The Robe

This morning we were waiting for the coffee to finish perking. In the meantime, we had wandered outside to see how the garden had faired after last night’s heavy rain and rather angry wind storm. One potted fichus tree on the back deck had been blown over but now been righted again. Then, my partner noticed that the chipmunk live trap, which had been placed by the garden under the locust tree, was gone. He was sure it had been there the night before. I too had a recollection of seeing it there.

Chipmunks are cute little creatures to the eye. But to the pocket book they can do much damage. Since cats and our beloved dog have long since died, we are now overrun by these rats in fine striped coats. They have constructed cities under our lawns and gardens. They have excavated beneath our home’s foundation. They have burrowed into our outbuilding walls. Therefore, we have taken to trapping them and delivering them far afield. In the process, much petrol has been consumed. So, you will see that they are also bad for the environment.

It is true one should live harmoniously with nature. But when nature does not live harmoniously with one, then it is all out war!

We were both puzzled by the disappearance of the cage. We even doubted our memories and wondered if it had ever been replaced since the last delivery. Surely the storm could not have blown it away, being a heavy wired metal trap. There would be little for the wind to attach itself to.

Our puzzlement dissipated when we noticed that a clear pathway had been blazed through the tall grass beneath and surrounding the Forsythia bush. It sits perched on the edge of the embankment that leads to our lower field and small orchard. Something larger than a chipmunk, much larger, must have been emboldened by the scent emanating from within of creamy peanut butter on a Ritz cracker. The only credible explanation was that it had become stuck part way within the cage and had dragged it down the hill, finally freeing itself. Perhaps it was a small racoon. Surely not a skunk, or there would have been an unpleasant aroma wafting in the air and about the cage.

The grass was wet of course. The hill was steep. My partner was wearing his freshly laundered snow white bath robe, the red plaid one having already been taken up to the cottage for our misty morning coffees on the dock this summer. He was wearing his flat soled moccasins, worn and tread-less. Down the hill he went – And DOWN he went slipping unceremoniously onto his posterior – a surprised and concerned look upon his face. And at his resting place lay the cage, upturned and empty. All but his pride was unharmed.

With some assistance, and a stifled giggle, I gave him a hand up the hill, while hanging onto the lower branch of a Maple tree. Into the wash quickly went the robe – stained green by his tumble on the grassy slope. And now it lies pristinely white again on the bed, awaiting whatever unforeseen adventures may come its way. Do I hear the delighted chirping of the chipmunks as they go about their excavations? Perhaps only in my mind. Perhaps only in the secret smile on my face.

The Hitch-hiker

When I was young and working for the summer in Quebec province, I often hitch-hiked. And in Europe too, as a young man, I hitched rides across the continent. And once I even hitched from Johannesburg to Cape Town across the desert that separates the two. Some rides were wonderful, some were somewhat unnerving; but all got me to my destinations. That was in my carefree youth. Very occasionally, I have assessed and picked up a hitch-hiker at the side of the road myself; but not in many years now.

The other day, my partner was coming home from doing a two-day workshop in a town about two hours away. As he left that town and entered the on-ramp for the highway, a young lad put out his hand. My partner, being the kind and socially responsible chap that he is, stopped the car. The fellow, in his twenties, got in and his story unfolded.

Apparently, the fellow had just been released from a jail in this town. He had been picked up by the police two weeks before. He did not know why. No, he had not been able to call his parents because the jail phone did not interact with the system they were using. No, he had not called a lawyer because he did not qualify for legal aid by reason of his income, and he did not earn enough to hire a private lawyer. That, at least, is a sadly credible and common state of affairs.

That day the fellow had been released because it was a case of mistaken identity by the police. They had now found the real culprit of whatever crime it was that had been committed. However, they had released this wrongly accused without any of his possessions being returned to him. Apparently, the police advised they were not available that day. He had no luggage and no money.

The fellow’s story unnerved my partner, thinking perhaps of the many road-related murders that have been in the news recently. His foot hit the gas pedal a little harder than is usual… and he reached the drop-off ramp 45 minutes away much faster than would normally have been anticipated. The fellow got out and waved goodbye. My partner continued homeward.

Now my partner has long since stopped keeping his wallet in his rear pant pocket, because it tends to aggravate a nerve and give him back trouble. So, the wallet was sitting in the well between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat along with a number of other items of clutter, something which seems to accumulate wherever he finds himself.

Meanwhile, I was waiting at home on a lovely summer-like late afternoon, having prepared a scrumptious supper with table setting on the back deck; this after a day of gardening, cycling and cleaning out the cistern. The aroma of the blooming lilac bush wafted over the deck and into the house. Soft jazz was playing on the ipod in our living room.

My partner was in a state when he walked in the door. His wallet was gone! Are you sure, I asked. No, perhaps it had slipped onto the floor or was on the back seat. He had tossed his brief case there, as it had been sitting on the passenger seat before the hitch-hiker got in. Back to the car. The patio screen door slammed. Back to the house. The screen door slammed again. No wallet.

Damn. Kindness had led to this. What a bloody hassle. Better call the bank right away and deal with your bank cards and credit cards, I say. Dinner will have to wait. Off he goes to his office to do just that. At least there was no cash in the wallet! At least he was not a murder victim found in a ditch that was to be reported on the evening news. He was home safely. And dinner was lovely in the pleasant filtered evening light of a setting sun through lush trees. Wine helped.

Next morning he would have to go off first thing to the Service Ontario office in the neighbouring town. He needed to report his lost driver’s licence and lost health card, and he had to get temporary ones; both of which are most necessary. I would do the dishes and the laundry in the meantime. Off he goes to the car. He would do the grocery shopping for tonight’s dinner party while he was out.

Meanwhile, I was in the kitchen. The front porch door was open and I can hear the birds chirping brilliantly. Then, I hear my name being called and footsteps on the porch. My partner is standing at the screen door, with a sly grin on his face. He holds up a wallet. It had been under the sun visor. “I never keep it there”, he protests.

And now, he is feeling badly about having unjustly defiled the character of the young man to whom he had given the lift. Albeit, the jail story is somewhat far-fetched.