What happens when a trampoline isn't put away for the winter months

February 9, 2014 – Sunday

-14 degrees/cloudy/calm

Pentoga Road

I awakened at 3:45 AM listening to Brutus, who was lying on the floor at the foot of our bed, giving himself a bath. Once the cobwebs had cleared from between my ears, I got up and came downstairs to fill the stove with wood, visited the bathroom, then promptly went back to bed.

Lick, lick, lick. Brutus was persistent. Minutes ticked by… lick, lick, lick, lick. I finally got out of bed, turned on the light, played bedroom veterinarian, and saw that there was a sore spot on his groin that he was cleaning.

I returned to bed and lay for several more minutes listening, then began worrying. It’s the same place that was treated last summer, an area where he’d rammed a stick into his groin and had become infected. An expensive trip to the veterinarian’s, along with an antibiotic, finally cured what ailed him. I finally gave up on any thought of sleep, got dressed, and came downstairs.

In retrospect, it’s a good thing it all happened as it did. Evidently, I’d not firmly latched the door to the stove after earlier adding wood. A flaming log fell to the front and pushed the door wide open, resulting in a large number of coals falling onto the hearth. I doubt it would have caused a fire, as I made the hearth oversized (for that very reason) but it could have been a smoky mess. The coals were hurriedly scooped up and thrown back into the stove.

An old farmstead

Page Two

I just finished reading an email from a good friend whose fifteen year-old grandson got into some kind of trouble with his parents; nothing serious, just being a fifteen year-old boy.

Ah, that stage of all young boys’ lives, when puberty rears it’s ugly head, hormones begin to flow, pimples sprout, one’s voice changes, and a male’s body, mind, and soul, are all driven by some misunderstood and invisible force. It’s the stage of life when a growing boy goes into rut.

I’ve spent some time thinking deep, professorial, thoughts about this subject and being a man of academia from the far North, have arrived at the conclusion that pubescent boys and bull moose have some troubling similarities.

* both are gangly and can be quite ugly

* communication is reduced down to a series of grunts and gestures

* there's a serious reduction of intelligence

* they spend their waking hours in a lust-filled daze

* all are driven by some unseen evil force

I’ve been witness to several bull moose who are in rut. They are quick to anger and each believes he should be the alpha male in his neck of the woods, to prance around in a lust-filled fantasy world, looking for anything to attack and a woman moose to call his own. Failing to find an instantaneous suitable mate, he’ll simply rip something to shreds in a rage of sexual fury.

I almost became shredded years ago when a bull, maddened by Casey, my Jack Russell Terrier, charged and was stopped only by the sound of repeated shots from my pistol being fired into the air.

It wasn’t that long ago that a moose in northern Maine demolished a semi tractor in an attempt to court, woo, and possess the thing. When the vehicle failed to properly respond to the moose’s gestures of adoration, mirrors were ripped off, the doors severely damaged, and in the end, the entire tractor was covered with moose slobber and goo.

In Anchorage, Alaska, there was a bull moose in rut that turned his amorous attentions to a Volkswagen Beetle. In fact, he found the mini car so irresistible that he attempted to make Moosewagens. To my knowledge, the chromosomes didn’t match resulting in a very dented, badly mutilated, VW.

I remember when I entered rut. Thankfully, I wasn’t attracted to Volkswagens or semi tractors, but because of some unseen, powerful, force, I was mad and powerful and all knowing; and what I knew was that I wanted to lift weights, play football, and impress girls… mostly impress girls. Anything else was secondary. I spent an inordinate amount of hours preening in front of the bathroom mirror and was obsessed when a new pimple joined the thousands of others in calling my face home. In fact, I’m certain Clearasil stock soared when I reached puberty.

Then there was Dad. How could any man become so incredibly stupid in such a short while? I spent hours wondering how he had managed so far in life, being so bumbling and unfair, and thank God, he was privileged enough to have me as a son, the Chosen One, who might be able to lead him from his follies and show him the right direction. After all, it was the least I could do. He was my dad, right?

Sometime during rut, my friends and I forgot how to talk. Full sentences became a series of grunts and gestures and no mirror was passed without a flex of one’s muscles. Displays of strength became the norm and good-natured wrestling often escalated into not-so-good-natured grudge matches in an attempt to show one’s superiority.

Thankfully, the day came when my rut ended. I once again remembered how to speak in full sentences, Dad suddenly became intelligent, and my pimples went away.

It doesn’t seem that long ago that my sons entered that stage of life, human rut, when they too became mad, forgot how to speak in full sentences, and I became incredibly stupid and unfair. In an attempt to remain Captain of the family vessel, I took a firm stance with each as he dealt with that powerful and unseen force of nature. To paraphrase Dickens, “They were the best of times and the worst of times,” but all of us, my four sons, their mother, and I, emerged from that stage of their lives in good shape.

So when I hear of other families with a teenage son who is in that phase of growing up, I simply smile, close my eyes, and thank God it’s them and not me who has the pleasure of navigating those choppy waters of puberty. The mere act of survival allows one to appreciate the rest of his life that much more.

Page Three

Saturday was beautiful, but cold, in the North Woods. After writing yesterday’s log, I set out on my five-mile stroll and enjoyed each and every step. Towards the end, I ran into our neighbors, who were also walking, and we had a half hour social session in the middle of Pentoga Road. Sargie and I aren’t the only ones who are finding this winter a bit long and cold.

The local beach is pretty quiet these days

We took our usual ride into town, ran an errand or two, and enjoyed a tour through the countryside. After, we played fetch with Brutus for almost an hour, worked up the nightly supply of wood, and filled the bird feeders.

Last night was spent watching a movie while munching popcorn. We both enjoyed the solitude of a dark winter evening accompanied by the sound of a crackling fire in the stove.  

Today is day two of Sargie’s hiatus from work. It promises to be similar to Saturday and we’ll enjoy each moment as it comes. I see the temperature is to drop even more, so I doubt we’ll be planting flowers or working on our tan lines.

My eyes are getting heavy and I have the urge to take a nap. It’s still very dark outside and really, there’s no reason why I should resist closing my eyes. Another hour of sleep sounds great. But wait… why settle for a mere nap when I can crawl into a nice, warm, bed alongside Sargie?

Oh, decisions, decisions… I guess I ought to make up my mind. No bother. I’m used to making such life altering choices. After all, a man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…