Of thorns and groundhogs

While I walk the grounds of my country estate, I observe the birds and mammals around me. The delightful cardinals, flitting quietly about; the frantic dances of the squirrels, and the less-than-silent nobility of the grackles and robins all remind me of the busy intrusiveness of nature.

In the deserts of the American Southwest, where I took a long escape from the hecticity of the north-eastern regions of the country, nature had its own set of rules. With moisture being at such a rarity that a short spell of rain was enough to make an entire desert burst forth in a great range of colors, the flora and fauna used each drop carefully. While life was present in some, yet perhaps sparse, form in nearly every corner, it simply was not overflowing and overpowering to the level it is in the moist regions of the globe.

Also, nature is softer here in New England. Certainly, one can die of exposure in the grandest of six-star hotels, though unlikely, and I am not discounting the dangers that nature, anywhere, presents to those haphazard enough to poke the proverbial bear. No, I speak of something much more subtle. And yet, not subtle at all.

Nature in the desert is prickly. I know, you are saying “Sebs, why are you wasting my time with the blatantly obvious? We have all observed the grand adventures of the coyote and the roadrunner and their unfortunate encounters with the grand Saguaro since youth!” Heavens, no. I speak of something that this New-Englandite was left firmly unaware of until I encountered it myself, and this is simply this: Everything in the desert is covered with sharp, pointy things.

It is a simple truth. Each flower contains a poison dart to shoot painfully into your nostril. Every single piece of ground foliage is clearly designed to devastate one’s toes. The animals contain their own bit of spark, be it from fangs and claws, or from that Black Plague bearing cute little mammal of death: the prairie-dog.

And let us not forget the roadrunner himself; truly a prehistoric looking beast. One need only lay eyes upon the creature to cast aside all doubt of the relation between dinosaurs and birds. The noble Geococcyx californianus is clearly a throw-back, and yet thrives in this hostile environment.

There are spiders with necrotic bites, killer bees, fabulously flaming fire ants, starving and angsty bears, and that goat-headed Puncturevine, all waiting to assault the unwary.

Whatever is a gentleman observing nature to do? As it turns out, cover every spot of exposed flesh with fabric, preferably one resistant to  puncture, or at least sturdy and stout enough to insulate from the briar and thorns that are ubiquitous. I found that wool was quite handy in this, both breathable and protective (despite the need to carefully remove the offending matter from one’s cuffs afterward), however in the sweltering months, one might have to take to some less elegant fabrics, but ones that are resistant to acquiring hangers-on.

And whatever are all these creatures protecting? Why, the great giver-of-life and remover of hangovers itself: Water. Be certain to carry plenty, because there is none, and there are even less tea and cakes to be enjoyed.

Then there are the grand majestic forests of New England, spotted with McMansions and Malls. Nature in New England is soft, yes, but even more so, it is painfully dominant. The tiny patch betwixt my drainpipe and the ground is a perfect example of this: In the desert, such a tiny plot would most likely be free of much vegetation for most of the time. Here in the land of abundant moisture, however, there is a miniature ecosystem all its own, with a forest of grasses, complete with spiders and snails.

“Surely, now, Sebastian, you are not a negligent gardener!” you say, aghast. Heavens, no: This tiny island sprung up in this particular corner in mere days! (And whilst I am not at liberty to discuss the grounds of the out-of-court settlement with Mister John Q. Groundskeeper, I do still stand by my insistence that a tutu is indeed an appropriate landscaping uniform, if a proper price is paid. Furthermore, I do beg The Agency, if they are listening, to return my calls, and/or send another strapping lad to prune, toot de suite.)

Mere days, my darlings. Whatever is your poor Sebastian to do? Nature spews a lovely green from every patch with a great ferocity.

Without regard, this simply isn’t what I had intended to speak of. Whilst inspecting my vegetable patch the other morning, I see that The Visitor has returned.

At first, I didn’t mind that he ate one of my broccoli plants. Certainly not! There is plenty for all. Then, a second vanished, and I narrowed my eyes, vowing to purchase poultry wire the following morning. Did the beast give me a chance? Did he?

A dare say that he did not! The following morning, the devastation was remarkable: An entire row of broccoli, not even beginning to approach a state even resembling something in which to smother in a rich creme sauce, was eaten away to sad little stubs. Sadly taken before its prime.

Be wary, Mister W. Groundhog. Though your mammalian cuteness approaches my own, you are certainly no Peter Rabbit.

Thankfully for you, I am no Mr. McGregor, and though I personally support Second Amendment rights, I am not the sort to either own a shotgun or discharge it towards your rotund, furry rump. You live to chew another day, you be-damned sciurid!

Well played, Mister Groundhog. You may have won this round, but be warned: The chicken-wire has been purchased.