Tag: The Blind Woodchuck

State of the re-Union

As the woodchuck strolled through the crackle of maroon and burnt umber on the floor of the forest, she felt a deep appreciation for the changing colors. Autumn was the second-best time of year; a prequel to her favorite season, which was hibernation. The anticipation of napping for four months filled her with joy, and the confetti of falling leaves meant it was just around the corner.

Traveling above ground was a bit reckless because of the hawk situation, but to tunnel to the meeting place would have ruined her manicure. The minks had set up a salon down by the river and had rubbed sap on her claws that made them shiny. The woodchuck did not consider herself vain (even though every other animal in the forest did), but after gazing at her graying snout in a puddle, she had decided that a little help wouldn’t be a bad idea. The clever minks had pounded chestnuts and mulberries into a juice and made her roll around in it; when the solution dried, she was delighted to find her fur was now the reddish brown of her youth. The only drawback was that bees kept following her around. The minks promised that as soon as the juice fermented, they would get drunk and pass out.

The woodchuck had felt the need for a make-over because she was on her way to a reunion with the group of groundhogs she had grown up with and was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Going to this thing had been her friend Gert’s idea, and the two of them had been giggling and gossiping about old classmates for weeks now. Gert had talked her into this and should be here right now admiring her fancy nails; but Gert had gone to sleep in her burrow a few days ago and had not woken up.

Life in the meadow could be hard; there were always weasels and feral cats waiting to rip your head off or eat your latest litter. Dying in your cozy dirt hole after you had actually lived long enough to attend a reunion seemed like a pretty good way to go, but the woodchuck did not see it that way. She was furious at her friend for dying and had decided to attend the gathering out of spite, if only to prove to the other groundhogs that she was still vibrant and young with great claws. 

When she arrived, the crowded clearing in the forest was one big, undulating furry surface. No one looked familiar—each rodent was wearing a nametag, but most of them said Woody or Chuckie so it didn’t really help identify anyone. Maybe those were their married names.

She felt invisible as made her way through the crowd. No one seemed to realize she had been the famous groundhog who predicted when spring would arrive. She had assumed she wasn’t going to remember anyone, but she hadn’t counted on them not remembering her. The conversations she politely listened to seemed to be mostly about who had mated with the most woodchucks in attendance.

There was a pile of souvenir rocks with the initials “SHS73” scratched on them. The woodchuck had a vague recollection of an incident that had occurred their final year: a bird of prey had swooped down out of the sky during a game and carried away their quarterback. This happened fairly often, which was why they were called pick-up games. 

With one voice, the entire school had started screaming “S.H.S!” (Scram, Hawk, Scram!), enough to startle the bird into dropping their star player. The 73 referred to either the number of times they shouted or the number of players who needed to talk to a counselor after the traumatic event. She couldn’t remember which one.

Surrounded by her past, the woodchuck felt old. Had she really laughed and possibly had litters with some of these groundhogs? Shouldn’t she have fond memories and hilarious stories to share? She was thinking about leaving when she noticed a list carved into the bark of a pine tree. It was the names of different classmates who had died in the past years, and there were a lot more than she had expected. The last name on the list was Gert’s.­

“You were her best friend,” a voice next to her said softly. The woodchuck swallowed hard and turned toward a young rodent who was also reading the list of dead. She was in her prime, her fur a rich, mahogany hue that owed nothing to mulberry juice. There were no bees following her. 

This teenager doesn’t have enough body fat to survive hibernation, thought the woodchuck meanly. Honestly, she had grudges older than this kid.

“You’re Phil, right? My Aunt Gert told me about you.”

The woodchuck gulped and immediately silenced all the snarky insults she had been formulating in her head.

“I was with her at the end, and she made me promise to find you. She said you were hilarious and brave and that you must tell me the story of “SHS73”. My aunt believed it was the elders’ duty to keep the young groundhogs safe, and that you were perfect for the job.”

The woodchuck didn’t particularly care for the term elder—she and Gert had argued about this before—but she couldn’t help but agree that she was the best rodent for that job. She had come to the reunion expecting nostalgia, but now she realized that her friend had a different purpose in mind. She wanted the woodchuck to teach Generation G how to survive.

She tucked her short, front paw into the crook of the young woodchuck’s arm, and as they strolled, began the final phase of her long life: she would be the wise storyteller and educator of the next generation.

“The 73 in “SHS73” refers to the number of sticks I used to single-handedly beat back the attacking hawk . . .”

She hoped Gert would be proud of her.

High school reunions are not as scary as hawk attacks, but they can both leave scars. Be careful with those talons! 

And To Think That I Wanted a Mulberry Tree!

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

When I was much younger and without a clue, 
I bought a big house with a big backyard, too. 
I gazed at the plants and the flowers and bees, 
And said “Look over there! It’s a Mulberry Tree!” 

How lovely the shade a Mulberry makes. 
Berries galore! All the pies that I’d bake! 
I’d hang colored lights in the twigs oh so tall – 
Such thoughts fill your head when you buy in the fall. 

But then comes the spring and the branches are full, 
Of the tiny green berries that soon will be mull. 
And you stare at the many and think “Surely not!” 
There can’t be — it couldn’t! — but it sure seems alot! 

And, finally, summer, and the fruit overhead,
Gets heavy and turns a dark ominous red. 
And before you can say “Happy Fourth of July!” 
Their stems all let go and they plunge from the sky. 

In bunches! In torrents! In great globs they fall! 
‘Till you can’t see the ground or the grass not at all. 
And you wonder if Prince wrote the song “Purple Rain”, 
When he witnessed his deck become one big red stain . 

Then the dog goes outside and they get tween her toes, 
In her fur! In her paws! On her head! In her nose! 
And so back in the house, she goes in a sprint, 
Leaving a trail of maroon doggie prints. 

And the birdies all come here to snack and to pick, 
‘Till the yard looks like some kind of Alfred H. flick. 
And they screech and they poop and they make such a mess 
That you wish they’d go find someone else’s address. 

So you get out the hose and you wash off the sauce, 
And you say to yourself “Guess I showed them who’s boss!” 
As you settle back into your deck chair to snooze, 
And they pelt you, you see they are laughing at you! 

“It’s a war you can’t win!” they all seem to say, 
As they merrily bounce both this and that way. 
“We’re with you till August and longer!” they tease, 
“And nothing you do can get us to leave!” 

And the sad thing is that you sure know they are right, 
As they land with a thud both by day and by night. 
You’ve tried pruning and cutting and various sprays 
That would kill buffalo but not a berry was fazed. 

And to think that I wanted a Mulberry Tree! 
Long ‘for I knew it would just bring debris. 
But I won’t let them win! I’ll lay down the law! 
My next major purchase will be a chainsaw! 

I may not have shade. I may broil in the sun.
But I have to admit just the thought of it’s fun! 
All those quivering berries as I cut down that tree, 
It’s the last time that fruit will be laughing at me!

 

The Blind Woodchuck does not enjoy being hijacked by some wannabe poet, and would like to emphasize that she quite enjoys mulberries; especially the ones that are so ripe that they explode when they hit the ground! The juice has a wide spatter range that attracts bees, and the bees give it an extra crunch when you pop it in your mouth. Yum!

tick . . . tick . . . BOOM!

The woodchuck shifted uncomfortably in her burrow. It was usually snug and cozy in there, but lately she had been scratching herself obsessively. She had made peace with the various parasites that roamed freely through her fur—she was, after all, just one cog in the great forest ecosystem where the circle of life was often represented by uncontrollable itching—but something about this invasive feeling was more draining than usual.

She cursed her lack of neck as she craned her head around as far as she could, but still could not see her hindquarters. With no reflective surfaces in the burrow, it was impossible to get a glimpse of what was going on back there. She’d once had a tiny compact with a mirror in it, but it had been accidentally left outside and smashed to bits when a raven pecked itself to death in a fight with another bird who looked exactly like him.

She knew she was going to need another set of beady eyes to help out here, so reluctantly, she texted Shirley. Her cousin was the biggest gossip in the meadow and would no doubt share this with everyone she met, but the itching was driving her crazy.

When Shirley arrived, she was already talking non-stop about a variety of subjects that held no interest to the woodchuck, such as drought and fires and climate change. She interrupted her cousin with a scolding hush, and explained the weird creepy crawly feeling she had on her haunches. Shirley sighed, for she knew her cousin was the most narcissistic groundhog in the field. “Turn over,” she ordered, and started searching through her fur.

“Holy Vampire Weekend,” Shirley murmured under her breath. “Well, honey, I hate to tell you this, but you are the host of some uninvited party guests. There are about a dozen ticks snacking on your backside.”

The woodchuck’s mouth opened in a silent scream. For a creature who lived in a dirt hole under a meadow next to a forest filled with deer, she had an unreasonable fear of ticks. 

“Getthemoffame! Getthemoffame! Getthemoffame!” she shrieked, twirling and squirming in a frenzied dance of revulsion. 

“Now, calm down, girlfriend,” Shirley soothed. “Eventually they will drink their fill of your blood and let go. Why don’t you just let them have their fun and leave them alone?”

“Shut your damn mouth and take these tweezers,” the woodchuck muttered between gritted teeth.

“How am I supposed to use tweezers to remove a tick when I don’t have opposable thumbs?” 

Moments later, after the woodchuck had duct taped the tweezers to Shirley’s paw, a snarling tick was slowly eased out of her haunch. Shirley popped the gnarly insect into her mouth and bit it in half with a loud crunch.

“Oh my God, you’re eating them,” moaned the woodchuck.

“They’re very satisfying; they explode with a pop!” chuckled Shirley. “It’s like an amuse bush before dinner—you know, one of those little appetizers that has sticks and twigs in them? Only this one has ticks and twigs!” She collapsed into giggles, slapping her leg; Shirley thought Shirley was the funniest groundhog in the forest.

After the final insect had been removed, the woodchuck lay on the floor of the burrow, weak with blood loss and terror. “Ok, honey, you’re done. You can stop moaning now.” 

Shirley took one more quick look at ­­the rash on her prone cousin’s now tick-free backside and murmured, “That reminds me, I have to go to Target later.”­

Just because the author of The Blind Woodchuck occasionally writes about real-life scenarios in no way means that she came home from a camping trip with an actual tick in her ass. Stay out of the woods—nature is terrible!