Rabbitidy

I looked to my left in the yard yesterday only to realize that I was being acutely observed by a bunny. Wildly camoflauged to last fall's maple leaves, she stood motionless as I cooed in her direction. She did't appear to be afraid, or perhaps it was more of an "if I move you might eat me" scenario.
I noticed she had dried grass in her mouth.
"Odd," thought I, will all of the birthing green nearby. "Why DRIED grass?"
Some time later as I came up around the raspberries, I noticed an area of the still-winter-buried garden where the rich black loam was bare, as though someone had moved a pot recently. My first thought was that perhaps someone had swiped a container of some sort; but what was there last fall? As I moved around closer it became apparent that the soil area had a pocket going down; about five inches across, and lined with dried grass. Right behind the old tansy stalks.
Pat and I are going to be grandparents, of sorts.
The rabbit, who has since been dubbed "Miss Bunny"- no offense intended to anyone who does not condone rabbit sex before marriage - hung around much of the evening. By then, I'd snuck over to the tree nearby and laid out carrots and a pan of water. Are we suckers, or what??
This morning, I brought Pat out to show him. The bunny bassinet was completed camoflauged over with dried grass, like those traps you see on old Tarzan movies. If I had not known it was there, I would never have suspected.
Perhaps I've got some karma going with rabbits.
The other spring, while heading in a rush to a curriculum meeting, I noted a huge raven swooping down into the grass. As I slowed to watch, he picked UP something; then dropped it back down a few inches from the ground.
With scarely a glance behind me I pulled the truck over and lept out. The raven was prancing circles around the dropped prey now, and off to the side 25 feet or so, a rabbit watched.
"Git!" I hollered and waved my arms at the bird. "Get outta here!" The raven reluctantly lofted off. I quickly scanned the grass. A tiny, tiny rabbit lay, breathing fast. I carefully scooped him into my hand, where he lay still, looking at me, breathing hard; a tiny rivulet of blood on his lip.
I looked over to the edge of the woods, where the other rabbit still watched on. Mom?
Now, realize that all of this happened within, oh, about 90 seconds. Here I am, vehicle pulled erraticly to the side of a busy residential street, standing in an open field in my work clothes, holding a neonatal rabbit in my hand (aren't you NOT supposed to touch the babies?), late for my curriculum meeting, raven scolding overhead, me trying to figure out what the heck to do...Why do I always get myself into these situations?
A fire department van pulled up behind my truck, and an officer got out and walked over. My brain had perilously little processing time; the first thoughts were 'I've done something wrong' and 'BUNNY paramedics? Hilarious!' He noted that a resident had seen me pull over quickly and thought perhaps there was a medical emergency. "Well, sort of" I laughed, sheepishly explaning the scenario; brainstorming outloud while marveling at the tiny bunny ears. The little guy was wholly enclosed within my palm, his life warm in the spring air.
God bless this fireman, because I'm sure there would have been ten others who would have laughed their butts off! He brainstormed with me; and the concensus was: Find a very sheltered placed to put him, back in the woods where the raven can't fly in easily, and maybe - just maybe - his mum would retrieve him. Or not.
I ducked and poked through the brambles nearby, noting yet another rabbit a few yards away, and finally found a hollowed birch log on the ground, blissfilly pre-filled with pine needles. The perfect place. With one last, careful touch, I gently tucked the little guy in. He was still breathing, perhaps even a little slower, and still held me firm in his gaze. His wild little body felt as soft as a peach. Any bird would have a hard time getting in here.
I quickly noted the number of steps to the edge of the woods and zoomed off to the meeting.
Just before dark, I arrived back; a bag of slightly overripe carrots in hand. Should I have interfered? WHY did I interfere? Should I have let nature take it's course? Or, as my colleague and science teacher friend asserted, DIDN'T I let nature take it's course - as I am a part of nature? What about the raven babies? It's just a rabbit, for God's sake. The carrots seemed a suitable peace offering/memorial to the event into which I had allowed myself to participate.
I found the tree, counting the steps back in, and bend down. I fully expected to see a rigid little dead bunny, or perhaps blood generated from a cat extracting that little morsel. Almost to my surprise - nothing. No bunny. No blood. No sign of a feast.
I left the carrots scattered about nearby. I even saved a few for the open field, where the ravens could have their fair share.
Rabbits and fish: they both look at you like you own them something...

Damn You, Martha!!

OK, I admit it. I get Martha Stewart's magazine, which is titled 'Living'. Kind of a presumptuous title but oddly off-putting all at the same time, isn't it? I mean, how can anyone argue with 'Living'? It implies simplicity - basic and to the point. It's apparently worked marketing magic on myself, because I actually subscribe to the magazine even though I will probably, realistically, never actually have the time to make my own cheese.
For the Easter edition, Martha's food-porn centerfolds included chocolate -- lovely close-ups of chocolate being chopped, stirred into a melting pot, tempered (the title of the photo said "cooling chocolate" but I KNEW, from the movie 'Chocolate', that it's called "tempering" - one up on ya, Martha!) Enter visions of Johnny Depp as the swarthy river-rat from said movie. Johnny Depp and fine chocolate. Need I say more?
The last photo in the series showed a rack of eggs, each sitting up straight in it's carton-hole, being piped with chocolate...WAIT! YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN CHOCOLATE EASTER EGGS! WITH REAL EGGS! Exit the photos, enter the text...
No one but Martha has the power to allure with such perceived simplicity; "perceived" being the operative term here.
I had a dozen good reasons why making my own chocolate eggs was a fab idea. Of course, one piece of REALLY GOOD chocolate is worth more than 10 pounds of the crappy stuff. The fact that I would hand-make these little treasures; that would make them extra-special to my loved ones. And it just looked really fun. (Enter images from 'Chocolate' again; I am the female lead adeptly whisking sheets of molten bliss across the table, to a calypso rhythm..)
I could go into great detail here, but suffice it to say that, had someone photographed MY process of making blown-out, sanitized, dyed (organically of course) chicken eggs refilled with fine chocolate and love, it would have been the food-porn equivalent of a slasher flick.
My back hurt that evening. The kitchen, including the wall, was splattered in $10/lb Dutch chocolate. Chocolate crept up my arms, seeping into my elbow creases. There was chocolate on the counter, the breadboard, the stove, and the floor. There was no Johnny Depp to lick it off of my elbow. There was a good deal of chocolate in the sink. There was chocolate on the cat. There was probably cat hair in the chocolate. There was actually, perilously, only a small amount of chocolate in the painstakingly-prepared chicken eggs. Martha's admonition that "each brand of chocolate requires differing tempering procedures and temperatures" certainly proved true. Unlike the shimmery stuff showing through the holes on her eggs, mine looked milky and lumpy.
Did I get a few good eggs out of the endeavor? Yes. Was it worth the $42.87 and six hours of time, not counting cleanup? Really, No.
Have I learned a lesson from this? Will I ever allow myself to be seduced into anything like growing, preparing and gifting my own Japanese-style poached pickled Daikon radishes with Hoisin raisin extract? Unfortunately, the jury's still out on that one.
Damn you, Martha.

When No One Answers The Phone

It happened again yesterday. Pat and I drove down, on a beautiful glitter-snow day, to check the cabin; tromping in through thigh-high snow in whirling white. And I called Mom.
Mom's 88 years old; in full possession of an amazing brain, and despite the arthritis, fibromyalgia, high blood pressure, back issues, and pacemaker; does pretty darn well. She lives in her own house and visits elderly friends. She drives; though driving to Duluth now is out of her range, by choice. She is fiercely independent and continually amazed by life and learning. "That's so INTERESTING!" is a frequent mantra.
I've always had a fear of losing Mom. Perhaps, because my father died when I was 13, that sudden loss was so inscribed on my emotions that I've constantly held the reality of death out there, so as not to be caught off guard next time. I wear the anticipation like a raincoat in the desert; anticipating that rare time when it might actually rain.
For years, and especially as she's aged, I've envisioned and rehearsed the moment of losing her. It happens like this: "She's not answering the phone. What if she fell? What if she has had an accident? What if???" There will be an obligatory call to my sister, or my nephew, with the issuance of a casual "Is Mom with you?" that belies my anxiety level. A flood of relief if the answer is "Oh, she's right here! She forgot her cell phone!"; and eternal moments of more dread if it's "No. How long since you've talked to her? Ok, I'll stop over there and check..."
So, as I stood wrapped in blissful sparkly woods, calling both phones for the second time in an hour, the thoughts streamed out - like turkey vultures rising up on the thermals. Where IS she? She should be home from church by now. What if she forgot her cell phone and went out after church? Is she with Barb?" I dialed with pudgy mittened fingers.
"No, she said she was going to her own church today" my sister said. "How long have you been trying?"
"An hour."
"Sometimes she forgets to turn her cell phone back on, and she doesn't always get the buttons pushed right."
Quite airtime as we both contemplated the scene...
"I'm on my way home", my sis offered, "I'll stop by there."
"Call me!"
"I will."
Snow glitter faded in the sun; and I noticed a deer ribcage, gnawed, on a bed of tracks.
Moments ticked.
I looked at my watch. Why didn't I go down today? I could have visited this weekend.
Hiked more through oppressively deep drifts.
Looked at my watch again. We still haven't finished her family history...
Noticed thin blades of dried grass, carrying seemingly impossible snowballs; bent but not broken.
Looked at my watch. One good summer at least, God. To be together. I'll spend the time. I promise.
Trudged a few more yards.
Felt myself staying UP on a snow crust layer in places; in others, breaking through to the very bottom.
Looked at my watch. How peaceful it would be to die in one's own bed. Am I selfish for wanting to be there when it is time?
The electronic interruption of the cell sounded strange in the white. "Yeah." I answered, almost before I'd pressed the button.
"Well, I'm here," drawled my sister, with no apparent urgency in her voice. I felt my back unknot.
"She's not here, and her car is gone" Barb said. "I think she might have gone to Target or something."
"Good." I offered. "Yeah, good." she repeated, softly. We both know, each time this rehearsal occurs, that one time it will not be rehearsal.
Though only minutes had passed, life was different. Though my location had not changed appreciatively, my position had.
A few minutes later, the cell broke through again. "Hey!" I said, "Where've you been?"
Mom's voice read "irritation", a tone I've known well since childhood.
"Well," she said. "Bernice and I were having lunch at McDonald's, and here comes your sister! What a surprise! She said you were looking for me."
'We both were' I thought - but didn't offer this aloud. We've become accustomed to being the 'fall guy' for one another on the Mom front. "Just wanted to make sure you're OK." I said, brightly. After some extended chatter on how hard it is to get her cell phone on, we ended agreeing to talk a little later.
Rehearsal over, for now. God bless you, Mom. We sure like having your here.

Will Trade Woodstove for FireWood

There's a section in our local paper's classifieds called "Swap Shop". Though the wordcounts are sparse, the stories seep in from the edges...

"Will trade woodstove for firewood..." Hmmm. Moving out of doors?

"Will trade firewood for 20 lbs of ham." OK, let's see. A logger is suffering from a severe lack of salt, and his doctor recommends increasing the amount of ham in his diet. Ham is expensive, but the poor guy has an unlimited supply of wood....

"Swap five and a half year old Siamese cat for dog." Perhaps a couple split, and the man got the house and the cat. He'd prefer a dog. That damn cat is as cranky and whiny as his ex....

and the next week:

"Will swap five and a half year old Siamese cat for $15." Maybe no suitable dog was available for the value of the cat. But how do you place the value of a five and a half year old cat at $15? Is there some calculation based on lives? And how did this ad get past the editors - doesn't the "swap" of $15 make this a bonafide classified??

"Blowdart gun available for paintball setup." After nailing his kid in the eye, the guy's wife forced him to switch hobby weapons?

"16" tires will swap for boat trailer." But boy, it's gonna be hard to drag that trailer without any tires on the truck, eh?

I suppose the Swap Shop appeals to the Mexican-market-bargainer or the Garage Sale Markdown shopper in all of us...but hey? Who can pass up that kind of deal, huh?