Senior Daze

by Katie Bourg

About Katie: Having arrived in time for the Great (?) Depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.

It looks like spring may just be around the corner. We got our hour back, and don't have to rush home to beat the dark. The daffodils by my front window have nice fat buds on them. And I spent money on some new primroses.

We could still get fooled. Recent snowstorms aren't conducive to predictions of good weather. But it does seem hopeful.

I was thinking of other springs this morning as I sat down to read the paper. There on the front page was a story about some unfortunate beavers. They got caught in Mill Creek traffic and paid the ultimate price for crossing the road. It triggered a memory.

Right after WWII, an urge for home ownership exploded. People cooped up in inadequate housing during the war years went looking for land. My father (Herb) was among them. He found a lake named Desire. It was an overgrown mud hole with woodpeckers, bluejays, squirrels, a few fish, and a bunch of busy beavers. Herb grinned at stately cedars and delicate trilliums, and called for bulldozers and dynamite. In no time the neighborhood was properly devastated.

An old owl sat on a broken branch of hemlock, surveyed the damage and screeched, "Who Who Who!"

The local fish are not the fools people think they are. They dove to the deepest part of the lake. Humans were a species to be avoided.

The beavers paid no attention to newcomers. It was a busy summer season. They had branches to gather, mud to pack. Some irresponsible father beavers might have time to swim around being cute and chomping on tasty twigs. Mother beavers and kids had to get the dams in shape for winter.

All lakes have a runoff, Nature's way of keeping the lake within its shores. Beavers did not let that bother them, and built their dams at the runoff.

Problems arrived with the humans. Not satisfied with stripping the land and building boxes to hide in, they messed up the beach with docks and sand, which covered the tasty twigs.

The beavers built bigger dams, blocking the runoff completely. The water began to swallow the docks, sand and even the boxes the humans hid in.

The humans screamed, "Something has to be done! The beavers are ruining our neighborhood!" Of course, the wood folks knew who was ruining the neighborhood.

Human outrage followed.

"Get rid of the beavers," some said.

"No, you can't destroy Nature!" said others. As if they hadn't already done so.

One night, with only the owl watching, someone sneaked down to the beaver dam with a stick or two of dynamite and blew it up. "That'll teach them," thought the destroyer.

Winter was closing in, and beavers had no time to learn. As soon as they landed in the water, the poor little devils started gathering twigs again. In no time they had their dam rebuilt and the water was rising.

Humans are slow to learn. Soon the lake rocked with another explosion. Beavers and twigs were flying every which way. The beavers landed in the water, and went back to building.

Tempers shortened as beaver-lovers and beaver-haters had much to say to each other. They sounded like a bunch of bent-beaked owls screeching, "Who Who Who!"

Just when it seemed it couldn't get any worse, a trouble maker suggested, "Let's start a Community Club." Immediately, everyone saw a chance to gain control of something. They all joined the club and intensified the fighting. It looked like the beginning of World War III, right in the middle of the lake.

When someone asked where to put the clubhouse, it started a new fight and four new factions. All this kept them busy until spring, giving the beavers a chance to complete their dams and get through the winter.

I haven't been back to the lake in quite some years. But as far as I know, the humans are still fighting. Occasional explosions indicate the beavers are still damming up the runoff.

If this terrible tale has any meaning as all, I suppose it has to be that humans are awfully hard on a neighborhood.

However, a good beaver can learn to live with anything.

Except Mill Creek traffic.