Lionel train and a big green sack of Lincoln Logs, just for Cubby. Seeing them brought back memories of my own Lincoln Logs and the way they tasted as I chewed them in my sandbox.
My father seemed to share my own philosophy when selecting toys for Cubby. Both of us bought him things we’d loved when we were little. To us, time-tested wood and metal toys were infinitely superior to the modern plastic stuff they advertised on TV.
Little Bear’s father was in many ways the opposite of my own. He paved driveways, and people called him the Old Boy, or Easy Ed. Friends from the paving industry, where smoking-hot asphalt is laid down four inches thick, had their own name for him: HalfInch. My father was distinguished and very well spoken. The Old Boy was a genial thug: three feet wide, five feet tall, with a firm handshake and a ready laugh. My father had stopped drinking years ago, but the Old Boy still loved his whiskey.
The Old Boy and his second wife, Alice, loved to feed the wildlife, and there was plenty of it where they lived. He’d built a house at the base of Mount Norwottock—a few miles from our home—with nothing but woods for miles behind him. Black bear, raccoons, squirrels, foxes, deer, and just about every other creature that lived in those parts came calling on the back patio, all clamoring for treats. Visiting their house was sort of like being in a zoo at feeding time, except that there were no cages and we were in the way.
The Old Boy and Alice presided over their wild kingdom, doling out meat to the carnivores and corncobs and table scraps to the plant eaters. It was a remarkable thing to see. Predators and prey would be side by side on the patio, eating the Old Boy’s food. Foxes and turkeys might have been sworn enemies in the forest, but they got along fine at his place. I never saw a fight.
Cubby’s grandpa also liked to get the family together for picnic dinners, thinking the same model of harmony through food could be achieved with humans. After attending a few of those dinners, I became a little leery of them. So did Little Bear. After all, anytime you mix twenty people, a lot of liquor, and hungry wild animals there is good potential for trouble. There were moments when it really wasn’t clear which of us were the eaters and which were the food. One night I was sitting peaceably at the picnic table when a raccoon walked right up into my lap and took a piece of meat off my plate. When I say raccoon, I’m not talking about some soft, cuddly woodland creature. This was a burly thirty pounder with teeth an inch long and claws to match. Not the sort of thing you want to fight over a scrap of steak, especially when it’s already in its mouth. The Old Boy laughed as that fat old coon wandered into the woods with my dinner. I got a new steak off the grill, where the Old Boy stoodguard with a big set of tongs. He was the undisputed Duke of the Patio. No beast dared to take food from him.
I realized at that moment that what seemed friendly might not be, and it was possible the animals were all putting on an act just to get food. I know some of the people were that way, though it was the liquor that lured them, not corn on the cob.
Cubby had an even harder time. Not only did he have to watch for aggressive wildlife, he had to keep an eye out for pets, too. The Old Boy had two dogs, Bailey and Beaver, that were just about his size. They were friendly as could be, but if he walked onto the patio with a donut they wouldn’t think twice about taking it for themselves. They’d chase him, knock him down, eat his chocolate cream donut, and then lick him good. He was left on his bottom, empty-handed, with sugary chocolate slobber all over his face as two laughing dogs divvied up his dessert.
Cubby didn’t like being bullied by hounds. At first he grabbed his mom for protection, but he got bigger fast, and pretty soon he stood up to the dogs himself. When one or the other of them grabbed for his food,
My father seemed to share my own philosophy when selecting toys for Cubby. Both of us bought him things we’d loved when we were little. To us, time-tested wood and metal toys were infinitely superior to the modern plastic stuff they advertised on TV.
Little Bear’s father was in many ways the opposite of my own. He paved driveways, and people called him the Old Boy, or Easy Ed. Friends from the paving industry, where smoking-hot asphalt is laid down four inches thick, had their own name for him: HalfInch. My father was distinguished and very well spoken. The Old Boy was a genial thug: three feet wide, five feet tall, with a firm handshake and a ready laugh. My father had stopped drinking years ago, but the Old Boy still loved his whiskey.
The Old Boy and his second wife, Alice, loved to feed the wildlife, and there was plenty of it where they lived. He’d built a house at the base of Mount Norwottock—a few miles from our home—with nothing but woods for miles behind him. Black bear, raccoons, squirrels, foxes, deer, and just about every other creature that lived in those parts came calling on the back patio, all clamoring for treats. Visiting their house was sort of like being in a zoo at feeding time, except that there were no cages and we were in the way.
The Old Boy and Alice presided over their wild kingdom, doling out meat to the carnivores and corncobs and table scraps to the plant eaters. It was a remarkable thing to see. Predators and prey would be side by side on the patio, eating the Old Boy’s food. Foxes and turkeys might have been sworn enemies in the forest, but they got along fine at his place. I never saw a fight.
Cubby’s grandpa also liked to get the family together for picnic dinners, thinking the same model of harmony through food could be achieved with humans. After attending a few of those dinners, I became a little leery of them. So did Little Bear. After all, anytime you mix twenty people, a lot of liquor, and hungry wild animals there is good potential for trouble. There were moments when it really wasn’t clear which of us were the eaters and which were the food. One night I was sitting peaceably at the picnic table when a raccoon walked right up into my lap and took a piece of meat off my plate. When I say raccoon, I’m not talking about some soft, cuddly woodland creature. This was a burly thirty pounder with teeth an inch long and claws to match. Not the sort of thing you want to fight over a scrap of steak, especially when it’s already in its mouth. The Old Boy laughed as that fat old coon wandered into the woods with my dinner. I got a new steak off the grill, where the Old Boy stoodguard with a big set of tongs. He was the undisputed Duke of the Patio. No beast dared to take food from him.
I realized at that moment that what seemed friendly might not be, and it was possible the animals were all putting on an act just to get food. I know some of the people were that way, though it was the liquor that lured them, not corn on the cob.
Cubby had an even harder time. Not only did he have to watch for aggressive wildlife, he had to keep an eye out for pets, too. The Old Boy had two dogs, Bailey and Beaver, that were just about his size. They were friendly as could be, but if he walked onto the patio with a donut they wouldn’t think twice about taking it for themselves. They’d chase him, knock him down, eat his chocolate cream donut, and then lick him good. He was left on his bottom, empty-handed, with sugary chocolate slobber all over his face as two laughing dogs divvied up his dessert.
Cubby didn’t like being bullied by hounds. At first he grabbed his mom for protection, but he got bigger fast, and pretty soon he stood up to the dogs himself. When one or the other of them grabbed for his food,
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