Today was the day we celebrated the birthdays of both Pete and Moses. The date for Moses was precise, but the date for Pete was an approximation. So we made it more festive by putting them together. We remember them with love and joy. (These dog photos are not gratuitous.)
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.
***
There is a phenomenon I experience which may or may not be common among writers. It is the cultivation of an empty calendar.
This means that when I am trying to get the wheels turning with my writing, I cannot have appointments. I cannot have repairmen coming to the house. (Yes, I know, but in my experience, they’re all men.) I can’t have the cleaning lady. I can’t schedule lunches. I can’t schedule coffees. I only very reluctantly schedule dental appointments and haircuts, but this is mostly only so I don’t lose all my teeth and depress myself looking in the mirror.
This does not mean that I can never do these things. But it means that I can only do them spontaneously—the social things, anyway—after the day’s work is finished and I have exhausted my capacity for further writing. If I schedule something, it haunts me, and even when I try not to allow it, the little voice that plans what to wear and when I should leave interferes with the freedom of mind I need.
Like today, for instance, I have no intention of getting out of my pajamas until I am finished with my work. If I knew I had to go somewhere for lunch, it would ruin my morning. Because by 8 am I would be thinking: I have to stop at 10 so I can wash my hair, and figure out where my black jeans are, and is that new paisley blouse clean. Then I would have to stop, locate the jeans, and most likely dig the blouse out of the hamper to throw it in the fifteen minute cycle of the washer, and set the timer so I remember to put it in the dryer… And by then my concentration is ruined and the day is lost.
This can make friendships difficult, and I’m not sure everyone completely understands. I’m not even sure I understand. But at times like this, I tend to go dark, and although I will respond to texts or emails, and eventually return calls, I don’t cheerfully answer calls. Usually my phone isn’t even anywhere near me.
And I try never to schedule anything. Particularly not on Mondays.
On the other hand, on most writing days, by noon I am ready to venture forth, and I spend a happy afternoon rambling around doing errands, wandering the aisles of the grocery store, then coming home and arranging the new flowers and making something for dinner. If someone is available for a spontaneous something, that’s a bonus. But it’s not essential.
The end result of all this is a somewhat messy house, a somewhat frowsy personal appearance, a long list of needed repairs, and trying the patience of my very lovely friends.
It’s not ideal, but I have learned that writing a book requires several kinds of ruthlessness. And this is only one.
A beautiful snowy morning. Went out in the dark to get a log, because it seemed wrong not to have a lovely fire. Dogs were quite excited that we were to play so early, and were sadly disappointed when I returned indoors so quickly.
Instead of writing, I spent a happy morning planning Valentine gifts.
We will have a cozy day at home, with a little novel plotting mixed in.
Happy Weekend!
You won’t get any work done.
If you can’t find a tree, don’t panic. It’s Wisconsin.
Open car doors when attaching tree to roof.
Buy favorite champagne early.
Always drink champagne before shopping for tree.
Get lots of fresh air.
Balsams smell amazing, but don’t last as long as frasiers.
Go to at least one concert.
Buy and wrap presents early. HAHAHAHAHA
Listen to husband when he says tree looks great without ornaments.
Taking down the tree is a miserable job. But worth it.
Chex Mix.
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.
My cleared desk awaits.
Off to work.
***
J.F. Riordan 