This is the thing about living: there are other terrifying living things, most of whom you’d prefer not to see, who are also living around you in a perfect little ecosystem.
I am not writing metaphorically.
Last Saturday morning, as we opened the door to our workshop we found ourselves face to face with a squirrel. It was unexpected and unwelcomed. A family of squirrels had moved into his workshop early this spring, and Shawn thought he had trapped and relocated the last one two weeks ago. Turns out, he’d forgotten the babies. This little guy looked at us and didn’t run away. In our first moments together, my 9 year old melted and interpreted the look as a kind hearted requested for food. Naturally, I saw a twitchy, hungry sack of potential pathogens waiting to attack.
In short, I screamed.
We lured him out onto the step with oats intended for the cows and discovered, to my dismay, that he had a brother. And there was still more scratching inside. Could there be another?
Malcolm went into the workshop to investigate, but was distracted by their cuteness and crouched down to chat with them in soothing tones. Don’t worry. It’s okay sweetie. Yes, you’re so cute.
Turns out there was a third one hiding in a now-empty bag of birdseed. I guess he can put “Snow White vibes” on his future resume?
I, feeling rather frayed at the edges, did not talk to the (surely) tick-invested demons. I talked to him. Don’t get to close! They are hungry, wild animals!
It was in this moment, with my son crouched at ground level and two adolescent squirrels between us, that a black rat snake slithered along the door jam and poked his head up to scope out the situation.
I am not proud of what happened next.
I lost all control of my appendages. I started jumping. I made noises that sounded like a cross between a banshee and a chicken cluck. When I looked down, MY HANDS WERE FLAPPING BACK AND FORTH. You guys, it was ugly.
And worst of all? Malcolm now knows that when it comes to rodents and reptiles, he’s on his own because in that moment I ran twenty feet away.
I blame it all on the pesky non-metaphorical ecosystem.
Sigh. I love writing these stories. It is a ridiculous and so simple life event that would get forgotten if not put to page.
This week I helped a student with a test in his English class. He had to read an article and answer some questions about it. I read it to him, scribed his answers and he couldn’t really put together a coherent paragraph, so I’m not sure the assessment worked out so well for him, but it was life changing for me.
The article was written by Stuart McLean (may he rest in peace) and was a profile of a septuagenarian named John Goddard who was finishing up an ambitious bucket list he wrote when he was 15 years old. The list was impressive and included things like paddling the Nile end to end, milking a venomous snake and climbing the Matternhorn, but what struck me was his motivation for writing the list.
When he was fifteen, John was sitting with his parents and their friends after dinner. One of the dinner guests said something that stuck with him:
Dr. Keller looked at me and said to my parents, ‘I’d give anything to be John’s age again. I really would do things differently. I would set out to accomplish more of the dreams of my youth,” (…) and I thought, here’s a man only forty-two years old, and he is feeling like life has passed him by, and I thought, if I start planning now, and really work on my goals, I won’t end up that way.
You guys. Today is my forty-second birthday.
A while ago I read a note on Substack that pointed out that twenty years ago, if a writer had 150 people show up at a book store to listen to you read from your book, you’d be overjoyed. The author contrasted this with the viral-or-bust attitude of social media.
I find myself in the category of people that would be overjoyed if I had a small crowd of dedicated readers. I’m not sure what my goals will be for this year or — if I have John-level ambition — my life, but one thing I do know is that I would like to have 100 subscribers. Call it my book store goal. Hitting the triple digits like a baddie.
For better or worse, and perhaps I’ll talk to a therapist about it someday, I show up more frequently and just do better when I have an audience. So here is my birthday request:
If you know someone who you think would appreciate this newsletter, could you pass it along to them?
Share The Brave Stumble
Thank you, all sixteen of you (ha!), who read this newsletter regularly. I started my birthday writing this post because I love it so much, and without you I know I wouldn’t have shown up. Thank you.
Subscribing after this post has pretty much the exact same affect as those viral videos of 12-year-olds getting puppies or horsies for Christmas.
