In the early days, Cavendish Junior College was a big, happy family. Everyone was local, friendly, easygoing. Enthusiastic. Your basic Yoopers. At contract negotiation time, the leader of our little maintenance field group would be summoned into the Personnel Director’s office. (Yes, they used to call that department “Personnel” in those unenlightened days. Forgive them, they didn’t know any better. Now, in these more enlightened days, we call it Human Resources, to better distinguish the responsibilities from Energy Resources, Land Resources, Animal Resources, whatever. Apparently “personnel” was a vague word without meaning.)
So. Many, many years ago, we the field crew of the maintenance department of Cavendish Junior College (not its real name) were promised cell phones. We’d been carrying pagers for many years, which no one liked, so we were all looking forward to carrying cell phones. After all, when a pager goes off twenty times a day and you’re in the middle of five jobs and two calls and all you can do is scream impotently to the heavens, then you have to drop everything and search for a phone so you can call the office back– and by then you might have cooled off and been civil.
We live in the country. Such as it is. You know: overrun with dirt and insects and vile nature and stuff. When it comes to the Green Acres dilemma of Fresh Air v. Times Square and The Chores v. The Stores, I’m ready to side with Mrs. Douglas. We got critters everywhere, even in the attic and the walls. Seriously, I’m ready for a condo.
We now have a pesky woodchuck who’s determined to move into our garden shed and set up housekeeping. I’ve evicted it twice, the second time after it got locked in and had second thoughts about the shabby accommodations and mice, and nearly tore the siding off trying to get out. So I set out the live trap and baited it with soon-to-expire sushi. That should be high living for a lowly woodchuck. I thought.
Got up this morning to find a small possum in the trap. Okay, I try to be humane and relocate them. (Don’t tell the DNR, I’m sure they have rules against this, and fines, licensing requirements, background checks, multiple fees, etc.) But anyway. My process involves putting down a thick layer of newspapers in my trunk and giving him a ride in the country.
Every biennial year or so I go on a private, personal writing retreat to Wayne’s World, my cousins’ camp on Lake Arfelin roughly 10 rough, brutal miles north of Champion. The seclusion is delightful. On a good year I can spend a week without any human interaction at all, just the occasional revelers out on the lake or partying out of sight somewhere beyond the trees.
I’m not a Nervous Nellie, more of a Cautious Kelly. I guess. But the nights are very dark and very quiet, and I’m all alone at the end of the trail in a three-bedroom ranch. Despite the quiet, I prefer to wear earplugs when I sleep. Otherwise the least little noise would pop me awake—whether small animals rustling in the leaves, or bears tearing into the trash can. So far nothing and no one has bothered me.
There was one interesting late night incident, however.
This is a reprint from a post on my more obscure web blog, from November 1, 2008, in memory of Boomer (1992 – July 5, 2009)
My cat Mr. Boomer has been with us for nearly 16 years now. He came to us in November of 1992 as a stray: starved, insecure, needy, stinking, and full of worms. We took him to our vet, Dr. P–, of the P– Veterinary Clinic, and got him checked out and patched up. He’d already been declawed and fixed. I named him and he moved in and took over us and the house, even though my wife would have gladly had him put to sleep. He was loud, annoying, always hungry, constantly under foot, and every couple of days he’d have a poop like a St. Bernard that would fill the litter box and peel the paint off the walls.
Even so, he was my Mr. Boomer, my Big Guy, my Mr. Cat, my Mr. Boom Boom Guy, a real guy’s cat, a cat who met me at the door when I came home and coaxed me to the living room floor every day to roughhouse and play-fight with me. As Calvin said of Hobbes, “It’s hard to stay mad at someone who misses you when you’re asleep.”
So the first time I tried to find my way from “Wayne’s World” to L’Anse the Back Way, following logging trails through the Huron Mountains, it was 1918 and I was driving my Model T….
Wait. No I wasn’t. Let’s start over.
I was reminiscing about all the cars (and three pickups) I’ve owned and ruined over the years. I didn’t ruin any of them intentionally. I’m a victim of the Law of Unintended Consequences. (That’s the same law that says if you raise the minimum wage to $15 an hour it will lift many low wage workers out of poverty, but the consequence is that now a donut at the local convenience store is going to cost $5 and nobody will buy a $5 donut so the store closes and the national economy eventually plunges into recession.)
We could talk about the ’66 Mustang that suffered low oil pressure and blew head gaskets after I rebuilt the engine. (I blame this on the torque wrench I bought that I thought made me a master mechanic, able to fix anything. Never buy a torque wrench. That’s a prescription for disaster.) Or the ’75 Trans Am that… well, I don’t want to talk about it.