Inspirational Squirrels
And other Mountain Magic
Readers who've been with me over the past few years know how deeply I love where we live. Perched atop a hill in a small rural community. A home surrounded by towering cedars and pines with more squirrels than people. Roads so quiet that my furry pal, Mr. Murphy, and I enjoy long morning walks on winding streets with zero traffic and only the scurrying, chattering, and singing of wildlife as a soundscape. Murphy holds special affection (and hope) for the squirrels.
The sky is a luminous blue. The air is fresh and clean. At night, stars put on a live show that's invisible further down the hill, where lights from city life dominate and obscure the heavens. At night, critters roam the streets and stands of forest that line our winding streets. We installed security cameras around our home – not for personal safety but for entertainment. We are rewarded nightly – the old brown bear limping across the sideyard. The cub who rolled up and tried to steal one of my many bird feeders. The mountain lion that slowly roamed the front yard – looking for easy prey. His paws the size of a salad plate and long tail curled at the tip, dragging along like an afterthought.
And when the big predators are elsewhere on the mountain, we have the company of deer. Does and their speckled fawns working hard to empty bird feeders, freezing like statues when sensing a warning noise from across the street where a threat might loom. A mature buck proudly balancing antlers like a solid gold crown. Some of the deer became very comfortable – one readily approaching me in broad daylight – looking for a treat. (I didn't take the bait, though. Being too at home with people – some intent on a trophy – is not a survival strategy.) We watch fat raccoons scurry toward a plate of food I leave out for meandering night-time cats. Like proper bandits, they stand upright, folding their tiny, nimble paws across bellies fat from marauding garbage cans.
If I get up in the middle of the night, I peer through the bedroom curtains in the hope of seeing a visitor. Through that same window, I get to watch annual visitors – a bluejay couple that made a large nest on top of a drain pipe under the eaves. We've welcomed generations – and watched as the parents renewed the nest, settled in to lay eggs and wait. Both male and female cooperate with building, fixing, and feeding. One day I'll look out and up – and mom is standing in the nest bobbing her bright blue head up and down as she feeds helpless baby blues. Soon, I'm able to see tiny beaks bobbing up for food, urging their wings to spread and take them to the sky. At this point, I do my surrogate worrying and lay a cushy blanket on the ground, just in case one of the kids tries to flee the nest too early.
My desk – where I write to you – is directly in front of a 135-foot cedar tree. At eye level, I've hung a squirrel feeder that's designed to defeat bluejays who like to steal peanuts. I've gotten to know some of the squirrels – and a few will approach me and take peanuts from my hand. Last week, one welcomed me home, so excited by the idea of a peanut that he crawled up my leg (wearing jeans) and begged. (Yes, I know this isn't a healthy human relationship.) But the squirrels are a form of entertainment and amusement. I know most as individuals – the jumpers, the racers, the acrobats, the comics. My husband and I watch the colony from our kitchen window, laugh, and admire their speed and agility. If I had the ability and good rationale, it's this community of squirrels that I'd capture and take with us when we move.
Yes, move. We are clearly in love with our home and the remarkable environment on our corner of the mountain. The snow. The meandering roads, the quiet, the native sounds, scents, and surprises. Our house is a spacious wooden castle we built over the years. The location gives us access to hike down through the forest to a mountain lake. We built, planted, discovered, and reveled in the kindness, quips, and tricks of Mother Nature. But we are packing to leave for a new chapter.
My husband is a professional mental health advocate at the State Capitol – a long and winding drive from our mountain retreat. His work is essential to who he is – passionate about creating resources and help for some of the most needy and helpless people in California and beyond. His effectiveness requires presence at the State Capitol – for creating, passing, or defeating mental health policies as it moves through the legislative process. Last winter, he was stuck at home, behind weeks of record snowfall – with frequent power outages and no access to communication – phone and internet are frequent victims of weather conditions up here. So we are packing.
Fortunately, we found an acceptable compromise that keeps us from moving back into the congestion of big city life – a small and historic community in the foothills just a half hour from the valley. The new house is plain (okay, a little ugly even) and presents us with a far different environment than we enjoy up here. But I have buckets of paint, an overload of imagination, energy that still gets me into trouble, and determination to make this the last and best move ever.
Despite having to leave my squirrels, I'm comforted by knowing that I'll take you with me to share a new chapter in my writing life.
Thanks for sharing your valuable time with me - and special thanks to those of you who tell me what you’re also thinking and experiencing. If you (like me) are in the midst of a record-breaking heat wave, take care - if you’re experiencing a “normal” summer - please send me a plane ticket now (or your thoughts) at darby@darbypatterson.com
Summer Reading - The Song of Jackass Creek, a mountain mystery by me!