I was ready to tackle my design studio once the lower level family room was complete and the new furniture and rugs were in place. First, I had to have a proper work area to paint my watercolors. Still, I struggled with the price of a professional artist’s desk. For years, I’d used an 18th-century schoolmaster’s desk I’d purchased in an antique store for my painting table, but it was too low to the ground. I could not adjust it easily and wanted to sit much higher and overtop my work. I finally settled on ordering an adjustable draftsman’s table. It was portable and could be lowered or raised so I could change the tabletop by degrees when needed. I used an antique farm table I’d had forever, placed the draftsman’s table on top of it, and had the perfect place to paint. I loved it and continue to use it today.
I had not painted since we moved from Springfield and looked forward to returning to what made me most happy. Although I knew many folks my age were winding down their professional careers, I had no intention of winding anything down. Based on my instructions, Gary and Ritchie had taken two builder-grade sets of cabinet drawers left by the former owners and cut them to size. They mounted heavy-duty plywood for a top, then added tile and grout for an attractively finished piece. Then I painted it a dull gray-green to tone into the porcelain tile on the floor. We installed it in a six-foot-long niche’ across from my draftsman table. The numerous cabinet drawers and cubbies were perfect for my art supplies, draftsman paraphernalia, mat cutters, tapes, and special tools. The clever countertop is useful for cutting mats and framing. I was thrilled by how we’d pulled together an assortment of items of mine and those left behind, then repurposed them.
I put my new draftsman/farmhouse table contraption under the big-picture window. Next, I ordered a swivel chair with wheels designed to function with a high-mounted desk. The ceilings had a couple of overhead can lights, but that wasn’t enough. I finally purchased direct lighting to focus on my subject, which would mimic natural daylight for my close-up work. During all this organization, Murphy would sit on the floor and watch me with rapt attention. Once in a while, I’d take her outside, go for a short walk, mosey down to the river, stand on the dock, and search for trout. Of course, Murphy couldn’t see the fish, but I had a big bag of trout food in our mechanical room. I’d scoop out a cup of fish food, and we’d take it with us to drop in the water. I hoped to spot the trout as I’d done with the Koi in my ponds, but trout in the Nottley River stay deep in colder water. So after a while, Murphy knew she’d get to eat some of the fish food I’d planned for the Brown Trout we’d spotted when the river was clear and low.
I’d had to dial back all the walking I’d done with Murphy when we first moved to the mountains. I’d gone to a specialist in Georgia who said I’d need two knee replacements but left it up to me to determine when that would happen. He said I’d know when to proceed with the first surgery if the pain became more than I could bear. The pain kept getting worse, but I kept stalling. Sometimes I could barely walk from the car to a grocery store or into a restaurant, so I finally decided to have the first of two surgeries that fall, putting it off for a while longer.
During the summer months, I’d turn off the air conditioning that Al was addicted to and open the two dozen windows in the log house. It took me a while to go from the top floor to the lower level. However, living on a river under tall trees meant cooler winds often blew through in the mornings, cooling down the house and bringing in the fresh air I coveted. In Springfield, from spring to late fall, we had to run our AC around the clock to keep the old house liveable. In the log house, I could keep things comfortable until mid-afternoon, then close the windows and turn on the AC before Al returned home from work.
Once I began to paint again, I continued using birds as my subjects since I’d taken many detailed photos of new-to-me birds who visited my feeders at the log house. I set a limit of four hours a day for painting, then a short nap in the afternoon, and in the evenings, I’d work on my novel or this Guardian project. So I had full and productive days that allowed me to learn new techniques, try out some innovative applications of watercolors, and spread my writing wings.
By late morning one summer day, my eyes had grown tired from the close-up work I’d been doing on a large painting of a Crow. I’d taken a photo of him perched on our dock over the river and was working from that to try and finish what I’d planned for the day. I had closed the upstairs door to the lower level so I’d not have Murphy at my desk continually begging me to take her for another walk. I decided to go outside, sit on one of our Adirondack chairs, and rest my eyes. We had a small refrigerator on the lower level, so I got myself a Lime LaCroix and took it out. I can’t tell you how much better I felt, sitting in the comfortable chair, drinking my bubbly water, and looking out on the pasture beyond the river banks.
A sudden movement caught my eye. Long ago, as a kid at Carbide Camps, I learned to watch for any movement in the brush. It often meant an animal or creature was disturbing twigs and grasses along the ground. Slowly, I leaned forward in my chair and studied the ground on the other side of the river. I thought I saw a moving object slowly making its way along the banks of the river. I evaluated the colors I saw: yellow ochre and white with touches of burnt sienna and burnt umber. I kept focusing my eyes on one specific spot on the ground where I was sure I’d seen the tall grasses moving under the feet of a living thing. Then, finally, I saw it. I instantly knew what I’d spotted. It was an adult Bobcat and, from the looks of him, a young one, perhaps searching for his mid-day meal. I did not move because that is what I’d learned all those years ago. Sit entirely still, don’t make any noise, and don’t get up and grab your camera because if you do, what you spotted would probably be long gone.
Seeing such an elusive wild animal that close was pure joy. He was not in a hurry; his body moved in slow motion. The Bobcat also knew that if he made any sudden motion or sound, he could scare away a ground mole, squirrel, or mouse he was hunting. I watched him until I could no longer see his fur through the tall grass, then let out my breath and leaned back in my chair. I sipped my drink and thought how special it was to see such a magnificent creature alive, hunting for food, and practically in my backyard. I suddenly heard Murphy growling on the porch above me. I reluctantly rose from my chair and went upstairs. She had pushed the screen door open with her nose and gone out on the deck. I knew she was warning me of an intruder because the ridge of fur along her back was standing up. I noticed that she seemed to be staring in the direction downriver from where I’d last seen the Bobcat. I calmed her down, gave her a treat of dried beef, and returned to the lower level to clean my brushes for the day.
I have told several people the story of sighting a Bobcat, saying I was close enough to see the tufts of fur on the tips of his ears and between his claws, the colors of his coat, and the searching look in his eyes. I got the impression they didn’t quite believe me, for how likely would it be that a wild Bobcat was hunting across the river from my house in the middle of the day? Maybe I’d been mistaken; perhaps it had been a large stray cat?
But I know both tame and wild animals and study them for my work. I have spent most of my life advocating for animals. I saw him; he was real. Two weeks later, a neighbor downriver from me called to say she saw a beautiful Bobcat hunting game on the other side of the river. Once again, for the umpteenth time, I thanked my parents for sending me to Carbide camps all those years ago.
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THE CROW WHISPERER
Not long after we moved to the mountains, I walked down the road with my dog Murphy. I had only met one person living full-time in our area, an older woman whose cabin was on the other side of our neighborhood.
So when I heard someone call out to us, I was a little surprised. I’d thought most people who owned cabins along our part of the road were from other states. They had second homes in the mountains but didn’t live in them year-round. I turned to the sound and was surprised to see an elderly man standing on a high bank to my right. Immediately, Murphy growled, then the fur on her back stood on end. It was her typical reaction to unfamiliar people, but once she overcame her fear, she became quiet and patiently waited for us to move along.
“Hey,” the man called out to me. “Welcome to the neighborhood! My name is Jack Rhodes.” Jack gestured to the 1980s red A-frame house behind him, one I had not noticed until that moment. It sat back under dense pine trees against a bank of limestone boulders. “I live in that rattletrap of a house,” he continued, then pointed to a porch above the front door. “But I have a great view of the river from my balcony up there.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack. My name is Kathy, and this is my dog, Murphy. My husband and I bought that log house across the way.” I nodded toward it. “It’s good to know someone else lives nearby. I’m not used to the darkness and quiet here at night yet. We’re from Ohio and lived in a bigger city. Lots of lights, sirens, and noise. Think I’m gonna like all the quiet here.”
“You will, I promise! Why don’t you come on up? The driveway is just down the road. I’ll wait for you here, and we can talk a bit.” He flashed me a huge smile, and it warmed my heart.
And so began a delightful relationship that I’ll always treasure. Jack, I learned, was in his late 80s at the time. When he was almost 17, Jack entered the Marine Corps and was one of the youngest men who fought in the battle of Iwo Jima during WWII. He’d grown up on a bare-bones dirt ranch in Texas, didn’t know his mother, and met his father once when he was fourteen but never saw him again. Jack’s grandparents raised him, and he lived with them until he joined the Marines. Since he was not quite seventeen when he enlisted, he’d fibbed about his age to get into the Corps. That was not unusual for the time.
Murphy and I stopped to see him off and on for almost six years. He was an energetic man who loved to work and volunteered at the Sheriff’s office in Murphy. Jack became a mentor for prisoners at the jail, which I found admirable. During the summer, the Sheriff put him in charge of overseeing a large garden project on county land. Jack, who never knew a stranger, organized the project like the Marine/engineer that he was. The prisoners tilled, then planted a large plot with corn, beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, and watermelon. The bounty they harvested during the planting season went to the jail’s kitchen. The cooks used the produce to feed the men who’d done the gardening under Jack’s supervision. If there was a surplus, the Sheriff’s office donated it to the local food bank.
To say that I loved him is true. It was impossible to know him and not love him. He was a kind man whose real undying passion was animals. During the dozens of times that I’d sit in his living room amongst the many souvenirs from his past, I discovered another Guardian of the Road, one that predated me by decades. I also learned he might be the grandson of a Guardian.
Sometimes I’d bring Murphy dog with me, but most times, I just hiked up his steep driveway with a plate of something sweet covered with Glad Wrap. Jack loved sweets as I do, so whenever I baked a cake, pie, banana bread, or cookies, I’d try to save some for him. My deserts could never repay the enjoyment he offered me with stories from his rich past.
I’d heard that Jack was married at least two times, but I didn’t know if that was true. I never asked him. Pasts are complicated and sometimes best left there. He had two adult children; I was fortunate to meet them once. I know one thing, Jack loved them and often told me stories about living with them when they were young. What I did long to hear about were his animal friends. Those are the stories I will remember.
When Jack worked as a mechanical engineer, he was sent by his company to almost every state in the union, even Alaska and Hawaii. However, Maine was the only state he did not work in during the decades he traveled the country. One afternoon, while I sat on his well-worn sofa, Jack showed me photos from his days as a young man working in the field. I’d say he was a good-looking man then, but what stood out to me was the huge smile that always seemed to fill his face. His charm was undeniable, and his humor infectious. Even now, when I think back to the times I sat with him and listened to his stories, what endeared him to me was the joy he received from the animals he cared for.
Jack was about ten when a pack of wolves began to attack cattle on several nearby farms. His grandfather, whom he loved dearly, took him out to see if wolves had killed any of their livestock. The family’s farm in Texas was not a prosperous one. Jack and his grandparents worked from daybreak to sunset, milking cows, tending chickens, and trying to grow crops on less-than-fertile land. So when they found the remains of two of their cows, Jack and his grandfather rode to their neighbors' farms. They rounded up a posse of farmers who planned to track and kill the offending wolves. It was and is the way of things like that in the West. Cows were important for food and trade, and the loss of two was a setback to Jack’s family. Money was scarce, so they could not afford to lose other cows to marauding wolves.
Jack’s grandfather wouldn’t allow him to go along on the hunt, he told me, knowing how tenderhearted he was and how much he loved animals, including wolves. So four farmers, including Jack’s grandfather, tracked the wolves up in the hills above the valley where they had farms. In time, they discovered an animal den tucked back into the rocks along a noisy creek. When a female wolf appeared, one of the men shot it, and it fell dead right in front of its den. After some investigation, Jack’s grandfather crawled into the cave and found four wolf pups. They were still small, but not newborns. The female wolf must’ve dragged cow carcasses back from her kills since there was evidence of the meat and bones in the den.
Each one of the farmers took a wolf pup home, including Jack’s grandfather. Back at their farm, everyone pitched in to feed the pup the precious milk from one of their cows. They’d take turns getting up in the middle of the night to hold a makeshift milk bottle so the pup could suckle it dry. As it grew, Jack and his grandfather encouraged it to follow them around the farm. And even though they had livestock, the wolf never tried to attack or kill any of them throughout the years he lived with them. They named the wolf…Champ. Jack said the other three pups had died, so theirs was a champ for surviving. Champ would sit beside Jack while the family listened to news, music, or musicals on the radio. When his grandmother got up to start breakfast, she often found Jack asleep on the sofa with the wolf curled around him. When Jack left home to join the Marines as one of their top sharpshooters, he hugged Champ with tears streaming down his cheeks. Champ died of old age when Jack was away during the war. His grandparents didn’t write to tell him the news, knowing how much the wolf had meant to him…they didn’t want to upset him. When he was on leave, the Corps shipped Jack home, and he waited by the farm’s gate, hoping to see his beloved friend, Champ, but the wolf had died by then. He told me he stood there and cried like a baby. Champ and his grandparents were always on his mind when he fought in the Pacific War and when he was on Iwo Jima.
During Jack’s time working as a mechanical engineer, he spent years in Montana, one of his favorite states, he admitted. His job was designing the complex piping structures for oil riggers in the fields. On a cold winter day, Jack was driving his truck along a rough back road on his way home from a rigging camp when he heard something hit the windshield. He got out and walked back along the road, trying to locate what he’d hit. Lying lifeless along the median was a fledgling barn owl. Jack said it was so small the bird fit in the palm of his hand. He pulled off one of his gloves, gently slipped the owl into it, then carefully put the gloved owl inside his shirt. He hoped that the warmth of his body would rekindle the owl’s still heart.
When he went inside his trailer and told his wife what happened, she asked to see the owl. So he slipped out the glove, opened it up, and the owl flew out, crossed the room, and landed on Jack’s chair. The owl survived and spent his days on Jack’s shoulder. Even when he went to work, the owl would accompany him. He and his wife fed the owl mice they’d catch in the field, eggs, or raw meat from the store. The owl stayed on his shoulder when Jack drove down the road, even when he had to stop and do errands.
Jack built the owl a perch outside his trailer made of hickory sticks shaped like a cross. That way, the owl could fly around but have a place to land when it returned. Jack did some research at the local library, and decided the owl was a female. One day, out of nowhere, another barn owl landed on the homemade perch and began to chatter at Jack’s owl. Soon, they flew off together, and Jack never saw her again.
When he moved to Murphy, N.C., Jack longed for a pet, but not the usual kind. He gave his name and number to the local shelter, saying if they ever got in an exotic or wild animal that someone had tamed, they could call him, and he’d pick it up and take it home. Jack told me he had kept an Iguana lizard for a while, but it escaped and disappeared. Then there was a young potbelly pig someone had abandoned. Jack loved that pig to death. It was not potty trained, even though Jack did his best to teach him. While Jack slept at night, the pig would dig holes in the kitchen linoleum. There is still evidence of the pig’s claw marks on the floor, which I noticed once.
I was working in my new garden, planting tomatoes and beans in neat rows. Suddenly I heard a call that sounded like a hoot owl. I continued to listen, and the call came again. I walked up toward the road and looked over to Jack’s house. He was standing out on the second-story porch with what looked like a duck call in his hand. I stood there and watched him for a few minutes. Then, one final time, Jack lifted the duck call to his mouth and blew it again.
Finally, I knew what he’d been calling: Crows. Over the years that we lived in the mountains of North Carolina, I had studied the hundreds of Crows that would feed on seeds, worms, and insects they found in the rough and tumble front acre of our property. Sometimes, while I worked on my novel in the office, I’d look out the door to the front of our property and see Crows everywhere in our yard. Over all the years I’ve studied birds, I’d never seen Crows in a group like that. In a way, it was like they’d become a nuclear family. It was fun to see how they interacted with each other. Sometimes I’d spot males attempting to get the attention of the females by prancing, jumping, and even what looked like flirting. Some female Crows seemed interested, but others rebuffed the flirtatious males and flew off. I knew they were birds, but they had almost human reactions to certain events. Once, I saw a dead Crow on the edge of our road, perhaps a victim of flying into a passing car. Standing around the bird’s body were a dozen or more Crows who appeared to be watching over their dead comrade.
I have painted dozens of Crows in my career, but after my experience studying them in the mountains, my respect for them increased exponentially. Whenever I paint one, I learn something new about their body structure, eyes, and how feathers lay on their form.
So the next time I was over visiting Jack, I asked about the Crow call, and he showed it to me. One of his kids had bought it for him, I think. He told me he’d been calling Crows for all the years he’d lived in Murphy. Then he pointed into the trees across the road from his house and said he’d succeeded. The trees now hosted a Crow Roost, he said, where at night, they’d fly into the trees to bed down. I was awestruck. During our first few days living in the log house, I’d seen the Crow Roost in the trees of my next-door neighbor, which happened to be across from Jack’s house.
As someone who uses watercolors to portray many species of birds in my paintings, I also admire Crows and have studied their behaviors for years. But I was pleased that Jack loved them too and called them in the evenings so they’d bed down nearby where he could enjoy their antics. After that day, I started calling Jack… the Crow Whisperer, and he was delighted.
Jack still drove a car, even after he turned 93. The narrow road around our neighborhood had room for only one car at a time, side by side. Jack drove his vehicle so fast that he often flew past my Jeep like it was standing still. I don’t know how he didn’t tip his car over the steep banks along the road. He had so many friends who often stopped by and visited. Area Marines fixed his leaking roof, worked on his kitchen, and spent time with him. Several Marines drove him to the Veteran’s Hospital in Asheville, so he could get treatments for the skin cancer on his face. Jack claimed that all those years out in the sun with his fair skin caused his cancer.
Once his health began to fail, people in the neighborhood brought him food, helped him pay his bills, took him to the doctor, or drove him to town so he could take care of his business. Other neighbors had grown to love Jack and would stop over and listen to his stories, just like me. One person who dedicated much of his time to Jack was Rodney. Whenever I walked Murphy along our road, I’d see Rodney’s car in Jack’s driveway. He took Jack on as a mission. Rodney was not a Marine but tended to Jack like a Marine would’ve done.
Then there was a woman who’d known Jack for 25 years. Peg lived in Florida during the winters, but when the summers got too hot, she and her husband came up to Murphy. They lived down the road from Jack in a cute cabin on the Nottely River. Peg took him food, mainly sweets, and ensured he was doing okay. Sometimes they listened to opera and classical music on his radio, as both were great fans. Peg had been his champion long before I came on the scene.
In March, I was walking Murphy dog near the road leading to Rodney’s house when his car appeared and stopped next to us. He told me he thought Jack was dying. After blood tests and a thorough exam from the visiting nurses, they wanted to admit him to the hospital because his kidneys were failing. Several days later, Rodney told me Jack didn’t have much longer to live. I’d gone to Jack’s house over the last weeks with sweets to tempt him, and even though he had the Meals on Wheels service, he hurried to eat the deserts with relish. I refused to believe he was dying. People had told me that before, and Jack always proved them wrong.
A day later, my husband returned from his run in the park and told me Rodney had stopped him on the road. The visiting nurses could no longer care for Jack at home because his condition quickly deteriorated. So together, Jack and Rodney decided he needed to go into a nearby nursing home where he’d get better care around the clock.
I hurried to look out my window toward Jack’s house and saw an EMT vehicle parked on his hill. I raced to my Jeep, drove as fast as I could, parked on the side of the road, then climbed the driveway to his house. I was afraid I’d be in the way but hurried to the front door, fearing I’d not see him again. The door was open, and I saw Rodney and the EMT squad preparing him for transport. I backed out, went over to the rear of the ambulance, and waited.
The attendants hoisted him onto a gurney and wheeled him to the back of the ambulance. I could see he looked tired, confused, and maybe scared. But, once in the ambulance, he looked out at me, and that sudden bright smile swept his face, that same smile I’d seen in his photos and for the six years I’d known him here in the mountains. There was a moment when our eyes met and held. I told him I loved him and that he would be better soon. He lifted his hand, then said, “Take care of that stray cat of mine. It’s black.” I nodded, and the ambulance team got in and drove away. Then Rodney climbed into his truck and followed the ambulance to the nursing home.
Jack died the next morning. He had gone to sleep as soon as the nursing staff settled him in his room. He never woke again. I looked for the stray black cat, but I never found him. There is no doubt in my mind that Jack was a Guardian of the Road. Jack Rhodes, The Crow Whisperer, was a well-loved man and will be missed by many, including me.
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Check back again in about two weeks for the next edition of my blog post
Guardians of the Road-by Kathryn Lehotsky
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