I Don't Get Mauled by a Bear
Sometimes my family and I sleep in an old church in the middle of the Wisconsin woods. No, we don't do this because we lost a bet (though if we did, I'd love to know what we'd have gotten if we had won...would we have had to sleep in a Hilton? A Cape Cod bed and breakfast?).
Because our writer's cabin (Tony suggested 'writers retreat' while I leaned toward 'cabin way way out in the woods by a lake that's Mosquito Central', thus the compromise) is in the the woods, a lot of the local wildlife hasn't had time to adjust to the change in management. Typical. It's not like I didn't post memos all over the place. Animals are just lazy.
Three years ago, the lot was just that...a lot. So the deer and the possums and the beavers and the bears and the loons were used to the run of the place.
Enter Jim Landreth, brilliant architect. He had seen an old church (built in 1857, I think, but don't hold me to the exact date) the town was going to tear down, or blow up, or whatever Americans do when faced with a chunk of their history. (Can you imagine if Italians had blown up the Coliseum because it was old? or because they needed to put up condos?) Instead, he had the idea to take the church, haul it to a lot somewhere in the country, and completely re-do it as a vacation home. He updated it with modern conveniences like air conditioning and a microwave and running water, but kept the cool church-ey stuff...the bell tower, the wood work in the dining room, the hardwood floors.
The result was astonishing. One man's vision, and just look! Now my husband and I sleep (and occasionally defile) the room where the minister's pulpit used to be; our dining room is where the congregation sat, and the guest bathroom is...well, I think that might be new. Still: eerie! And cool.
I couldn't wait to meet this guy at the closing, to shake his hand and possibly kiss him on the mouth. I even had a plan in reserve in case I wanted to put Operation Smacker into action. First, I would distract Tony with a Subway sandwich, because the title company shared a building with Subway, so the entire time we were there signing paperwork, the yummy maddening smell of baking bread was everywhere. And then, when Tony took off to get a foot-long club, the architect would be mine, all mine. As it turned out, the good man was taken, so I was forced to abort Operation Smacker. Tony bought that sandwich for nothing!
So all the i's were dotted and all the t's crossed, and now the former church was our writers cabin. We love it there, despite the admitted weirdness that comes with country living. I've lived as long in cities as I have in the country, so I think I've got perspective someone who only lived in the city or only lived in the country wouldn't have. And by "perspective" I mean "damaging psychological scars".
For example. Road kill. Country road kill is very, very different from seeing the occasional squashed squirrel or smacked pigeons. I never in my life saw a road kill beaver until we came here, and felt real, real bad: "Aw, beaver! Why are you crossing streets? Stay in your lake, beaver, your LAKE!" Nor had I ever seen a dead baby deer being eaten...by a bald eagle. I couldn't decide if I was enchanted or appalled. "Oooh, kids, look at the...um, I mean look away from...well, it IS a bald eagle...eating a...uh..." To which my husband replied, "How about enchanted AND appalled?" Which seemed pretty sound.
Oh, and the bear, Hammock. My husband named him because the first time we saw him was Father's Day weekend last year, and we'd given Tony a hammock, and guess where he was when he spotted Hammock the bear? Yep, his hammock. From which he spied Hammock. Didn't see that one coming, didja? Hammock. Hammock. Hammock. (I really like saying Hammock.)
We knew about Hammock and his brethren before we ever saw him. Our neighbor came over while we were moving in and told us that a bear cub had gotten trapped in our gazebo and spent several minutes yowling and bawling for help. None of the builders were there, so this incredibly ballsy woman in her sixties walked through our house, up the walk to the gazebo, and then held the screen door open so the cub could rush outside. As the cub did so (without so much as a thank you, I might add...these darned cubs today), she spotted his mother. So she carefully and slowly backed up until she was in the house, then watched the bear corral her wayward, gazebo-lovin' cub and beat feet out of there. The builders then fixed the screen doors so they could be open from the inside. Because nothing says "welcome to my gazebo where you will surely meet your doom" better than screen doors that swing both ways.
It's one thing to know you live in the woods and that in some places, bears also live in the woods. It's something else to glance out your kitchen window and see a bear unfettered by fences, or tranquilizers. My husband, also known as City Boy, was enchanted. Me, less so. You'd think I'd be happy to see another omnivore like me roaming the woods, and yet, I was not. As the size of my ass will attest, I'm not used to competing for food.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago...the kids and the dogs and I had come up to hang out; Tony wasn't going to be there until after dark. So I was relaxing and slurping pudding pops (mmmm...pudding pops...) when our two dogs lost their MINDS.
Those of you who have dogs know that they can be snoring one second, then on their feet unleashing deafening volleys of barking the next. Their sudden burst of activity startled the shit out of me; no pudding pop was made to be jammed that far into my mouth. And I was super pissed (while coughing up pudding). "You guys! Quiet!" Cough. Gag. Spit up more pudding. "Knock it off!" Oh, man, was I pissed at those two.
Then I stepped closer, brandishing the now-empty popsicle stick, and got ready to really let them have the full measure of my scorn and hatred. Then I looked up and saw Hammock. In our yard. About eight feet from where I was standing. He was just as cool as a cuke, too: "What? I'm just passin' through. Back off, bitch, unless you want me to use your ribs as a xylophone."
So I screamed for the kids. I wanted them to see this before he waddled back into the underbrush; talk about once in a lifetime! Okay, this time made it twice in a lifetime. Still: pretty cool. Unfortunately, I was so excited and on an adrenaline high, and couldn't articulate. So what the kids heard was this.
1) Furious barking from dogs.2) Furious yelling from Mom.3) Furious yelling at the kids: "Kids! You guys! Hammock, it's Hammock, COME QUICK! It's, oh man he's in the yard HURRY UP YOU GUYS IT'S HAMMOCK THE BEAR!"
Both kids were pretty confused. Chris in particular thought I meant that the bear was *after* me, so she went lunging for her bow and arrows (she's a dead shot, by the way, thanks to my superior genetic addition to the family gene pool). To protect me!
So once Hammock had lumbered off to his lair, I told my daughter that her first impulse, to grab for a weapon to protect her mother, was incredibly brave. And I meant it! I doubt at 15 I'd have had the presence of mind to do anything but dive and cower under the bed. Also: it was incredibly stupid. And I meant that, too.
"If I was in trouble," I told the kids, "you are to run as fast as you can THE OTHER WAY."
"But Mom--"
"THE OTHER WAY." "Because if you don't, and I survive the encounter, I'm going to visit upon you the grisly death you were trying to save me from. Repeat after me: Mom's in trouble? Run away. Mom's arm got somehow stuck in a bear's jaws? Run away. Mom starts hitting the red wine and wants to show you her impersonation of Madonna during her breast-cone years? Run away. Mom wants to show you her impersonation of Madonna during her hairy-armpit modeling days? Run away."
So my son looked at Chris and said, "Gee, maybe I should have gotten my BB gun." NO, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE GOTTEN YOUR GUN. DID YOU HEAR A WORD I JUST SAID? I've raised kids with healthy self-esteem and, apparently, no protective coloring of any kind. Hmm, yes, an arrow through Hammock's shoulder followed by him being peppered in the snout with teeny tiny BBs...I can't think of a faster way to piss off something big enough to suck down our satellite dish in one hairy bite.
Hammock looked *good*, too, and I was happy to see it. We had a long, miserable winter this year and until then, all the wildlife I'd seen that spring was pretty scrawny, in particular the yearling deer (the ones born last spring who don't have much experience foraging in wintertime). Not Hammock, though. The fat bastard was sporting a sleek black coat, not hugely fat but not winter-skinny either, and thoroughly aware that he could cross the yard with impunity as we were all cowering inside. At first I was surprised at how small he was, then remembered the Black Bear is not the Grizzly, and then it made sense.
I thought how small he was, how un-scary, then felt bad because he was so few--two hundred years ago, what is now our back yard was probably crawling with bears. Then I reminded myself WHY...he was minding his own business, shitting in the woods like all the jokes say, when some dicks hauled up an old church and plunked it in the middle of his woods, and then they hammered and sawed and made messes and bad smells and a weird cage to trap his cub, all so some asshat writers and their noisy jerky offspring could mysteriously show up and stink up the place and have loud dogs that were even more annoying than the racket loons made in the spring, and more startling than that mean old eagle who liked to eat baby deer roadkill.
So then I was annoyed, pissed, guilty, thrilled, excited, sad, and then again with the guilty. But I won't denyit was a huge thrill, followed by a huge pain in my ass. Because when I wanted to go for a walk that evening, Tony nagged me into taking a knife with me. "I'll be on the road," I protested. "I'm way more likely to get run over than mauled by a bear." (Weirdly, this did not comfort him.) "Plus, what am I, Daniel Boone? What do I do with a knife, let him get REALLY close and stick it in his eye? Fillet him? What?" But City Boy would not be denied, so I stuck a huge fillet knife in my pocket and went for my walk, feeling like an ass.
The good news: Hammock wasn't lying in wait for me. The bad news: a lot of people are now wondering why the writer who lives down the road likes to roam around at night carrying a razor-sharp fillet knife. "What, this? Nothing, nothing at all. Say, do you want to come to my place to get murdered? I mean, get cocoa? Want to? Hmm? And apropos of nothing going on right now, would anybody notice if you went missing? Oh, and could you let me walk behind you? Great, thanks."
I swear, I've got the most skittish neighbors.
Because our writer's cabin (Tony suggested 'writers retreat' while I leaned toward 'cabin way way out in the woods by a lake that's Mosquito Central', thus the compromise) is in the the woods, a lot of the local wildlife hasn't had time to adjust to the change in management. Typical. It's not like I didn't post memos all over the place. Animals are just lazy.
Three years ago, the lot was just that...a lot. So the deer and the possums and the beavers and the bears and the loons were used to the run of the place.
Enter Jim Landreth, brilliant architect. He had seen an old church (built in 1857, I think, but don't hold me to the exact date) the town was going to tear down, or blow up, or whatever Americans do when faced with a chunk of their history. (Can you imagine if Italians had blown up the Coliseum because it was old? or because they needed to put up condos?) Instead, he had the idea to take the church, haul it to a lot somewhere in the country, and completely re-do it as a vacation home. He updated it with modern conveniences like air conditioning and a microwave and running water, but kept the cool church-ey stuff...the bell tower, the wood work in the dining room, the hardwood floors.
The result was astonishing. One man's vision, and just look! Now my husband and I sleep (and occasionally defile) the room where the minister's pulpit used to be; our dining room is where the congregation sat, and the guest bathroom is...well, I think that might be new. Still: eerie! And cool.
I couldn't wait to meet this guy at the closing, to shake his hand and possibly kiss him on the mouth. I even had a plan in reserve in case I wanted to put Operation Smacker into action. First, I would distract Tony with a Subway sandwich, because the title company shared a building with Subway, so the entire time we were there signing paperwork, the yummy maddening smell of baking bread was everywhere. And then, when Tony took off to get a foot-long club, the architect would be mine, all mine. As it turned out, the good man was taken, so I was forced to abort Operation Smacker. Tony bought that sandwich for nothing!
So all the i's were dotted and all the t's crossed, and now the former church was our writers cabin. We love it there, despite the admitted weirdness that comes with country living. I've lived as long in cities as I have in the country, so I think I've got perspective someone who only lived in the city or only lived in the country wouldn't have. And by "perspective" I mean "damaging psychological scars".
For example. Road kill. Country road kill is very, very different from seeing the occasional squashed squirrel or smacked pigeons. I never in my life saw a road kill beaver until we came here, and felt real, real bad: "Aw, beaver! Why are you crossing streets? Stay in your lake, beaver, your LAKE!" Nor had I ever seen a dead baby deer being eaten...by a bald eagle. I couldn't decide if I was enchanted or appalled. "Oooh, kids, look at the...um, I mean look away from...well, it IS a bald eagle...eating a...uh..." To which my husband replied, "How about enchanted AND appalled?" Which seemed pretty sound.
Oh, and the bear, Hammock. My husband named him because the first time we saw him was Father's Day weekend last year, and we'd given Tony a hammock, and guess where he was when he spotted Hammock the bear? Yep, his hammock. From which he spied Hammock. Didn't see that one coming, didja? Hammock. Hammock. Hammock. (I really like saying Hammock.)
We knew about Hammock and his brethren before we ever saw him. Our neighbor came over while we were moving in and told us that a bear cub had gotten trapped in our gazebo and spent several minutes yowling and bawling for help. None of the builders were there, so this incredibly ballsy woman in her sixties walked through our house, up the walk to the gazebo, and then held the screen door open so the cub could rush outside. As the cub did so (without so much as a thank you, I might add...these darned cubs today), she spotted his mother. So she carefully and slowly backed up until she was in the house, then watched the bear corral her wayward, gazebo-lovin' cub and beat feet out of there. The builders then fixed the screen doors so they could be open from the inside. Because nothing says "welcome to my gazebo where you will surely meet your doom" better than screen doors that swing both ways.
It's one thing to know you live in the woods and that in some places, bears also live in the woods. It's something else to glance out your kitchen window and see a bear unfettered by fences, or tranquilizers. My husband, also known as City Boy, was enchanted. Me, less so. You'd think I'd be happy to see another omnivore like me roaming the woods, and yet, I was not. As the size of my ass will attest, I'm not used to competing for food.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago...the kids and the dogs and I had come up to hang out; Tony wasn't going to be there until after dark. So I was relaxing and slurping pudding pops (mmmm...pudding pops...) when our two dogs lost their MINDS.
Those of you who have dogs know that they can be snoring one second, then on their feet unleashing deafening volleys of barking the next. Their sudden burst of activity startled the shit out of me; no pudding pop was made to be jammed that far into my mouth. And I was super pissed (while coughing up pudding). "You guys! Quiet!" Cough. Gag. Spit up more pudding. "Knock it off!" Oh, man, was I pissed at those two.
Then I stepped closer, brandishing the now-empty popsicle stick, and got ready to really let them have the full measure of my scorn and hatred. Then I looked up and saw Hammock. In our yard. About eight feet from where I was standing. He was just as cool as a cuke, too: "What? I'm just passin' through. Back off, bitch, unless you want me to use your ribs as a xylophone."
So I screamed for the kids. I wanted them to see this before he waddled back into the underbrush; talk about once in a lifetime! Okay, this time made it twice in a lifetime. Still: pretty cool. Unfortunately, I was so excited and on an adrenaline high, and couldn't articulate. So what the kids heard was this.
1) Furious barking from dogs.2) Furious yelling from Mom.3) Furious yelling at the kids: "Kids! You guys! Hammock, it's Hammock, COME QUICK! It's, oh man he's in the yard HURRY UP YOU GUYS IT'S HAMMOCK THE BEAR!"
Both kids were pretty confused. Chris in particular thought I meant that the bear was *after* me, so she went lunging for her bow and arrows (she's a dead shot, by the way, thanks to my superior genetic addition to the family gene pool). To protect me!
So once Hammock had lumbered off to his lair, I told my daughter that her first impulse, to grab for a weapon to protect her mother, was incredibly brave. And I meant it! I doubt at 15 I'd have had the presence of mind to do anything but dive and cower under the bed. Also: it was incredibly stupid. And I meant that, too.
"If I was in trouble," I told the kids, "you are to run as fast as you can THE OTHER WAY."
"But Mom--"
"THE OTHER WAY." "Because if you don't, and I survive the encounter, I'm going to visit upon you the grisly death you were trying to save me from. Repeat after me: Mom's in trouble? Run away. Mom's arm got somehow stuck in a bear's jaws? Run away. Mom starts hitting the red wine and wants to show you her impersonation of Madonna during her breast-cone years? Run away. Mom wants to show you her impersonation of Madonna during her hairy-armpit modeling days? Run away."
So my son looked at Chris and said, "Gee, maybe I should have gotten my BB gun." NO, YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE GOTTEN YOUR GUN. DID YOU HEAR A WORD I JUST SAID? I've raised kids with healthy self-esteem and, apparently, no protective coloring of any kind. Hmm, yes, an arrow through Hammock's shoulder followed by him being peppered in the snout with teeny tiny BBs...I can't think of a faster way to piss off something big enough to suck down our satellite dish in one hairy bite.
Hammock looked *good*, too, and I was happy to see it. We had a long, miserable winter this year and until then, all the wildlife I'd seen that spring was pretty scrawny, in particular the yearling deer (the ones born last spring who don't have much experience foraging in wintertime). Not Hammock, though. The fat bastard was sporting a sleek black coat, not hugely fat but not winter-skinny either, and thoroughly aware that he could cross the yard with impunity as we were all cowering inside. At first I was surprised at how small he was, then remembered the Black Bear is not the Grizzly, and then it made sense.
I thought how small he was, how un-scary, then felt bad because he was so few--two hundred years ago, what is now our back yard was probably crawling with bears. Then I reminded myself WHY...he was minding his own business, shitting in the woods like all the jokes say, when some dicks hauled up an old church and plunked it in the middle of his woods, and then they hammered and sawed and made messes and bad smells and a weird cage to trap his cub, all so some asshat writers and their noisy jerky offspring could mysteriously show up and stink up the place and have loud dogs that were even more annoying than the racket loons made in the spring, and more startling than that mean old eagle who liked to eat baby deer roadkill.
So then I was annoyed, pissed, guilty, thrilled, excited, sad, and then again with the guilty. But I won't denyit was a huge thrill, followed by a huge pain in my ass. Because when I wanted to go for a walk that evening, Tony nagged me into taking a knife with me. "I'll be on the road," I protested. "I'm way more likely to get run over than mauled by a bear." (Weirdly, this did not comfort him.) "Plus, what am I, Daniel Boone? What do I do with a knife, let him get REALLY close and stick it in his eye? Fillet him? What?" But City Boy would not be denied, so I stuck a huge fillet knife in my pocket and went for my walk, feeling like an ass.
The good news: Hammock wasn't lying in wait for me. The bad news: a lot of people are now wondering why the writer who lives down the road likes to roam around at night carrying a razor-sharp fillet knife. "What, this? Nothing, nothing at all. Say, do you want to come to my place to get murdered? I mean, get cocoa? Want to? Hmm? And apropos of nothing going on right now, would anybody notice if you went missing? Oh, and could you let me walk behind you? Great, thanks."
I swear, I've got the most skittish neighbors.
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