My Enemy - My Sounding Board

The "nature" in my writing process

My enemy - my sounding board

 

I stare out at a beautiful pine tree as I write. It actually blocks the buildings that are going up just across the lot from me. I love pine trees. They helps ground me and show color and beauty even in the coldest, darkest periods. These types of trees are one of the reasons I moved here. I feel a connection with them.

This one stands about 40’ tall, not grand by any scale. But it stands evergreen all year; sparkly when holding mounds of snow in its strong branches before the wind and sun send the flakes floating on again. It is shading and protective, with its long twisting branches ending in needled clusters, dotted with cones. Yet it is also open and visible all the way through allowing for the light to flitter down in that diffuse way where the dust and pollen are clearly visible floating on unfelt air currents. Its flakey brown bark is scratched up by the chubby red/grey squirrel, that uses the tree as a highway. From where to where I am unsure. He moves from the roof to tree, down three floors and off to places not far away, but unknown to me.

That squirrel is my enemy. That squirrel is becoming an integral part of my writing team.

For a while he and is pals where living in my roof. I could hear them at night digging around up there, making a cozy, warm spot before winter set it in. Then running and playing and bouncing off every bit of duct work and pipe up there at whatever hour seemed to suit them best. I had them evicted from that home and the access points they used closed off. And I did feel a little bad about it. But as someone who travels for work, I certainly did not want to come home late after some cross-country trip to find them snuggled on my couch watching The Real Housewives of Wherever and eating my crackers and cheese spread, because inside my home is even warmer than in the roof crawl space and there is cheese and crackers!

And he knows it was me who ratted on him and his friends and forced them to move out. And he lets me know it every Saturday while I write.

He is a late sleeper, often appearing around 10am on Saturday. I see him jump into the tree and scramble his way down to the ground in search of whatever he finds for breakfast.  Once he has completed his rounds, which often includes a sprint to the very top of the tree to chirp loudly alerting all is compatriots about an incoming dog from the dog park, he will come and sit in the notch that is just about in line with my window. He’ll squish himself into that tangle of branches, tail just off to the side, into that “sitting” positions squirrels take up when they are just watching. But he is more than just watching me.

He stares into the window; or maybe it is more of a glare into the window, and ever so slowly flicks his tail, saying nothing and just giving me the evil eye. Oh yes, it is an angry look, his beady black eyes fixed on me as I type out words that mean nothing to him. He is letting me know he has not forgotten; he is holding a grudge and non-verbally telling me know that should ever leave the patio screen door open…he will get his revenge.

His tactics do get my attention. I will often stop my writing for a few minutes to stare back at him; watch him watching me. A few weeks ago, I decided I should try and engage with him - talk to him. Originally, I tried reasoning with him, give him my side of the story, but all he did not seem to care - he just kept at it, shooting daggers from his eyes at me. So, I moved on to sharing my work with him. Reading what I’ve written that day to him, asking him for input and changes he thinks would make the story better. He silence speaks volumes.

But I think I may be getting to him. Before when he judged that he had conveyed his displeasure to a satisfactory level he would suddenly sprint out of the notch, up the branch, onto the roof and away, without so much of a see you next week, like an angry lover storming off and slamming the door behind them. The last few times however he has more slowly uncoiled himself from his perch and will take a moment to stretch himself out a bit before trotting about halfway up the branch. Here, at a point where we can both very clearly see each other, he will stop and just… look. The fire in his eyes and the “I’m going to hurt you” stare he had just moments ago have been replaced with a more relaxed gaze that conveys a bit of understanding; a “thanks for spending a few minutes together chatting over coffee” look. One that I hope someday in the future may even be followed by a slight head nod indicating he enjoyed what I’ve written. Then he will continue his journey back onto the roof to carries on with his day of the burying of things, the digging up of other things and the chirping at the dogs.

I’m sure he is still trying to find a way back into the roof and my living room and to my cheese and crackers. And given the chance I know he will take it and do as much damage as he can. But for those brief moments at the end of our staring contests, I feel like I have a partner in the crime that is my writing - a little red/grey sounding board for my ideas. Or at least some being who will listen to me read my work aloud, only slightly judge it, but allow me the opportunity to set the words free out into the universe.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I love this--"His silence speaks volumes." Ha! You mean.. the squirrel wasn't a literary scholar? You've got some great humor going with this one. I have a suggestion. At first, you describe a group, perhaps a family, of squirrels, but then it becomes one particular one. It would be good, I think, if you singled him out by giving him some kind of name, like "Papa squirrel", "big nose" or something similar.