What Would Wilma Flintstone Do?
Two Sundays ago, as we lingered over a sixth cup of coffee, we happened to look out the window and realized that we had company.
We were very excited to see our visitor. Although we were glad that he didn’t knock on the door, and he may have lumbered around the patio just a bit too long.
It is terrific to live so close to nature. That being said, we vowed to take down all the bird feeders the next day.
We had a ton of yard work to do, so we spent the afternoon raking and cleaning up winter debris – and those of you who live in a more temperate climate may be in disbelief that winter clean-up is done in April in northwest Connecticut – but yeah, and in our winter coats too.
After the bear sighting, we had a plan to stick together that day. But of course, my husband had to go to the bathroom, and then I guess the phone rang, and then he was in the shed trying to get the old tractor started, so I ended up quite a distance from the house and all alone. I have heard that bears don’t like noise, so I sang. I sang “Me and Bobby McGee” which was pretty much stuck in my head anyhow, since I have been trying to play it on the ukulele for about seven weeks.
When my husband finally returned, I was gracious and brave, saying something congenial like
“Where the fuck have you been? I could have been eaten by a goddamn bear!”
And he was okay with that, reassuring me that he would have come quickly if I had screamed or anything.
“I think that might have been a teensy bit late. But now I am done and I am going in to have another coffee.”
So it was Hubby’s turn to be alone out there. I don’t know whether he sang, but if he did, it might have been “When The Moon Comes Over The Mountain,’ because Hubby has this thing for Kate Smith. His taste in music is what you might call “quaint.” Others (I’m not saying who) may think more along the lines of “insane.”
So I’m sipping my coffee and I look up from my book – and guess who is the back yard?
Well, I ran immediately to the front door to get my husband in the house. Well, immediately after I found my phone and took this photo. I mean, I’d need evidence if the bear had already eaten my husband.
“Get in the house,” I yelled from the doorway. “There’s a huge bear in the back yard.”
And he came running right in.
“Jesus Christ!” he said when he got a look out the kitchen door. “That’s the biggest fucking bear I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s why I got you in right away. Now that you’re safe, let me see if I can get a picture.”
That was two weeks ago.
One week later, we are making progress. I am now raking out the flower beds around the house.
My husband is with me for a while – but then – he’s off to…well… I’m not exactly sure. But I’m going strong. The weather is better. I’m singing “Handyman” – the James Taylor version, of course, because I love James and I’m pretty handy.
I’ve worked my way over to the south side of the house.
And I hear it.
In the backyard.
It doesn’t sound like my husband.
The only door that is open is the back garage door. I am as far as possible from that door. I am so far south of that door, I am practically in Florida.
And my adrenalin kicks in.
Really kicks. I start to sweat. My heart starts to pound. I can hear my heart. It’s throbbing in my head.
And it occurs to me that this is the most primitive reaction that humans have. Fear. It dates back to our cavemen ancestors running away from woolly mammoths. Physical fear is a throwback to our prehistoric selves. The realization was rather amazing.
And then it happens. The adrenalin-activated fear causes another body reaction.
Yes. I start to fart.
I never knew I could fart that much.
You’d think I was a man or something.
What the hell? Did the cavemen scare away woolly mammoths by farting at them?
Good thing it was my husband in the yard. And not a bear.
I didn’t really want to test the prehistoric fart theory.