THE BURIALS
I used my clout as the oldest child (and my newly discovered tendency to be a leader) to command a captive audience for performances in my role as a budding Guardian of the Road (although I did not call it that until much later). The audience, of course, was my brothers and sisters. Living in the country is a marvelous experience, but it has a bonus for a young HOSP. To me, the beauty of Nature can best be appreciated when hiking in the woods of a rural setting. Even so, guess what one finds running around the countryside: animals of all shapes and sizes, tame and wild, big and small. Truth be told, animals were my best friends in those days and still are to some degree. Of course, my best friends included dogs and cats, but every other animal or creature I’d come upon in my new-found mission to help those in need. Just like Lassie, I wanted to save the world's lost, hungry, hurt, and abused animals.
We moved from St. Albans to our new, much larger home in the country when I was almost seven. Our house in Teays Valley, West Virginia, sat on more than an acre of land, and, unfortunately, I soon discovered there was a dire need for animal funerals and burials. My father had a big old sit-down lawn mower he called ‘The Gravely.’ After cutting the grass, I’d find all manner of dead creatures. The list is long, but you name it, he mowed it down! Not intentionally, of course, but the nature of riding a sit-down lawn mower so high off the ground meant that dodging creatures in time became a challenge. As I said before, my Dad was a PWAOS and would never intentionally hurt an animal if he could help it.
I need to relay the following so you might appreciate the nature of my burial ceremonies. My mother, who passed away a few years ago, claimed that I loved to tell stories to just about anyone as a little girl. (I still do, obviously). When I was five, and we still lived in the town of St. Albans, Nancy dressed me up as Raggedy Ann for a circus at my kindergarten. I had a dyed mop for hair, cheeks and nose painted red with lipstick, fake freckles, suspenders with big round buttons, and a balloon. My mother was planning to take me to the school circus, but I slipped off and went down the street dressed as Raggedy Ann. For some reason (maybe to show off my costume), I stopped at an old woman’s house, someone I’d never met before.
Apparently, I told the woman I was lost, had escaped from a traveling gypsy clan, and needed food and a place to hide. The kind woman had seen me out playing, so she knew where I lived. Nevertheless, she played along with my story anyway. Taking my hand, she walked me home. When my mother came to the door, she told her that I had escaped from the gypsies and needed food and a place to hide. At school, there was a photographer from the local newspaper. He took my picture, dressed as Raggedy Ann, and I became famous for a day.
Nearly two years later, we moved to our new house in the Valley, and formal burials and ceremonies became a common occurrence for a time. Looking back, I think I unconsciously tried to transform my backyard into a plot for a Disney movie or an episode of Lassie. Before I’d ever developed the concept of Guardians of the Road, I decided it was my job to tell the story of those unfortunate creatures, the ones who’d passed away, so they would be remembered.
Burials were cathartic for me since I would grieve over each dear spirit as I envisioned them leaving the earth. Sometimes I buried them in shoe boxes with a trinket inside, so the creature could take it with them to the other world. Sometimes I just wrapped them in an old piece of cloth from my mother’s rag basket, then buried them without a ‘casket.’ I dug most of the ‘graves’ on our property, but my father insisted that I dig the holes deep enough so The Gravely wouldn’t upend them when he turned over the garden in the spring. I buried the following in our yard or down by the creek: many birds, large and small, a little bat with a broken wing, dozens of insects-especially praying mantas, too many frogs, a good number of snakes, but nothing poisonous, one sweet dog, one unknown cat killed by a car, several moles and screws, gobs of crawdads, fish from the creek, and a sad number of chipmunks and baby rabbits.
I still feel guilty about how I treated my brothers and sisters then since I appointed myself as their boss. If I wanted or needed attendants at a funeral, I had a built-in audience, albeit sometimes a reluctant one. My oldest brother was the cutest blue-eyed blond-haired boy you ever did see, with a gentle inquiring nature. When he was small, my mother sometimes called him ‘her little gentleman.’ In a history about our family that my father wrote, he said that for a while, ‘he spent his time in Kathy’s shadow, often doing the things that were laid out for him by his older sister (bossy me). Soon enough, he stood up for himself and went off alone. Three years after that, my oldest sister was born. Dad described her as ‘their thoughtful child,’ always looking for ways to help others. Next was my youngest sister; she was petite, pretty, and smart as a whip; she, like my brothers, has our father’s engineer mind. Finally, my baby brother was born. Charming, industrious, and adventurous, he always devised ways to make money as a kid. Some of my siblings participated in the burials and ceremonies at one time or another. Later, my youngest sister (a HOSP) was the best of my attendees because, without prompting, she cried over all the unfortunate creatures, just like me. By the way, she was the first person inducted as a Guardian of the Road, which is an honor, to be sure.
Now my youngest brother is a great person. He would attend a funeral without much fuss. But as a child, he had an inquisitive nature when it came to the burials. Often, several months after a ‘funeral,’ I’d discover that he had dug up one of the deceased. When I confronted him about it, he said he wanted to see what the skeletons looked like. I never held it against him, though, because after a while, my audience members began to dwindle, but I can’t imagine why.
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THE CEREMONY
I was a devoted fan of television shows like The Lone Ranger, Wagon Train, Cheyenne, Gun Smoke, Cheyenne, Maverick, and movies about the old west and American Indians. That might explain why I still have a penchant for all things Native American. Whenever the Bookmobile came by, I’d check out any books that featured American Indians.
Secret funeral ceremonies for the newly departed creatures often took place down by what we kids called the creek, in a special little glen covered in moss and lined by boulders. The creek meandered along the back side of our new subdivision. We all loved the creek, often went creek walking barefoot, and sometimes found snakes under the rocks that lined the creek bed. For the ceremony, I would bring ‘spiritual’ things with me. They included but were not exclusive to bird feathers, quartz rocks or pretty stones, fossils, discarded snake skins, special leaves with bright colors, tree fungus, acorns, mushrooms, and animal skeletons, but I would also bring food as offerings, or to eat if I got hungry.
I cannot tell you where I got the idea for the burial ceremony, which is still a mystery, for no one taught it to me, and I do not recall seeing or reading about such a ritual. I just knew I should do it, that it was my responsibility. I would sing a song, usually a hymn, and light a tiny fire as an offering, like a candle at church. If the animal had been close to me, I’d tell a story about its life and shared experiences. If I were lucky, one of my siblings would tag along, but most often, I’d do it alone. At the time, I could not tell you exactly what I was trying to accomplish through these ceremonies, and I suppose they sound extravagant. Perhaps it was better to sit on a moss-covered glen, remembering a beloved animal, than to sit on a bus and be tormented by bullies. Today, I know that having the ceremonies to celebrate an animal's life was my way of saying a prayer to send their spirits home.
One spring day, I was discovered in the glen by the old man who apparently owned the land, and he was not of the HOSP persuasion. Since a tiny fire was going on, he wasn’t happy at all and called my parents. Obviously, the ceremonies in the glen ceased to exist after I got ‘caught.’ Nevertheless, that old man could not stop the forces of good. I am still ‘doing the ceremony thing,’ only not in such an obvious way and without the tiny fire.
*****
VETERINARY ASSISTANT AND THE GIRL SCOUTS
My mother was very wise to encourage me to join the Girl Scouts. The Girl Scouts of America helped me to become a more confident person, and my experiences as a Scout had a profound impact on my life. Their mission and approach reinforced my love of animals, but the Scouts also influenced my future career choice. Perhaps you think that selling Girl Scout cookies gave me the skills to interact with people? Yes, it did, but I loved the outings sponsored by Girl Scout Troupe #1, which met at the Mt. Vernon Church of God in Teays Valley.
The first time I camped outside under a tent was with my Girl Scout troupe. I will never forget what happened. That afternoon, I placed my bedroll on a mound inside one of the tents, and late that night, a nest of granddaddy long-leg spiders hatched and then crawled all over me. I still shiver thinking about it, but I was a trooper and only screamed once, unlike the other girls in my tent.
To me, the best part of being a Scout had to do with their merit badge program. I earned the most merit badges in the county one year, and many had to do with art, animals, or nature-related subjects. At fourteen, based on my dedicated/obsessive pursuit of merit badges and perhaps my improved self-image, I received the highest honor for a Girl Scout at the time: a Curved Bar.
In order to earn a merit badge, a girl would have to study or participate in an activity for a specific number of hours and write a report about the experience. If she completed the tasks, the troupe’s Girl Scout leader would award the child a colorful, embroidered badge. One by one, as I earned them, my mother and I sewed the badges onto a royal-looking sash, which I wore proudly. Every inch of my sash had badges on it, top to bottom. But once I mistakenly wore the sash to school, thinking I’d win friends and influence enemies. I am sure you can guess what happened. Some non-HOSP children made fun of me for being a ‘nerd.’ However, unlike the early days when I’d cower in self-pity, I just held my head high. As soon as it was possible, though, I rushed to the bathroom, carefully folded up my sash, and placed it in my locker. I was disheartened on the way home from school, but no one seemed to notice.
VETERINARIAN ASSISTANT
As I mentioned before, I wanted to be a veterinarian throughout my childhood and into my teenage years. The merit badge I most wanted to earn was: Veterinary Assistant. In hindsight, this is one of the professions I think HOSP who love animals should avoid, but I didn’t realize it at the time. For two weeks, my mother arranged for me to volunteer at a small veterinary hospital in St. Albans in order to earn my badge. She’d take me in the morning, and I would stay there all day until my father picked me up on his way home.
My initial hopes were that I’d be able to comfort sick pets, take care of them, clean up mishaps, and even mop floors and clean cages. At home, I did that sort of thing for our Cocker Spaniels, Cindy and then Penny, so I thought it would be easy, fun, and perhaps even uplifting.
As my supervisor, the nice but busy veterinarian took his Girl Scout duties seriously. Yes, I mopped floors and cleaned cages, but mostly I sat in on ALL OF THE SURGERIES. I watched, horrified yet mesmerized, as he operated on everything from parakeets to large dogs. My job was to stand at the foot of the table and hold them steady as he sedated them. Then I was to keep an eye on a machine that displayed their vitals to see if they responded appropriately, as in still breathing! I witnessed the removal of tumors, the repair of broken limbs, spaying and neutering, teeth removal, declawing, and some difficult births. Maybe I was a jinx because an awful lot of patients died on the operating table during my time at the veterinary hospital. Sometimes, I was able to control myself and hold back the tears. But there were other times when I couldn’t help but cry over poor unfortunate dogs and sweet-looking cats who didn’t make it. As I am sure you realize by now, this was not a good experience for a HOSP like me. Most days, when my father arrived to pick me up, he said my eyes were red. I earned my veterinary merit badge, but it sure wasn’t easy.
In the end, I scratched veterinarian off my list of career choices. I can only say that the poor vet should’ve gotten a badge for putting up with a weeping Girl Scout for two weeks. Nevertheless, for over one hundred years, the Girl Scouts of America has positively influenced the lives of thousands and thousands of girls like me. I will be forever proud that I was able to call myself a member of Girl Scout Troup #1 of the Mount Vernon Church of God in Teays Valley.
Recently, I was looking through an old photo album of my mother’s. She was born in Roanoke, Virginia, on January 4, l920. Mom told me that since few people had personal cameras in those days, there were only a couple of pictures of her as a girl. In the album, I was pleased to discover two black-and-white photos of my mother taken outside. She looks to be about three years old. Then I came across a picture that brought tears to my eyes. It was next to a story in the Roanoke newspaper about my mother receiving a Girl Scout award. I am familiar with my grandmother’s handwriting and could tell that my mother’s mother had written the following beside the picture and story in the paper: Age 16, l936.
In l962, my mother took a photo of me in my Girl Scout uniform, and naturally, I was wearing my merit badge sash. Along with the picture, she wrote a short article about how I’d been given the Curved Bar award because of all the merit badges I’d earned. Apparently, she’d sent all this to the Charleston newspaper because I still have a copy of the story and my picture.
If you put the photo of my mother in the Roanoke paper from l936 beside the one of me in the Charleston paper from l962, there is an uncanny resemblance. Both of us were about the same age, and both of us were wearing our uniforms. We almost looked like Girl Scout twins separated by 25 years. Like me, my mother appeared young and proud in the picture, but what I noticed right away… is that she was also wearing a royal-looking sash. And every inch of her sash had merit badges on it, top to bottom.
This discovery got me wondering. So, not long before she died, I visited my mother to find out more about her days as a Girl Scout. As a kid, I do not remember her ever telling me that she was once a Girl Scout. Although her memory had faded a bit on the subject of her time in the Girl Scouts, she recalled it perfectly. She said that as a girl, she was pitifully shy, and her mother, Maggie enrolled her in a new organization called the Girl Scouts to give her confidence. Even though it was during the Depression, Maggie was determined to see that her daughter could attend the first Girl Scout camp outside of Roanoke in Berkeley Springs. They both saved their money to make it happen. Once at camp, my mother worked hard and was selected as the bugler. She blew her horn to wake her fellow scouts in the morning and played taps for lights out. The reason her picture was in the paper, she said, had to do with an award. She was the first girl in Roanoke to receive the coveted Curved Bar. And a few years later, she became Virginia's youngest girl scout leader.
Both my parents worked hard to see that I gained a sense of pride in myself. But my mother had to have thought that her experiences as a Scout might help me… as it helped her all those years ago.
*
EARLY EXPERIENCES AS A HOSP
THE KITTEN
Just after we moved to the country when I was about seven, my brother was four, my sister was a toddler, and my mother was expecting our baby sister; my family visited some friends who lived on a nearby farm. I think both parents were Italian, but I know they had two girls with curly black hair and sun-kissed skin. They raised chickens, sold their eggs, and had milk cows, sheep, and goats. I remember their gardens, with fat, luscious tomatoes and bushes of aromatic basil and rosemary. They lived in an old farmhouse near the town of Hurricane, with a huge stone fireplace, wide-planked floors, and overstuffed furniture. Whenever we visited, I’d love the scents emanating from their kitchen: homemade bread, pasta, pies, and a sweet, spicy tomato sauce that simmered in a pot on their old-fashioned wood stove.
After supper one evening, we sat on their porch and chatted for a while. It was getting dark, so we thanked them and climbed into our station wagon. As we were leaving, my father backed the car down the driveway and ran over a kitten that we later learned had been sleeping behind one of the tires. The little girls came out of the house and were very upset when they saw what had happened. To say that I was upset, too, is not an exaggeration.
Obviously, my Dad did not see the kitten, or he would not have backed the car over the precious little thing. My father was a PWAOS and, late in life, became an official GOTR; as I’ve said before, he would never intentionally hurt an animal. Nevertheless, in my oversensitive HOSP mind, I could not stand the thought of the car rolling over the kitten. I cried for hours and would not speak or look at my father. Not because I blamed him but because I saw the dead kitten in the driveway whenever I saw him. It was terrible to do to my Dad, but I could not help myself. I finally apologized, and soon all was forgotten, but it shows you how hard it is to have a HOSP and budding GOTR in the family. All Guardians of the Road feel the loss of any creature deeply, sometimes in a profound way. As I have matured, I am a bit more rational, but losing an animal I love is still heart-wrenching for me.
*
A HEN CALLED MOLLY
I finally made my first real friend in third grade. Her name was Alice, and she lived on a small farm near what everyone still calls The Valley Road. Alice didn’t seem to be aware that I was one of the outcasts at school and started sitting beside me in the lunchroom. Before, I’d sit by myself, hoping the bullies would leave me alone, so Alice’s arrival on the scene was an improvement. I didn’t realize until later that Alice’s clothes were a bit tattered and didn’t fit her thin frame. But right away, I did see that Alice’s lunch was better than mine. Where she had slices of pie or cake, I had overripe bananas that made my bologna sandwich taste bad. My mother never gave us dessert for lunch, so I looked on enviously as Alice ate hers. One day, she brought two pieces of cake in her lunch bag and gave me one. That’s what I call a friend!
The three girls that lived in my neighborhood and were about my age would frequently get together for pajama parties, or what they now call ‘sleepovers.’ Naturally, I was never invited, but they made sure I heard about how much fun they’d had. Out of the blue, Alice invited me over for the weekend. Elated, I packed my things well ahead of time. My Dad drove me to her house that Friday evening and promised to pick me up after church on Sunday.
I soon learned that Alice’s father had died in the war, and she was an only child who lived with her widowed mother in the small, white-washed farmhouse. As I recall, they had two goats, a milk cow, a coop with laying hens, and a rooster who sometimes crowded at night. Although my family now lived in the country, we had a large and very nice home in a subdivision of other newer homes. At the time, I didn’t understand that some folks struggled to make ends meet and needed to live off their land to get by.
Granted, I was a tomboy, but I had never really experienced what it was like to live on a farm. I later learned that Alice’s mother struggled to keep their farm going. Mrs. Brown worked at the A &P Grocery Store in St. Albans, so Alice had to do some of the farm chores. In my family, the children were required to do certain jobs to get an allowance, like making our beds, mowing the grass, or cleaning the kitchen. But our chores didn’t include milking cows and goats, churning butter, and gathering eggs covered in chicken poop. Nevertheless, with wholehearted enthusiasm, I dove into the role of visiting friend and helped Alice with her chores. Early on Saturday, she and her mother taught me to gather eggs from the coup and milk the cow. Once finished, we took our eggs and a bucket of milk to their kitchen. Unlike the modern Frigidaire in my house, Alice and her mother had an oak ice chest, which held a large block of ice that kept perishables from spoiling. That’s where we stored the fruits of our morning’s labor. In the afternoon, the three of us mucked out the two stalls in their barn and put out grain and hay for the animals. I remember looking at Alice, a third grader, amazed by all the grown-up jobs she had to do. Nevertheless, I was having fun and thought the experience was marvelous.
Earlier, while we gathered eggs, I discovered that Alice’s chickens all had names. Her favorite was an old hen they called Molly, who would follow Alice around the barnyard, squawking up a storm and flapping her wings. According to Mrs. Brown, late one winter, they’d bought five chicks from the feed store, one of which they named Molly. After four of the chicks died in the barn, Alice decided to keep Molly in the house until the weather improved. She’d wrap her in a towel and put the chick in a box by the wood stove so she’d stay warm.
For some reason, Molly had quit laying eggs, but there were other hens in the coop, and to my inexperienced eye, Alice and her mother seemed to have plenty of eggs. I had never really been around hens before and was delighted by this story that proved my friend’s dedication to animals. I now realize that Alice was like me, a HOSP and a true GOTR. All these years later, I like to think of Alice on a farm somewhere, raising chickens and goats.
In my house, everyone had their own bed, and some of us had our own bedrooms. At my friend's house, I slept next to Alice in her bed, which I likened to a great adventure. We stayed up late, talking about animals, movies, and other things we liked. Alice confessed that the children at school made fun of her, too, and we formed a bond. It was the first time a girl my own age seemed eager to have a conversation with me. After a time, we both fell asleep, but I was incredibly happy. Truth be told, I suddenly realized how lonely I’d been and was grateful to my new friend. I was so thrilled that I wanted to hug Alice, but I feared she’d think me silly.
Sunday morning, Alice's mother drove us to their church not too far from their farm. She left us, saying she had chores but would return after services. It was what I’d now describe as a country church, and I sat in the pew with eyes wide and mouth open. People waved their hands in the air while they sang hymns and offered joyful Hallelujahs during the minister’s sermon. Alice joined in, and soon enough, I did too.
At noon, we left the church and saw that Mrs. Brown was waiting to take us home. Once back in the farm’s kitchen, there was a sight to behold on the table: a big bowl of whipped potatoes, cream gravy, steamed corn on the cob, an apple pie, and in the center, a huge plate of fried chicken. To this day, I think of that dinner as one of the best that ever crossed my lips. Alice kept stealing sly glances at me while we ate, but I was too busy licking the salt off the crispy skin and enjoying every bite.
After we helped put the food away and clean up the kitchen, Alice and I went outside to wait for my father to arrive. In the backyard, I saw a stump of a tree with a hatchet buried in one of its cracks. Going closer, I remember finally understanding. Blood was on the stump, feathers everywhere, and a severed chicken’s foot was lying on the ground.
Before I could react, Alice hurried to explain that her mother almost never had fried chicken and only made it for special guests. My new friend was telling me that her mother had given me a treasured gift. I looked at Alice then and could see her eyes were moist when she told me that Molly had been butchered for our supper. She claimed the old hen had seen better days, and it was ‘her time.’ Although I could see the pride on Alice’s face, there were also tears.
My father arrived in our station wagon, and I hugged everyone. I said a quick and heartfelt goodbye to Alice, and we left for home. I cried in the car, but when my Dad asked me what was wrong, I didn’t tell him about the demise of Molly, the hen, only that I’d had a great time with Alice and her mom.
We remained good friends until about a year later. Alice and her mother moved in with a relative who lived up Crooked Creek Road in distant Winfield. I never saw Alice or her mother again, but I will never forget their friendship and kindness.
THE UNWELCOME EASTER GUEST
I always brought hurt or sick animals back home to my makeshift hospital in our garage. There, I had various ways to keep my patients safe while they recovered or, as often as not, didn’t. I had a couple of old bird cages, an aquarium, wooden boxes with lids, a wire cage we used to take the dog to the real vet, and deep glass jars with cork stoppers, to name a few of my improvised recovery stations. It got so cluttered that my Dad made me set up a tiny ‘hospital room’ in the far corner, so he wouldn’t run over anything important while parking the car.
My patients spanned the animal kingdom of Teays Valley. First, there were the snakes. Unless they were squashed to smithereens, snakes often recovered in time. I’d keep them in the aquarium with a screen on the top, where I’d feed them insects, tadpoles, or whatever I thought they’d eat. Once ‘cured,’ I’d carry the snakes in my pocket to scare ‘the weenies.’ One could find water snakes, garden snakes, and black snakes in the Valley, but there were copperheads and water moccasins down the creek. I stuck to the more tranquil garden snakes, but shiny black snakes were best for scaring the squeamish, especially at Halloween.
Over time, I found an ally in our neighborhood, a boy named Ricky McFadden, who lived on the far side of our subdivision. As I recall, he was a bit tubby and didn’t have many friends either. I think he liked me because I was better at climbing trees. I’d go creek walking barefoot when he was too scared. And unlike him, I could hike the hills without getting winded, and I wore clothes that were often tattered from my outdoor adventures. Ricky was not only a junior vet in training, but he also turned out to be instrumental in my snake projects since he’d bring the prissy girls over so I could scare them. Ricky was good at finding sick animals. He once carried an orphaned baby raccoon all the way from his home, wrapped in his mother’s quilt. The raccoon was a cute patient, hungry and friendly, but he vanished overnight after someone left the garage door open, and he apparently climbed out of his nursery bed. I suspect that my father might’ve had something to do with its ‘release.’
Birds were our most common patients. My dad planted many apple and peach trees in the backyard, and we had a giant tulip poplar near the garage. In the spring, it was not uncommon to find that a fledgling baby bird had fallen out of a nest, perhaps trying to test its wings. My father discouraged me from returning them to the nest, saying the mother would reject the fledgling because she’d detect a human scent. Unfortunately, there were also orphans from The Gravely to deal with during the summer. Therefore, I did my best to nurse many baby birds. The older, the better, and I admit I had more successes than failures. I’d keep them in the bird cages and feed them tiny pieces of apple, seeds, and chopped-up worms. I'd set them free as soon as possible, which was wonderful to see.
Along with snakes, birds, and the rare mammal willing to put up with my ministrations, I nursed a nest of abandoned baby mice, a bunny, a chipmunk, frogs, an undernourished squirrel, and one of our favorites, box turtles. Back in the days of my youth, one could find box turtles often in the Valley, but that is not the case now, sad to say. No creature was forbidden in our nursery…that is, until one day just before Easter.
After getting off the school bus and walking down our long driveway, I happened to notice something attached to the uppermost rung of our wooden garage door. It was the sort of garage door that folds in sections when you push it up. I stood there and stared at the dark, black ball-shaped object hanging from the rung. It hadn’t moved, but I finally decided it was a small bat. I’d never seen one up close and was determined to capture the creature, so I could study it.
After racing inside, I found that my mother wasn’t home. I called Ricky on our phone, told him about the bat, and asked him to get down to my house as soon as possible. I was and am short, but Ricky was a head taller than me and a bright boy. We went into the garage through the side door, where Ricky found a wooden folding ladder my Dad kept for clearing leaves out of the gutters. I grabbed the birdcage, and we were ready for our rescue.
When my mother returned, I knew she’d raise the garage door, and the bat might get hurt or fall off. Ricky decided I should be the one up on the ladder (I figured he was scared), and he’d get the birdcage ready for the patient. I was a bit squeamish, as bats have an unfair reputation for being not so nice. But in short order, I clasped him, and he curled up in my hand. I could see his wing was damaged, which meant he probably wouldn’t fly away. We put the bat inside the cage, then sat on my back patio, staring at him. After a while, Ricky had to go home and left me with a quandary about how to tend to my new patient. I had no idea what they ate or what type of bat we’d captured, and was unsure about how I could help him with his broken wing. I decided that I needed to look it all up in our dandy Encyclopedia Britannica, which my mother had ordered from a door-to-door salesman, much to my father’s displeasure at the time.
It suddenly turned cold and looked like rain. I was in a hurry to find a solution for the patient before my mother returned, so I grabbed the handle of the birdcage and took the bat inside. In our kitchen, I could see my mother had been making chocolate-covered, cream cheese Easter Eggs (my personal favorite), and they were placed neatly on the waxed-paper-lined countertop so they’d ‘set up.’ I placed the bird cage on the kitchen table and went upstairs to the bookcase to read about bats in the encyclopedia.
My mother was a gentle yet extremely frugal woman who was a child of the Depression. She loved dogs but was not a GOTR by any stretch of the imagination. Mom reused paper towels, saved newspaper clippings to the point of an obsession, filled our refrigerator with the most minuscule leftovers, and wasted nothing.
I heard the garage door open and close and, after a moment, the creak of the kitchen screen door. I shoved the encyclopedia back in the bookcase and raced downstairs. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t react in time. My mother trudged into the kitchen carrying two heavy-looking brown paper bags. I watched as she stared at the bat in the birdcage. Shrieking in fright, she threw up her hands and dropped the bags on the floor. Then she yelled:
“KAAA…THY, GET IN HERE…RIGHT THIS MINUTE!”
I slipped into the kitchen, head down, eyes squinted and ready for a scolding as she said:
“I’M PUTTING MY FOOT DOWN THIS TIME! NO BATS!
GET THAT HORRIBLE THING OUT OF MY KITCHEN!”
On the floor (I soon found out) were twelve cartons of eggs she’d bought on sale at the A&P, so we’d have Easter eggs for our baskets. Many were crushed, and the paper bags had turned into egg-yolk mush! Yikes! Upset by the loss of her eggs and her time, my mother was angry, but after we cleaned up the mess, she begrudgingly went back to the store to buy more.
I never brought a bat into the house again. All future bat patients were banished to the garage. I learned to love bats; down the road, I’d have many other encounters with this marvelous creature. This mishap taught me a lesson that would be reinforced many times over in the years to come: Carrying out the duties of a Guardian of the Road can be a messy proposition.
Check out Blog Post #5 coming soon.
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