Raccoon Correspondence

About 8 years ago the wooded area near my mother’s home was cleared to build a physicians office.  In so doing a number of woodland creatures were displaced and sought refuge elsewhere.  One fortunate pair of raccoons found their way into my mother’s attic (much to her chagrin).  After some days, my mother utilized a trap from the local shelter to capture the furry visitors and have them released into the wild.  Knowing the grateful nature of raccoons, I took it upon myself to act as scribe and sent my mother the following epistle on their behalf:

Kind Woman,

Thank you for assisting us in our relocation experience.  Your attic was a lovely way station on the long journey to our new home.  We found it warm and cozy and filled with a warm, pink substance that got caught in Wilhelmina’s eye and scratched her cornea.  We will, of course, be sending you the medical bill.  Nevertheless, we both had an enjoyable time in your attic.  Just a thought, you might want to run cable up there--it can get so lonesome on a quiet autumn evening.  Nothing makes a creature feel at home quite like an hour or two of animal planet…unless they’re playing a shark documentary, those are quite alarming.

Our new home in the forest is very quaint, though it lacks certain amenities as well.  I took the liberty of lifting some of the reading material I found in one of your boxes. Wilhelmina and I spend long nights in the branches reading aloud to one another.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit that Wilhelmina also helped herself to a few Barbie dolls to pass the time.  It has been quite amusing this Halloween season to rip their heads off, ferret them away in the squirrels’ stash, and then sit back and listen for those furry little busybodies to discover.  How we chuckle at their startled screams of horror.

I hope you don’t mind, but we have passed your address on to a few of our closest friends and relations.  You seemed so open to lending us shelter, we were certain you would be as hospitable to those who follow.  It should be a simpler matter now that we have established a sewage locale and lovemaking salon.  We figure with the kind of space you’ve got up there, you could host any number of hibernators as well as the passers by.  Someone will, of course, need to widen the sewage area, but it will be a simple enough matter.  Oh, and again, don’t forget the cable.

Well, I must away.  It seems Wilhelmina has a Barbie hand stuck in her throat.  She’s a sweet creature, but not particularly bright.  Thank you again for all your help.  Feel free to post this in the attic so others will know the forest is near.  Oh, and one last thing, we feel the transport cage is a bit primitive.  Perhaps a catamaran, or some sort of silk lined pallet might make a more comfortable mode of transportation...just a thought.

Affectionately,

Bendelbaum G. Coon and

Wilhelmina Vanderbilt Coon

Aging

If you want a perspective shift while in the prime of your life you have two choices.  You can enjoy a situation in which you stare Death in the face, which is something of a gamble since you’re not guaranteed to survive long enough to enjoy your new perspective.  Or, you can watch a slide presentation of the elderly people presently in your life, as they appeared when they were your age. Last night I did the latter.

Watching the pictures of my husband’s side of the family when they were in their 20s, 30s, & 40s was fascinating.  Here are men and women whom I’ve known for 20 years.  They are all a minimum of 20 years my senior, and the majority of them are significantly more so.  They haven’t exactly joined the ranks of Methuselah…okay well yes in all honesty most of them have been targeted by Wilford Brimley and the folks down at the AARP.  Years from when all those pictures were taken, they are now bumping their heads on the age ceiling as they purchase burial plots in advance, program home-health medical supply stores into their speed dial, and place dibbies on their adult care facility of choice.

But back in the day of disco and burgundy leisure suits; back when men and boys paired knee high sports socks and short-shorts with impunity; back when Farrah Fawcett’s famous flip ruled salon chairs the world over…back then our aging parents and grandparents looked uncannily like us.  They were caught in candid shots with young children hanging from their arms, posing on vacation at the Alamo, and snapped eating ice cream on a warmly familiar back porch.  They lacked the tell-tail signs of the age they now wear proudly: no crow’s feet around the eyes from the years of laughter; no worry lines laddering up their brows thanks to raising teenagers, paying mortgages, & making weighty decisions they feared would define them for better or for worse; and no shorter stature born of decades carrying upon their shoulders the weight of their own worlds.

As the slides progressed I looked at my own children: my 8 yr old daughter laying on the floor repeatedly informing us she was bored, my 13 yr old son straining to recognize his late grandmother’s beloved face in the younger, plumper version of herself on the screen.  I knew they would one day sit where I was and feel what I felt.  One day (though certainly not last night) they will sit captivated by pictures of us and their aunts and uncles, and realize we were once young and we had our time as they will have theirs; realize we all share life in common with its joys and sorrows and day-to-day living that seems mundane, stressful, and comfortable all at once; realize this physical life ends for each of us, but family goes on.  And family is the why behind it all.