Jerry, the Squirrel Part Three: The Standoff

 

Jerry froze, sitting perfectly still, the only movement his fur ruffling in the wind. Lila stood surreptitiously on the patio, also frozen, left paw raised, her slender black body camouflaged behind a small wrought iron table and chair. For a few crackling moments no one moved. 

The scenario, however, was not unfamiliar to Jerry, who had a plan. Patiently he waited. By and by a mockingbird fluttered over the house, landing tinnily on the roof peak of a large metal barn which stood next to the house. Lila's attention snapped as she jerked her gaze toward the timely diversion. Jerry quickly scuttled into a large globe of dried flowers in the "bean," as the flower bed was called by the Millers.

The bean was about thirty feet long, ten feet wide, and packed with brownery. Though it was winter, Mr. Miller liked to leave the dried perennials and deciduous shrubs untouched so that birds could eat the seeds and berries. It also provided ample shelter and great hiding places for little furry ground creatures.

Lila looked back to her mark, who had already disappeared. She yawned, her muscular body relaxed, and she turned her attention to the other side of the yard. She trotted away and began sniffing around the "pond," a dry retention basin of large and small rocks, dug out by the Millers for drainage on the property. More plantings and herb gardens surrounded this area in the warmer seasons, and Jerry intended on gathering some dried rosemary for his dinner as well.

Jerry sat under his cozy cover, peering out to the exact location where he had hidden the victuals. Soon Mrs. Miller whistled for Lila to come in. Once the sliding door barreled shut, Jerry crept out of hiding, leapt over to the spot, and began to dig.

Jerry, the Squirrel Part Two: Finding Favors

 Jerry stood cautiously on a thick exposed tree root at the foot of the watchtower maple. He sat up, drumming his delicate furry fingers together, dark sparkling eyes surveying the expanse of the Millers' back yard. 

His head darted about, perceiving the sounds of rustling leaves caught in the black chain link fence, the rumbling of someone dragging a garbage can up their driveway, the swooping and chattering of two blue jays landing in the adjacent maple.

Although a foresty swath meandered through Bluebird Creek where the actual creek was nestled, the rest of the neighborhood was built on what was once a farm. This meant that refuge for squirrels was scant in some places. Once home to four large trees, now two (and two four-foot high stumps), the Millers' yard was not woodsy but had other perks.

Despite the occasional ominous presence of the prowling black hunting dog, Lila, the property boasted a prolific vegetable garden, fanciful flower beds, grapevines, berry bushes, copious compost, and plenty of soft earth for hiding nuts and other precious prizes.

A few feathery snowflakes flitted in the stubborn wind. No sign of Lila. Jerry rubbed the fur on his face, smoothing his whiskers, and began to hop, gingerly, tail flowing, toward a large kidney bean shaped flower garden near the center of the yard. 

He paused a moment, blinking, trying to think of exactly where he had buried the bounty. And just then he heard it--the sliding glass door slowly rolling open, Lila's nails hitting the concrete steps.

Jerry, the Squirrel

 The bellowing easterly wind caused a clanking commotion amongst the cacophonous collection of wind chimes dispersed throughout Bluebird Creek. The small neighborhood, nestled in the lush rolling landscape of south central Kentucky, was home to many curious creatures, and one Jerry the Squirrel.

Jerry clung to the trunk of the leafless maple tree, boughs swaying gently, despite the gale. His fat little body, cloaked in rusty brown furry down, hugged the rough bark as he twitched his blinking crinkling gray fuzzy face--checking for enemies.

Though it was a cold winter day, the ground was brilliant green. Only the teeming sprawl of barren deciduous life forms betrayed the time of year to the eye. The snapping wind was enough to convince the cheek and the nose of unfurry faces, though wrapped in thick colorful scarves and hats.

Jerry scratched his way cautiously toward the ground. It was mid afternoon and almost time for supper, which would be a feast of his prized cache of dried corn, berries, and a fat, juicy black walnut. 

It was a special day for Jerry's family, a very special day indeed, worthy of much celebration. Jerry was pleased with himself for having prepared ahead of time. Although, naturally it was his job, he took pride in a job well done. Now, if only he could remember exactly where he had hidden the treasure...

TO BE CONTINUED

Patience

Today I spent all day cooking, which I do not enjoy. I made bread and granola and soup and chicken and applesauce. It involved making several messes and took hours to get it all done and cleaned up. Normally I wouldn't have done all that. Normally I'd say, "I hate cooking and I'm not going to do it." 

However, today is January 3, and I'm still trying to live by my New Year's resolution, which is basically to try to be a better person. That involves doing things instead of just thinking about doing them. 

For instance, in order to try to help the whole family to be healthier, I bought so many vegetables last week. (A lot of them were marked down.) But then Ron & I decided to leave town for a few days and I left all that healthy produce behind, expecting it to be throw-away-able when we got back. 

No such luck. It was mostly salvageable by making a big pot of soup. The soup required a lot of prepping and seasoning, mainly because of so many bean sprouts! Then there were the dreaded "boneless skinless tasteless" chicken breasts, as my dad used to call them. Fortunately, Ron was frying sausage (doing his part for the health-kick) and I was able to pan fry them in the grease. 

I had to make oat-based bread and granola because I am such a genius at buying oats in bulk. Anyway, you get the picture. It was a productive day, even though I wasn't loving it.

Sometimes I have trouble praying, so this morning I was reading a prayer out of a book written to help people pray. The prayer was going along fine--I was in agreement with everything--until, the prayer asked for patience. A lot of people say, "Whatever you do, don't pray for patience!" 

So, I kind of cringed, even though I know it's kind of superstitious. But I continued praying, thinking, "Well, God's not really out to get me, and, it certainly makes sense that I could definitely benefit from having more patience... 

So, guess who had to keep reminding herself all day that I should be thankful that I'm well enough to cook, that we have food to eat, that I have a family to feed, that we have a warm house, that I have a dog to help me vacuum the floors, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera?

Day Two

 Once upon a time there was a little girl named Margaret.  Margaret was pretty much a normal kid, but she didn't know it. That was because she almost never told anybody what she was thinking, and she almost never asked them what they were thinking either.

She tried to navigate her way in the world by watching other people, and by listening all the time. She especially tried to listen when it was hard to understand what was being said. She thought she knew how to read between the lines, but in reality, she wasn't very good at it.

Sometimes when there was a group of people together, like at a party, or at a picnic, or at school, she felt like  she was just an observer. That she didn't really belong there, and wasn't entitled to join in the fun. She didn't know what to do in those situations, but she liked having people around just the same. She watched them all. She remembered their names and their faces and the feelings she had attached to each one.

Margaret didn't know that many people are shy--even some of her favorite people. She thought they were happy and carefree. She didn't know that they felt awkward too. She didn't know because she didn't ask. She didn't ask because it never occurred to her.

Happy Anniversary

 

Ron and I have been married 40 years now. At 30 years I wrote a blog entitled "10 Ways to Help a Marriage," so I just re-read, well, most of it. Disclaimer: Don't bother reading it.

I've heard people say that you should journal so later you can look back and see how far you've come. I rarely journal, but occasionally, usually at the end of my rope, I will. I've run across these old entries, from maybe 5 or 10 years previous, and the vast majority of the time it has been pretty excruciating. 

Because. Usually. I. Am. Still. Struggling. With. The. Very. Same. Stupid. Issues.

Primarily I have made little or absolutely no progress with whatever the thing is. Like stuffing my feelings with food, being a bossy and controlling shrew, being hyper- and/or hypocritical, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And it's not because I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I know exactly how to avoid these pitfalls. But I don't. Basically because, deep down, I'm kind of a jerk. This may come as a shock to some, but I assure you it's accurate. I mean, I don't want to be a jerk, but then again, sometimes I do.

Don't worry, I'm getting to my point.

The surprising thing that happened to me fairly recently was that I ran across one of those old journal entries--"blah, blah, blah, I'm struggling with blah, blah, blah..." which I still struggle with. And this is what was different: 

I had compassion for my younger self.

I was like, "Yeah, it's okay, you're probably going to fight that one til you die. Don't beat yourself up too much. It's actually pretty common."

WHAT?? I was NICE to me!

So, I guess there could be, occasionally, a burst of progress, a glimmer of hope, or maybe we just get old and tired, I mean wiser. 

Anyway, I no longer have any advice about marriage. Other than, I thank God for my husband and the survival of our marriage against all odds.

Thumbs up

 I had a dream a little while ago that I accidentally cut off my right thumb.  It didn't hurt. It wasn't gross. I don't remember how I did it. But I was carrying around my cut off thumb, not too concerned about it. (You know how dreams are.) 

Eventually, however, I started thinking about it. How would I play piano? Hey, wait a minute--how would I do a lot of things?? I began to wonder where the nearest hospital was. Then I woke up. And I was upset. And thankful. I felt my thumb. Both of my thumbs, and my hands, and I was so happy they were there. And I was very grateful. But also scared. 

A person could accidentally cut off their thumb or do anything stupid or careless at any time. I began to worry about my son working at Subway. What if he wasn't careful? And this spiraled into various catastrophic scenarios. (You know how it is when you wake up at 4 a.m.)

But then I remembered. The Lord is my Shepherd, and I am His child. He watches over me, and my son, and everyone I love. And I was thankful, and I went back to sleep. And I am thankful. So very thankful. 

I used to look at my hands and say they're old and ugly. Not anymore. I love my hands! I am fearfully and wonderfully made! (Psalm 139:14)