Reflections - Rural Conversations

Kindness Garden Flag

When Spence and I built our log house, yard signs in the rural community puzzled me.

Among the campaign signs—Weiderspahn for KindCommissioner, Kelly for Congress, McVay for Judge—stood a preponderance for Jesus. Jesus on the wire-frame held cardboard. Jesus in two tones of wood. And Jesus with slogans like Jesus is the Answer.  

Riding with Spence along the country roads, I joked, “Looks like Jesus is running for office.”

We settled in. Campaign signs came down. Jesus signs stayed in place. Crosses decorated with plastic flowers marked curves where loved ones had died. And Mennonites posted mini Bible lessons. In Everything Give Thanks, Honor Thy Father and Mother, Go and Sin No More. Joining the country conversation, we rotated garden flags of cardinals, spring tulips, and a turkey strutting in Pilgrim shoes.

In the summer of 2008, Mary Ann, our late neighbor, hustled to the porch. Her white hair spiked like bee balm and she panted as if she’d been jogging. “Do you want an Obama sign?” She rubbed her gnarled hands. “I’m going to the Democratic headquarters to get signs for Hutch and me. I can get one for you.”

Grouchy Hutch, who answered questions with a shotgun, supported Obama? But I hesitated, remembering three mailboxes. 

Teenagers, playing a moving vehicle version of tee-ball, had bashed our first two mailboxes. The second attack broke their bat. Half lay on the driveway below the mashed box. The third mailbox, a cute shingled cottage model, lasted until I took a photo of the township grader smoothing West Creek Road. The grumpy, long-since fired driver scowled at me like Bluto scowled at Popeye. Spence pulled me away. “He doesn’t want you to take his photo.” We returned from our walk to find the mailbox lifted out of the ground and hauled away—not the usual task for a grader. 

Would an Obama sign annoy a passerby enough to throw a stone through the window or damage another mailbox? But, if the neighbors on both sides of us wanted to post Obama signs, of course, we would join them. “Yes. Thank you.”

Three days before the election, Mary Ann returned with a poster. “Headquarters was out of yard signs. They gave me these.”

I hung the poster in the guest room window. 

Neither Mary Ann nor Hutch hung theirs.  

By Thanksgiving, no windows had been broken and the mailbox stayed intact. Nevertheless, I moved the poster to the refrigerator where I’ve hung all other political signs—except two. Spence hammered in homemade wooden signs, one for John and the other for Kathy, Republican friends we talked into running for Township Supervisors.

Joining other election cycles, Spence hung a large US flag from the porch to blend in with more conservative neighbors. I contented myself with garden flags because I didn’t want to offend anyone.

Then 2016 changed the landscape. Country folks switched their allegiance. Instead of one Jesus sign, two red, white, and blue Trump signs flanked driveways plus Trump flags waved in their yards. One farmer built a horse trailer-size Trump billboard in the middle of his pasture. Another, spaced a line, like the old Burma-Shave advertisements, at the edge of his hayfield. Our son Charlie said, “If twenty-three hadn’t convinced me, did he think the twenty-fourth would?”

By November, only one Jesus sign remained. Trump’s were too numerous to count. 

Trump signs stayed up throughout his Presidency. That made sense since he continued to campaign. And in 2020 the landscape added more including a vintage Oldsmobile with Trump painted on its side.

Trump 2020 Car

Despite Trump’s loss, Congress confirming the electoral votes, and Biden’s Inauguration, the signs remained. During February, March, and April, I passed yard signs which seemed to shout:

Make America Great Again

The Pandemic is a Chinese Hoax

Build the Wall

By May, with nary a Jesus sign to soften the Trump entourage, the signs made my stomach cramp. Did folks really want to suppress women, minorities, and LGBTQ again? Go maskless, infect neighbors, and send people to the hospital? Stop immigrants who could fill vacant medical and trade jobs in the aging, dwindling rural workforce?

Mid June, Spence called over his computer. “You’d like what this librarian created.”

Pushing the pillows away, I plopped onto the sofa beside him. On his computer screen sparkled an “in this house we believe” banner confirming my beliefs.

“Send me the link.”

Every day for a week, I clicked on the link, grinned at the slogans, and clicked off. Unfortunately, the librarian’s banner sparked controversy. The Internet lit up with dozens of counter “in this house” beliefs. Though I had vowed not to go along, stay silent, or run away from uncomfortable situations, I didn’t want to join the battle of banners. I needed to find a balance, a respectful alternative for the conversation.

Finally, below rows and rows of flags filled with partisan bickering, I discovered the answer. On denim, in pastel colors with peace doves, came a seven-word list of inoffensive abstract nouns.

Kindness

Peace

Equity

Love

Inclusion

Hope

Diversity

I ordered the flag. 

Spence hung it.

No one commented. 

No cars slowed for drivers to read the list.

A month later, I drove Spence and three howling cats to the vet in Greenville for the cats’ annual checkup. Across the countryside, Trump signs had thinned and Jesus signs had popped back up. On the half-hour drive home, I asked Spence to count them for me.

He couldn’t.

Gilbert scratched out of his carrier.

Struggling to contain the panicked cat, Spence turned into a fluffy white pillow. 

I counted while Gilbert’s brothers mewed protests from the back seat. Cat distractions may have made me miss one or two. Nevertheless, the count indicated a trend. Eleven for Trump. Seven for Jesus.

This week the signs lining the road between Cochranton and Milledgeville didn’t say MAGA, Drain the Swamp, or All Aboard the Trump Train. They read Sweet Corn, Melons, Tomatoes, and Duck Eggs. 

Spence and I continued the country conversation. With a nod to the changing season, we switched the kindness flag for one decorated with mums and sunflowers.

Mum and Sunflower Garden Flag

 Reflections - The Little Drummer Bird: An Unwanted Carol

Downy Woodpecker

The downy woodpecker isn’t as cute in July as in winter.

In winter, the bird hangs upside down on the suet feeder. Occasionally, it takes turns with chickadees, titmice, and cardinals at the sunflower feeder attached to the sliding glass door. I marvel at the woodpeckers’ feathered patterns—black and white stripes on their heads, white checks and stripes on their black wings. Males even sport a tiny red cap resembling a yarmulke. These cuties add pizzazz to the wintry scene.

In July, however, I would rather they flew to Venezuela instead of onto our log house. Digging their claws into the pine logs, the drilling devils tilt backward, brace themselves with their tails, and drum. This year we have two repeat offenders—one that concentrates on the bedroom wall by the road and one that drums on the logs above the porch facing the woods.

Though the woodpeckers only want to communicate, dig for a snack, or create a nesting place, I don’t want our log house pocked and chipped. Birds are welcome to nest on the butt ends, not inside the logs. 

Spence caulked a thumb-size hole in the wall on the road side. I relished the idea of the woodpecker getting a beak full of caulk and staying away. He didn’t. He moved to the eaves and pecked beyond ladder reach.

Hence, I developed tactics to disrupt the destruction. I pounded my fist against the guest room window.

“You’ll break the window,” Spence said, coming up behind me.

I ignored him and pounded some more.

Tap tap tap.

“He’s drumming back.” Spence snickered. “He thinks you're a girlfriend.”

I opened the window and yelled. “GO AWAY, WOODPECKER.”

“You’re going crazy.” Spence rubbed my shoulders. “I don’t want to visit you in the nuthouse.”

Shrugging away from his hands, I tramped to the door and slammed it twice.

“There are more important things than drumming woodpeckers.”

I growled.

“Okay. I’ll go.” Spence stepped outside.

The downy drummed until the sound of Spence’s footsteps reached halfway down the ramp.

Though my tactics had no effect on the woodpecker, my pounding, yelling, and slamming tortured the cats. 

At the woodpecker’s first tap tap tap, the cats crouched and peered over their shoulders to locate the about-to-explode human. The second tap tap tap flattened the cats’ ears. The third sent them scurrying for hidey-holes.

In deference to the cats’ nerves, I moved my deterring tactics outdoors. I lucked into the first early in July. Toting my laptop to the deck, I spread my yoga mat and followed YouTube star Adriene through her Detox Flow practice. I twisted my arms for eagle pose, squatted, and lifted my right leg over my left—leaving the right big toe on the ground for balance.

A downy flew out of the old white pine stand at the corner of the deck and porch. He perched on the railing and gazed longingly above the porch before glancing at me. 

Grimacing to keep my balance, I stared back.

He blinked and darted into the pines. That woodpecker found other places to drum for three weeks. If only the one damaging the front of the house could be deterred as easily—he required more effort.

Log House

When Spence attended an evening block club meeting in Cleveland, for example, I nestled in the hewn log chair and settled the laptop on my knees.

Ande curled by the footstool.

I clicked play for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, a historical romance about a writer who searches for a story and finds true love.

Three minutes in, tap tap tap.

Ande jerked to his feet and searched my face to see if he should scamper under the sofa.

Pausing the computer, I set it on the coffee table and walked out to the porch. Drumming accompanied me while I rounded the corner to the connecting deck, tramped down the ramp, and stomped on the gravel path. “GO AWAY.”

The woodpecker zoomed to a dying ash tree across the road.

“Don’t come back.” I marched inside and watched the next two minutes of the movie.

Tap tap tap.

Ande dove under the sofa.

I stamped down the ramp.

The downy zipped to a different dying ash.

Gritting my teeth, I returned to the movie for another minute before tap tap tap.

Thirteen times, I thundered out of the house to disturb the drilling demon. With the sky darkening, the woodpecker finally retired for the night, and I watched the rest of the movie without exercise.

Marching and yelling only momentarily solved the problem so I changed my perspective. The camera’s telephoto lens turned me into a metallic cyclops. Faced with that image, all the Wells Wood critters I wanted to photograph ducked for cover. Maybe I could overlook a little of the house wrecker’s destruction in exchange for an awesome photo of the woodpecker a millisecond before he fled.

The next morning, I attached the telephoto lens to my camera and set it on the kitchen table. Washing breakfast dishes, I listened.

Tap tap tap.

I dried my hands, grabbed the camera, and walked to the front of the house. Before I removed the lens cap, the drummer flew to an ash across the road. Walking toward the road, I aimed the lens at him.

He crept behind the tree trunk.

Foiled, I returned to the kitchen and washed the iron skillet. After five more fruitless kitchen-to-front yard walks, I adjusted the focus on the woodpecker’s preferred spot, left the camera on, and the lens cap off—ready for my next trip.

Tap tap tap.

Tiptoeing down the ramp, I raised the camera to my eye and eased around the butt ends. Girasole leaves brushed my face but didn’t offer enough camouflage.

The downy flew.

Inhaling the sweet fragrance of wisteria growing on the deck railing, I trudged to the kitchen and cleaned the stove top before the next of many trips. The morning yielded a clean kitchen, aerobic exercise, and two fuzzy photos of the downy rounding an ash trunk. No awesome photo of the house drummer fleeing.

Not ready to give up hope, I checked the Audubon Society’s advice online—hang sheet plastic, Mylar streamers, or bird netting over the damaged part of the house. I didn’t tell Spence because I didn't want him climbing a thirty-foot ladder to the eaves. Too scary for me.

Short of camping in the front yard and hiding behind a blind like a hunter or tethering a pair of Cooper’s Hawks to the front of the house, I admit defeat. Seasons will change. We’ll get a respite from the destructive drumming. But the warm weather, Sisyphean task of protecting our log house from the drilling downy devils will last our lifetime.

Girasole