Woodland Neighbors

The bark of the fox was loud, close, and strident. Was it distressed? I ran downstairs to check, unsure what my next step would be if I discovered an injured fox. I looked out the front window and scanned the road. No fox, but a bobcat sauntered down the path through the garden. I knocked lightly on the window, and he glanced over his shoulder, his face maned, wild, and beautiful. He might as well have shrugged, he was that uninterested in me, but the fox barked again, and he took off. 

 

During the winter, two red foxes frolicked in the snow as I watched, breath held, from my bathroom window; a tiny bonus earned during one of my many middle-of-the-night pee-breaks. It is my habit to scan the yard as it slopes along the stone wall to the edge of the woods. Is that shadowed form a stump or a bear? The stump has been there for decades, yet still, I check it nightly for signs of life. Slow learner. 

 

But one morning last May, Dave called softly, “Lea. You might want to see this.”

 

I was still abed, sleeping, and just barely registered his voice. Sometimes my petulant streak emerges, and I ignore the call for a time or two. Thank goodness, however, I responded and joined him in the bathroom where he stood in the tub, phone upheld and filming. A black bear, sleek, handsome, and mighty, was enjoying a birdseed snack at the feeder in the yard below.

We watched as he climbed the stone wall, lifted his nose to the air, sniffed, and returned to the seeds. Annoyed by the paltry sprinkles released by the pat of a paw, he stood on his hind legs, knocked the feeder down, and sat on the grass for a picnic. 

 

Dave and I were captivated by the bear’s every action. The ripple of muscle beneath glossy fur.  The ease with which he moved and took care of his feeder frustration. His relaxed approach once seated for his meal. 

 

When he’d had his fill, he ambled around the side of the house. I scampered downstairs and into the front hall to watch through the window. He stopped at the road, looked both ways, turned right, and lumbered off.

 

After that visit, our son gave us a movement-sensitive night camera, and we have enjoyed watching our nocturnal visitors: coyotes, fox, possums, skunks, and raccoons. During the day, turkey families periodically parade through our yard as well, their heads swiveling on necks that stretch and contract like rubber bands. We don’t see deer as much as we used to, not since hunting season was expanded to four months. Weary of my animal-advocacy, people explain with earnest patience that if not for the compassionate culling of herds by hunters, deer would suffer and starve. My protests about habitat loss and predator populations diminished by hunting are met with eye rolls and head shakes. I push back when some complain about chomped flowers: we have Stop & Shop; the deer and bear have our gardens and feeders.

 

Given the increase in wildlife sightings overall, I’ve wondered if our woodland neighbors were emboldened when Covid confined us, the marauding humans, behind closed doors. But we were set free months ago, and our quiet country road has again become a speedway for neighborhood kids on motorbikes and quads. I hope our fellow creatures are cautious: we live in the woods after all, and this is their dominion. We are the crooked cog throwing off the ecosystem, and if we are to survive, we must learn our place.   

 

  

Note: in our area, we are fortunate to have Wildlife in Crisis, an organization knowledgeable in caring for wounded wildlife: 203-544-9913   

  

The Stephen Sylvestro Memorial Parking Lot Scramble

While Dave has a relaxed relationship with Time, I am obsessively punctual. How was it possible, then, that I was running late for Steve’s memorial race? Dave and I were in separate cars, so, much as I wanted to, I could not blame him. I tried to quell the clutch of panic as I pulled into the winding driveway of The Inn at Longshore. 

 

Lord, it is long. Lovely, yes, cutting through golf greens between towering maples, but I was late, and had no patience for beauty. 

 

As instructed in the email I’d skimmed detailing race particulars, I bypassed the Inn and the main parking lot and continued left to a lower lot… but, where was everybody? No signs, no hubbub, no people. When Steve’s wife, Debby, drove in, followed by Dave and several other cars, I felt better. The race would not start without Deb. 

 

I called Hallie, whose husband Buck, with friends Miggs and Marty, had organized the race. “Where are all the Sylvestros?” Hallie asked when she answered. 

 

“In the lot by the marina.”

 

“Ah, no. Circle back ‘round and take a right at the inn. I’ll be out front to direct you.”

 

Having been Steve’s work wife, Hallie knows us well. How very Sylvestro to go left when the instructions said right. Somewhere Steve was laughing at the perfect imperfection of his family’s entrance. After all, this race was called a Parking Lot Scramble as a tip of the hat to Steve’s habitual race launch. His red Miata would pull in late, park, and he’d dash to the start. If he hadn’t personally arranged our mistaken detour, he was enjoying it thoroughly from his heavenly perch.

 

Obediently, I circled back, down the long drive, trying not to look at the clock on my dashboard. How had I missed seeing the red Miata parked to the right on my first swing through? Well, I had, but what a wonderful prop for the Start and Finish of this race. 

 

Miggs and Buck were bustling about, greeting, checking people in, and distributing commemorative mugs and certificates. They had conceived and organized this event and like loving, responsible parents had spent wakeful nights worrying they’d oversleep this morning (they didn’t); wondering if the Miata’s presence would make Deb happy or sad (happy); and worrying the weather would hold.

 

And far beyond holding, it was sparkling, glorious! Drenched in sunshine sent by the heavens, or perhaps again, by Steve himself, the people he loved and who loved him right back, scrambled from their cars and set off on the route.

 

The course of Steve and Debby’s lives was represented in those scramblers: son Trevor, daughter-in-law Lisa, and grand-daughters Ava and Taylor. Brother Dave, our Casey, PJ, and little Eleanor. “Adopted” sons, daughters, and their families. Niece Mackenzie from Rhode Island, friend Dave from New Hampshire, and colleagues and friends from The Southport School, Southport Racquet Club, races, and The Mission.  So many threads merging, not as a tapestry - that over-used metaphor - but rather a banner at Steve’s Finish line. 

 

I’m no runner, but I had plenty of company on my walk. It was a pleasant meander past the Inn and down the lane, and Mary, Len, Janice, Gerry, and I started out slow, with a stop at the Inn’s restroom. No one was rushing, and the day was a delight. Many times, I have driven away from that inn, my mind swirling with benefit checklists of linens, lanterns, programs, and flowers. How had I not noticed the shimmering waterway alight with golden rod? The feathery silver fronds of tall, waving grasses? The songs of crickets and birds?

 

Too busy. For some, this event, like life, was a race. It certainly would’ve been for Steve: competition was his fuel. But today, for most, it was a time to catch up and reminisce about Steve, his grin and shaggy white hair, his endurance, humor, spirit, and courage back when he could do anything he set out to do. 

 

His brother Dave rode a bike, doubling around to take pictures, pulling over to grab engaging shots: families jogging, toddlers peeping from strollers, ponytails swinging, and smiles universal. At the end of the race (I came in 63^rd), no one was ready to say good-bye. 

 

After winning, a given, Steve would’ve gone for a follow-up lunch at his second home, the Old Post Tavern.  So Buck, Hallie, and Patrick, the restaurant’s owner and Steve’s dear friend, invited us, all 70 participants and their families, over for continued hugs… and salad, sandwiches and pasta. There might have been a few beers in that mix as people mingled, chatted, and laughed. 

 

Hallie can barely say Steve’s name without tears and Deb hates public speaking, but there were things they wanted said. Not easy for either, but, after cheers and encouragement, Hallie sat on the bar and raised a toast. Deb stood beside her, beaming love and gratitude; Steve’s people are hers as well, after all, and they have buoyed and sustained her since his departure.   

 

As it is often with memorials and funerals, it was fun, a reunion reinforcing a revelation: we can be happy again. Happy, despite loss, happy in the memories. Happy in being with the people Steve loved and who loved him. 

 

Steve would want it so; knowing him, he’d insist.