*wisely foolish*

Monday, 22 June 2009

  • Three Animal Stories

    At 3:44am today, a creature was loudly losing its life somewhere in our woods. I have no idea what kind of animal it was, but that note of terror is unmistakable in any voice. Todd and I sleep with our window open to enjoy the fresh air and hear the pleasant night noises, but this night noise was anything but soothing. It was so loud and persistent and horrifying that it became part of my dream and finally jolted me fully conscious. Todd got up and closed the window, but we were both wide awake at that point. He kept wondering what it was, and speculating on what could be eating it. I would rather not know.
     
    ...
     
    Yesterday at my parents' house we relived an old routine when one of the dogs escaped the backyard after we had taken them on a walk around the cemetery next-door. Sandi is a boarder, one of our former puppies whose owners bring her back for boarding when they go on vacation. And evidently she is also a bit of a roamer. She slipped out in the chaos of taking off their leashes in the fenced backyard, and trotted off nonchalantly. I thrust the leash I was holding into Rachel's hands and darted off after her, with Dad slightly ahead of me.
     
    Well, that didn't last. Poor Dad has some serious problems with his knee and he couldn't quite keep up. I flew down the sidewalk, calling Sandi's name as if she was my one joy in life. She stopped, looked at me, and loped away again as soon as I moved toward her. Infuriating animal!
     
    By this time Danielle was joining the fray, running up behind me and calling Sandi's name in tones of strained welcome. Sandi slowed down, obviously enjoying her superior speed, and I got so close that when I made a grab for her collar, I brushed her yellow back. This startled her — she hadn't known I was so near — and she bolted off again, leaving me in a state of panting frustration.
     
    The next few minutes were much the same, except I never got so close to her again. We would stop and call her name, clapping our hands and trying to sound jovial as we struggled to catch our breath, and Sandi would stop and look at us. Then she'd lope off again, and we'd have to take off after her so we wouldn't lose her. I was starting to feel true panic inside... Sandi wasn't even our dog, and I had been the one walking her. What would happen if we couldn't catch her? No, no, that doesn't bear thinking about. Sandi! Sandi! Come here sweetheart!
     
    Dad came around from the other side, our last hope of keeping her away from Route 86 just a few hundred yards away. He flopped down on the grass and started calling her. And that perverse animal went to him! Oh goodness. His first grab for her collar was unsuccessful, but then she came back around and he snatched her. I wanted to faint with relief. We made a funny procession walking slowly back to the house: sweaty, disheveled, and victorious. Danielle said she had never seen me run so fast — and in sandals, no less.
     
    All's well that ends well, I suppose. We were able to laugh about it once back at the house, sitting limply at the kitchen table eating dessert and marvelling at the happy ending. Dad joked that his tactic of sitting down to call her was just him being tired of running. Mom made us laugh by telling us how big Rachel's eyes were when she told Mom we were all chasing Sandi in the cemetery. It's been years since I chased a dog desperately down the road... some things never change, eh?
     
    ...
     
    My parents gave me an herb garden in a big pot for my birthday in April. I set it just outside our back door on the top step, and a few weeks later we noticed four perfect little eggs nestled under the long chives. A nuthatch had built a nest in there. How cute was that? I started opening the sliding door gently and slowly, to accustom her to our sounds. After awhile she stayed put in the nest when I slid the door open, her little head turning quickly from side to side as she made sure I wasn't coming to get her. I looked forward to the days of little mouths open in an entreaty for food, little beady eyes looking at us from between the chives.
     
    But it was not to be. One morning last week when I was getting ready for work I noticed that the pot was gone. I moved to the door and gasped to see it on the ground, its dirt strewn everywhere and the herbs' roots looking naked outside it. The nest was crushed and empty, a few inches from the rest of the carnage. Raccoons. It had to have been. What else would come up and eat those little eggs, and strew the contents of the pot over the ground so dramatically?
     
    I drove to work that morning cursing all raccoons, and hoping I would hit one. I felt a grim satisfaction seeing one already dead by the side of the road. I knew it was irrational and illogical, but whenever I imagined the scene — stealthy little paws reaching into a small nest in darkness, frightening the mother out of her wits, groping and cracking those eggs full of life, throwing the pot down the steps — I felt murderous myself. You can't blame a raccoon for its nature, I told myself. Oh can't I? I answered back, scanning the road ahead for a raccoon to flatten.
     
    But it did give me something to think about. God does blame us for our nature. But this blame is not irrational like mine was toward the little vandals who ate our nuthatch eggs; raccoons don't have a conscience, and they were not created in the image of God. And we do, and are. That's why the blame is fair; we have this sin nature and we choose to follow it.
     
    ...
     
    And this is the part where I tie all three of these stories together and extract some kind of profundity from them. Alas, my profundity extractor isn't in good repair today, and I simply have to say that life would be a lot less interesting without animals around. They go through their little lives right alongside us, and we barely notice them. What dramas take place in our woods, culminating with shrieks of terror as the hunted is caught? Was Sandi really laughing at me like I imagined? And will I swerve to hit or to avoid the next raccoon I see on the road? Hmm.

  • Three Animal Stories

    At 3:44am today, a creature was loudly losing its life somewhere in our woods. I have no idea what kind of animal it was, but that note of terror is unmistakable in any voice. Todd and I sleep with our window open to enjoy the fresh air and hear the pleasant night noises, but this night noise was anything but soothing. It was so loud and persistent and horrifying that it became part of my dream and finally jolted me fully conscious. Todd got up and closed the window, but we were both wide awake at that point. He kept wondering what it was, and speculating on what could be eating it. I would rather not know.
     
    ...
     
    Yesterday at my parents' house we relived some old routines when one of the dogs escaped the backyard after we had taken them all on a walk around the cemetery next-door. Sandi is a boarder, one of our former puppies whose owners bring her back for boarding when they go on vacation. And evidently she is also a bit of a roamer. She slipped out in the confusion that is bringing all the dogs into the fenced backyard and taking off their leashes, and trotted off nonchalantly. I thrust the leash I was holding into Rachel's hands and darted off after her, with Dad slightly ahead of me.
     
    Well, that didn't last. Poor Dad has some serious problems with his knee and he couldn't quite keep up. I flew down the sidewalk, calling Sandi's name as if she was my one joy in life. She stopped, looked at me, and loped away again as soon as I moved. Infuriating animal!
     
    By this time Danielle was joining the fray, running up behind me and calling Sandi's name in tones of strained welcome. Sandi slowed down, obviously enjoying her superior speed, and I got so close that when I made a grab for her collar, I brushed her yellow back. This startled her — she hadn't known I was so close — and she bolted off again, leaving me in a state of panting frustration.
     
    The next few minutes were much the same, except I never got so close to her again. We would stop and call her name, clapping our hands and trying to sound jovial as we struggled to catch our breath, and Sandi would stop and look at us. Then she'd lope off again, and we'd have to take off after her so we wouldn't lose her. I was starting to feel true panic inside... Sandi wasn't even our dog, and I had been the one walking her. What would happen if we couldn't catch her? No, no, that doesn't bear thinking about. Sandi! Sandi! Come here sweetheart!
     
    Dad came around from the other side, our last hope of keeping her away from Route 86 just a few hundred yards away. He flopped down on the grass and started calling her. And that perverse animal went to him! Oh goodness. His first grab for her collar was unsuccessful, but then she came back around and he snatched her. I wanted to faint with relief. We made a funny procession walking slowly back to the house, sweaty, disheveled, and victorious. Danielle said she had never seen me run so fast — and in sandals, no less.
     
    All's well that ends well, I suppose. We were able to laugh about it once back at the house, sitting limply at the kitchen table eating dessert and marvelling at the happy ending. Dad joked that his tactic of sitting down to call her was just him being tired of running. Mom made us laugh by telling us how big Rachel's eyes were when she told Mom we were all chasing Sandi in the cemetery. It's been years since I chased a dog desperately down the road... some things never change, eh?
     
    ...
     
    My parents gave me an herb garden in a big pot for my birthday in April. I set it just outside our back door on the top step, and a few weeks later we noticed four perfect little eggs nestled under the long chives. A nuthatch had built a nest in there. How cute was that? I started opening the sliding door gently and slowly, to train her to know we weren't going to hurt her. After awhile she stayed put in the nest when I slid the door open, her little head turning quickly from side to side as she made sure I wasn't coming to get her. I looked forward to the days of little mouths open in an entreaty for food, little beady eyes looking at us from between the chives.
     
    But it was not to be. One morning last week when I was getting ready for work I noticed that the pot was gone. I moved to the door and gasped to see it on the ground, its dirt strewn everywhere and the herbs completely outside it. The nest was crushed and empty, a few inches from the rest of the carnage. Raccoons. It had to have been. What else would come up and eat those little eggs, and strew the contents of the pot over the ground so dramatically?
     
    I drove to work that morning cursing all raccoons, and hoping I would hit one. I felt a grim satisfaction seeing one already dead by the side of the road. I knew it was irrational and illogical, but whenever I imagined the scene — stealthy little paws reaching into a small nest, frightening the mother out of her wits, groping and cracking those eggs full of life, throwing the pot down the steps — I felt murderous myself. You can't blame a raccoon for its nature, I told myself. Oh can't I? I answered back, scanning the road ahead for a raccoon to flatten.
     
    But it did give me something to think about. God does blame us for our nature. But this blame is not irrational like mine was toward the little vandals who ate our nuthatch eggs; raccoons don't have a conscience, and they were not created in the image of God. And we do, and are. That's why the blame is fair; we have this sin nature and we choose to follow it.
     
    ...
     
    And this is the part where I tie all three of these stories together and extract some kind of profundity from them. Alas, my profundity extractor isn't in good repair today, and I simply have to say that life would be a lot less interesting without animals around. They go through their little lives right alongside us, and we barely notice them. What dramas take place in our woods, culminating with shrieks of terror as the hunted is caught? Was Sandi really laughing at me like I imagined? And will I swerve to hit or to avoid the next raccoon I see on the road? Hmm.

Thursday, 22 January 2009

  • Escaping a Scrape

    People always manage to extricate themselves from the most annoying difficulties. For instance, wouldn't you think that a running, locked car unbudgingly rammed into a snowbank along a 900-foot driveway would be a hopeless case?
     
    I did.
     
    Todd and I were over at his parents' house last Sunday plowing and shovelling another two feet of snow (the first two feet had come the week before). The tractor kept stalling out, so the driveway wasn't plowed as well as we usually do it. We took the garbage up to the front in the back of his car and had some problems getting up, but nothing alarming. So we drove back down to finish the job and visit with them a little bit.
     
    When we went to leave, we got stuck in one of the turns (their driveway slopes downhill toward the house, is 900 feet long, and has a few slight curves so you can't see the house from the road). And boy did we get stuck. The back left of the car was lodged firmly in the snowbank, and because there was so much snow underfoot, the front wheels just spun when we revved the engine. When they did burn up the snow, it was only to find a solid layer of ice at the bottom, which offered no more purchase than the snow had.
     
    It was a rather frustrating situation — but alas, it was only to get worse.
     
    Todd and I were switching back and forth between driving and pushing, and he was trying to accelerate with his door open so he could see where he was going (foolishly hopeful, I know — we weren't going anywhere). His car has the automatic locks that lock when the car is in drive and unlock when it's in park. He put it in park, but something must not have triggered (maybe because the door was open), and when we went to open the car door, it was locked.
     
    Locked! And blasting the heat too! And there was my purse with my keys inside, reposing happily on the front passenger seat.
     
    That was a bad moment.
     
    I ran down the driveway to tell his parents and see if they had any advice. Todd, meanwhile, wrestled with the door because when you would pull the handle, the light would come on inside. It almost seemed like it wasn't really closed all the way. Soon he joined me in the house and explained what I thought was the most harebrained scheme ever. He wanted to pull the door away from its seal, ram a yardstick down it, and with that yardstick press the unlock button on the side control panel.
     
    Ridiculous! It would never work! We should just call the police right now and wait for them to come out to jimmy it, are you crazy...
     
    But he was determined. So, resigning myself to further exposure to the 20-degree air, I trudged after him. But it was not long until I realized he wasn't as crazy as I thought. There was a crack barely discernible when the top of the door was pulled. Somehow he managed to get the wooden yardstick down inside, and much energy was expended trying to get it positioned correctly. At this point I had started to believe, and I took over the yardstick maneuvering while he pulled the door.
     
    Miraculously, I was able to press down on the window button, and one of the back windows rolled down. O miracle! O bliss! We might have capered about in our happiness, if it hadn't been 20 degrees outside.
     
    So we were back inside the car, but still firmly lodged in the snowbank. Now it was my turn to have an idea that was not believed. I thought we could shove the car off the snowbank, since it was just the back left tire that was up on it. Todd didn't think it would work, but lo and behold, it did! Two or three good shoves shifted the car off the snowbank, and then we went for the shovels. Car went off the road? No problem, just enlarge the road
     
    After much toil, we were finally able to get free. Todd was pushing and I couldn't believe when the car actually started to move! I backed down the driveway very carefully, and we were back where we started. This time we got a running start by starting in the garage (the driveway was so snowy that we couldn't get any speed otherwise). The first time it didn't work; one of those blasted curves caught us. But the second time, we made it. I was fervently praying the whole way up, a sort of spiritual cheerleader to Todd's grimaces.
     
    All told, we were dancing around outside our car for just under two hours. I thought for sure we would both get deathly ill, especially with the time we had already spent outside that day, but we haven't. And the car appears to be fine. Todd's door hasn't fallen off or anything. So next time you need to break into your car, look around and see if you can find a wooden yardstick. I would never have believed it if I hadn't done it myself.
     
    ...
     
    It was a test, I think. Would we lose our tempers and give way to the frustration? Thankfully, no. Actually, we prayed. I talked to God like He was standing right there next to me — because, of course, He was. It was a very direct prayer: none of the "O Lords" and "Father Gods" and "Lord Gods" with which we so liberally douse our words to God. It's almost as if we think God will forget Who He is while we are talking to Him, so we have to keep reminding Him of His name.
     
    But yes, isn't it amazing how we manage to get out of these scrapes? Earlier that day my dad pulled a guy's truck off a snowbank, using his mini-van and a length of nylon rope. Ridiculous that it worked, but it did. The guy's bumper only sustained slight damage...
     
    Our situation was almost funny at the time; each new frustration was so ridiculous, so movie-like, that it seemed unreal. I'm sure the sight of puny me pushing with all my might and main on the car was positively hilarious, had there only been someone to see. Perhaps God was chuckling.
     

Wednesday, 14 January 2009

  • Informal Poll

    Do you think it's good form to reciprocate Xanga comments if someone comments on your entry?

    Or is it perfectly polite not to comment on someone's blog, even if that person is a somewhat faithful commenter on your blog?

    I'm just curious what the etiquette is

Friday, 02 January 2009

  • A Partaking in Brutality

    Recently Todd and I watched the HBO miniseries John Adams. With the exception of a few small scenes, it was excellent, very well-written and superbly acted. I recommend it.

    But there was one scene that haunted my imagination for a long time. A British official attempted to enforce an unpopular law and was seized by an angry American mob. They proceeded to strip him completely naked (no sensibilities were spared) and daub his chest with a stick dipped in boiling tar. He convulsed with the pain and the crowd cheered, hoarse gap-toothed yelling. Then they forced him to his knees and poured the entire pot over him.

    What agony.

    And then the cascade of feathers was dropped over him, floating lightly before settling cloud-like on his black shiny body. It was the final insult, the making ridiculous of a torture. Insult to an injury so terrible it is doubtful if the victim was even cognizant of the fact.

    We are depraved creatures. Humanity has been capable of horrific atrocities — and not just the villains of history, the torturers and executioners. Ordinary people like you and I have done unbelievable things. How you could stand there and hold a naked man while another tipped a pot of boiling tar over his body, I do not know. I have read that victims of tar and feathers often died a slow and excruciating death from the experience. I don't know how you would survive it — the tar would take your skin off when you tried to peel it, and of course it's covering your entire body. And I think they just dumped their victims outside the town. No one would help them. When they were carrying him out of town on the rail, his whole physical posture just spoke of his agonized, half-conscious state.

    I know why they included it  — to show why Adams had such an aversion to phrases like "the power of the people" and all that. The power of the people can be the sum of their sin natures.

    My imagination has fixed on the physical torture of the tarring, and I am terrified at the extent of the suffering we can inflict upon one another. But deeper than that, more terrifying than the thought of being tarred, is the fear that if I were there, I would have been part of that brutal mob.

    What would stop me?

    Education — but what if I didn't have it?

    Humanitarian concern — but isn't that just part of my modern education?

    Religion — but I'm sure many in that mob were good churchgoers. Why should I be any different?

    Imagination/empathy — what if it had not been honed by my environment/education as it has been?

    ...

    In the end I must throw myself on mercy and pray that God would keep me from being as wicked as I can be.