Spring brings creatures to the hollow

Yips and howls of a small pack of coyotes have returned to the hollow. They have been absent for a couple of weeks and I’ve missed them. Their wild sounds remind me that we are a part of a world that thrived long before any of us showed up. I harbor no ill will toward them, however, others do, and I try to understand.

What may be the last snowfall has come and gone, and when the melt began, I stepped out onto my lane and took a farewell photo. I like winter. Up until eight or 10 years ago I always carried a pair of ice skates in my trunk, never knowing when a groomed rink or frozen pond would present itself. In addition, when on vacation in the winter I’d rent skates and I can proudly say I’ve skated in places like New York City, Chicago, Munich, Salzburg, and area rinks. My favorite spot is one where I can skate alone, a frozen marsh north of a nearby town. It borders a highway and if I’m skating in December I pull on an Icelandic sweater, put on a red Santa hat, and hit the ice. Sometimes folks in passing autos honk and, I hope, smile.

Barred owls are also back in the hollow. I stood outside on a recent warm night listening to a call and response between two of them. For all I know they were discussing the presence of an old man nearby. Maybe not. It’s not always about me.

And squirrels are busy. Last week, driving through a town north of here, a squirrel ran under my car and I couldn’t stop in time. Looking in the rearview I could see the little guy flopping around on the pavement behind me, so I turned around to finish him off, hoping that my choice was merciful, gentle, and quick. If not, on judgment day there will be a squirrel standing next to me, among others, pointing at me, telling God that I am the one who did him in.

It has been a week of creatures. Last night I came to a stop on my gravel road, waiting for a gorgeous creature to cross in my headlights, a skunk. I rather like skunks, at a distance, of course, sort of the same with people. Arms-length is my preferred stance.

Current popular culture doesn’t interest me much, as I’ve got enough useless information in my head, thank you very much, but the story surrounding the death of actor Gene Hackman has been fascinating, and heartbreaking. Those of us who have experience as caregivers for those with Alzheimer’s know that what the press has described doesn’t come anywhere near what was likely the reality and sadness in that household. I’ll leave it at that.

On a recent rummage for my car title I found a page from a yellow legal pad with my wife’s handwriting on it. It was written in the spring of 2016, just before one of her appointments with her neurologist, and it was written as if to herself. “- I am 64 years old currently — Diagnosed w/early onset Alzheimer’s — Concern: I won’t live long.” It’s funny the way we look at these things. When we elderly folks sit with others our age, inevitably the talk turns to health and the deaths of others we’ve known, and here’s the thing; the underlying, unspoken words are these, “Thank God it’s not me.” Thus, I’m glad it’s not me and I’m glad it’s not you. So we finish our coffee, sigh a little, move on, all the while hoping the piano never stops. Thus far it’s playing beautifully. I can still hear it. Have a brilliant spring.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald recently published a 60-page magazine of Kurt’s columns. The magazine can be purchased here