Schvecking for Beavers

Lately the weekends are just PACKED. I have decided to be more formal in my work mode dressing and so spent Saturday cramming myself into suits in a dressing room at the local mall and torture emporium. This is an exercise best left when the temps and the humidity drop BELOW 85. And a P.S. to the wise; if a water main breaks in the vicinity of the mall WHILE you are trying on suits it is indeed a sign from above to get your act HOME, as trying on lined suits in 85% humidity goes to a whole new level of awful when they close every bathroom in a 2 mile radius.

I came home shaking from that experience and after a potty break, 3 iced teas and a nap was beginning to feel marginally like myself. The good news- I have purchased suit number 1- the wardrobe change-over is to be a trilogy with a couple of 3 piece options (1 jacket 1 pair pants, one skirt) so that I have a 5 day supply of sophisticated looks) The GREAT news is- I look pretty darned terrific in a suit, if I do say so myself. I haven't been this pleased with a costume since my Ben Cooper Cinderella get-up circa 1964. And the suit is as much a costume as the mask and rayon princess rig- I am no more suited to princess life than to corporate strait jacket life but when in Rome- it's good to have a working knowledge of Italian and a killer suit. The rest is just skills, baby.

After a challenging Saturday what better way to spend the day then at a landfill? We took a little motorcycle jaunt to the border between New Jersey and Pennsylvania to a lakeside cabana-like house. This weekend's second lifestyle changing landmarkfor me (after the purchase of the aforementioned suit) was a very quick ride without a helmet, on the bike. I hadn't tried it til now but in Pennsylvania there are no helmet laws and as we were going from one parking lot to another- I decided to chance it. Oh wow. The feeling gave new meaning to the phrase "letting your hair down". It was the way I imagine it feels to be a paper airplane- an effortless and giddy flight. Problem was- after about 2 minutes I thought about my head, what was in it, and how I might want to protect its contents, however minimally. The truth is, I just feel like it is a nod to the powers that be that says- all right- the body is past its prime- if it takes a hit- ok, I'm not getting any prettier. But the noggin. That keeps improving- I haven't seen the downhill side of that slope yet and so- though it pains me, and much to the approval and delight of my friends- I'll keep the helmet on, even if local law enforcement doesn't insist.

We were visiting J & P. I had never met J & P before though I had heard much- about their kindness, intelligence and...uniqueness. When someone refuses resolutely to define "unique" you know you are in for a treat. I was not disappointed. J & P have a little "lake house" on a body of water. According to J it is naturally made lake but man-maintained by what is probably the largest waste management company in the world- definitely the largest in the Northeast. So I have come to spend the day at a lake owned by garbage men and skirted by a HUGE landfill- who needs Europe? It is hard to imagine a life more glamorous than this. Hard- but not impossible. As this journey required neither passport nor air ticket and innoculations ( though possibly advisable) were not offered, it seemed a great way to spend a Sunday. My friend Michael and P decided to brave the choppy waters of the lake for a kayak run. Obviously unaware of my previous extensive kayak experience (yes, that ONE time) P deemed the water "too rough" for females. I squished down the urge to yell "you haven't SEEN rough" (flashing back on the "no bathroom incident of Saturday) after all, I was a guest. What made it worse- these were really cool kayaks- ocean kayaks- no little spider hole to crawl into-they were wide open with the seat looking like a little lounge chair at the back, this paired with the fact that you didnt need to wear the life jacket- just strap it on the back of the kayak for show made me want to get in one even more. As I stood on the dock in front of the shark mural which read "Club Shred" watching Michael and P paddle off I felt I understood a bit how a little fish that gets thrown back feels- part relief- a life saved after all... but somehow rejected as "not quite up to snuff". Hmph.

Fortunately for me, J was waiting for me at the picnic table. I have never met anyone as unfailingly cheerful and optimistic as J. She talked on and on about work and faith and family and life and the lake and "the boys". It took me a good half an hour to realize the "boys" she was referring to were Michael and P. With nearly 100 years of life between them the term seemed a bit of a stretch. But not to J. With her platinum blonde pixie-cut hair flying in the breeze clad in a black and white checked sun suit, shoulders covered modestly in a white shirt knotted under her breasts, she was a cross between Tinker Bell and Betty Grable. She kept her cigarettes and her lighter tucked into her bosom for easy access- I haven't seen that trick in awhile. When she pulled them out (the cigarettes, not the bosoms) Michael watched in amusement and then turned to glance at my shirt- I said " forget it, bud - there's nothing down there but me." Truly I was in love, with J. We talked for hours like old friends.

After a time I realized I had missed one of J's core influences on the first analysis. A sort of water-based Diane Fosse, J is mad for beavers. There is a family of five beavers living on the side of the island opposite J & P's lake house. J went on and on about the family of beavers-their sizes- ages- and the way that you could tell one from the other by the breadth of their backsides- triangular heads poking out of the water were too misleading in terms of which beaver was which. P described in great detail using hand gestures and relative measures (THIS year's baby is only as wide as a loaf of bread- LAST year's baby is as big as a bowling ball...etc) Every night at dusk J & P take their little motorboat out to the beaver dam to commune with their surrogate rodent family. That evening Michael and I were to accompany them. As we boarded the tiny outboard boat with the little canopy Jeanne threw in a yellow plastic grocery bag which thudded as it hit the bottom of the boat- the contents? Apples. Their beavers love apples and until last year would climb the island's crab apple tree and shake it until the apples fell in the water, then collect their windfall (or beaver-fall) with great glee. Alas, the tree was hit by lightning last year and was killed. Since then J & P have been bringing their friends apples every night at sunset. I looked forward to a really lovely way to be on the water, watching the sun going down on the lake and feeding apples to the beavers in the peace and quiet.

Not quite.

J has a method of summoning the beavers. She warned me as we neared their dam. "I'm going to make an awful noise now." She said in her cupie-doll voice. How bad could it be? J sounds a lot like a pull-string talking dolly- I didn't think she could speak above a breathy sweet whisper. I was wrong.

"SCHVECKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY" the scream split the air like a sonic boom. "Schveckyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, Schveky- schveck-veck!!!!!!!!" She sounded like a startled air horn.

This particular beaver call has a history; J's six-year-old nephew, when questioned as to how one might call a beaver, replied- "I think you say "Schveck". According to J, this brings the beavers out every time. I think it might also have something to do with the fact that after a life-long diet of crab apples and bark, a red delicious apple is mighty fine- even if the hand it comes from is attached to a woman who appears to be shreiking in some kind of terrible distress.

The yelling and schvecking went on for about 15 minutes- with P intermittently slapping the water with a paddle in a show of beaver solidarity. To pass the time until the beaver's debut, a few theories were thrown out as to why they were hiding (it couldn't be the noise, could it?) and more than a few beaver-related references and jokes, none of it repeatable here, were also thrown in. It was silly- it was funny, and as it minimized the shvecking- I was all for it.

It was beginning to look like it might be the beaver's night off when suddenly a head popped out of the water to the left of the boat and headed for one of the floating apples. About three feet behind the first head, a smaller head emerged. The jokes and the chatter stopped. We watched as the pair ate, their heads bobbing, apples held between their front paws, then swam back to the dam. P- who until this point had been ... very quiet and stoic (like guys are), contributing only a few choice beaver references and focussing mainly on manning and steering the boat- suddenly became very much like a small boy, who had just gotten a glimpse of Santa. His face was soft, his eyes focussed on an indeterminate spot somewhere out on the lake as he spoke. "I love them" he said, thickly. And went on to describe how the management company that oversaw the lake had destroyed two other beaver habitats on the lake, and that this one was in danger as well. He spoke about the property manager in a way that made me invoke a silent prayer that P never ran into the manager when he was armed with a paddle.

As we motored back I was quiet. Staring out at the landfill- its hulking presence turned gray blue in the twilight. Michael poked me gently in the side- "What're you thinking?" he asked. "Nothing" I said. "Nahhhh- you're ALWAYS thinking something" he laughed. I smiled; "Well- what I was thinking was- for a pile of garbage- that sure is pretty". And that was the best I could do- because I wasn't thinking, and that's what Sundays are for.

Oh, and I was tired, too. You KNOW I kayaked across the lake and back :). I have the blisters to prove it.

Schvecky Schveck!

:) X