; or showy and cantankerous like turkeys. They’re just squirrels. Always there. Always busy. Almost always solitary except during mating season. Not particularly interesting.
And yet, I recently learned that squirrel intelligence is superior to that of dogs, and this has given me a lot to think about. It certainly explains how in the dog vs. squirrel chase category, squirrels are definitely winning.
Anyway, this is not meant to be a treatise about squirrel species. It is the observation of—if not friendship—camaraderie—and, perhaps, of something more important.
I first saw a pair of gray squirrels running together in the summer months. At the time—and without paying close attention—I marveled over How. Many. Squirrels we had this year. It was like a squirrel invasion. (A circumstance due, probably, to the sudden diminution of the coyote population.) Every morning, they were running together, one after the other: racing across the lawn, spiraling up trees, and looking, to my wandering and inattentive gaze, as if they were either rivals or a mating pair. I didn’t think about them, or pay particular attention. But they were always there.
Only recently did it suddenly occur to me that they were still always there, and it wasn’t just a pair. It was a group of four. And it had always been—I realized—a group of four. There were lots of other squirrels around, but here was this…clan…running together in the clearing down the hill, foraging together, and racing across the grass to a particular tree, where they would run up the trunk and disappear.
Their relationship is as constant as that of the turkeys, and as I look back I realize how much their antics have been a fixture of my mornings, if only in the background of my awareness. The other squirrels nearby did not interact with them, unless it was to run off a competitor. But I think it was the other squirrels who must have been run off most often in the face of this four-squirrel brigade.
I can only guess that they are siblings, but who knows. They seem to have broken the usual squirrel pattern of solitary nut-gathering, but maybe these behaviors have been happening all along and I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe it is an adaptation, a move to provide a common defense against the aggression of the red squirrels. Not being an authority on squirrels means I have the fun of speculation. Do they feel affection for one another? Do they feel a blood connection? Or is this merely a business/military relationship?
I have one clue—based on pure observation without anthropomorphizing. Last year, I passed a newly-dead squirrel by the side of the road, and beside it, I could see a living squirrel, frantically patting the dead body as if attempting to revive it. I wanted to stop, but there was nothing to be done. Was I going to comfort the living squirrel? Help it bury its dead? I watched for a second or two in the rearview mirror and went on in a somber mood.
It is pouring rain in the precursor to a winter storm, and the rain is just now—finally—changing to heavy, wet flakes. As I sit in my cozy library, fire crackling, coffee nearby, I see the four friends, utterly indifferent to the weather, running together up the tree, down the tree, to another tree, and jumping from branch to branch, tree to tree overhead. They don’t seem to be working, but playing. Maybe to keep warm, or maybe because the hard work of food gathering is seasonal. Or maybe because it’s good squirrel fun. I’d certainly do it if I could. Although maybe not in this weather.
I wish them safety in the coming storm.
***
Gratuitous Dog Photo
Eli doesn’t want to be out in the damp, but he watches Dad and Auggie closely from my office window.
This is his I-expect-you-to-put-on-your-boots-and-come-play-ball-immediately-or-you-will-be-a-deep-disappointment-to-me look. (Grateful for my healthy dog.)
It’s back to work day, an idea our French family members find ridiculous. January 2nd?? The day after New Year’s? It’s too soon!
They’re not wrong.
I suppose I should take down the Christmas tree, which has reached the death rattle phase of balsams. One touch and all the needles fall off the branch.
But I won’t.
Back to work day means back to writing the novel day. No excuses. Not even the fire hazard in the living room. Because somehow I have to discover the link between the beginning of the book and the end.
I recently encountered two different films in which the characters tell the author what to write. In one, people look at one another over the author’s head in a mutual understanding that he is quite mad. But, I must tell you, that is precisely the process: the characters do take over. It’s apparently a common—if not universal—experience of novelists, which, honestly, I find reassuring. So far as I can tell, I may be slightly silly, but not actually insane. At least, not yet.
So, today will be spent listening as much as writing.
Meanwhile, the owls are saying their good nights to one another, and the sunrise is brilliant orange against the blue night sky. I can just see the silhouettes of the roosting turkeys. Auggie snores nearby on the couch. Eli has gone back to bed without me.
I suppose I should begin by saying that although my gardens thrive, I am terrible with houseplants. I am so terrible, in fact, that my husband makes little “Help me” voices when I bring one home. My friend, Julie, after yet another botanical demise, recently told me that she would never give me a plant again. But a few years ago, I was inspired by my niece’s spectacular living room trees, and was determined to try once more.
So I bought two of the same variety, and remarkably, after three years, they are not dead. One, in fact, is a beautiful, lush, tree. The other is a pathetic stick with a couple of leaves sticking out.
They live in our sunny bedroom, and in the summer I put them out on the patio to soak up the sun and rain. From the first summer, the one immediately thrived and grew. The other languished. I tried switching their positions outside—no mean task because they are in big, heavy pots—but it made no difference. I brought them in for the winter, and the healthy one kept getting healthier, and the listless one continued its malingering.
Last summer, though, things took a turn. The healthy one grew spectacularly. The wan one kept falling over because it somehow collected water in the pot, and no matter what I did the soil kept turning into a marshy soup. Since they were only about five feet from one another, theoretically receiving the same rainfall and not under a drain pipe or anything, it was puzzling. And since we were mostly at the lake, I lost track, and the poor thing nearly drowned.
By the time I was paying attention again, plant one was spectacular, but plant two was in dire straits. I stood it up, added rocks and more soil, and brought them both inside. They both got fertilizer—probably at the wrong time of year—and as life became busy, I resumed my pattern of neglect.
About three weeks ago, I noticed that plant two had three teeny leaves growing valiantly from its spiral trunk. I was doubtful, so every day I have double-checked. They continue to grow, and so far, seem determined to persist. I am being careful to pay attention, not to over or under water, and I switched positions of the two plants so the desperate one gets the benefit of whatever the healthy one had last winter. The healthy one is…healthy. It’s getting so big, I’m not quite sure what to do with it.
But maybe now the pathetic one will grow, too. My New Year’s resolution is for it to match its boisterous friend.
Hoping for advice, I asked my niece about her beautiful living room trees. They died.
Our adventure with our eldest grandson began August 26th, and now we’re down to our last day. We had a quite splendid Christmas holiday together with his little brother and mom. As my daughter said, we are lucky to be a family who all like one another. Not everyone has that.
This morning we are going out to breakfast at a place our grandson likes, and the afternoon will be spent doing laundry and packing, and resting for the thirty-plus hour trip home. The boys’ dad is planning a big welcome home party for New Year’s Eve. I hope the boys can stay awake for it.
Tomorrow morning we will take them to the airport, and when we come home, the house will have an emptiness that even Auggie and Eli can’t fill. I’m not quite sure how it will feel. But it will take me a few days to recover from the mad energy of boys.
And then will begin the slow un-Christmasing of the house, which, depending, can be either depressing, or a fresh new beginning.
I used to have a cleaning lady who took down the Christmas tree for me. Oh, how I miss her.
J.F. Riordan 