I’ve been on my knees, immersed in clouds of wood dust for the last two days. Vivid pink and orange sponge plugs are squashed into each ear. (I keep losing them, so the more shocking their colors, the better.) A big, sophisticated rubber breathing mask with a large, flexible gray nose and fat chipmunk-cheeked side filters envelops my face; flexible attachment straps snatch at my short hair, forcing clumps of it to poke straight up in all directions. Huge special wraparound plastic safety glasses finish the absurd picture. (I remind myself to go out to the alley to shake myself like a dog whenever I take breaks. Coating the flowers with powder-goo is unthinkable.)
Resigned to more hours of hard work I attack the kitchen floor on my knees. The roar of partnered shop vac and rotary sander, though muted, is terrific as I doggedly move over every inch of every board. Careful, Dee: too much pressure will scoop out permanent valleys. The electric machine delicately vibrates in my hand, much as a captured humming bird might. The fantasy makes me smile.
Getting down to bare wood is mind-numbing work, but necessary. For sixteen years the intense southern sun’s subtle chemistry has quietly, inexorably converted my floor’s attractive antique copper color to pond-slime green. Ugh.
An up-to-date film on the big window will keep the sun at bay.
An elderly man came through the garden gate as I knelt on my pad working away, and he started when I glanced up, decked out in my paraphernalia. I do look startling.
Anyway, this sort of job requires concentration and coordination, but, as protection from the crushing monotony, a part of my brain wanders off to think thoughts.
My niece, Erynn, is an avian ecologist with Maine’s department of Fisheries and Wildlife- a raptor specialist about to earn her Ph.D. She weighs about 110 pounds dripping wet. Nothing much rattles her.
Ha! ‘Rattles!’ What a lead-in!
A few years ago, out on the Missouri prairie, Erynn was working trap lines she’d laid to briefly capture, tag and count bobwhite quail. It was a cloudy, breezy afternoon; the long prairie grass rustled as she worked the lines in summer heat. She began to reach for the trap in front of her…and froze. On the other side of it was a coiled, beefy timber rattler, poised to strike. It was considerably bigger than a diamond-back rattlesnake, and angry. She hadn’t heard its warning in the light wind. A bite from this monster would be catastrophic.
The snake’s eyes glittered as it swayed slightly, contemplating angles of attack. Only a little wire quail trap stood between this young woman and The Terminator.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Erynn began to back off in slow motion, an inch at a time, her eyes never leaving those lidless snake eyes. The serpent’s tongue tested the air, responding to her body’s heat and scent.
The rattler was intensely focused, deciding. There was certainly enough room to strike- though the contraption between them might bruise its ribcage when it recoiled.
Ssoo…Sshhall I kill thee, or sshhall I not?
She retreated oh so slowly, with velvet soft, non-jerky steps, praying Sir Serpent was alone out there. The big snake rose higher on its coils, debating…
Suddenly, eons later, it broke eye contact, lowered itself, and languidly moved off to the side to disappear into the sea of prairie grass… Perhapss another time, when it ssuits me better...
I would have quailed, then bolted. Erynn kept working, logging data and tagging and releasing trapped birds all afternoon. But, she watched the immediate area carefully. These encounters happen. Deal. Move on.
That small person. That huge snake. Vehicle a good distance away in the middle of a vast prairie. Poor to no cell phone reception. Lord! Erynn has nerves of steel, honed over the years she’s worked in the wild. (She’s been nearly nose-to-nose with giant alligators… but that’s another monster tail.)
Rats!! Lost in reflection, I’d ground a rather deep hole in a paint-naked plank. It could never be fixed. Idiot! I shut down the shrieking machines in disgust and ran out into the garden, needing fresh air. There are no serpents in this peaceful place, save the very occasional, timid little garter snake.
I moved close to the big North Gate door to visit the Faerie Garden, when a young child opened it- and stood rooted to the spot. I towered over him, an ugly apparition in baggy overalls, covered in slime-colored powder, with a distorted rubber face and frantic hair. The boy was speechless. A second later we both laughed as I pulled away the equipment and explained…
To that child, for just a blink, though, I was a snake-thing.