country moments

1. Carnage.
A few nights ago, kicking back by a blazing fire with a couple of cold ones, J and I heard what he now refers to as "the massacre." A deep, sinister, rumbling snarl followed by the agonized screeching of some helpless prey.

At first, I thought it was my cat and a chipmunk. Then I realized that the predator's growl bespoke a much larger animal than my fifteen pound tomcat. Upon which realization I suddenly feared that my tomcat was in fact the squeaking victim. I ran inside to look for our pets, finding both of them on high alert near the front door. Clearly, they heard it too, but--clever with self-preservation--made no attempt to go outside. They both knew that whatever this thing was, it was bigger than them. And it must have been much more vicious, because normally our sixty-pound dog doesn't hesitate to tear out after any moving thing, including deer, SUVs and tractor-trailers. Size normally doesn't figure into his calculations.

Without a flashlight handy, we didn't see much. So we went back to our fire and conversation. Twenty minutes later, we heard it again. Closer, this time, just around the corner of the house. Something big, snarling and tearing at something crying, high-pitched and desperate. I thought of werewolves. The crying stopped, followed by a dragging, scuttling. Sickening.

We never actually saw anything. Too dark, too lazy to fetch a light, too fearful of what we might see, in truth. For days now, death has felt a little closer. Not in a threatening way. Just in a way that is. That is, that death is happening. Not just death, but carnage. Hunter destroying prey. A violent, a tragic, a necessary thing. Around us, in the yard. In the woods. Next to the lilies on the western side of the house.

Incidentally, the Roman Polanski film, "Carnage," was a great rainy Sunday afternoon experience a couple of weeks back. Watching it, we were reminded of a more metaphorical kind of massacre--that of the human need for companionship in a society which has managed to "civilize" itself away from any hope of closeness.

I'll take this country carnage over that any day.

2. Cradled.
J has two hammocks strung up in the woods now. He cleared out a gorgeous swatch from the tangled mass of thorny vines, poison sumac and dead tree limbs in the acreage behind the house. Three tall, slender trees in a triangle begged for a pair of twin hammocks. The sun filters down through the leaf canopy during the day and the stars arch brightly overhead at night. We spent as many hours as we could this weekend, cradled there.

Outside the front window of my writing room, a cardinal mother-to-be has set up a cozy little nest in the bush. She's cradling a number of eggs, and our eyes meet if I lay on the sofa and glance over. I wonder how much of her nest is made up of our dog's fur, which lies in tufts all over the yard, and is often seen hanging from the birds' beaks. A good incubating insulation, I am sure.

3. Country.
Went to the flea market this weekend and came across a treasure trove of old records. Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Patsy Cline. Finally, some music to fit the mood I've been in.

4. Cookout.
Last night we had my sister and my brother over for a midwest-meets-southern-style feast. Midwest for sure was the barbecued chicken, but southern the collards with bacon, the vinegary slaw and the skillet cornbread.

My brother seemed calm here, more attuned to those around him than usual. He found his way up to the hammocks on his own and relaxed awhile. This place is good for people.

5. Crawling.
J went into the kitchen for his stash of candy after dinner last night, and there were a thousand tiny ants swarming the Brach's bag. We spent an hour armed with diatomacious earth and cleaning spray trying to put a stop to their mindless stampede. Perhaps mindless is not the word. Single-minded is better, I think. Don't they all just have one giant brain basically? It's something different from telepathy, even more profound. I don't like it. It seems robotic and unnatural to me. Individualism is embedded in my DNA, I suppose. I know I shouldn't judge them, and maybe it's time to drag out the Thoreau and revisit his observations of red ants...

But, really, they somehow got inside an unopened, perfectly sealed bag of marshmallows. That's just gross.

6. Contrary.
Today I'm supposed to be ghostwriting. Something got into me this morning, and I decided to do my own writing instead. A strain of contrariness, of resentment.

But the bills must be paid, so I'd better get back to it. Most contrary of all--I have to now imagine myself as a twenty-something person working in the corporate world, looking for the next rung on the ladder. For this ghostwriting job.

Nothing could feel further from the truth.