Harold’s Room
Chapter Seven
Lisa is of the opinion that at this point, given the hawk and fox incidents, I should touch on some of our other friends who occasionally cause us some minor grief. Her pet peeve (snakes not included) is the tandem of Fred and Ethel, and we will start with them. When Lisa decided she needed a new grill at the old house several years before we moved I replaced the LP gas orifices with the optional ones for natural gas and hard piped it into the house system, so when we moved here, where we do not have that option, we left that grill behind for the new owners, and she bought one for this location which we run off of LP tanks that are, as is typical, stored in the cabinet area below the grill top. She has always preferred the taste of grilled meats to baked, fried or boiled, and once she altered her diet per her recommended dietary list from The Perfect Plan, which includes copious amounts of turkey and/or chicken, she began to prepare all of her own lunches on the grill every Monday afternoon (she works retail, remember, and is off on Sundays and Mondays, unless it’s a holiday in which case she has to work, aside from Christmas and Easter). Obviously the grill is used regularly for this preparation of diced grilled chicken breast lunches (her preference), but there is a six day lag between usages. This allows for denizens of the woods to investigate the freestanding stainless steel condo on the patio. One set of prospective squatters found the lower level much to their liking after considering the sturdy walls, the limited entry, the distance from the woods, and the close proximity to the bright, semi-translucent-green, forty pound capacity (the same as the bags I buy), metal garbage can seed bin, around which I invariably spill some seed when either pouring it in or dipping it out. I don’t have to worry about picking it up, unless I spill quite a lot, which has happened on occasion while trying to pour it from the sack into the small can. The winged and four-footed members of the grounds crew take care of the little spills. Ask the squirrels with their nasty little teeth why we don’t use a larger plastic seed bin, and the ‘coons with their grubby little hands why there is a surplus section of porch swing chain running over the metal can lid, through the handle, attached with dog leash slide fasteners to the handles on the sides of the can, AND a bungee strap bisecting the chain through the middle link, and hooked on opposite sides to the lips of the can below the lid. Take THAT my little Houdinis! Snap snap! Clank clank!
Getting back to Fred and Ethel, Lisa found out about our new tenants when she opened the door to turn on the LP tank valve. The floor was nicely carpeted with an interesting sunflower-seed-hull pattern, and there was a most comfortable looking bed woven from grass fibers, and pieces of Lisa’s expensive, hi-temp grill mats, just for aesthetic effect. Lisa, a consummate designer and decorator, was impressed, but not pleased. The two occupants sat in the back right corner of their newly acquired domicile, and upon seeing their demeanor Lisa immediately named them Fred and Ethel, and requested their prompt departure. They blinked their large, dark eyes at her, wiggled their over-large pink ears, and twitched their long, mousey whiskers and tails. She asked them politely several more times, with the same result, and then resorted to “SHOO! SHOO!” accompanied by a vigorous waving of hands. This they understood completely and vanished through one of the ventilation slots in the back wall. We cleaned out the apartment and washed down the floor, but the following Monday they were back in residence. The carpet was not quite so plush and luxuriant, but the bed was nicely made, and of course decorated with Lisa’s grill mat fibers. They were once again evicted, and I came up with the bright idea of placing a quantity of moth balls in a one quart take-out container (I believe there is an echo in here…), poking holes in the lid (Hmm, that sounds very similar to a fruit fly trap…), and placing it in the middle of their apartment floor. The next Monday Lisa opened the apartment door, no Fred and Ethel. She turned on the gas, lifted the lid of the grill prior to hitting the ignition button (thank heavens), and found that Fred and Ethel had moved upstairs to the penthouse. No wasted time on this eviction. No polite requests. Out went Fred and Ethel and all of their furnishings, and in came the grill mats for an extra thorough cleaning. The tenant/landlord war has continued, and at last we seem to be winning. The moth balls are occasionally rotated from the ground floor apartment to the penthouse and back, and Lisa and I try to remember to cause as much unannounced-visit-bang-on-the-door-bad-landlord-grief as we can whenever we pass by the grill. We have not seen very much of them lately, aside from a glimpse of them scurrying behind the feed can, or running in and out from under the grill. No further occupancy. Lisa even went so far as to buy a new set of un-chewed upon grill mats. Little did we know how diabolical they could be. Last Monday Lisa went out to start the grill. She opened the bottom door, nobody home. She opened the upper cover, likewise empty. She squatted down and reached in to turn on the valve of the LP tank, then literally squeaked in alarm as she snatched her hand back. There, sitting on the valve handle on top of the tank grinning at her, sat Fred, twitching his whiskers and rubbing his belly in amusement (he understands squeaking quite well) as he watched Lisa stumble away from the grill. “Damn you Fred! Get!! OUT!!!” she exclaimed (to put it mildly). We discussed it, she and I, and we believe Fred and Ethel have been in collaboration with Harold, and he told them, “Climb up where they don’t expect you to be because they don’t think you can possibly get up there, and then just wait. Scares the hell out of them every time.”
There was one incident with the young broad-winged hawk I forgot to mention, possibly because Lisa, Harold nor I were directly involved. One of our friends was, and he has a definite complaint. Harold and I were watching Phil scrounge around on the ground for seeds in the feeding area after he had cleaned off both of the red plates. He likes to cleanse his palate. He was nibbling away, minding his own business, and Harold and I were being very quiet and trying not to move too fast (neither as difficult for Harold as they are for me) so as not to alarm him. Suddenly, down between the houses came one of those gray streaks mentioned earlier, and the young hawk flared his wings and set down gently just past where Phil was munching his seeds. When I say just past I mean the hawk was no more than two or three feet away from him. It looked back over its right shoulder at Phil, much as Harold does me. Phil turned his head and looked at the hawk, at which point it turned to face Phil and continued to watch him. Phil just stared back at him and continued to chew. If you’re not familiar with them, the broad-winged hawk is around thirteen inches tall, which is just about as tall as Phil is when he sits up on his haunches to clutch some delectable item in his paws. But Phil has been gaining weight all summer, what with eating his usual diet (of which I know little since in this area there are not many soy bean or corn fields anymore, and the retirement village frowns on vegetable gardens), and the addition of the bananas, cantaloupe, watermelon, sunflower seeds and occasional piece of bread we give him. I figure Phil has the hawk by at least fifteen pounds. Maybe more. No offense Charles, but Phil is the epitome of the description “The Round Mound of Rebound.” He is a nice looking gentleman, extremely polite in nature, but he takes up a lot of room on the court, a true wide body, and he will not be pushed around by some tall, skinny guy. After a while Phil lowered his head to snuffle the ground in search of a few seeds again, his eyes still on the hawk as it continued to watch him, and when he had found some and began to chew he sat up so he was eye-to-eye with the bird, then stopped chewing. We’re not quite sure what was said, if anything, Harold and I, because we could not see Phil’s face, but something must have passed between them, possibly just an “inquisitive” look as in, “Oh yeah? You think so?” Whatever the intercourse between the two, the hawk suddenly decided he would be much more comfortable if he were sitting on the squirrel bridge watching Phil eat, and away he went. He continued to sit and watch from there, but Phil, satisfied with this arrangement, dropped back to all fours totally ignoring the big bird, and back to rooting in the seed hulls looking for plump, unsullied shells. The hawk eventually grew bored, or quite possibly decided that in no way on God’s Green Earth was he going to try to tackle that groundhog. Whichever it was, he left. He passes through frequently, scaring the living hell out of the doves and smaller birds, and making the squirrels a little nervous, but we have not seen him encroach on Phil’s personal space since. We believe that whatever point Phil made, it was well made, and taken to heart.
Harold’s beautiful younger girlfriend is here this morning having a bit of banana and cantaloupe for breakfast. I wonder if she was watching from the woods when I filled the plates and feeders a few minutes ago? I came to check on Harold left for work, and there she was. Harold is in the hot tub having an early morning bath and hasn’t noticed her. Probably for the best since I have to leave in ten minutes, and I will not let her in and leave them un-chaperoned. That would be poor parenting. Ah! She was just hungry anyway and ambled off into the woods after finishing off a quarter of a banana and a bit of cantaloupe. No trip to the patio to stand under Harold’s window this morning. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work I go! Whee!
Oh my. Saturday again, and Harold and I got in so much trouble today, and things were said, and feelings were hurt and, well, oh my. I truly don’t know if this had anything to do with it or not, but this morning after Lisa left for work I cut up an over-ripe cantaloupe we had in the garage. Not rotten mind you, just over-ripe with a few fungus spots penetrating the rind into the flesh, and to be honest with you it really, really smelled pungent and delectable. I cut away the good flesh from the rinds and made sure no fungus nodules remained embedded, covered the bowl with aluminum foil and placed it in the refrigerator. I always carry the rinds out and scatter them in the woods, and they are typically nibbled upon over the course of a few days until all of the good stuff is gone, though Phil will occasionally eat a few pieces rind and all. Whatever remains is composted into the soil of the forest floor and all parts of the cantaloupe are consumed by something, whether I can see it or not. This morning I altered my procedure somewhat. The cantaloupe was so ripe that the interior was orange right out to the coarse, tan surface of the rind itself, and smelled so bloody good that I thought it would bring in anyone in the vicinity. I put the pieces in groups of three placed around the feeding area so I could see who came in to inspect them. I put the guts and seeds on the plates with the half bananas, and a couple of big chunks of the cantaloupe flesh, and then came in to start on the chores. Harold had crawled into the hot tub shortly before Lisa left, and he continued to soak, so I left him alone and did not carry him to the bathroom tub. He seemed to be doing just fine. Once during a hiatus from my indoor chores I decided I needed to walk back out to the feeding area and refill the water bowl and the pond. It was already turning into a scorcher, and two fawns and a doe had come by a few moments before and drunk nearly half of the water bowl I had filled earlier. The little birds were having trouble reaching the water level. On the way back in I glanced down at the left hand plate and said to myself, “Self, I thought we put two chunks of cantaloupe on that plate. There’s only one now.” I didn’t think too much more about it, other than that I had messed up, or someone had possibly carried it off, and went on about the business of chores.
An hour or so passed with me traipsing about the house and in and out of Harold’s room sporadically. He continued to soak, which didn’t surprise me too much since, as you know, he will occasionally sit in his hot tub, or my bath tub, for an hour or more. The next trip out into Harold’s room I noticed we had a guest on the right hand plate nibbling at the cantaloupe, or rather I should say taking some pretty nice little V-shaped slots out of it, given the size of his mouth, if you understand what I mean. All is relative. His choice did surprise me a bit though, because they usually go to the banana first, and it was untouched. I looked at him, and he looked at me, a piece of cantaloupe hanging from his chin. I gave the peremptory wave and turned away, watching him over my shoulder to see his reaction, and after I had taken about three steps away from the door he returned to his brunch. I kept an eye out the back door as I finished up with a few things inside and noticed when he had had his fill and started to leave, so I went out to see who it was. I don’t really have a name for him yet, but I think of him as Speckles, so maybe that should be it. He’s the young male with the handsome, all black plastron, somewhat unusual here, and the tiny yellow speckles all over his neck, also unusual. Not easy to forget this boy. He wasn’t overjoyed to see me, but not terrified either. More like, “Well shit.” He looked to be in very good health, so we exchanged greetings and I sent him on his way. A bit later The Watcher showed up at the rind wedges in the feeding area, took a few bites, saw me at the door and immediately high-tailed it for the woods. I guess Speckles was spreading the word I was gregarious that day. Phil came by a bit later, devoured three of the cantaloupe rind wedges without ever looking at the banana on the plate, then bolted into the woods. I thought that was a bit odd, and in fact began to think the whole day was progressing a bit oddly. Little did I know what lay in store.
Let’s jump ahead an hour or so and skip the swap the sheets and laundry business. Harold was STILL soaking in the hot tub, and it had been three hours since Lisa left for work. Another male turtle I recognized had shown up, and he too was nibbling on the cantaloupe rinds, but I was busy when he finished and did not see him go. The Watcher showed up again, and ran again when he saw me walk up to the door. Phil came back for more cantaloupe rind, or at least I thought it was Phil. He was definitely bigger than the tiny groundhog Philipe, but his midriff did not seem to be hanging out quite as far, nor did his butt seem as wide. Phil reminds me of The Laughing Buddha, but this one looked trimmer, more like The Buddha as a young man with no midriff. He nibbled at a few rinds, but did not devour them as Phil had, then came to the plate and had some banana and cantaloupe guts. I knew for certain it was neither the tiny groundhog nor Phil at this point, which means that we have a new player on the block. So far I was up to two groundhogs and four turtles, not counting The Watcher’s double appearance. When I next looked out the back door Harold’s creamy patterned girlfriend was just finishing up brunch at the left hand plate and was coming into the yard rather than departing into the woods. I began to wonder if Harold had been freshening up because he knew she was on the way, but he did not seem to be aware she was here, and even when I brought her in he did not notice her until she clunked through his food dish, which got his attention. Out of the hot tub he came, though he seemed a bit stiff from sitting so long, and off he went in hot pursuit. She led him a merry chase and was leaving the old dog in the dust. He usually has no problem staying with them and looked totally flummoxed by this turn of events. He tried even harder to increase his speed, but the poor old boy must have strained something and he pulled up lame. His right rear leg gave out and he began to limp and veer in his course. The young beauty galloped across the rug in front of me with Harold hobbling after and losing ground. After several more jaunts across the room with Harold lagging farther and farther behind I guess she must have at last felt sorry for the doddering old fool, and she discreetly retreated to his hidey hole in the potted jungle. Harold eventually joined her, and she did not leave. I went on about my business and gave them their privacy in getting reacquainted. The day went by as a usual Saturday might, with the aforementioned laundry swapping, plant watering, weed pulling, bed making and such, but Philipe showed up and nibbled some rinds, though he never approached the plates, and another one of Harold’s girlfriends, and Scar the doe, who nibbled from the right hand squirrel feeder as she watched me work. Then Phil and the unknown groundhog returned, and both had some rind checked the plates, and another turtle, male I think, stopped by to see what was left. These are just the people I saw in passing. It was very busy out there.
Now things get interesting. Harold and his girlfriend had been conversing in the nook for about two hours. It had gotten very quiet in there. I reached a point where I wanted to sit down for a spell. I debated more coffee or a Newcastle Brown. The Newcastle won. I was relaxing to Led Zeppelin by that time. Harold and I had been listening to King Crimson earlier. Harold likes both. I looked out the door and noticed yet another turtle gnawing at the cantaloupe rinds. But it looked odd. I sipped my Newcastle, partook of some more Zeppelin, and waited for it to finish eating so I could ascertain its oddity. It bounced back and forth between the rinds, nibbling one, then another. Yes, I said it bounced. I told you, it seemed odd. It finally finished, but before I could stand it started coming towards the right hand plate, so I settled back into my chair. It took several oddly small bites (there’s that word again) of banana, and one or two similar bites of the watermelon which Lisa had graciously provided, then turned to go. Now I nonchalantly rose from my chair and meandered out to satisfy my curiosity. It was easily done. As I said before, it’s all relative. The turtle appeared to bounce between the rinds because it had to climb them to bite down into the flesh, and its bites were small, well, because its bites were small. It was a young female, slightly smaller than the bottom of that sixteen ounce fountain drink cup I mentioned earlier, and with her legs partially extended, feet touching my hand, she fit neatly in my palm. I did a very quick count of her rings and would guess she was between twelve and fourteen years old, and cute as a button. I took one picture of her sitting on my lap, and one of me holding her between my left thumb and index finger, to show her size in relation. I sent the pictures to Lisa with a report on how many groundhogs and turtles we had seen. When I told her we were up to three groundhogs, including a new one, and six turtles now, counting our little teenager, the question came: “How many turtles are in the house?”
“Why, there’s nobody here but us chickens,” I said.
“Let me rephrase my question,” she replied. “How many female turtles are in the house with you and Harold right now, this very minute?”
“Ummm, counting this one, two.”
“Who else is there?”
“One of his girlfriends.”
“Which one?”
“The pretty one with the creamy shell patterns.”
“And what are they doing?”
“Uhhhh. I don’t know. They’re in Harold’s hidey hole in the potted jungle.”
“They’re having sex, aren’t they? Aren’t they?! That’s gross! How can you watch them do that?!”
“I don’t. I told you, they’re in Harold’s hidey hole, and I have things to do. I do not sit here and spy on them. They deserve their privacy, and I don’t know what they’re doing in there, and I don’t care.”
“Uh huh. I guess he already had his way with the little one, huh?”
“No! She’s a child! I brought her in to look at her. I am just very happy to see another small turtle this year. I was starting to worry that maybe with all of the ‘coons around they were taking a toll on the young turtle population. I was very excited to see her.”
“Uh huh. And Harold wasn’t? A little teeny bopper he could have his way with?”
“No! I told you! She’s just a child! He’s busy and didn’t even know I brought her in! I set her on the patio a few minutes ago and she’s already half-way to the woods.”
“I thought all of you old men want a young hot chick.”
“I’ll have you know Harold and I both prefer a woman of experience and substance with some meat on her bones!”
“Uh huh again. You tell Harold I still think it’s disgusting, and his girlfriend has to be out of our house before I get home.”
“Our house? I thought this was Harold’s room. We gave it to him for his very own, so this is his house, too.”
“I didn’t give it to him. And Harold doesn’t write the checks that pay the bills. If Harold wants women to visit him he can get a job, and I’ll get him a tiny little check book and he can pay his share of the bills and hire his own prostitutes so you don’t have to pimp for him.”
“Oh. I see. It’s like that, is it?”
“Yes. It is. Now tell him his hoe-bag girlfriend has to go. If he gives you any trouble you tell him I’ll be home in a little while to talk to him, Mommy to Horndog.”
“Harold’s girlfriends are not hoe-bags!” I exclaimed. “They are ladies of refined taste.”
“Right. You tell him what I said.”
I knelt by Harold’s potted jungle and gently told him what his beloved Lisa had said about him and his amorous pursuits, and what she told me to tell him. It got even quieter back there. A short time later, maybe five minutes after our talk, Harold came wandering out of his hidey hole and strolled back and forth along the north side windows, stopping by the pink window feeder to turn and look at me. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m afraid your girlfriend has to leave now.” I carried her to the door, set her on the patio, and apologized to her for her rude dismissal. She didn’t take it too badly and ambled over to the left hand plate to see what was still there. Since everybody had been concentrating on the cantaloupe rind wedges there was a pretty good selection left. I think she was good with it. I’m not sure how much to read into this, but the rest of that afternoon Harold sat there by the pink feeder and glared at me every time I came into HIS room, and ever since that day he has been sitting in various windows all day long with his chin on the sill looking quite forlorn. Lisa keeps asking him why he won’t come out to sit with us and talk anymore like he used to, but I think I know.
Let’s get away from this troublesome topic and switch to my pet peeves since it is my turn: doves and blackbirds. To be more precise, mourning doves and starlings. The first are simply wasteful, the second filthy, nasty tempered, and as ravenous as locusts in a wheat field. Truthfully, I love the doves. They are quite beautiful. I love their calls and the way they walk. And their landings attempts are pitifully clumsy for such graceful birds in flight. Their mating rituals are hilarious with the males, all puffed up and full of themselves, hopping and chasing the totally oblivious females all around the feeding area and into the bushes with the females doing their best to scamper out of the way. They are just funny. But, and it is a big but, they are never happy with the seed on the top of the piles in the feeders, and they dig and they dig and they dig in the pile and sling perfectly good seed all over the ground. Despite the best efforts of the grounds crew a lot of the seed that hits the ground goes to waste. It gets wet and it sprouts, or it rots, and nobody wants it. The starlings are worse, They come in in flocks ranging from twenty-five to fifty birds. They converge on the feeders throwing seed on the ground, chasing and fighting with the other birds, devouring a suet cake that would usually last for weeks in one afternoon, and pooping on everything: the grill, the patio table and chairs, the chaise lounge, the planters and the feeders and even the other birds’ heads. They are just nasty. My neighbor bought a BB gun to chase them away. He doesn’t shoot them, just close to them by their feet or their heads to scare them. I made a cardboard scarecrow and hung it in the back patio door with the fan on high to make it move. These things work for the short term, but they shrug it off and come back. I decided to go a different route to defeat the doves and the starlings. I had purchased some new, larger plastic seed feeders when we moved here, and despite being horribly clumsy at landing the doves and starlings had no difficulty alighting on these as the platforms were quite large. I strung two copper wires on each of the plastic feeders up from the feeding platform on one side, under the roof and over the clear side panels, down to the platform on the other side, dividing the single large feeding areas on each side into three smaller ones which made it much harder for them to land. I also added fishing swivels to the hanger cables so when a clumsy bird landed the feeder spun in circles. This was somewhat effective, but I wasn’t satisfied as they were still able to scrabble and gain a foothold and make the lives of the other birds miserable with their fighting and squawking and pooping, so I got out my ancient redwood seed feeders, re-glued a broken clear plastic panel (thank you ‘coons) on one of them, which had gotten them retired to the garage in the first place, added stainless steel, ball bearing, deep sea swivels and stainless steel hanger cables and replaced the replacements. My redwood feeders are substantially smaller than the plastic ones, and have much smaller feeding platforms, which makes it extremely difficult for clumsy birds to land anywhere on them. By going back to the smaller and therefore substantially lighter feeders, and by adding the ball bearing swivels and keeping them properly lubricated, when a clumsy bird hits these they spin like a top, the clunky bird loses its balance, and it flees. A cardinal, finch or sparrow can touch down with no problem. Not perfect, but a good compromise and Harold and I are happy with it.
For the suet dilemma I asked a few questions of a very nice lady at a local store that specializes in the feeding of wild birds, and I was advised that the starlings like the fillers in the suet and not the suet itself. I was told I should switch to pure beef suet with no grain, fruit or peanut fillers during the winter when the starlings and other blackbirds flock. Now understand, the grackles, red-winged blackbirds and cowbirds in the flocks are not a problem. They in fact seldom land on the suet feeders, don’t sling food out of the seed feeders, don’t fight with everyone or poop on everything, nor are they like a plague of locusts. They pretty much stay on the ground picking up what others drop or sling, so we get along fine. The starlings though. Hah! The starlings. The nice lady was right, and it makes perfect sense. The woodpeckers crave the fat, being bug eaters, but the starlings lean more toward grains and other plant based goodies. They take a few bites of the pure suet, and they are not impressed. The four-and-twenty blackbirds want some filling in their pie, and not just the suet binder. Between the feeder and suet switches I have pretty much won my battle with the doves and starlings, so it appears, which means so far both Lisa and I have been able to bring our dealings with our pet peeves to pretty satisfactory conclusions, except maybe that one of Lisa’s regarding turtle sex being gross, and, that being such, it should not be allowed in her house. She may never be satisfied there. What happens in Harold’s Room stays in Harold’s Room, huh Harold?