We spent 4th of July week on Cold Mountain, working mostly on wiring the cabin. While we were there, a turkey visited us, as well as Eastern Phoebes, a nuthatch, a male scarlet tanager and several red-bellied woodpeckers. Occasionally butterflies fluttered by, and at night, those magical fireflies. Our little mice did not show up this time, but we were impressed with the "gift basket" they left in the basement. They had chewed off some of the purple polyester fur from our little parrot's cozy tent as well as several green and yellow strands from his blanket, then carefully arranged the material into a very colorful round nest. We gave it its due admiration and then promptly destroyed it.
When our workday was done, we spent several lovely afternoons cooling off in our neighborhood's mountain lake. With temperatures climbing above 90 degrees in the cabin loft, the cold clear water was a welcome relief. The first time we ventured in, several dozen curious bream swam right up to us. There is no fishing in the swimming lake, and the bream seemed to know we were no threat to them. It was like swimming in an aquarium, and the fish followed us everywhere.
The next day we returned with bread.
Standing waist-deep in the water, I felt like Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places...you know that scene near the end when they've cornered the market and start to cherry-pick who they're going to buy from? I pulled off a small piece of bread and chose a fish to give it to. Each fish chosen took the bread and came back for more. Even a 3-foot-long catfish, swimming slowly like a great white, came over to investigate.
The thing about feeding fish, though, is that they do enjoy a good meal. And emboldened with the realization that we were absolutely no threat to them, many began to explore my white-bread belly, nibbling on it and outlining the button part with tiny red incisions.
OK. Time to go, I told PW. I do not want the headline of my obituary to read, "Bream Swim Turns Grim." We dried off and sat in the Adirondack chairs for a spell, enjoying the sunshine before returning to our construction project.
The next day, I realized I should have stayed in the water and taken my chances with the fish. The Adirondack chairs were full of chiggers, which is what we East Tennesseeans call red bugs. Red bugs are very small, very insidious little creatures that love the warmest, most moist places of the human body. They are experts at seeking them out, and they found all of mine. And me with no nail polish--supposedly the best home remedy for relieving yourself of those pesky little mites. Who knew I would need nail polish for stringing electrical wire?
But wait. It gets better.
PW had entrusted me with tacking up wire and coiling it in the receptacle boxes, unsupervised. I was getting pretty good at it, feeling as if I was actually making a meaningful contribution. I was in the kitchen--or where the kitchen will be--when a big black carpenter ant crawled up on the board in front of me. I was planning to tack to that board, so I tried to swat the ant away.
Did you know that, when threatened, the black carpenter ant has a pretty handy defense mechanism? It can shoot formic acid out of its rear end to deter a predator.
I did not know that. And I took his defense mechanism right in my left eye.
Burned like a mother. Apparently he did not appreciate my carpentry skills.
PW poured water in my eye to flush it out and then doused it with contact solution. The next day when we returned home (READ: "to civilization,") the doctor gave me an antibiotic ointment to prevent infection. I'm fairly confident my eye will recover, but that ant is toast, believe me.
So the take-away lessons from our week of work is just this: 1) There is a very good reason why electrical wiring should be done by a licensed professional. 2) Respect nature. It's their world, homies. We're just living in it. And 3) Take heart in the words of Madeline L'Engle, who so aptly put that, "It is possible to suffer and despair an entire lifetime and still not give up the art of laughter."
Laughter, after all, is the best medicine. Even for formic acid.
