Sex and the Single Chick

The Roberts
(Short Prose)

We are in the middle of one of the biggest droughts this area has ever known. You have to go back to 1843 to find a summer when the skies were less forthcoming in upstate New York. Naturally we are lucky here, on the shores of one of the biggest sources of fresh water on the planet, Lake Ontario. But that does not for various reasons inspire confidence during this epic drought. A friend at Dunkin Donuts tells me that he knows for a fact the water table where he lives is at least nine feet below the bottom of his well. He’s been getting water delivered by the truckload, but the trouble is, the thirsty earth guzzles it up before the well can fill. One pitiful aspect of this, he says, is that he now eyes his neighbor over the town line, who has city water, with envy and secret vexation. “What can you do?” he keeps asking, “What can you do?” Gloomy, he holds his coffee cup with both hands, as though hoarding the liquid in it.

When something commonplace disappears, there’s a terrible foreboding that it will never come back again. Early on in this drought season my girlfriend moved out after a lackluster couple of years and, to be blunt, I haven’t had sex in a record long time. I find myself surveying the social horizon with all of the fervent hope of a rainmaker—every promising cloud turns out to be a kite or a plane or a flying saucer. For a certainty my rainmaking skills are dubious, but I have always been hopeful.

One pitiful aspect of being newly single is that you begin to watch with keen interest to see if others are having sex. Here on rural Ridge Road, in spite of the drought, there’s been a lot of funny business going on this summer: the flocks of wild turkeys have crossed and re-crossed the road with their communal broods of eight or ten chicks; the snapping turtles have long since gone down to Rice Creek to lay their eggs; the birds seem to be in a second mating season, sometimes flinging themselves against the glass windows of my house, as if to immolate themselves in their own arms; my baby snake, which moved into the house in March, is now months old and no doubt laying eggs behind the drywall; and I’ve noticed that my next door neighbors have taken to holding hands after almost thirty years of marriage. Everybody is having sex. It’s been difficult not to feel a little glum in the midst of all this provocative activity.

For example, mourning doves are capable of producing up to six broods a year, making them the U.S. native birds with the most prolific sex lives. My spring began with two or three mourning doves whose cooing informed a daily sunrise stroll around the yard with my second cup of coffee. By June there are almost a dozen very young mourning doves jockeying for position along my fence railings. Sometimes on a stroll, with their twenty-four eyes upon me, I feel much as I did back in high school, walking the gauntlet of highly sexed popular girls who lounged around the hallways, eyes sated and judgmental. It is uncomfortable being single in front of these chicks. When the mourning doves fly off, their wings produce a whinnying sound, not unlike derisive laughter.

One very hot day I notice a lone wild turkey walking forlornly up Ridge Road. There have been lone turkeys on my road for as long as I’ve lived here, always males. These lone turkeys are a common sight each summer, a little bedraggled, feathers ruffled or missing, a look of hopelessness in the winking eyes, tittering in soft lunatic tones, sometimes pulling up the rear of a group that ignores them completely, other times affecting a limp for the sake of attention that is never given. I have always called these turkeys Robert. This summer it strikes me with foreboding that I may have been completely off base about these cross-generational Roberts, that I’ve gotten the Roberts all wrong. There may just be one turkey, one Robert, not many. It’s possible that this true solitary has spent the last twenty years, even the last century, brooding in a desultory way around the outskirts of the wildly rich turkey sex life on Ridge Road. This version of Robert, this forever unaccompanied turkey, has in my imagination now become some kind of ageless, gabbling symbol of alienation. Certainly he has never, ever had sex.

I have resolved not to be that turkey. I have an out-of-town friend I’ve known for quite a while, and whom I have found to be attractive. For a while now I’ve been toying with the possibility of calling her. Someone has warned me that this is a “temporary solution”—as though what I really need is a better set of problem-solving skills. Someone else pointed out that this would lead to fraught “rebound” sex—although surely desire isn’t dependent upon the last shot one took in a completely different emotional basketball game. The subtext is always that it’s too soon after the break-up, too soon to venture back into the world. “Too soon, too soon,” coo the surfeited mourning doves, full of good advice they need not take themselves.

If the world must impose droughts, it must also allow for the end of them—or else there’s no need to name them. I have the sneaking suspicion that “too soon” is what the Roberts are always telling themselves. I understand exactly why my friend at Dunkin Donuts held onto his coffee with two hands during a drought. Because it connected him to something he had learned, perhaps too late, that he valued. Because what can you do, having valued, but try to hold onto some version of that valuable thing? Because in the end the connection matters, desire itself matters, hope matters.

And so, of course, I make the call.

Chicken Little

(Short Prose)

Today I’m thinking about chickens.

I have a checkered history with chickens, but my attention has been drawn to one of them lately, a rooster whose lunatic, flirty voice wakes me up every day at sunrise on Ridge Road. Since this is when I prefer to wake up, I feel this rooster and I are simpatico, which is awkward, like being simpatico with one of the road construction workers on Route 104, guys who hoot in exactly that rooster’s tone of voice when any woman drives by. It is not an unalloyed good.

I don’t know where this rooster lives. Somewhere to the south and west, I believe, though when the wind changes it could be south and east. One of my favorite passages from Melville, in Moby-Dick, goes: “Queequeg was from Kokovoko, an island far away to the south and west. It is not down in any map. True places never are.” The rooster is perhaps from a true place; his timing at sunrise is impeccable and his pitch is perfect. And I don’t much care where he really lives. If I had a map to him, I certainly wouldn’t use it. Many things are best loved from afar.

I had a great-aunt who lived in a house on a wooded hill in Tennessee, where I grew up. It was sort of a farm and sort of a madhouse, and in my six-year-old mind a place of many horrors. It was also a place where I investigated, intimately, all of the courage I would ever be able to muster as a child. Roosters, a dozen at least, crowed all day long. Whenever my mother dropped me off to be babysat for an extended time, which I resisted mightily and always lost, my Aunt Paul made it my exclusive chore to go get the eggs from the henhouse every morning. The henhouse was a shack, half wood and half chicken wire, with what seemed to be hundreds of deranged red eyes staring out from its dark interior. The roosters walked stiff-legged outside across a no man’s land of packed red clay dirt, blocking the way to the coop, the roosters uneasy with each other and ready to be pissed off.

I had to cross the roosters to get to the henhouse, an impossible journey unless I closed my eyes. But when I closed my eyes and made my way across the packed dirt, I worried that the roosters—I could hear them scratching, scratching—would trip me up and at once encircle me in a frenzy of pecking. Also worrying me was that if I veered much to the right, I’d miss the henhouse and, possibly, fall into a terrifying hole in the ground that used to have an outhouse positioned above it. There was, literally, a lot of shit to worry about.

For all of that many worse things waited inside. These chickens were astonishingly mean creatures. They seemed to feel enraged by secret information they’d received about each other. They turned against their relations with such sudden viciousness that very often in the morning the henhouse would contain dead hens, victims of an overnight fracas. It seemed impossible that alcohol or drugs were not involved. I had been told by Aunt Paul to throw the bodies into the ditch on the other side of the fence to the cow pasture, but I never touched the dead ones. Even at six I understood that the living did not respect the gravedigger, and these chickens watched everything, unblinking. In fact, chickens cannot blink—they have a third eyelid that they stow, like a hanging noose, in the corner of the eye nearest their beak. At the end of a relationship once, I had a girlfriend who began to blink so slowly when I was speaking that it seemed she was trying to erase me with the equivalent of a third eyelid. This is never a good thing. One has no trouble imagining row after row of chickens as enthusiastic, furious bystanders at the French Revolution guillotines.

Inside the coop the smell was harrowing, a blend of death and filth. I held my breath as long as I could. No one—certainly not I—ever mucked out the henhouse, and so generations of chicken shit had accumulated on the floor, to the point that my Aunt Paul made me go in barefoot so as not to ruin shoes my mother would then shake in front of her, asking, “Do you know what these cost?” Only I seemed to know what the cost of this place most certainly was. My bare feet would sink several inches into the muck at each step. The roosts had once probably been several feet off the ground, high enough that an adult could easily reach under the chickens without bending over. At the time I was gathering the eggs, the roosts were below my waist, requiring me to look the insanely angry creatures right in the eye.

It did not matter to the chickens that I did not throw their dead in a ditch. The chickens hated me. You had to pick them up with one hand, reach under them with the other for the egg, and meanwhile they had a go at your arm, beaks pecking up and down in a series of rat-a-tat motions of surprising speed and agility. No matter how quickly I moved, the chicken in question could dot the length of my arm with a perfectly straight row of red gashes, usually three, sometimes (if I were slow) four. I’d come out of that place with blood coming from a score of wounds, the overall effect having a kind of complicated design, as though I’d been tattooed. Sometimes the roosters paused in their restless pacing when I came out of the coop, as though alerted by the smell of blood.

“Show ‘em who’s boss,” Aunt Paul would say, but it was impossible to be the boss of them. I was henpecked. They hated me, and I hated them. Whenever possible I cursed them with the worst curse I knew: “I wish you were dead.”

In the end I never figured out how to get the eggs without harm. That blind and complicated journey was all prelude to a pecking party. In my memory—another true place that is not down in any map—that terrible henhouse is a gateway to hell and hell, I am sure, is a view of the world through the illiterate red eyes of angry chickens.

It is worth mentioning that there was a silver lining. Every Sunday Aunt Paul and Uncle Tom Sheddan sat down to an after-church lunch of chicken. You could have as much as you wanted, and I always wanted a lot. Often it was fried, sometimes boiled and made into sandwiches, less often grilled over a fire pit back of the house. Every Sunday I ate chicken until my stomach hurt and my ears rang. I’d eat so much chicken I could smell it on my skin for days. I had wished them dead and here they were.

Even now I will still tuck into a piece of chicken occasionally. It is a dish I am able to eat without the slightest sense of guilt or remorse. One could even say that I like chicken, a pleasant and mild creature, particularly when served cold.

The Place of Places

Small Bodies
(Short Prose)

I suspect that the majority of humanity hankers after large bodies of water—the great lakes, the oceans. The wide expansive horizons of the great bodies of water invite abstraction, often with a cinematic wind in our faces; the small bodies invite the concrete, often with our shoes getting muddy. I don’t mind getting muddy. I like the smaller bodies: rivers and streams and ponds. One pays attention around them. One finds things to admire and ponder. Small bodies help us contemplate small bodies.

My house is on a ridge and below it there’s a large creek, Rice Creek. I rarely see this creek, though it’s on my own property, because in the summer it’s banked by poison ivy so old the vines are as thick as thighs. In winter—harsh enough on the shore of Lake Ontario that we regularly make national news because of it—I would be unable to find the creek beneath the several feet of snow burying the top of it. But I do see creek creatures all throughout the spring and summer and fall.

There are many many frogs in this domain. For instance, all spring thousands of small peepers join together in a deluge of barbershop quartets and without suspension make a hullabaloo somewhere between the sounds bell ringers make and the sounds cars make when a belt goes bad. Surprisingly, the hullabaloo grows on one, the way novels do. Listen long enough and you cannot sleep without it.

Once I saw a toad hop madly across my back yard toward the creek, chased by a snake that was half in the grass propelling itself and half raised ten inches off the ground the better to see the toad. The uneasy feeling this inspired is one of the reasons I bought a taller car.

Great blue herons, immense birds with serene expressions, have a rookery on the west side of the ridge. Dozens of nests, hundreds of birds. I have never seen a blue heron hurry, nor have I seen one dally. Of all of the creatures I see on the ridge this is the one with whom I most desire a conversation, though if we sat down for coffee together I would insist on a third party, perhaps a monk.

My creek meanders for miles toward the college where I work. About four miles from the house there’s a beautiful park called Fallbrook where I used to take my dogs for walks. On a long ago July day I had my black lab with me on a hike in that park. At some point I realized she wasn’t behind me, so I went back on the trail looking for her. I found her. She’d happened into a bog created by the creek and was up to all four of her armpits in mud, still sinking. I wallowed in there with her, struggling against the ghastly pull of the bog, and together we wrestled ourselves back out and from there walked, as filthy as oil riggers, straight into Rice Creek where a dozen white butterflies floated over our heads while we got clean together in our home creek. Miraculous white butterflies. These are the kinds of things one grows accustomed to near the small bodies: mud and miracles.

I’ve spoken elsewhere about the snapping turtles who, during egg-laying season, hoist themselves at great cost to and from the creek near me, often getting hit by cars because of these journeys. I have helped many a turtle to cross the road, and it’s crucial to know where Rice Creek is located in terms of any given stretch of the tarmac; if you place the turtle on the wrong side, it’ll cross the road again. Too often they seem to depend on the dubious safety of their thick shells. These turtles are among the slowest creatures on the planet who can also be called reckless. Perhaps this summons of theirs must be defined more expansively.

Not so long ago a baby snake took up residence in the front bedroom of my house, where my ex-girlfriend had a study. The snake drove her crazy. Although I sympathized, I was curious about this snake. I tried a dozen times to catch it, to pick it up and take it outside. Small, fast and canny, the snake had some game in spite of its infancy. I spent many sessions over several weeks trying to catch it, always when my ex was away from home. Ultimately I never caught it. My ex bought a mail order snake trap that was essentially glue on some cardboard for throwing the snake away. That trap was one of the items left in the house when she took off, the glue having slowed neither the snake nor her. I think now the trap became an objective correlative for whatever long-term unhappiness was about to impel her away. At any rate, she left and the snake remained. For all I know it is still somewhere in the baseboards, grown now into the intelligent, private personality it seemed destined to become. It’s welcome here.

One recent night I dreamt I met up with someone—features were vague, the details sketchy—and at the end of the dream I heard this person say: “You must leave here.” I woke up immediately and sat up in the bed, my body feeling mired by the vivid weight of the dream. The sun rose through my bedroom windows. The indescribable beauty of this ridge lay washed in light and I got up to marvel over it. I felt small. Must I? And why must I leave? I wondered about it.

It seems sometimes that I am moving closer to something important in this place, perhaps toward the personality I was destined to become. I’m about to spend $12,000 to get my driveway re-graded and re-paved so that I can stay in my house on the ridge near Rice Creek throughout the brutal winters to come—a pickup with a plow will then be able to remove the snow in my driveway which it cannot now do. It will be easier. Make no mistake, I would find it very difficult to leave here, this place that I adore.

For all of that, in spite of everything I have told you so far, I know that I would nevertheless leave here. It may not seem so at times, but the world is a large place with many different small bodies in it, and there are many houses, and ridges, and creeks in it, and there are many creatures, and there are many more possible lovers than there are exes, and there are many more miraculous occurrences than there are heartbreaking ones. Destiny is fluid, and love is one of the miracles between small bodies.

For love, yes, yes indeed, I would leave this place to go to another. And that, I think, is possibly why the turtle, though slow, seems reckless.

Trust of an Old Turtle


Trust of an Old Turtle
(Short Prose)

Today I saw a baby snapping turtle in my yard.  I have seen other baby ones and each time I am much struck by their sense of purpose, but more so by what seems to be a serene confidence in what the future holds for them.  I suspect good parenting.  Here’s a photo of one from several years ago:


But let’s take a look at the parents—it is, after all, Father’s Day.  Once I found a very large snapping turtle on my side deck.  Moss grew on its back.  It was three feet long and at least two feet wide.  Things grew out of the moss on its back as if out of a forest floor.  It had been stopped by the balusters of the deck railing, but kept pushing itself pointlessly forward, its huge neck thrusting into the air on the other side of the balusters, its head under the illusion of freedom.

Apparently the snapping turtle seeks out water when it is time to lay eggs.  My Oswego Township home is on a ridge and below the ridge is a creek—Rice Creek, named after Asa Rice, the last name of my town’s first resident.  Around the creek are thousands of wild lilies.  The female turtles are called to this creek where they were probably born, and where their offspring will most certainly be born.  And the male turtles return often, as though prodigal sons.

But the big turtle trapped on my deck had lost his way.  He was incalculably ancient.  These turtles can live to be 150 years old.  That’s about five full generations of human beings, and a lot of time.  150 years ago the Civil War had been over for one year; Jesse James and his gang robbed their first bank; and Anne Sullivan, Helen Keller’s teacher, was born.  It is a long time to be alive on this planet.  However, this turtle (whom I think of now as my turtle) could not find his way, although until I met him he’d found his way for so long a forest floor had grown on his back.

I resolved to help him.  I put on some thick leather gloves I use for my wood stove.  I put on some sturdy shoes.  It is worth mentioning that at this time I had been lifting weights for almost 7 years, and hefted 20 pound weights in each hand every other day.  My muscles were as strong as they will ever be.

I put a hand on the turtle’s shell and he immediately struck back at me, his enormous jaws snapping.  It is a creature that has not been misnamed.  He hissed.  He snapped.  I tried again, putting my hands further back on his shell—this was difficult because it meant most of his weight was forward at an awkward angle.  Nevertheless, I was strong enough.

I picked him up.  I don’t know what he weighed but it was almost as much as I could lift. All seemed well.  I would take him to the forest edge and release him.  But there on the deck, away from all safety, he began to thrust his neck and all of his legs toward the ground as though he were a submarine firing missiles.  His head and neck disappeared into his shell, then whump, he shot them out toward the ground with all his might.  There was a terrible rhythm to this, as though I were practicing a demanding dance step that involved carrying my partner, but this turtle was practicing a felonious assault.

I was reminded of a time my dad, whom I adored, picked me up to make me take a nap.  I did not want to take a nap.  I became instantly limp, a dead weight.  I hung in his arms until he felt secure, and then shot my limbs suddenly toward the ground, and then plummeted out of my dad’s arms and sprained my wrist.  Of course, I should have trusted him.

So I was a step ahead of this turtle.  I did not drop him.  I stood on the deck and let him fling himself toward the ground.  They are stubborn creatures, like we are, but we don’t hold a candle to them: they can hold their breath for six months.  Just when I thought my strength would give out, the old boy relaxed.  He’d had enough of the fight.  Against all odds he acceded his will to his own powerlessness.  And that’s how I saved him.

So I’m thinking of my turtle today, not the babies.  One day, perhaps even this year, I’ll see him again, lumbering toward Rice Creek, wild lilies riding on the moss of his ancient back.  Those times I feel myself in the grip of a hard fate, it is worth remembering this turtle with a forest on his back.  He had been right to relax in my hands, against all instinct.  He had been right to give himself over to whatever might be next.  He had been right to trust in the world.  As Toni Morrison wrote at the end of Song of Solomon: “If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.”

Short Prose After an Infamous Day

These Guys
(Short Prose)

A little over a year ago I became friends with a group of men in my local Dunkin Donuts. It’s a funny turn of events because I am a woman who doesn’t make friends easily, have always counted on one hand my closest friends, and get antsy outside the workplace when I’m expected to show up somewhere every day at a precise time. These are character flaws, make no mistake. Fifteen years ago I took a “test” online that purported to be predictive of depression, and the online results were very concerned about me, so concerned that they suggested I make more friends. For a while I made a desultory attempt to make more friends, started shaking hands with people for no reason, that kind of thing. This netted no one.

But these guys.

When I first met them I was going to work very early—6:30 AM—and wanted a hot coffee to take with me. At the time they were just a group of men in their late sixties who always sat near the door, same time, same guys. One named Tommy began to wish me a good morning every day. He called me “Smiley” and, later on, I asked him why he called me that. He said it was because I’d come in smiling. But the truth is, I came in smiling because I was so happy he was wishing me good morning. It was friendly. It was affectionate. I happened to be in an emotional place where both were very welcome, even from complete strangers.

One day I just sat down with them. I have been sitting or standing with them ever since, from 6:15 to 7:15 every morning like clockwork at the Dunkin Donuts, and then eventually out in the world at various times. Next week, for example, I’m helping them put siding on the back of Bob’s horse barn. This week Tommy helped me thread line and tie a clench knot for the lure on my new fishing rod (bought at Bass Pro where I got a deal because somebody knew somebody). Several months ago I helped Dominic and Bob and Dick bottle homemade raspberry wine in Bob’s cellar. All the guys coached me last month on how to bid at a local auction and I did bid and I got the item: a handmade prototype from around 1931 of a version of Monopoly that is so cool I have to resist playing it and ruining it.

So too are my guys cool. It’s impossible to explain this. They are right wing conservative Republicans and I am a lefty lesbian. They are from a variety of careers—truck driver, pipefitter at a nuke plant, fundraiser for nonprofits—and I am a college professor in creative writing. They know all about tools and other things men seem to know about, and I don’t. They are all retired and I am not.

They are also all married and I am newly single. When Tommy figured this out, he began to point out women at the Dunkin Donuts whom he believed to be also single and whom he thought I might like. Sometimes he pretends to call them over—“Hey, c’mere, girly”—and I have to say, “Goddamnit, Tommy, quit it.” This kind of thing entertains all of us very much. No “girly” has ever come anywhere near us, since clearly we’re assholes. I’ve never enjoyed being an asshole more.

The wives of these guys began to look askance at me: who’s this woman you keep mentioning? Things looked iffy for a while. Two weeks ago, however, we all met—my guys and their wives—at the Cottage Inn, a dive 20 miles away that has a trained chef. All seven of us got along like houses on fire. In fact, we talked a lot about houses on fire. Bob lost his entire collection of baseball cards and Syracuse University memorabilia in a fire, things worth a small fortune. Tommy presented all of us with little baggies of cashews at the end of the meal, as though to seal our good time together. At any rate, the wives don’t have a problem with me any more.

My guys are full of surprises. Dominic, the pipefitter, has had training at the Culinary Institute. His dad owned a restaurant and he grew up hefting huge, heavy loads of dishes or beer kegs which now bother his back. He’s a woodworker, whose accomplishments include a clever wooden device one puts on one’s thumb which can hold a paperback open—he’d noticed everyone had to use two hands and thought it a waste of a hand. Bob, the fundraiser, has golfed with everyone from Tom Selleck to Jim Boeheim, and he has written books, one about the animals he and his wife have shared, and one, a recent one, about his journey from being a Democrat to being a Republican. He looks back on his Democratic self with a kind of bemused wonder. Sometimes this is how he looks at me. Tommy is a master fisherman from Maine whose truck driving took him all over the country east of the Mississippi, but whose fishing brought him here to Oswego, where he met his second wife and settled down. He is the informal mayor, the greeter, the PR person of the Dunkin Donuts, and the unofficial president of our group. If we can’t make it the next morning for coffee, we’re supposed to tell Tommy so nobody worries.

A few months ago Bob’s wife had a heart attack after a long trip. They’d been to a funeral in Illinois and it was winter and all of us were worried about Bob driving that far. Turned out it was his wife, Joyce, we should have been worrying about. After the heart attack Bob was sick—actually ill—with worry. This is a fact: these men couldn’t love their wives any more. Period. There is no more love they could possibly muster within themselves for these women. They adore them. Their hearts are full of them. I admire this so much that I think sometimes it almost makes me sad. I do not pray but I prayed for Bob’s wife. All of us did. When she got to feeling better she came one day and sat with us at the Dunkin Donuts. I don’t believe Bob, or we, could have been any happier, or felt more.

These men have full lives, lives of activity and love, and yet they made room for me at their table. On the surface we have nothing much in common. But the surface of things is exactly where one doesn’t look for friendship or love. I think the heart needs to be big enough for these things. And then again I think all of our hearts are big enough for these things. Perhaps such matters are bigger and more mysterious than all the dark waters into which I now throw lures from the new fishing rod that Tommy threaded for me. This much, however, is certain: I love them fiercely, these guys.

Death and Dislike

Death and Dislike
(Short Prose)

Let’s begin with grown mice, as opposed to baby mice. I dislike them. In winter, particularly, these adults can make the house feel crowded. My home’s hardwoods become broad, inviting avenues for adult mice on a stroll, and the walls of the house overflow with hidden apartments crammed with feckless, fucking mice. I believe two mouse generations can be born during a winter, thus tripling the available mice. None of my “city” friends have this problem, so I’m thinking it is a country issue, a country winter issue, like the squirrels that seek out the warmth in the attic, or the mosquitoes that hatch from eggs brought in on firewood warmed up in the kitchen. I dislike the mosquitoes, too, and the strange dashing sounds of the squirrels overhead. If you have seen a squirrel dart back and forth in front of your car, a madcap, almost suicidal caricature of indecision, then you know of what these dashing sounds must consist. Impossible to like. One thinks fiercely: You fool, make up your mind and lie down.

At one time a cat named Fargo lived in my house and she also disliked the grown mice. Also, unlike me, the baby mice. She’d bring me and my partner dead mice of all ages, little presents that even when not brought right to our feet were left in obvious places for us to find. The baby mice often were missing a head. I enjoyed this in a way, how Fargo simultaneously rid the house of mice and made a generous little game out of it. She never brought in, say, a fat beetle, its inky legs wiggling —just dead mice. She embraced the cat cliché, and so did I. Often before bedtime the two of us played long, intense games of slapsies. I’d hold my hand out palm up, she’d hold her paw palm down, and then one of us would try to slap the other first. I earnestly disliked losing to her, but usually did. I rationalized these as necessary losses that gave Fargo an edge in the mouse hunts taking place while I slept.

All things considered, I am unmoved by the death of baby mice, but I have already said that it is difficult to dislike them. They don’t frequent the hardwoods like their parents do. They prefer to make the gas stove their playground, jumping like fleas in and out of the iron grates, as though swinging on monkey bars. This is most amusing. Every once in a while one of them apparently swings too far and flips into the kitchen sink. They are too small to flip back out of it. They are all eyes and tail and stare up at one with exactly the expression of a child caught in a scrape. However, this expression goes away as soon as the bowl appears that will take them outside. I have no compunction whatsoever about taking them outside, though they are babies and have no good odds in their favor. On the other hand, I don’t bite off their heads.

I have an aunt, Aunt Barbara, who babysat me when I was little. She and her husband worked hard on their farm, my aunt often feeding a dozen men in her kitchen, and she had a son, Jonathan, whom I adored. One spring afternoon I stood in the garage with my aunt who was getting ready to plant a dogwood tree. A large rat—the size of a grown cat—suddenly dashed from a carpentry bench across the concrete toward the open garage door. My aunt took the shovel in her hand and, almost nonchalantly, flattened the rat in a single, graceful motion. Then she shoveled it up and flung it behind the garage. At the time I wondered if this was something Jonathan had seen before; he played little league football and I had watched him knock down a littler boy with just this kind of grace and indifference. “That,” my aunt said, “is that.” And then she walked out of the garage with the shovel to plant the dogwood.

It seems we must harbor our pity and our sympathy, hoard these building blocks of grief, parse them out a morsel at a time as though they’re stick candy. Maybe we only have so much—this, and no more—which obliges us to tend carefully. I feel no real grief for the grown mice, the mosquitoes, the rat, these creatures I dislike.

But what I would give to play just one more slapsies game with Fargo again. Feel her paw slap my hand one more time. Admittedly, I cannot. And that, as my aunt would say, is that.

Mixed Feelings

Mixed Feelings
(Short Prose)

I have mixed feelings about the avocado.

Because I teach fiction writing to beginners, I have a professorial dislike of the phrase “mixed feelings”—it’s hazy and rather flippant, often used in undergraduate writing to mean anything from being in love to contempt, and is aligned in popularity with other unlikeable words and phrases such as “relatable,” “smirked” to mean smile, “defiantly” to mean definitely, and “little did she know.”

Yet I have mixed feelings about avocados. Avocados come from an evergreen tree—the family Lauracea—and the fruit itself can be three to ten inches long, oblong, round or pear-shaped, and the skin may vary in texture from smooth to pebbled and in color from black to green. By any standards this is a mixed bag of traits which is already well on its way to producing mixed feelings.

The buttery, smooth taste of the avocado is exquisite. When I hear someone describe a food as “rich” I think of the avocado. On a salad or a sandwich, the avocado moves the eating experience from mediocre to interesting, from perfunctory to attentive. I would love, some summer day, to take an avocado mud bath, all avocado, no mud. And fresh guacamole is as delightful as a sudden tight embrace from a friend. The piquancy. The recollection of a history of good times. The sheer exuberance of it.

Over time I have become a master at hefting an avocado to determine its ripeness. One always stands four-square in front of a stack of avocados in a store. They dislike stacking and will leap to the floor easily, so it might be necessary to lunge to their rescue. They are a physical fruit in more ways than one. There’s an obvious connection to love-making here—the way one squeezes but doesn’t grasp at the fruit in loutish haste, the way one proceeds apace from fruit to fruit, squeezing here and there, the mind disengaged, the body all alertness. There’s a distinct pleasure in the physicality of this selection process, copping feels in search of the perfect avocado. I, for one, let out a sigh when I finally find it.

Nevertheless, there seems to be a six second period of time that moves the avocado from superb fruit to brown-speckled, slightly soft, slightly watery, and definitely (defiantly) nauseating refuse. The trouble is one never knows when the six seconds might occur. Sometimes my salad with avocado is perfect twenty minutes after its creation; sometimes I can hardly finish making the salad before the avocado has all the consistency and much of the appearance of bird droppings. Once I froze a slice of avocado to see if this was perhaps a work-around. I don’t recommend it. After the six second transformation, the thing is a new thing, a much worse thing—in some ways the fruit equivalent of an evil thing.

In the end I think we must put the avocado in a special category. I believe that category is: Romance. There’s a come-hither quality to finding the perfect ripeness. There is a titillation of the appetite when eating that seems to go beyond taste and texture, the parts greater than the whole. There is a sense of triumph when your avocado is discovered among so many others. It is, for a while at least, richly rewarding to the successful suitor.

But there is the darker side of things. In my own romantic experience one can be seduced by a pretty face and firm flesh only to find there is more seed and rind than fruit; promise and potential can unfold eventually into studied carefulness, or worse, secret bitterness; and there can be wrenching change between first touch and last.

About all of my personal romances, I also have mixed feelings. On the other hand, I don’t regret a single one. I think we must all be optimists of some kind, for living a life seems grueling without avocado, without romance. Perhaps mixed feelings should be honored for what they are: our hearts looking for what’s next in the stack, though we have been disappointed before and will again; everything in our emotional architecture, good or ill, defiantly wagered on the touch of a moment; everything we desire pulling us forward in spite of the long, long odds against perfection.