Darling Sylvia, Thank you for being my cheerleader. I have an ambiguous relationship with raccoons. In 1965, I worked for the Crawford County Road Commission as Restroom Attendant Badge #278. I was in charge of the privies along I-75, M-72 and Old US 27 and also had responsibility for roadkill. It was in my secondary responsibility that I met Rocky a mile south of the Big Wheel. Following SOP, I stopped the truck and chose my tool. I slipped the blade of my flat shovel under Rocky. He reared up, snarled and lunged for my arm. What he said about my intelligence, as he scrambled through the underbrush, made me blush. Rocky was not my cheerleader.
I encountered Rocky II on the side of Hubberston Road as you and I returned from Papa John’s farm. I needed an animal skin to pass Dr. Eyer’s Zoology class. I parked ahead of the animal’s body and based on my previous training approached the body carefully. I nudged the carcass, and she rolled over and glared at me. I returned to the trunk of the Pontiac, removed a tire iron and claimed my prize. Our ride back to campus was quiet. My city mouse bride to be did not appreciate this country boy’s skill set. Neither you nor Rocky II were my cheerleader.
Last week you discovered Rocky III, a forty pound dead male raccoon. He was fifteen yards downhill from the front door of our lake cottage. You refilled my coffee and quietly informed me that we had a problem. I threw rocks at the creature hoping he would run off – he didn’t. I procrastinated as long as I could, got up, searched for a shovel and applied my job skills of long ago. I dug the grave in the gravel and peat and dragged him by the tail to his resting place. A cloud of flies followed as his pallbearers. You were my cheerleader. You stood by with extra tools, kept me company, and expressed your appreciation out loud. In our marriage, we have learned that there are moments when praise from our partner for stepping out our comfort zone for the good of the we is essential. Love you, Eddie Bert
