July 22, 2001 ~ Wild things
The other day I came home to find a roadrunner in our driveway, close to the carport. I've chanced across them farther away from the house, but never right here in the yard. I stopped the truck, idled awhile, and watched my new friend. He did a lot of running and hopping, but I never did see him fly. Surely he could have if he wanted to (couldn't he?), but he only ran and hopped for me. Hopped to the rail of the carport, hopped into the branches of the crepe myrtle tree, hopped back to the rail, hopped onto the white truck, and so on. A roadrunner dance.
I turned off the truck and just sat there, entranced. Charmed. Eased up to the house and went inside for the camera, knowing full well that the little guy wouldn't be there when I got back. And he wasn't, of course. Last I saw of him he had run into the garden, so there was no chance of finding him in THAT mess. We have quite a garden this year. But he made this sound, unlike anything I'd ever heard before. It wasn't exactly the trademark "me-meep" of the cartoon character, but it WAS unique, and I think I'd recognize it if I heard it again.
Since I was out there with the camera, I thought I might as well go sit by the pond and take a few pictures, but the lighting was wrong, so I just sat. Did a lot of sitting that day. Listened to the baby frogs jumping into the water, watched the smooth rippling "V," as a snake swam the width of the pond. Witnessed curious turtles popping their heads above water to watch me, who eventually tired of the game and slipped beneath the surface.
I love the smell of a pond. Earthy. Alive. Mossy and moist and fragrant. There are few things on earth better than the smell of water... just the scent of a horse, that's better, and the smell of dogs and cats, and freshly-bathed babies... but that's a pretty short list.
I have always loved wild things, for as long as I can remember. And not just for their beauty, but for their very wildness. Their connection with the earth. I was always happiest outdoors. Still am, except when it's hot. Unfortunately, it's hot most of the time now. That leaves early mornings and late evenings.
Sandy said something the other day about trying not to worry so much about things that will be forgotten twenty years from now. I tend to worry. Too much. And I tend to be affected by my surroundings far more than anyone should be. I have to remind myself that I am NOT my surroundings, that my house is just the place where I live; it isn't me. That if things go wrong, they can probably be fixed, some way, somehow. I tried to remember where I lived twenty years ago, and can't remember too much about that. But I can remember my youngest son being born when we lived there, and the little kiddie pool in the back yard, and the park where we used to go to sit in the sunshine and get away from it all.
Here is what I hope to remember about this place in twenty years. The roadrunner in the driveway, that summer afternoon. The deer in the backyard on a moonlit night, reaching high up into the apple tree, eating apples. Bringing in hay by the light of the Harvest Moon. Baby mallards swimming with their mother on the little pond. The possums and raccoons eating cat food on the back porch. Seeing all the stars in the sky, wondering if anyone is out there looking back. The smell of the pines on a cold fall night. All the kittens, ducklings and chicks, the foal and the calves... all the babies that were born here. Carrying those kittens in my pockets. Having that baby horse think I was his mother, having him follow me everywhere I went, till he was about three years old. Silly boy. Having that horse nearly die last year, preparing myself for that, and having him miraculously recover. The vets are always glad when they're wrong about things like that.
Being so sad when the bugs started killing the trees and we had to have the timber cut; later seeing it for what it was, a blessing in disguise. The very next year, an ice storm destroyed most of the timber in this area, and just about destroyed the local lumber business, too.
I try to remember that there are probably hidden blessings in the worst of things. When things seem impossibly sad, I try to remember the timber, and the horse who should have but didn't die, and all the wild things that I've known in my life... all the wild things who live here now.
My mother called me her wild one.
And I guess I still am.
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