Harold’s Room
Chapter thirteen
A brief interjection: This is where things started going really downhill. I had intended to catch up, but it never happened. It just peters out after this and the next chapter. It is about to be picked up again, I hope, but I fear the lost days will remain lost for now, and likely forever, other than a few fond memories like the fact that right now Ruby has chosen to play James Taylor, Fire and Rain. Perfect…
And it is April, the month of my birth, when I reach the magic age of sixty-five. Harold is fully awake and moving around a lot more these days. He tried to climb on top of his hut the other day, but I had to give him a little boost. I suppose those muscles just aren’t quite up to snuff after all of those naps, or he’s getting too fat, or a combination thereof. We are starting to see just a hint of red and green in the treetops now, the grass is much more vibrant and growing, and we have some new friends.
Harold and I were absorbed in a project reattaching glue-on googley eyes to our stump and stick people that raccoons and squirrels had decided needed replacing, evidently, since they removed them, when we noticed a slight movement out of the corners of our eyes. We looked out at the crest of the slope going down into the gully and thought, “What the…?” There was an object poking over the top of the hill making very unusual herky-jerky movements. It was a small, dark brown object, maybe the size and shape of a lemon, jerking left and right in quick succession. As it came over the crest of the slope we saw that it was attached to a long neck that kept getting longer, and longer, and longer as it came over the rise, and the neck was attached to a very large, feathered body, and that was attached to two very long legs. Then there were two of them, and then three. “Harold!” I cried, ” We have turkeys! We’ve never had turkeys before!” The three turkey hens, looking very nervous, approached the feeding area and tentatively started to peck the ground to see what all that stuff was. They were pleased, very pleased, to find it was sunflower seed. Then I caught another movement in the woods to my left, and here came another, and another, and another, and they just kept coming. Once they got up close Harold gawked at them like, “What the hell?” He thought we were watching Jurassic Park (again) and they were raptors. By the time they all arrived there were thirteen hens and two young toms, and then his highness made his appearance, and it was grand. Magnificent tail spread, wings fluffed and semi-extended, vibrant blue head with red wattles a mile long twitching back and forth as he surveyed the lie of the land, into the feeding area he came. It was an impressive sight. Harold and I were excited to see the three hens, so you can imagine how we felt once the whole crew was here and the big boy made his appearance all fluffed up and strutting his stuff, and his authority. Everyone moved aside for him, the young toms in particular. They jumped or sprinted out of his way. The hens just sort of opened a hole and let him pass.
Wild turkeys are very wary, very observant birds, and this was the closest I had ever been to one in the wild, never-the-less sixteen of them. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had been closer, right in the middle of the flock, actually, but it was dark when I was walking the path in the Gentryville woods that night, and I wasn’t using my flashlight since I knew the path by heart, so I didn’t get to see them very well as they thundered up into the darkness all around me. I thought for a moment they were Nazgûl and I was a dead man until I realized what they really were. Getting to see the whole flock gathered in the feeding area in the morning sun was quite a treat, so Harold and I sat very still so as not to alarm them. Once they had settled in they went after the seed with a vengeance, scratching and pecking. I was very pleased, not only to see them, but to see them picking up a lot of the seed that usually goes to waste and ends up sprouting. Turkeys make an excellent grounds crew. The squirrels were not so pleased. The ones on the ground scattered to the trees, and the ones in the squirrel boxes jumped up on top of them and just stared. I believe the turkeys were new to them, too. The turkeys paid no attention to the squirrels whatsoever and just went about their business, with Big Tom strutting around the perimeter of the feeding area, keeping watch I assume.
I very cautiously got my camera and moved to Lisa’s chair by the door so I could get a better viewpoint. I was getting some very nice shots of the flock, moving ever so slowly to get better angles on individuals and groups, when I realized Big Tom was full frontal and getting bigger and bigger in the middle of the view screen. I looked up, and he was standing on the edge of the patio looking dead at me, tail spread, ruffling and shaking his feathers and wings and looking twice as big as he had before. He then began strutting back and forth across the patio making a profound statement and display, glaring at me, fiercely, shaking his wattle, gobbling deep from his chest and gradually working his way closer and closer to the door. I noticed Harold was backing away a bit from his window as Big Tom got closer. He was getting to see just how huge Big Tom really was, and he really was. I was sitting in Lisa’s chair as you know, up the step in the sunroom with my arms crossed on my knees. When he reached the door he was standing down on the patio, and still looking me dead in the eye. Tom is truly one big bird. I could not believe he was standing there looking in the door at me. Wild turkeys just don’t come wandering in from the woods and approach people like that, then WHACK! WHACK! WHACK-WHACK! I thought Tom’s head was coming through the double pane glass. That could or would be disastrous for both of us! As I leaned forward out of Lisa’s chair to kneel in front of the door waving my hands WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK WHACK and I threw open the door and said “Whoa man! This has got to stop or we are going to have a problem here!” And that sent him scurrying off of the patio, and with no strut in his step this time.
The rest of the flock melted into the woods, but none of them went far. Big Tom had only gone maybe twenty feet to the north behind my neighbor’s house, and then turned to assess the threat. The rest wandered east back into the woods and down the gulley, then milled about, occasionally pecking at something on the ground, but all keeping at least one eye on what was transpiring at the top of the hill. I had stepped out on the patio, and I guess you could say we were sizing each other up. I was bigger. He was probably tougher. He could nail me with his spurs while he beat me about the head with his wings. I would not like that. But I thought I could take him in a fair fight. My friend Bob from my tenure as tour train driver/lecturer/referee/comedian at the zoo was walking around one of the zoo lakes one evening at dusk, and suddenly he found a Canadian goose on his back with its feet on his shoulders pecking fast and hard at the top of his head, while beating his arms, cheeks and ears furiously with its wings. He did not like it. He twisted and turned and yanked and pulled and managed to get the goose off, and to put it politely, he departed from the vicinity of said goose in great haste. But his was not a fair fight. The goose attacked silently from behind. Tom and I were face-to-face like two pistoleros. Well, given our heights and girths, maybe two Sumo wrestlers? Tom was kind of stomping. I wasn’t. We were both blustering. Harold was no help at all. He kept his distance: “Big bird! Big bird!” The fact Big Tom didn’t keep running highly surprised me. Wild turkeys flee from humans. Even the ones that dang near made me soil my pants that night. Maybe Tom had had contact with humans previously? Maybe, for some reason, I did not look that threatening? I had to outweigh him, don’tcha think? Definitely taller. But still… I decided that discretion was the better part of valor in this instance and decided to reason with him. I very carefully explained that I was very pleased to meet him and his thirteen ladies, and two tag-a-longs, and they were very welcome. But no pecking at the glass. I turned to go back into the house, and of course there was the obvious answer to the question as to why he was pecking the door: The angle of the sun had changed. I saw my reflection. He had seen his, and Big Tom thought there was another Tom inside with me. He did not mind me so much, but he did not like the idea of having another Tom hanging out in the sunroom. I went back inside and piddled with some chores for a bit, and when I looked back out there he was standing at the door again, but this time no pecking. I guess we had a truce. The rest of the flock was back out in the feeding area, and I was tickled. Turkeys are great groundskeepers, and I had fifteen of them out there scratching and pecking at the seed on the ground while I sat back down in Lisa’s chair to talk to my new friend Tom. Win-win situation for Terry!
This remained the status quo for several weeks: Big Tom at the door talking to his reflection, me, and Harold, who was getting more curious, while the grounds crew kept scratching and pecking. They came several times a day, so the feeding area was nicely tilled and denuded of possible wasted sprouts-to-be. I was extremely grateful for the distraction of having Big Tom at the door, and the excellent performance of his crew. The squirrels and Harold became accustomed to them and no longer considered them to be a threat. They became accustomed to me and were not startled and jumpy every time I got up or re-entered the room. However they did keep a watchful eye on me and would momentarily pause in their endeavors, which they quickly resumed. Then one day they weren’t there. Nor the next day. Nor the next. Then three hens made a brief appearance several days later, and a pattern of individuals, two-somes and trios, continued to show up sporadically for several months. They became completely inured to me and so provided endless entertainment to Harold and myself as they went about their business. It is actually a lot of fun to watch their scratching, pecking, head twitching dance as they pivot and twist their heads about to watch for danger and search for unturned ground and bounty. And then one day all of them were gone too. Harold and I were very sad to see them go. He spent a lot let less time at the back windows, and started hanging around the pink feeder on the side window watching the squirrels, and hoping to catch sight of the first lizard.
It was during Big Tom’s reign over the patio that I really began pondering over what I was going to do with my time now that I would have a wealth of it. I started thinking about all of the things that I used to do that brought me some form of enjoyment. As a child I had run the woods (later we called that hiking) and hunted and fished and went sledding. As a young adult with a wife and young son I had continued those things, swapping sleds out for toboggans so we could go to the fresh powder back-slopes of the golf course, totally bereft of other humans, drag them up the slope, load up, push off and build up momentum until we were streaking down the hill in a wake of the powdery crystals that, “sparkled like diamonds” in the moonlight, to fly off the bank, hurtling through the air to land three feet down onto the frozen lake ice, to glide to the island where we had built our fire, huddle for warmth as we sipped warm cocoa from a thermos, nibbled on snacks, then turned to grab the toboggans and drag them back up the hill, over and over. I’m really getting too old for that, but the one activity, the one thing that I honestly believed I enjoyed the most was my canoe, and that I can still do. It was the most tranquil, where I felt at peace, at one with the Earth. Lake, creek, river, flat-water, whitewater, it didn’t mater. I loved it all. The glassy gliding on a smooth lake, riding the wind-driven ripples and waves, feeling the power of the Ohio under me, like a huge serpent upon whose back I was riding, the roll, rise, fall and slap of the turbulent standing waves and backwash in the whitewater, it was good. It was all good. I determined to see if Lisa’s son-in-law was still using my fourteen foot solo boat I had loaned him when he and his family started going to the river. It had hung in a garage in Newburgh for twelve years, and lain outside at our old house for maybe five years, when I offered to let him use it. Sean has the old tandem boat he, Fran and I had started out in. He sat on a cooler in the middle. Later, for when we guys, Clark, Whitmann, and I, wanted to go, we all bought solo craft and could gad about as each of us desired. Shortly after I got mine I bought an identical one for Sean. I actually ordered a smaller pack boat given Sean was only six or seven, but they mistakenly re-ordered the fourteen-footer I had. They offered it to me for the lower price. Duh. Sean had a big yellow boat instead of a little red one. I bought him a kayak paddle because I did not believe at that age he was quite ready for the guide strokes required to make a solo boat track. He would scuttle around Fran and myself in the big boat like a water strider. Not much weight so he rode high, hence not much drag on a boat that size with him in it. At any rate, you get my drift. I had not been in my little yellow boat in twenty-two years. Memories. Good memories. I made the call.
JR had not used the boat in several years. I have an exquisite beaver tail paddle that has never been in the water. Time to start making plans. I of course asked if he could throw it in the back of his truck and bring it by when he had the chance since I no longer have a truck, just a ’99 Z28. She’s my baby too. She had forty-one miles on her when I bought her in December of ’98. Vibrant blue, black roof, chrome spoke wheels, clean lines with no fiberglass or plastic ground effects skirts, and my cup of tea. The dealer bought it stripped for a demo. I relieved them of it. Not real good as a canoe transport though. Not much roof up there, and it cants forward and widens. Plus JR couldn’t find the canoe carrier pads. Anyway, JR said sure, but he wanted to clean it up first because it had been lying out in the weather since they had moved to their new house. “No hurry,” I said, “I won’t need it until the weather warms up,” and the first phase of the plan was in motion. Next, to Amazon. I had a few purchases to make. ”Let’s see Harold, what do we need?” He wasn’t much help with that. He has never been canoeing. I suggested to him that he might enjoy it, as a change of scenery. I could get a properly sized cooler and mount a Howdah on it, just like on an elephant, luxurious, complete with freshly watered fiber bedding, water bowl, snack dish and parasol. An old milk crate would work great. Just screw it to the lid of the cooler. Voila. He did not look impressed. “What if you open the cooler and dump me and all of my stuff in the bottom of the boat”? I would be very careful and open it just far enough to slide my hand in. “What if the boat tips over?” I have only had that happen twice out of hundreds of trips. One was my fault, one was not. The likelihood was minimal. I told him he’d love it! He was still disinterested and went back to his station by the pink feeder, while I started punching in Amazon searches: anchor, foam pad canoe carrier kit, spare paddle (I learned that the hard way during one of those out-of-canoe experiences mentioned above, the one that was not my fault, in some minor whitewater), dry bag, drink holder, rod holder. Hmmm. Anything else? Oh! Life jacket. Can’t go out in a boat on public waters without a life jacket anymore. We were off to the races. And my credit card debt began to accrue.
When Lisa got home I told her I had talked to JR and was getting my boat back and intended to get my butt back in it after all of these years and do some paddling now that I would have plenty of free time. Her immediate response: “I want to go too!” One problem. As I said, Sean has the old two-man, and my boat is a solo. It only has one seat smack in the middle, hence solo. She looked very disappointed, so I snuck back in to Harold’s room to look at tandem canoe options, then back to Amazon, then back to other web sites to look at other options, and then back to Amazon. Choosing a canoe you have to consider function, speed, stability, weight and cost. What I really wanted was at least a sixteen footer (an eighteen footer would be nice) made of fiberglass or Kevlar, which would be the best for speed and weight. Problem is the fiberglass runs around twelve to fifteen hundred dollars, and the Kevlar twenty-five to thirty-five hundred, so I went from a sixteen foot boat to a fourteen foot six inch, and from epoxy resin boats to poly. I found one from a canoe company I am familiar with that I thought would work nicely. It weighed twice what I really wanted, eighty pounds, but was set up nicely with seat backs, a dry safe, handles for carrying, rod and drink holders, and a cooler/storage compartment, so I punched the button. Now I needed another paddle, and another life jacket. All told there went another six hundred and fifty dollars or so, but now Lisa could go too. I told Harold, “It has a bench type center seat, so we can mount your Howdah on the lid of the cooler built into that! We’ll use velcro strips!” He was still not overly excited, but my retirement plan was coming into shape. I went back into the house and told Lisa, “Your early birthday presents will be here next week.” She was a bit taken aback. She was concerned I couldn’t afford it. My response: “I’m retired now. I have to get the things I need to enjoy it. I want to go canoeing again, and you want to go with me, and I would enjoy that. So, play now, pay later. I have the rest of my life to pay it off.” The American dream, and I’m living it. I have played that game before to the tune of thirty some-odd thousand dollars, and swore I’d never play it again. I gutted a small retirement account to pay that off after the divorce. I have owed no one anything for ten years, but there are exceptions to every rule, and this exception had been thrust upon me. I started looking for ropes and pulleys so I could hang the boats from the garage ceiling since the HOA rules do not allow storage of such outside, and we can’t put up storage sheds. I was amassing quite a bit more debt in my shopping cart for the hardware when I noticed a boat hanging kit that was on sale and had everything I needed. I dumped my cart and put two of those in it. A week later there was a fourteen-six green boat hanging above my Z28, and the lifting system for my yellow boat was installed too, right next to it. Harold still wasn’t too excited even when I took him out to show him, but Lisa was. I sure was. I was very anxious to get my yellow boat back, and I couldn’t wait to take Lisa out for her maiden voyage in her new green boat, with our co-pilot perched in his Howdah. I truly believed he would enjoy it. He certainly likes to watch out the windows of his room and shows a great deal of interest any time something new shows up. It did scare the hell out of him those two times I chased the foxes, though. He does not like sudden, abrupt movement. A nice, peaceful canoe ride with new things to look at should be precisely his cup of tea.