Notes from Maine - 2024/06/02
My sister gave me some horrible news a couple of days ago.
“There’s a dead raccoon in front of the meditation place.”
How far do raccoons roam? A few weeks ago, we rescued a baby raccoon in my driveway, and the meditation place is about half-a-mile up the road. Could it be the same raccoon? I knew it was. I didn’t even want to look.
My sister is back at her home now. The gazebo has screens and the interior is now buttoned up. She got the work done and took home a Browntail Moth rash for her troubles. Mom is still here. She has another week up here to help me with kitchen stuff. Together, we finished grouting and cleaning up the floor. Now it’s ready for the first cabinets. Appliances and fixtures are ordered and I have enough specifications to start cutting wood.
I wonder what my father would think of the gazebo. The structure started as my brother’s idea, and Dad was unsure of the point. My sister legitimized the building by turning it into a “cook house.” When we were kids, our grandfather had a cook house for his gas grill and a picnic table. In the summer, our grandmother would prepare the side dishes in the kitchen while Grandpa cooked outside. Adults would carry trays of food and supplies while my sister and I ran in front of them to open doors. My father would shout, “Door runner! Door runner!” and we would spring to action. As always with Dad, I was never sure if he was simply having fun with us or making fun of us.
From the kitchen, there was a door to the shed hall, three giant paces to the screen door, and then six paces to the corner where the big rolling door led to the dooryard. Summer evenings the mosquitoes would swarm as the sun ducked behind the trees. Dragon flies darted, picking off those pests and then the barn swallows would emerge to keep the peace until the bats took over.
We would be safe from the bugs in the screened cook house until it was time to, “Kick the table over,” as my grandmother would say. Then the door runners would run for the doors again. I don’t know who is going to run the doors between the camp and the gazebo. My nephew is already too old to be a door runner.
At my grandparents’ house, each part of the day had little rituals and everyone had a prescribed role. There’s a certain time of day, when I’ve hung up the bathing suit to dry and thoughts of supper are just beginning, where I’ll say out loud, “It’s almost time for Merv.”
I took my sister to the airport on Friday. On the way back to my house, I slowed down near the meditation place. I didn’t see any dead raccoons because my attention was drawn to the little baby raccoon who was walking down the side of the road. I pulled over and grabbed the baby and then called my neighbor. While he escorted the little delinquent to “Wilderness Miracles Wildlife Rehab,” Mom and I walked the road to discover the fate of the raccoon’s family. The mom raccoon was deceased (RIP) as well as a sibling. There’s no way to know if the baby that I grabbed is the same baby we rescued from my driveway a few weeks ago, but it was. I’m sure of that. Baby had been on its own for a little while, but was energetic and sweet. I think they get a lot of raccoons at the rehab place.
My neighbor said, “If I get rabies, shoot me.”
I agreed immediately. I know he will do the same for me.
Today I have to get back to the kitchen. Cabinets, once started, have their own momentum. I hope to keep it going, but good plywood is short supply.
