Close encounters of the deer kind

Last week, I was taking advantage of the warm weather to get some exercise after work, by leaving my car at work and walking downtown to do an errand. Even though it was almost 8 pm and dark when I left, I enjoyed the warm breeze and the enchanted feeling of having 70-degree weather in March, in Michigan! People were out walking all over the place and there was a feeling of anticipation in the air.

Walking back from my errand, I had left the Kerrytown area and was crossing Division Street to walk over the Broadway Bridge. For some reason, I started thinking about when I used to park my car in the commuter lot the winter before this one, and hoof it back to my car thru the snow, while bundled up in long down coat (a relic from a ski trip to upper Canada in the 1990s).

My walk to the lot would take me through part of north campus and, when I left at the right time (6-ish), I would sometimes come upon a small herd of deer! They would be standing a few dozen yards from the path I was on, in a small grassy valley behind some classroom buildings. It was not an uninhabited area, to say the least. I was always amazed at the deer getting so close to us humans. I would freeze and just watch them in appreciation. Then either they would start to walk away or I would. If I was the one who walked first, I would gingerly step, s-l-o-w-l-y up the path so as not to startle them. I've heard stories of startled deer charging at people or out into the road in a frenzied and misguided attempt to get away.

I don't know why I was thinking of that -- I hadn't thought about that in a long time. After that winter, I had learned that I could park on the street at work and not get a ticket for staying longer than 3 hours, so I stopped parking at the commuter lot.

As I got to the top of the bridge, there was a bicyclist poised with her bike on the sidewalk. Just standing there looking at something. I started to pass her and gave her a polite nod, then I looked to my other side and saw why she was stopped on the bridge. She was watching -- two deer! They were on the grass a few dozen yards from us!

Now I understood why I had just thought about the deer on north campus. It was my "intuition" -- or spirit guides -- giving me a heads up about what was about to come!

So I stopped and watched them for awhile with the bicyclist. Other people walked by us on the sidewalk and never noticed. Cars whizzed by on the road behind us, but the deer didn't seem to be bothered by that at all.

I hadn't been so near to deer since walking at north campus. These were two young ones, so I asked the bicyclist if she had seen any older, deer parents. Our talking made them nervous, and the deer started to back away, so we decided to leave, "to give them peace."

Years ago, while driving with my former boyfriend in the countryside at night, I mentioned that I had just thought about looking out for deer. About a minute later, one ran across the road in front of our van, but my BF was prepared because we had just been talking about this, so he braked in time. It pays to listen to your inner guide, your intuition!

The Saranay Motel

There it was, a neon totem in a sea of retail on Woodward Avenue — the sign for the Saranay Motel. It consists of a series of diamond shapes in classic 50's orange, turquoise and white with a yellow zig-zag arrow going down the length of it. I imagine that the curious name came from a melding of two people’s names, possibly a hopeful couple named Sara and Nathan.

I don't get out this way much anymore, since we moved the next town over when my mom remarried, and then I moved to a city even further west after college. So each time I see that sign, I am transported back in time.

When I was in high school, my parents would ship off my sister and me to visit my father's parents in Florida during breaks from school. They lived in a retirement community in West Palm Beach called Century Village. It was like a city unto itself, with its own transportation system, post office, beauty shop, etc.

Especially during the December holidays, the clubhouse would fill with teenagers who were visiting their grandparents, congregating on the front lawn when they could escape their families. Kids from all over the Midwest and East Coast would hang out, trying to be cool by calling the place “Cemetery Village” behind their grandparents’ backs. That's where I met Bob.

Bob was not a teenager and he was not visiting his grandparents. He was a local, a townie, probably in his mid-to-late 20s, who was drawn there to meet the kids who were looking for an escape. I remember him resembling Tom Petty, with stringy dishwater-blonde hair, a long face, and crooked front teeth. Bob was even homelier than Tom Petty, but he was gentle and kind.

I was a vivacious Jewish girl who had recently undergone a transformation. With my glasses and braces, I had been voted the friendliest girl in my 9th-grade graduation class. Then I got my braces removed. In 10th grade I was voted onto Homecoming Court, even though I wasn't really Homecoming material, “because you’re nice and not stuck-up,” one acquaintance explained to me. By the time of this trip, I had shed my glasses for contact lenses and was dating boys. But I was still the same friendly person inside.

I don’t remember much about my conversations with Bob. All I mainly recall is that whoever showed up would sit together on the lawn in front of the palatial clubhouse. It didn’t matter if a person was rich or middle class, or from Wisconsin or New Jersey, or if, had they been attending the same school, they would never give each other a second glance; if they were younger than 30, they were drawn together in kinship here like long-lost countrymen flung into a foreign land.

Bob and I talked, and he was a good listener. I was nice to him, like I was to everybody else. I delighted in meeting all these new young people and enjoyed being outside on the warm, summer-like evenings. I rejoiced in the tropical foliage that surrounded the area and marveled at the exotic pavement, which contained pieces of seashells. I felt so alive.

Before I left Florida, Bob asked for my contact information and I gave him my address. These were the days before the Internet, email, and cell phones. When I got back to Michigan, he wrote me a letter. He said he’d enjoyed meeting me and hoped I’d write back to him. He planned to be traveling in my area and wanted to stop and see me.

I wrote Bob back, because I was polite and enjoyed having pen-pals and writing long letters. I probably said sure, he should stop by if he was in the area, but I don’t remember much more than that.

Bob may have told me an approximate timeframe that he was thinking of coming to Michigan, but I don’t think I knew an exact date. Perhaps I just didn’t pay attention, but I seem to recall that he was trying to be casual about it. I promptly forgot about it — until the day he showed up at our front door with a friend of his, Ken.

I was caught by surprise and slightly embarrassed. My mother, who was a very shy and private person, was aghast that these strangers had come up from Florida to ring our doorbell. I don’t think I considered letting them in the house. Since even having my friends visit was uncomfortable for my mother, I talked to them in our front yard.

Bob seemed to be in a slightly altered state, as if he couldn't believe he was really looking at me. Or maybe it was just the after-effects of being in a car for 25 hours. His friend, Ken, appeared even older than Bob — more weathered, non-plussed, just observing it all.

They asked about a place to stay, and I was uncertain. The only out-of-town visitors I had ever dealt with were family — like my grandparents, who had always stayed at our house. I got the phone book and looked up “motels” in the yellow pages. We lived in a bedroom community and there weren’t many motels around. I think my mother told them to head to Woodward Avenue. They chose the Saranay Motel.

It seems like they only stayed a few days. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I took them where our family would normally take visiting guests — to the Detroit Zoo, which is in nearby Pleasant Ridge. (By the way, it should really be called the “Pleasant Ridge Zoo” and they’d probably get more tourists visiting it; people who assume that the zoo is in the city of Detroit are probably too scared to go there.)

In my faded photo album, there is a witness to this outing: bland, kind of sad photos of Bob at the tiger exhibit, Bob and Ken at the seal habitat, Bob and I awkwardly standing in front of the fountain with the mighty bear statues, which I’d so loved as a child.

But in some ways, I was still a child. I was only 16 and I didn’t yet understand the effect that a well-meaning, friendly girl could have on a guy. Especially a guy who mistook being nice for being interested, a homely guy who maybe wasn’t used to girls being so nice to him.

After Bob and Ken went back to Florida, I got another letter — this time, from Ken. Ken explained that he spent the whole trip driving back to Florida listening to Bob agonizing over his visit with me. Ken said that Bob really had a crush on me and, for his buddy’s sake, he wanted to know whether I was interested in Bob or not. He didn’t want Bob to suffer any longer or labor under false pretenses. This was really nice of Ken, I thought, to be so concerned for his friend that he wrote to me in an effort to spare his feelings.

By the time Bob and Ken left Michigan, it had become obvious to me that Bob wasn’t just passing by and stopping on his way to somewhere else, as he had made it sound when he first wrote — he was lovesick and came all the way up here just to see me. So I wrote back and told Ken the truth: I thought Bob was a nice person, but I was not interested in him romantically. We had nothing in common and lived at two different ends of the country. In fact, I was rather shocked that he had taken the trouble to come visit me. I didn’t mean to lead him on. I was just being nice and I was sorry.

That was the last I heard of Bob. I know that Ken, the dutiful friend, had somehow conveyed to Bob what I had admitted. Maybe he even let Bob read the letter for himself. I don’t pretend to know how bad Bob felt, or for how long.

All I know is, every time I see the sign for the Saranay Motel, it seems kind of lonely and sad. It's a survivor; it's still there, through all the changes it has experienced. Although it probably has far more sordid stories to tell than mine, that once-jaunty sign will always remind me of a more innocent time, of innocence lost, and my unexpected visit with Bob and Ken.

Meeting the Christ

I was in a Meijer’s Thrifty Acres the other night, not the highest-class store around and not in a very affluent neighborhood. While I was looking at cell phone accessories, into my peripheral vision approached a slow-moving figure. It was an old black lady wheeling one of those tiny carts that holds an oxygen tank. The cart had merchandise covering it, so I didn’t see what was in it. She was big and heavy and so bundled up against the cold outside that I wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman until she spoke.

“Boy I just don’t know about these cell phones,” she confided to me. Her voice was strong, even cheerful. “I need one, but I can’t afford one of those plans. I just want to get one of these ones where ya pay as you go.”

She was speaking pretty loudly and there was no one else around but me, so I figured I should converse with her, being friendly myself and not in a big hurry. “I hear ya,” I said. I looked at her and saw in her big smile that she was missing some teeth.

She turned back to the racks of phones. “Hmmm,” she said after a moment. “Here’s one for seven dollars and somethin’. That’s a good price!”

“You know,” I said, “I think that’s just for the phone. Then you have to buy the minutes separately. At least, I think that’s right.”

I moved closer to see what she was looking at. She held out the cheap green phone that almost looked like a toy in its plastic package. “Yeah, I think you have to buy the minutes separately.”

“Oh!” she said. “Is that right? Do I get one these other things over here?” She gestured to some cards, also encased in plastic.

“You know, I’m not sure how you do it. I’ve never had one. I think you should ask someone at the counter over there. They should be able to tell you.” I pointed to the sales desk at the end of the aisle. “I don’t want to tell you the wrong thing.”

“Alright, that’s a good idea,” she nodded and trundled her way over to the desk.

Soon she was back with a young sales girl, who walked hurriedly ahead of her. “OK, when you purchase the phone you also have to buy a card like this to get the minutes for it,” said the sales girl quickly, pointing at the racks of minute cards.

“Oh, is that right?” said the lady conversationally. “I see. They cost more than the phone!”

“Yes, when you purchase the phone you also have to buy the card with the minutes on it,” the girl repeated impatiently. She clearly didn’t want to have an in-depth conversation.

“Oh, alright then,” said the woman sweetly. “So I guess I’ll have to choose one of these…” At that point, I walked away to do more shopping.

As I was paying the cashier for my purchases, the old lady was checking out in the lane next to me. I couldn’t help overhearing her chatting pleasantly, “Yes, indeed, it sure is cold out there! I’m about ready for spring to come now.” She was smiling all the while, bringing humanity to the impersonal exchange of customer and cashier.

As I left, I thought to myself, “She is really good-natured, considering her physical, medical, and most likely financial burdens. Boy, it makes me feel like I have no problems at all by comparison. And I didn’t see her wearing an oxygen tube; maybe she uses that cart to carry her purchases home… And on such a cold night, too!”

Then I thought of the Joan Osbourne song, “What If God Were One of Us?” The lyrics say, “What if God were one of us? Just a guy like one of us. Just a stranger on the bus, trying to make his way home…”

And I was reminded of Judith Coates, a visiting medium from Washington state who channeled Jesus (known as Jeshua) at my spiritual center this past fall. Through her, Jeshua said that He sometimes likes to appear in a body and walk around a mall, silently blessing people. I do believe in angels also, and I like to think that this is one way that masters such as Jesus and light beings such as archangels can interact with us.

And then it struck me that this very outgoing, amorphous soul may very well have been the Christ in disguise! Perhaps trying to teach compassion. You never know. At the least, she was mirroring the God in all of us. Either way, it was a very simple and beautiful experience.

Meeting the Mouse

In early 2005, I became aware of a situation on my property: I had mice. When I first found a small, dead furry thing on the front porch, I blamed it on the neighbor's cat. My cat, Gabrielle, had been going outside for years and this had never happened! I had heard of these situations but had never had to deal with such a thing before. This was something that happened to other people, like having a lying spouse.

So I didn't look down onto the porch, nor go out the front door, nor get my mail, until I could get my fiancé to get rid of it when he was here on the weekend. I couldn’t stand to look at it! Disgusting! Gross!

Then it happened again, a second dead "gift" on the doormat. I left it there for a few days, until I finally wanted to get the mail. I stepped around it artfully without looking down, only allowing the doormat to enter my peripheral vision in a non-focused way. I’m not sure what the mail carrier thought at this point, with dead mice on the doorstep all week.

The third time it happened, I brought myself to kick the doormat off the side of the porch and into the bushes, so I wouldn't have to look at the dead furry thing. Then I just didn’t look near the bushes when I went out to get the mail. My fiancé again retrieved it and disposed of it when he visited. It was a little harder to find it among the mulch, but he did. I wondered if these creatures were just dying on my doorstep for some reason.

Eventually, my cat, Gabrielle, was caught bringing a mostly-dead mouse into the house from outside, and I could no longer be in denial about my sweet kitty's killer tendencies. Actually, it was a compliment and a testament to our relationship that she loves her mommy enough to leave her such trophies! Luckily, it was the weekend and I screamed for my fiancé as I ran out of the room. He went in, gave up a small scream himself, and then disposed of the little thing somehow. I didn’t want to know the details.

That seemed to be the end of it; I found no more dead furry things. Either Gab was a wonderful hunter and she caught the few that there were, or she was a lousy hunter and I didn’t realize that we were infested. I didn’t know, and blissfully resisted thinking about it. Spring settled in and then summer simmered. My fiancé came in for the weekends, then went back to his city during the week, as had been our routine for two years.

Fall came and with it change, often unwelcome and unexpected. One evening, I went to call Gabrielle out of the garage, her favorite outdoor place in cold weather. I found her playing with a mouse on the roof of my car!! The question of whether she got it up there, or caught it up there, briefly crossed my mind before my recoil reflex kicked in. Yuck!! A mouse on my car!!

I had startled Gab by opening the door and she jumped down to enter the house. I prayed that the mouse, now freed, would be able to escape. But it just lay there. I let Gabrielle inside and closed the door tightly.

“Dammit!” I thought to myself. “How am I going to get rid of a dead mouse by myself?” It was a week night, so I did not have my fiancé to turn to. I needed the car to go to work in the morning, so I couldn’t just ignore this, like I did the mice on the front porch.

If I tried backing the car out of the garage in the morning and driving away fast, the mouse would surely fall off, but where? What if it fell on my lawn, and I encountered it with my lawnmower later? What if it fell on my driveway or in my garage, and I had to see it again – or, worse, deal with a squished dead mouse? No, avoidance wouldn’t work; the situation had to be dealt with.

I thought about calling in one of the neighbors to do it, but in thinking about which one to approach, I suddenly felt sheepish. “You should do this yourself,” I told myself. Maybe it was my inner feminist talking. “You own a house now, you need to learn to deal with things like this. You can do this! It’s just a dead little mouse.” Then my mom’s voice took over in my mind. “It’s not going to hurt you – it’s more afraid of you than you are of it!” That was the “mom message” for live animals and live bugs, it made no sense for dead ones. Well, I guess it did – it couldn’t hurt me if it was dead, either.

So then I started thinking of the best method to accomplish this on my own. Perhaps I could sweep it into a bag without really looking at it? Yeah, that’s a good idea! No muss, no fuss. Me at one end of a long broom handle, and the mouse on the other end. I could position the bag on the ground, shove the broom toward the mouse from the other side of the car, and it could fall off the car and into the bag! I grabbed the broom and a bag, and courage I didn’t know I had, and stepped into the garage.

There was no denying it, there was still a small furry lump on the roof of the car. It hadn’t moved at all; it was really dead and not going to jump up like a possum. I quickly realized, however, that using a broom was like shooting a cannon to kill a fly – too big and too hard to control.

I exchanged the broom for a dustpan and approached again. The reach of the dustpan would mean that I would have to get really close to the dead rodent. Then another realization occurred to me: I couldn’t avoid looking directly at the mouse as I was sweeping it into the bag. If I tried to look away, it might miss the bag, and, worse, I might sweep it onto myself! OK, I was going to have to watch what I was doing, literally. “You can do this. You can do this. It’s not so terrible – every day, people have to suffer far worse things than this. You can do this.”

I delicately approached the car with the dustpan and bag in hand. I carefully, slowly, opened the car door without jarring the car and moving the thing's body, so that I had an edge under which I could place the bag. I stepped around the open car door and advanced slowly, trying not to breathe. As I got closer, I silently prayed, “Please, do not let it fall into my car!” I got close enough to position the dustpan behind the dead thing.

Then I couldn’t resist looking any more. And I was confronted by the visage of the dead mouse. I could see clearly its little mouse whiskers and the tiny teeth that made up its overbite; its beady, glassy little eyes; its scrawny little fingers on its scrawny little hands. It was dead, but it once had been alive, and it had been one of nature’s little creatures. A well of compassion opened in me. Somehow, in looking at it, it became not a “threat” but just a thing. A curious thing that was now dead. It was just reality.

I swept the mouse into the bag, rolled up the bag, opened my garbage can, and tossed it in. I did it! It was over! It didn’t touch me, and I didn’t die from it! I was so relieved.

Since that incident, I haven’t had to deal with any more mice, alive or dead. I called a critter control company that sent a guy to close up some holes and leave some poison bait. Why I didn’t do this before, I don’t know; I guess it seemed easier to avoid looking at an unpleasant situation that I wasn’t ready to examine.

But unpleasant situations rarely go away by themselves, and that’s when decisions are called for. We find an inner strength we didn’t know we had. Soon after, I broke up with my fiancé, after months of dissatisfaction and indecision. In really “seeing” situations, sometimes we find out that that the solution is much easier to handle than the grief of the ongoing problem. We can find and use our own power. That’s how I met the mouse.