Whats that old line about a thing bein’ a riddle rapped in a mistry inside an enema?
There was some such goin’ on out here on the Anny Lake Road, but I think I finely got to the bottom of it.
It started on a sunny day back a spell, when I hung a bunch of clean duds to dry on the line that runs from the house to the old tool shed.
Come bedtime they still was’nt dry, so I left ’em out overnite. Wellsir I got a shock next day when some of my things had new holes I never seen before, speshually my wooly socks and long Johns.
I were’nt none too pleased, I can tell you. Last thing you want come winter in the Youcon is more ventilashun in yer Standfields.
No way they was moth holes this time of year, so unlest it was a wood pecker practisin’ up on somethin’ soft, it had me up a stump.
So I done the lodgical thing and ast Merna what it cud be.
One word, she says. Sqwirrels. Happens all the time, she says.
When I got to thinkin’ on it, it made feel good in a funny kinda way. Maybe my sqwirrel pal Horence ain’t been recalled by his maker after all.
Day before last it all come clear.
I was out to the shed checkin’ out garden impliments, when I seen a few bits of gray wool behind an old push mower that probly ain’t been used since Deefenbacker times.
All on a sudden I heard a faint little chirpy sound from some place up over my head. Bein’ of a curyous frame of mind, I fetch my flash lite and clime up on a coupla boxes fer a look-see in the rafters.
Thats when I seen ’em. Four pares of tiny little eyes peepin’ out from atop an old chunk of plywood, in a nest thats three parts twigs and grass and one part Rodney’s lawndry.
Nessled in beside ’em, screamin’ at me like I’m the Boston Strangler, is my pal Horence.
So like Merna says, unlest we got some kinda mirackle on our hands, I’d best get use to the fact that old Horence the sqwirrel was a Hortense all along.
Sure is nice to see new life poppin’ all around.
My baby chickins are plumpin’ up fine and shud be sportin’ there new fethers in a week or two.
On warm days, I let ’em run outdoors fer a spell, but I watch ’em like a hawk. No, that ain’t what I meant. Like a mother hen, more like.
Even got my spuds and early veggys planted out at last. Truth is, I don’t antissipate much this year, on accounta havin’ dirt a notch or two below prime.
Well, Darrol, its time to go fetch the Epsome Salts. My feet are still swole up from lettin’ Merna talk me into trampin’ the Millenyum Trail in search of birds all week end.