Having turned off my hearing aids, I fail to hear the warning-roar of a miniature jet engine, before spotting a black blur out of the corner of my right eye. It's closing fast on my head. I turn, more than jerk my head, spotting, what first seems a giant black bug; worse perhaps, a hornet. The glimpse is fleeting. Then, I realize, it's a humming bird on a recon mission. He's buzzing me, to be sure it's safe to park at my mother's Hummers' Kool-Aid Cafe, a few steps from me. Two minutes later, a colorful humming bird lands, takes its fill of the sweet brew, then is on its merry way. I relax, comfortable knowing, the black blur is only a humming bird Defense recon mission. My Writer's Retreat is safe from attack.
Fashionably Late
Later, I find myself sitting in the shade of tall pines with my father, discussing our usual topics. I look up. Slithering toward us, at a trot that would do a horse proud, is a snake four feet long. The snake's swift to join us. The impression is of a fashionably late guest to our conversation; a bit breathless. However, I am the one breathless, for I almost fail to warn my father until the snake is within striking distance. Warned, my father tosses a stick or two in the snake's direction. My elderly father encourages the snake to find another route. Thankfully, Slitherer agrees, taking a slithering-trot off in a new direction. Were politics, of the “snake in the grass” variety, our topic, I fear an insulted snake might have turned venomous. The Writer’s Retreat feels as much perspiration as inspiration, now. Mother Nature laughs in the background.
Shaking Hands or The Shaking Hand
The porch is my refuge not long after the snake greeting. As I sit in my chair enjoying the clear sky, the late afternoon sun, and a slight breeze, I feel something crawling on the back of my hand, which is resting on the arm of my plastic outdoor chair. Looking down, a tick marches across the back of my hand, as though hurrying to shake hands with me. No doubt, its preference after the greeting, will be a choice piece of my anatomy for a blood feast. Startled by this brazen creature, I thump him into oblivion. The Writer's Retreat is looking unhealthy. I retreat indoors for my own safety. Mother Nature is gaining the upper-hand. My imagination's stimulation is no longer my top priority. Survival is!
Oh Dear! A Deer!
The highlight of my Writer's Retreat day is seeing the deer that passes through the front yard to the backyard of my parent's place in the woods. It's as though no humans exist. The deer lazily passes through the front yard to the backyard, nibbling along the way. Here is a nice couple of minutes; the kind of event that draws one to nature. Eden exists in the woods for two minutes. Paradise is not lost. From inside, nature can be viewed, safe from attack. Perhaps the deer feels the same way about me.The Dashboard Ornament
All is not to be Writer's Retreat bliss, for I make a trip to town for labwork; the usual doctor's orders. My father and I venture out the next day to the lab and talk along the way. Taking his car, there sits on the dashboard near me, a tick in a menacing mode, as though about to leap on me, like some tiny Dracula. Thinking I am losing my mind, I mention Count Tickula to my father, who attempts to kill the tick. Not only am I not losing my mind, Count Tickula falls to the car floor. No doubt undead, the rest of my journey is spent wondering if Count Tickula will adopt stealth mode, then find a roadway to a vein that provides Count Tickula, a Blood River. Count Tickula got nary a drop of my blood, while I can't say the same for the lab. Nature, BAH!
Man-Made Disaster
Not all ills are Nature endowed. One I almost forgot is man-made. Make sure your Writer's Retreat has a fit bath or shower. If not, make sure to know emergency procedures. The Boy Scout phrase "Be Prepared" takes on real meaning, when, with parents away, I decide to take a bath. Better said, I go with what they set it on, bath or shower; bath in this case. Wonder of wonders, the coldwater faucet handle slips from it's moorings, on full blast, while staying attached to the handle. This necessitates pulling the plug, re-dressing--thankfully I am not in the tub at this juncture--and a mad dash to the location of the water pump, to turn it off. Returning indoors, I find the unplugged tub empty and the broken faucet dry. A few dashes back and forth to turn the water on and off to fill the tub, leaves me with a tub of water; just warm enough to bath in. Since the water pump is located 75 to a 100 feet from the house (I'm guessing), I need a good scrubbing after a few mad dashes back and forth.
Homeward Bound
Surviving Mother Nature's curses and a man-made curse; too soon, it is time to return home from my Writer's Retreat. Not a minute too soon, let me add! Nature is a Horror Movie. One threat after another. Time to return to my concrete jungle and four walls that surround me, for yes, I am only dreaming. My imaginative juices are over-stimulated by my Writer's Retreat. I need my concrete jungle. I understand my concrete jungle. My trip costs a little more than a tank of gas. I survive Mother Nature, with her humming bird recon, a trotting snake, a shake-hand tick and Count Tickula (they are a plague this summer), have no deer prints on me, and for once in my life, I handle a man-made disaster without negative consequences. Yes, yes maybe; maybe I'll try another Writer's Retreat soon. Though my advice is this: Go heavily armed, ready to do combat; it's not all about your imaginative juices flowing. There's the fear factor too! Don't be surprised if you have to Run Through the Jungle and as the song says, "Don't look back."
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