When Nana had enough of our chatter and wanted us out from underfoot, she would often give us small plastic containers and send us out the the strawberry field. She knew we'd be distracted by butterflies or bees or our own imaginations and that we could be counted upon to eat more than we picked, but she sent us anyway, not expecting enough for a pie but maybe enough to keep us occupied and out of the house for a few hours.
The field was to the right of the gravel driveway with a footpath cut directly through it. When we'd had our fill of berries, we would cross the driveway to the tall grass - it swayed and waved in the morning breeze like a calm, caramel colored lake, taller than any of us and smelling of sweet hay. We would crawl into it, trample down the stalks and become pirates or fortune hunters, lost children or cowboys - until Nana called or John Sullivan arrived to fill his water buckets or the dogs searched us out or we fell asleep in the warm sunshine. Then we emerged, sneezing, hands and faces stained with strawberry juice and covered with haydust and chaff. Nana would scrub us clean at the kitchen sink with cold water, a rough facecloth, and a smile.
A quarter each to fill the woodbox! she would say and Mind the mites and watch for splinters!
The field of tall grass that began on our property extended all the way to the breakwater. You could follow it clear to Sparrow's, almost undetected if you were slow and careful and everyone else was occupied, it was the backyard of every one of the four houses on The Point, at least until haying season. It was a place to go if you didn't want to be found or needed to think things out or were trying to escape chores. We didn't know that from the hill above it, Uncle Shad could chart our progress and practically see our every step - wisely, he kept watch but kept it to himself. Little did we know it at the time, but no island child was ever really very far from being watched over - by the time we'd made it to the breakwater below Sparrow's, at least a half dozen pairs of eyes were trained on us - they tracked us, knew where we headed and where we'd end up so that when we got to Miss Clara's and her painted pony neighed in welcome, there were cookies and milk waiting. We just thought it was some kind of magic.
It was on one of these excursions that we came upon the fox den, a vixen and two infants, living in a fallen log on the hillside just in back of Sparrow's sheep pens. The wind was blowing out toward the water and she hadn't heard us - that day's Let's Pretend was escaped prisoners and we were on our bellies, inching our way slowly and silently toward freedom - and suddenly there she was, sitting alertly but with her back to us while her babies tumbled about in the grass. Ruthie and I froze as if a spell had been cast on us, remembering the magnificent deer we had once seen so briefly in the cove and feeling that same kind of wonder. We watched for several seconds until the babies noticed us and began a frantic sort of high pitched yipping - their mother immediately went into a protective crouch and bared her small teeth at us while emitting a low, warning growl but she didn't come at us - and it was then we saw that one back leg was broken and hanging loosely, a portion of bone raw and exposed. With remarkable sense but not a word spoken between us, we began to crawl backward until they were out of sight then we ran for all we were worth, detouring to the road and past the ferry, all the way to the breakwater and up the hill that led to Sparrow's. It was only when he took down his old shotgun and pulled his cap over his eyes that we understood we'd come to the wrong house seeking rescue. He tramped out the back door, brushing us off with a curse, and headed toward the tall grass. The mother fox had hidden her little ones and moved on by the time we reached the fallen log, but Sparrow was intrepid and he found her trail and not long after found her, curled up in a nest of dead branches and defiantly hissing at his approach. He raised the gun to his shoulder and sighted but then nothing happened - the vixen glared at him but made no move to run and the old man finally lowered the shotgun and cursed up a storm, my grandmother would've washed his mouth out with soap, I remember thinking and our's for being with him - and the fox seemed to curse right back, her eyes flashed and she showed her teeth. Ruthie and I wailed.
Hell and damnation! Sparrow yelled and threw the shotgun to the ground. Sufferin' Jesus, will the two of ya stop that racket, he roared at us, I ain't agonna shoot the goddam chicken stealin'...... His shoulders heaved with resignation, a man trapped between a predator and the nightmare of two sobbing children who might never forgive him. Go on back to the house, he said with the finality of a man who knows when he's beaten, Fetch me the trap off the wall and a slab of bacon.
We watched him bait the trap and conceal it in the tall grass with a trail of bacon chunks leading to it. Later that day, the vixen followed the trail and sprung the trap on the first try. Sparrow pulled on a pair of thick leather work gloves and awkwardly hauled it back to the house then returned and re-set it for the little ones. By the time the factory whistle blew, all three foxes were caught and Rowena had been summoned to work her magic on the vixen's leg. Under her supervision, Sparrow built a wire enclosure at one end of his porch and nursed all three all through the summer. Ruthie and I visited every day and cried when they were pronounced well and strong and ready to be returned to the wild - we released them in the woods on the road to one of coves where we had seen the deer - they skittered off without a single backward glance.
Not even a fare thee well, Sparrow grumbled as he dismantled the makeshift wire cage, Ain't no gratitude in this world no more. But we'd seen him smile ever so slightly when the foxes ran off free and wild, and we knew we'd gone to the right house after all.
The field of tall grass that began on our property extended all the way to the breakwater. You could follow it clear to Sparrow's, almost undetected if you were slow and careful and everyone else was occupied, it was the backyard of every one of the four houses on The Point, at least until haying season. It was a place to go if you didn't want to be found or needed to think things out or were trying to escape chores. We didn't know that from the hill above it, Uncle Shad could chart our progress and practically see our every step - wisely, he kept watch but kept it to himself. Little did we know it at the time, but no island child was ever really very far from being watched over - by the time we'd made it to the breakwater below Sparrow's, at least a half dozen pairs of eyes were trained on us - they tracked us, knew where we headed and where we'd end up so that when we got to Miss Clara's and her painted pony neighed in welcome, there were cookies and milk waiting. We just thought it was some kind of magic.
It was on one of these excursions that we came upon the fox den, a vixen and two infants, living in a fallen log on the hillside just in back of Sparrow's sheep pens. The wind was blowing out toward the water and she hadn't heard us - that day's Let's Pretend was escaped prisoners and we were on our bellies, inching our way slowly and silently toward freedom - and suddenly there she was, sitting alertly but with her back to us while her babies tumbled about in the grass. Ruthie and I froze as if a spell had been cast on us, remembering the magnificent deer we had once seen so briefly in the cove and feeling that same kind of wonder. We watched for several seconds until the babies noticed us and began a frantic sort of high pitched yipping - their mother immediately went into a protective crouch and bared her small teeth at us while emitting a low, warning growl but she didn't come at us - and it was then we saw that one back leg was broken and hanging loosely, a portion of bone raw and exposed. With remarkable sense but not a word spoken between us, we began to crawl backward until they were out of sight then we ran for all we were worth, detouring to the road and past the ferry, all the way to the breakwater and up the hill that led to Sparrow's. It was only when he took down his old shotgun and pulled his cap over his eyes that we understood we'd come to the wrong house seeking rescue. He tramped out the back door, brushing us off with a curse, and headed toward the tall grass. The mother fox had hidden her little ones and moved on by the time we reached the fallen log, but Sparrow was intrepid and he found her trail and not long after found her, curled up in a nest of dead branches and defiantly hissing at his approach. He raised the gun to his shoulder and sighted but then nothing happened - the vixen glared at him but made no move to run and the old man finally lowered the shotgun and cursed up a storm, my grandmother would've washed his mouth out with soap, I remember thinking and our's for being with him - and the fox seemed to curse right back, her eyes flashed and she showed her teeth. Ruthie and I wailed.
Hell and damnation! Sparrow yelled and threw the shotgun to the ground. Sufferin' Jesus, will the two of ya stop that racket, he roared at us, I ain't agonna shoot the goddam chicken stealin'...... His shoulders heaved with resignation, a man trapped between a predator and the nightmare of two sobbing children who might never forgive him. Go on back to the house, he said with the finality of a man who knows when he's beaten, Fetch me the trap off the wall and a slab of bacon.
We watched him bait the trap and conceal it in the tall grass with a trail of bacon chunks leading to it. Later that day, the vixen followed the trail and sprung the trap on the first try. Sparrow pulled on a pair of thick leather work gloves and awkwardly hauled it back to the house then returned and re-set it for the little ones. By the time the factory whistle blew, all three foxes were caught and Rowena had been summoned to work her magic on the vixen's leg. Under her supervision, Sparrow built a wire enclosure at one end of his porch and nursed all three all through the summer. Ruthie and I visited every day and cried when they were pronounced well and strong and ready to be returned to the wild - we released them in the woods on the road to one of coves where we had seen the deer - they skittered off without a single backward glance.
Not even a fare thee well, Sparrow grumbled as he dismantled the makeshift wire cage, Ain't no gratitude in this world no more. But we'd seen him smile ever so slightly when the foxes ran off free and wild, and we knew we'd gone to the right house after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment