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Thursday, March 27, 2008

So What If I Talk to the Animals?

By Rosie Schneider
Neighbors
    I am a mountain woman of the neo-classic persuasion— a fancy euphemism that really just means I have all my teeth and refuse to date my first cousin no matter how sexy he looks in his wormy waders and plaid, duck-billed hat with earflaps.
    You may surmise that the life of a mountain woman is pure, non-stop excitement, in which things like witnessing the migration of some exotic fowl heading south for winter, refereeing bobcat fights, or watching porcupines make love are everyday events. Au contraire, my friend— the truth is that most of the time, life on the mountain moves at the speed of molasses.
    So I spend more time communing with the little animals than I'd confess to my therapist. She's already suspicious about the little tufts of downy hair sprouting from my ears, yet she is much too kind to point out my increasing resemblance to a woodchuck. Nonetheless, when things get a little slow here on the hill, you'll find me out in scrub oak chatting with chipmunks, jawing with jackalope and sharing with salamanders, listening to endless replays of "Tiptoe through the Tulips"— the heavy metal version.
    When the joy of Fun with Fur finally fades, I fire up Ethel, my old '77 Ford pickup. (Don't ask, but I checked her undercarriage and the Ford is definitely a she.) Ethel has a broken tail light, multi-colored rust and muffler bouncing over the occasional mini-boulder. We cruise on down to the transfer station right before it opens— conveniently ignoring the "No Scavenging" sign— just to see if anybody got the urge to throw away their size 111/2, extra wide hiking boots. Big feet are a sign of a mountain woman's intellectual prowess, unlike a big footed man, whose oversized shoes disguise a multitude of woeful exaggerations.
    After a recent trip to the aforementioned transfer station (aka The Dump), a little "travelin' jones" came over me, so I cruised on over to the local mailboxes to see what treasures I might find. I kicked myself in the butt last week for not picking up a plastic traveling mug with the handle broken off. Placed strategically on my porch between the lidless crockpot and cracked Styrofoam cooler, it would have been a classic addition to my yard art display.
    Alas, the lone relic was a lonesome piece of fiberglass from the underbelly of an ancient Subaru. With no way to contact the owner about his or her lost glass fiber thingamajig, I took a furtive look around and snatched that baby up. Mountain women love yard art.
    I had no sooner left the mailbox when a big wind blew through Ethel's window and blew off my straw hat onto the floorboard. Just as I bent over to grab it off the floor, Ethel thumped over something small and hard. I heard the unmistakable schuss of a furry little body clinging to the undercarriage, one little paw hanging on for dear little life. I left my bifocals at home so I was squinting into the rearview mirror when I saw the carnage, in a flurry of feathers and bones, escape from under the rear bumper and blow down the road behind me.
    Sadly, instead of being a friend of the little furry ones, I had become their friendly accidental executioner. The mile home was the longest mile I had ever driven, for I could hardly bare the vision of their little bodies splattered all over Ethel's private parts. As I pulled into my driveway— the carnage no longer audible— I steeled myself for a sickening display of blood and guts. Determined to face my fate, I stepped out of Ethel and bent over to see the damage I had wrought.
    The scene stunned me and sent a shock through my ravaged psyche. Hanging ever so delicately from the A-frame of the truck was ... the torn remnants of a fast food bag with the last napkin stuck on a long bolt.
    In that moment I was redeemed. I might be a tree-hugging, fur-loving sort of eccentric basket case, but I am no fur killer. And in an effort to save myself from future coronary failure, I have, after much meditation, achieved a sort of minor revelation indicating a possible compromise.
    If you will promise not to litter my beautiful New Mexico, I promise not to commit automotive manslaughter on your Kentucky Fried Chicken.
    Mountain women hate litter.
    Neighbors is a lighthearted community column written by people who live in the East Mountains and Estancia Valley. To contribute a Neighbors column, contact Rory McClannahan at 823-7102 or online at editor@mvtelegraph.com.