So, a Woman Walks up to This Bar...

The bar was packed, every stool occupied.  A Lea-sized space was open at the corner between a large black gentleman in a gray Viet Nam Vet sweatshirt and a pasty-faced male in a navy polo.  To Navy Polo’s right, a youth with a scraggly red beard and baseball cap hunched over his beer, elbows planted on the bar.  Overhead, TV screens blared assorted commercials and sports events as, eager for a glass of water, I slipped in between the men, heedless of the heat of their conversation. 

Laying a meaty hand on my arm, the very large vet said, “Young lady, I was just telling these fellas that no man should tell a woman what to do with her body.  These guys in Washington are trying to take away women’s rights.”  His gaze shifted to Navy Polo.   “Hell, you and me, we get into a ‘situation,’ we just walk away.  Women? Can’t do that.  No, they’re stuck with the problem. I tell my daughters and nieces all the time, ‘don’t you let no man tell you what you should or shouldn’t do.”  He gave my arm a little squeeze, and said, “Am I right?”

Before I could answer, Navy Polo said, “I’m not disagreeing with you.  I’m just saying, those videos about Planned Parenthood are very disturbing.  An organization getting government funding selling fetal parts for profit?  Very disturbing.”  Red Beard shook his head slowly in dismay and mumbled, "Yeah.  Disturbing."

Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward me and waited. 

This was not a college coffee house, book group, or Fairfield County cocktail party.  This was a neighborhood Bridgeport bar.  My husband and our friends were drinking beer, playing darts, and chatting about football; who would have guessed that this unlikely trio would be immersed in a discussion about women’s rights?  Not me. I had tucked them into a neat category from the moment I saw them, without even knowing I had.

 “Who wouldn’t be disturbed by those videos?” I said.  The men nodded thoughtfully, and I wondered what else to say. 

For I’ve been thinking about this too.  Truly, who wouldn’t be disturbed by those videos?  Yet, this conversation occurred before all the follow-up coverage.  Before I learned that only 3% of Planned Parenthood’s budget goes to abortions, which are not federally funded anyway.  That the vast majority of the organization’s resources go toward women’s health, particularly that of low-income women who would not receive care otherwise.  Politicians can claim what they will, but cutting funding to these programs would be an assault on women’s health.

Besides, I’m disturbed by any action by wealthy white men in Congress that might curb women’s rights and, unfortunately, abortion has become inextricably linked to those rights for precisely the reason the meaty vet pointed out.  The course of a girl’s life can be irrevocably altered by an ill-advised sex act.  Not so for a boy.  Men can walk away… and too often, they do.  

My mother recently attended a lecture hosted by Planned Parenthood.  The presenter spoke of the impact of the pill’s introduction and availability in the fifties.  “For the first time, it gave women their freedom.  Suddenly, they had a choice in the course of their future.  They didn’t have to get married or stay home to care for children if they weren’t ready.  They could pursue a career.”  My mother’s voice held wonder as she reflected on how recently women had gained some semblance of the self-determination men had always enjoyed.  Use of the pill reduces abortions, yet even the pill has opponents.    

My concern for women’s rights has been churned still further by media reports of female oppression and images of roiling gatherings of angry men in Middle-Eastern plazas. Not a woman in sight or, if she is, she’s swathed head-to-two in black.  What’s wrong with these men?  Inflamed beyond self-control by a glimpse of ankle or wrist?  And the response is to blame the women: bundle those temptresses in burkas, and flog them if the fabric slips.     

Back in the bar, three pairs of eyes were waiting, so onward I plunged.

 “I think the issue goes deeper than Planned Parenthood or abortion.  Boys need to be taught restraint.  From an early age.  Why is it always up to the girl?  Why must the weight and the worry and the blame rest always with the girl?  Young boys need to learn they have a responsibility.  Absolutely.  They need to learn restraint.”

My companions watched my face and listened intently, then nodded, turned to their beers, and took a swig.  Navy Polo said, “That makes more sense than anything else we’ve said tonight.” 

The meaty vet asked what I was drinking.

“Water,” I said with a grin.

“Water!”  The three men laughed.  “You standing here all this time for a glass of water?”      

Yes.  Also, apparently, although I’d not known this when I walked up to the bar, to crystallize my thoughts on the Planned Parenthood discussion and learn, yet again, not to judge others by appearance. 

  

Liberty for All?

The guide for our tour through the Randolph House in Williamsburg is sturdy and middle-aged.   Delia is African-American, her skin a pale cocoa.  Her close-cropped hair is graying and wrapped in a striped kerchief.  She wears a loose white muslin dress, tied at the waist with an apron.  She is good-natured and funny, and cracks up when I say Dave is my first husband.  Awkward.  Don’t even know why it came out that way, but she thinks it’s hysterical, and she smiles and shakes her head every time she glances my way. 

It is sweltering hot and those of us gathered beneath a shade tree in the yard of this stately eighteenth century house are grateful for the chance to rest and fan ourselves while sitting on rough wooden benches awaiting the start of our tour.   “Finish up your snacks and drinks now,” says Delia.   “Don’t want any spills inside.”

A young woman in red sneakers sips from a plastic cup.  “Can I bring it in if I’m really careful?  I just bought it.”

Delia shakes her head.  “Finish it up.  I don’t think any of these folks will mind if we sit a bit longer.”  She’s right: a visit to Williamsburg involves much weary walking and standing.   Once the woman chugs down her beverage, we rise regretfully from our perches and follow Delia through the entrance.

She is intelligent and knowledgeable, and I wonder if she is a history teacher when not impersonating a slave.  For that is her role.  Like every African-American interpreter in this colonial town, she represents one of the enslaved persons that made up 52% of the town’s population in the 1780’s.  “Enslaved persons” is Delia’s preferred term as it emphasizes the state of enslavement and the fact that this individual is not just property, but a person.  A person who has been wronged.  Our guide wants to be sure her charges understand this:  “There was no ‘good’ slavery.”

As we wind past the fine furniture, porcelain ornaments, and china that belonged to the privileged Randolph family, Delia tells us about those who performed the polishing, cleaning, cooking, and laundry.  Johnny and Eve were Mr. and Mrs. Randolph’s personal servants, so trusted they carried the house keys and supervised other workers.  Yet, when the Randolphs died and their wills were read, Johnny and Eve were items to be disbursed along with the bureaus and beds. “Life was hard work,” says Delia,  “and it was also uncertain.  An enslaved person could be given as a birthday present or to settle a debt.”

Later in the afternoon, Dave and I trudge down the hot brick sidewalk to the Charlton Stage, plotting our route from the shade of one tree to that of the next.  While tourists strive to stay cool in skimpy sundresses, shorts, and sandals, the interpreters we encounter are dressed in multiple layers.  I pity the men especially, in their long–sleeved shirts, waistcoats, overcoats, breeches, and woolen stockings.  Woolen stockings!  I shudder.    

We had arrived in Williamsburg the night before our tour and ate dinner at the Dog Street Pub.  Dave loved the beer and the heavy earthenware mug in which it was served.  I loved the creamy Welsh rarebit: a rich cheese sauce with a trace of stone ground mustard poured over a thick slice of toast.  I had eyed a gentleman sitting with his lady two tables over.  Although dressed in a shirt and slacks much like Dave’s, the man was regal.  Something about the angles of his face, the proud nose, and gray hair.  I whispered to Dave,” Bet you anything he’s Thomas Jefferson.”

Dave checked him out.  “Could be…”

Dave and I had prepared for this trip.  He finished Nathaniel Philbrick’s Bunker Hill a few weeks ago, and at Mercy Learning Center, I’ve been studying the Revolutionary War, Declaration of Independence, and Constitution with my students, Taiwo and Nicole.  In our discussions of the founding fathers’ efforts to plan for posterity, to plan for us, I have at times become teary at their foresight, even as Taiwo and Nicole have been wide-eyed with admiration.  So, Mr. Jefferson has been on my mind.   

Upon reaching Charlton Stage, Dave and I inch down the rows of low wooden benches to take our seats in the shade.  Soon Thomas Jefferson – indeed, it is my Mr. Jefferson from the pub – strides down a narrow walkway to the stage.  Seemingly impervious to the heat, he wears a tri-corn hat, white ruffled shirt, blue coat, brown breeches, and riding boots.

The stately Virginian slave-owner opens with references to the Declaration, and the self-evident truths of equality and the unalienable right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.  He asks us, “Consider, if you will, how do you feel when you do good?” 

“Happy,” we, the multitude, dutifully respond.

“And how do you feel if you do something deceitful, something you know not to be right?”

Most mumble the obvious, “bad,” but one thoughtful soul, breaking boldly from group-speak, suggests, “uncomfortable?”

“Indeed,” says Mr. Jefferson.  “Uncomfortable.  Such acts might keep us awake at night.”  And then he makes clear his case that in doing good lies the happiness of which he wrote. 

Our speaker asks for questions and parries concerns about a populace that does not bother to vote despite the right to do so, and a government seemingly in the power of a wealthy few.  In answering, he swivels on one booted heel and sweeps his arm, hand out, palm raised, in a gesture to encompass us all. “Is this not a government of the people?  It is to the people to hold that right and that responsibility firmly.  Speak out!  Just as you are doing here today.” 

I imagine the collective flurry of thoughts as each of us mentally composes letters to our congressmen demanding change as directed by Thomas Jefferson.  For to those of us sitting on these wooden benches in this town of centuries old clapboard and brick homes - having visited coopers and brickmakers, weavers and gunsmiths, having witnessed soldiers recruited for the upcoming battle of Yorktown, and having questioned the quandary of a fight for liberty by those served by slaves - the statesman before us is the Declaration’s author.

Jefferson invites Robert, a young boy of ten or so, to join him on the stage.  Robert has embraced the spirit of this visit to 1781 and wears breeches, stockings, and a tri-corn hat.  His mouth slightly open, his eyes wide, it is hard to say if he is star-struck or nervous as he stands before us, face-to-face with Mr. Jefferson. But there is no mistaking his look of lust when Jefferson draws a sword from its scabbard and hands it to him. 

“While not known as a soldier, I have had some success with the pen,” Jefferson says with a self-deprecating grace that draws a chuckle from the crowd.  He then places a quill in the boy’s other hand.  Predictably, he asks, “Master Robert.  Which do you suppose to be mightier? Pen or sword?”

The boy pauses and I wonder, would a child this age know the expected response?  And much as we Americans have been drilled in that concept and long for its truth, does it still hold in this world rent by war and driven by money?

As one, the audience holds its breath, leans forward, and wills young Robert to respond.

“The pen?”  His response is hesitant, a question really, but we burst into relieved applause.  Huzzah!

Jefferson smiles and nods, then reaches to retrieve the sword – gleaming, impressive, and undeniably mighty.  Robert’s expression is wistful as it disappears into its scabbard, and he is left with the pen.  Jefferson pats the child’s shoulder and the rest of us clap as the boy returns to his seat, proud owner of a new feather quill. 

Will Robert remember this moment, the regal man and his powerful words peppered with “lest we forget” and “forthwith”?  Later, as Dave and I muse at the extremes of inspiration and polarization represented in Williamsburg’s history, I wish I’d asked Mr. Jefferson where his plantation worked by slaves, no, enslaved persons, fits into his concept of liberty.

      

   

      

   

   

Train Crossing

The ticket is in here somewhere.  Of course it is.  Not five minutes ago, I presented it to the agent and stuffed it back into my purse.  Wallet, tissues, checkbook, keys, cosmetics bag, pens, pad.  For heaven’s sake.  As I rummage, my stomach clenches with anxiety.  “Can I hold it for you while you search?” a man asks.

Unique in this crowd garbed in tee-shirts, shorts, sundresses, and flip flops, the gentleman is slight and wiry, with a straggly gray goatee, spectacles, a brimmed black hat, long sleeved shirt, and overalls. His round-faced female companion wears a white bonnet, faded blue dress, and apron.  Amish.  Is that why I trust him?  For, without hesitation, I hand this stranger my unruly pocketbook, rustle in its depths a little more, and find my ticket.  To my thanks, he says, "That’s what we’re here for.”

My auto-smile must have conveyed incomprehension, for he adds, “To help each other.  That’s why we’re here.” 

I file this away with a nod as the loudspeaker booms, “Amtrak Capitol Limited for Washington, now boarding.”  A flurry ensues as passengers bend, twist, and reach to adjust straps and grab suitcases.  Dave and I smile our farewells to my helper and lose sight of the couple in the surge down the platform.

Once settled in our tiny roomette, we are giddy with excitement.  This ride is as much part of our journey as the stay in Williamsburg, our destination. Dave has longed for an overnight train trip, and when I was a child, I traveled every year with my mother and sisters to visit my grandparents in St. Louis.  In the fifties, the view from the train was enough to entertain three little girls, but I imagine degraded landscapes and subdivisions have replaced the farms, meadows, and glimpses of cows and horses that thrilled us then.  So, my husband and I are prepared with books, laptops, and magazines for this lovely stretch of open hours.

The train jolts forward as the whistle blows: long, hollow, soulful…beautiful, a sound from the past.  “Listen to it!” Dave says, beaming.  We are dancing in our seats, grinning at each other as the whistle clears the way, and we pull out. 

Chicago slips by, and beyond the windows, feathery Queen Anne’s lace, purple clover, sumac, and yellow Dutchman’s britches thrive along the rail beds amongst freight cars, tankers, smokestacks, and huge spools of cable.   The wildflowers bob and white butterflies toss like petals as we breeze by the rusting red lattice of an abandoned bridge.  Past occasional glimpses of the blue swath of Lake Michigan.  Past industrial compounds with mazes of conveyors, chutes and cranes.  Past seas of grasslands, puddled swamps, and a fast-moving river.  Past a decrepit gray house, standing by God’s grace alone, and three people perched in plastic chairs angled toward the track as if passing trains were the day’s entertainment. 

The whistle sounds its warning as we enter a village, and a striped bar lowers as the hooded owl-eyed lights of the road crossing flash red their alarm.  The train slows and Dave and I gaze out the window at fanciful Victorians with wrap-around porches and picket fences.  Country roads shaded with lush maples and oaks run parallel to the tracks then curve gently into the woods.  And yes, still there are red barns, undulating green fields, and grazing cows. 

On a bridge over a wide river, the train stops above a sandy shoal.  A leggy heron preens on its bank and orange canoes drift in the current, their occupants paddling languidly.  We pick up speed, leaving behind those people and that lazy moment in their lives, to zip beneath a craggy rock outcropping and then plunge into the darkness of a tunnel.  As in life, every minute is a surprise as we rush from light to dark to light again, from trailer parks to seas of untrammeled grasses to tamed rows of corn.   Every glance to this page to write is a risk, for I know I will miss something wonderful.                  

The dinner hour is announced over the intercom – joy! - so we lurch down the narrow hall to the dining car.  Tequila, with her broad smile, warm eyes, and lengthy dredlocks pulled to a bunch at the back of her head, directs us to our seats across from Norman, a retired history of art teacher.  For two hours we enjoy conversation, wine, salmon topped with halved cherry tomatoes, and moist, flavorful chicken.  

Norman fills us in on his years of teaching, traveling, and acting as a host/ambassador on a cruise line where his duties included “dancing with the single ladies.”  He grins often, his eyes crinkling closed every time.  As Dave and I have just visited the Chicago Institute of Art, we are bubbling with enthusiasm over some of the famous paintings we saw: American Gothic and Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.”’ Norman knows them well, as he does every artwork and historic site we mention from our travels.  At 82, he is heading home after touring out west with his family, and is looking forward to a solo trip to Italy in the fall. 

When Dave and I return to our roomette after dinner, it has been transformed.  The seats have disappeared and two sleeping berths made up, the corners of the sheets folded back invitingly.

Who will take the upper berth? 

When I was a kid, that was the desired spot.  Did my sisters and I flip a coin or fight for it?  Don’t recall, but Dave and I snuggle into the lower berth to discuss the benefits of upper and lower, watching lights whizz by in the darkness beyond the window.  The train sounds its ghostly warning of a road crossing and I remind Dave of “Train Whistle Blowing,” a song my friend Janice and I used to sing with our students in music class.   “Don’t sing it,” Dave pleads.  It is not his favorite song.   

“Rockin’, Rollin’, Ridin’, out along the bay.  All bound for morning town many miles away.” I launch into the tune with verve, the wail of the whistle and the clatter of the rails as my background accompaniment.  While it’s possible this is not a penalty for my little chorus, at bedtime, I’m the one to haul up top, snap the safety net into place, and hope I don’t have to go to the bathroom too many times during the night.

Happily, I don’t.  We both sleep well, and after sloshy, bumpy efforts to wash up in the restroom, we return to the dining car for breakfast.

I’m not so sure about this morning’s dining companion.

Ron’s gray hair is neatly combed back from a high forehead; his glasses perch on a strong nose.  He is slender and handsome, but his smile is often a sneer, and he counters our raves about last night’s dinner with the opinion that we’d simply been lucky in choosing the only good options on the menu.  He is annoyed by the chill of the air conditioner and clenches his jaw as he leans forward across the table to state, “The American public deserves better rail service.” 

I have him all wrapped up and tucked in a cranky old man pigeonhole when he launches into a hilarious tale about his mother-in-law, “an old battle-axe, too mean to die.” He transports us to 1930’s Brooklyn to meet his childhood pals Wendel, Josh, and Howie.  Ron and Dave crack up while I gasp at tales of ink poured onto the milkman’s white horse, and heavy coat buttons persistently peppering a rival’s window, a chinese water torture of sorts, until a filched ball was returned.  The three pranksters grew up to become a businessman, lawyer, and supreme court justice, and in confiding their histories, Ron’s disapproving visage relaxed into that of the mischievous boy he had been.

After breakfast, Dave and I return to our roomette to find our seats restored. We settle in and marvel at the view out the window.  At a crawl, we are passing through Ashland, Virginia.  It’s easy to imagine ourselves in a horse-drawn carriage for we are cruising sedately down what appears to be Main Street, flanked on either side by mown green lawns and stately Victorian houses, the porch railings still decorated with red, white, and blue bunting.  The train picks up speed as homes give way to open fields and split rail fences. 

The loudspeaker informs us that we are running late: shared tracks have added to our time.  Good.  Dave and I relish every added hour, every peek into passing towns and vistas.  Ron had insisted “the American people should demand a bullet train, like the one from London to Paris.”  I get it: sometimes it’s all about the destination. But, mounted on the wall in my daughter’s second grade classroom was a poster that read, “Childhood should be a journey instead of a race,” and I think of the Amish man who offered to hold my bag at the station in Washington. I think of Norman, Ron, and the people in the plastic chairs watching the trains.  I think of rusting bridges, Queen Anne’s lace entwined with webs of wire, and a glimpse of a day on the river in an orange canoe.  And I say, forget the bullet; I’ll take the slow route.   

  

Whose Space?

Tentatively, I opened the door to the shed and stood, listening.  Silence.  Silence for a while.  And then… a sigh.  A drawn out sigh of resignation that ended in a snuffle. The sigh was deep, both in its melancholy and in conveying a sense of size: something was in the Have-a-Heart trap in the loft, and it was no mouse.

Whatever it was, I knew it was trapped, so why was I too anxious to climb the ladder to the loft and look?  The creature could not hurt me, but maybe guilt was nibbling at me some.  Why is it always animals that lose out?  Why are they always the ones trapped, killed, and removed?  Who is really in whose space?

This is an ongoing discussion for Dave and me… as the groundhog parades her annual litter of three into the yard, as deer browse the just-about-to-bloom flowers in the garden, as something tears down insulation and knocks over stored jars to make his new residence in our shed more comfy.  Dave growls in frustration while I side with the animals.  We live in the woods; we made that choice.  The creatures belong here; we are the ones who moved in. 

When first we heard heavy thumpings in the eaves of the shed and saw the type of damage inflicted, we were pretty sure our new tenant was a raccoon.  A month before, soon after the snow thawed, we’d seen a large, snoozy fellow at our bird feeders.  It was early in the day, unusual, so, concerned the raccoon might be sick, I contacted our town’s Animal Control Department.

The uniformed Animal Control officer arrived within half an hour.  She was soft-spoken and seemed knowledgeable.  Together we stood on the back porch in watery sunlight that held no warmth and watched as the raccoon spotted us and lumbered down a slope and out of sight.  A minute later, he peered over the rise, and seeing we’d come no closer, returned to scavenge for fallen seeds. 

The animal was thickly furred, steady in gait, but wary. “Looks healthy, “ said the officer.  “Just hungry.  Might be a nursing mother desperate to build up calories.” 

I told her I was happy to share seeds, and just wanted to make sure rabies weren’t an issue.  The officer was surprised I wasn’t more adamant about removal.  “Most people aren’t so tolerant or understanding.” she said.  Sad news; I hadn’t thought I was being particularly tolerant and understanding, simply cautious and rational.  “Most people just want to get rid of them,” she added. 

But now, a large something was making a mess of the shed – the shed that holds our garden tools, coolers, vases, portable chairs, and assorted summer-type-stuff – so we had to take action. 

Dave turned to Google, typed in “raccoon in my shed,” contacted the first company listed, and made an appointment.  “Before this guy comes over,” I said, “make sure he plans to release the animal, not kill it.”  Glad I asked.  When Dave called back, he was told that by Connecticut law, “nuisance animals” removed from a property must be exterminated. 

What???

The justification given was the need to curb the spread of rabies, but how many healthy animals snuggle their families into what they think is a cozy little den, except it’s someone’s attic, chimney, or shed?  The creatures are trapped, removed, and often needlessly killed…sometimes leaving behind babies to starve.

We cancelled that appointment, and I called a wildlife organization for advice.  When I described the nature of the damage and the raccoon we’d seen in the yard, the representative at the center also believed the shed-invader was a raccoon, and likely, a nursing mother.  He was well aware of the Connecticut law, but gave me the number for “the only organization we recommend and trust” that might be able to help.  The rep also added, “If it’s a mother and she has babies, it’s really best to leave them in place until she takes them out herself.”  While I was quietly thrilled at hosting this little family and helping them survive, Dave was less so, but resigned to doing the right thing.

When I spoke by phone to Phil, the individual recommended by the wildlife center, he reviewed various removal strategies at length.  Should the raccoon be male, Phil would trap and release it elsewhere.  If it were a female with babies, the first option would be to release her from the trap, sprinkle the area with male raccoon urine, and hope the mom removed the babies herself.  Apparently male raccoons sometimes eat offspring, so females are rightfully cautious.  If, however, Phil found the occupied space to be too large, the urine plan would be ineffective.  “And if we can’t locate the pups,” he said, “I’ll have to release the mother on your property.  You don’t want the babies dying in the wall.”  Definitely not.

The next day, Phil and his associate, Jeff, came by to scope out the scene and set the trap.  Phil walked briskly around the perimeter of the shed, pointing out numerous openings and the smooth hollows in the dirt before them where animals had “bellied” their way in.  Then he went into the shed, surveyed the damage, and took pictures of the area beneath the eaves where Dave and I had heard the thumping. 

“It would be impossible for a human to climb in there to retrieve pups, “ he said. “And sealing all this off?  There are countless ways for animals to get in.  If you’re serious about it, you’ll have to build a concrete foundation around the base of the shed.  For the time being, though, we’ll set the trap and see who shows up.”     

And so, the next morning, I stood in the shed, just below the loft, listening to those sighs, and wondering who had shown up.

Phil and Jeff returned in the early afternoon.  Before we opened the shed door, Phil bid us be quiet so we could listen for the whimpers of hungry babies.  Again, I stood in the entrance to the shed, listening, along with these two kind men.  Shhhh.  Listening.  Shhhh.  Still listening…

Nothing.  If there were babies around, they weren’t giving anything away.  Maybe their Mama had warned them to be quiet until she returned.  

It was time to rescue the poor trapped soul in the loft.  With a gentle voice and soothing sounds, Phil climbed the ladder and confirmed that we’d caught a raccoon.  Jeff called up to him, “male or female?” 

“Male,” said Phil. 

“Are you totally sure?” I asked Jeff.  I hated the thought of stranded babies.

“100% sure,” he assured me.

It was a big trap and a big raccoon, and it took both men to lower the captive over the lip of the loft and down the ladder.  The raccoon turned and twisted, trying to gain footing, but he did not scrabble or hiss.  I felt an odd mixture of relief and sadness; this raccoon had chosen our shed, and we were sending him away.

I followed Jeff and Phil out to the pick-up truck with its bed filled with cages set on end.  Five of them held furry bodies curled within, each with beautiful masked faces that turned to look at me.  One stretched a foreleg up the side of its cage when Jeff lowered my raccoon in beside it.  “Look at that,” I said.

“Sometimes they hug each other,” Jeff remarked as he gently sprayed my raccoon with water.  “In case he’s overheated,” he explained.  “He’s been in that trap for a while.”

Phil had mentioned that a nursing mother and her babies were slated for removal from another property on the same run as mine, so I asked if they’d picked them up yet.  He nodded, led me to the cab of the truck, and bent to pick up a small cardboard box on the floor on the passenger side.  He began to open the flaps of the box, then paused and said quietly, “don’t touch them…” 

Nestled in a soft cloth were four tiny raccoons.  Perfect, fuzzy, eyes closed, and masked.  I wondered which of the captives in the back was their mother.  “They’ll be hungry soon,” Phil said, “so we’ve got to get going so we can give them back to their mom.”

As the truck drove away, my heart was full.  Jeff and Phil were so kind, yet I was teary at the thought of this truck full of animals that had made the mistake of choosing a home in the wrong place; at the thought of other truckloads of similar sad cargo that would be taken away and killed.  And I was so grateful, so very grateful, that these raccoons, my raccoon, and the box of beautiful babies, would be treated with compassion and released in the woods.         

Note:   It is a sad statement that organizations seeking to deal with animals humanely must remain anonymous because of Connecticut’s heartless law, but so it is. I plan to write letters to my congressmen asking them to repeal this law, and I hope others will too.