Critters of Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Harry Rutherford came by. I’d seen a lot of scarred men during my army days, but the burn scars on his face made even me wince. They surprised me even more because no one had mentioned them. Everyone in town spoke of “Dr. Rutherford” with respect and a little bit of awe, but no one mentioned the scars. Were they so accustomed to them, they no longer saw them?

  After talking to me, he had a conversation with Buck—one I wasn’t able to overhear since they were at the spot where the waterfall would begin. What I did see was the easy camaraderie between the two of them as they talked.

  Hank Blackshear stopped by to suggest I visit a piece of land just outside Bigelow, where a builder was clearing a spot to build another new subdivision. “Free rocks,” the veterinarian explained. Bigelow kept expanding. One year soon it would become a full-fledged city instead of the large, affluent town it was today. I was beginning to understand why Creekites remained wary of every Bigelowan encroachment on their pristine mountain world.

  I spent a couple of days while Buck was in school hauling rock from the excavated ground. Hank came along one day and helped. It was after a long day of hauling rocks by myself that I went into the house, tired and dirty, to find an unexpected and unwelcome delivery.

  The fish.

  Five minutes later, I was on the phone to the fish farm. “What do you suggest I do? We’re nowhere close to having a pond ready for fish. I specifically asked you to wait to send them until after I called to say it was ready.” I used my thumb and forefinger to massage the throb between my eyes. My knuckles were white where they gripped the cordless receiver.

  After a list of suggestions, blissfully short, there was another apology.

  “Thanks,” I managed when the caller offered to send a peace offering of a bag of feeding pellets. “I just hope they’re alive to eat them.”

  I clicked off the phone. Computer error be damned. How the hell was I suppose to keep four expensive koi fish alive until Buck and I finished digging the pond and had all the filters in place?

  I glanced through the stack of mail sitting on the center of the kitchen table, distracted by my frustration until I came across a letter for Buck . . . from the University of Georgia School of Horticulture.

  It felt like a kick in the gut, coming face-to-face with the fact that Buck was doing this on his own while ignoring all my pleas for him to fill out his West Point application.

  I wanted nothing more than to toss the envelope in the trash. I’d be damned if I let my son throw away the opportunity of a lifetime so he could play in the dirt.

  Then I stopped. Had I made the situation worse by getting him involved in creating this garden pond? Would my attempt to get closer to my son end up pushing him further away?

  “What did the fish farm say?” Meredith asked.

  I glanced over to where she sat on the floor beside the Styrofoam box the fish came in. “Someone ignored the note on the computer to delay the delivery.”

  Meredith looked down into the box and slowly swirled a finger in the water. The fish had come in plastics bags, but we’d opened them to give them more oxygen.

  “They’re so pretty,” she said and all of my temper disappeared. “Like butterflies that swim.”

  I remembered our honeymoon in Hawaii. She said much the same thing the first time we saw a koi pond.

  “The breeder did tell me how to take care of them until we get the pond finished,” I reassured her.

  The rest of my day was spent at the I Got It Store, yet another of Mossy Creek’s quirky local businesses, where citizens could find everything from extra-short extension cords to iron fry pans. I found a container that would give the fish ample swimming room, and then I went over to Lloyd Pritchard’s for his help in constructing a system to pump oxygen into the container. I had everything good to go, or so I thought, by the time Buck got home from school.

  “You can’t just leave it out here in the open like this,” he said waving a hand over the child’s swimming pool I’d placed in a corner of the deck. “It’s unprotected. Didn’t you read any of that research I did for you? Animals like raccoons or even plain cats can reach in and have a picnic. By morning the only place your fish will be swimming is in the stomachs of their killers. Good grief, Dad, if the Army is filled with a bunch of morons who can’t figure out something as simple as this, I’ll have my General star years before you got yours.”

  His teenaged arrogance tripped the trigger inside me. My fear of turning into my own father had made me go too easy on Buck.

  Maybe it was the physical exhaustion of digging the pond or the frustration of the day’s events. Maybe it was the still-new adjustment to civilian life. Maybe it was the continuing tension between Buck and me and his questioning my ability to solve a problem. Maybe it was that damn envelope sitting on the kitchen table—a physical reminder that Buck didn’t respect all I had accomplished and hoped for him in the future.

  All I knew was that Buck’s words and the tone of his voice jolted me back to my childhood.

  Instead of standing in the spring sunshine, I cowered in a corner of a shabby house. Instead of looking at my son who I would die to protect, my vision filled with the image of my father standing over me, swinging his fists and shouting in a drunken voice about what a failure I was. Calling me a moron.

  Something broke inside of me.

  I lunged for Buck.

  He stood close to the house, so instead of sending us over the side of the deck, I pinned his shoulders to the brick wall. I stood toe-to-toe and got in his face the way a drill sergeant or officer had done to me during basic. The way my drunken father had done too many times to count.

  “Don’t you dare talk to me that way! I’m not stupid. I’m not worthless. I am not a moron! I made something of myself, something I’m proud of even if you can’t be.” I slammed him against the wall again.

  “Dad,” Buck said. His voice broke. He stared at me as if he’d never seen me before.

  As quickly as the haze came, it disappeared. No longer were the past and present confused in my mind. I’d done something I’d lived in fear of doing my entire life. I’d lost control.

  Sick shame swam in my stomach as I saw the horror in my son’s eyes. With forced slowness I released him and stepped back. In my peripheral vision, I saw Meredith and Grace watching at the screened back door.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Just scared me a little.” He jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders. “Dad,” he said as quietly as before. “I am proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you.” Tears swam in his eyes, hitting me in the heart as surely as a sniper’s bullet might have. “What I said . . . I didn’t mean anything. How could you think I think you’re a moron? It was just temper talking.”

  “Son, I’ve seen soldiers destroyed as much by words as by bombs and bullets. I’ve held the hands of men dying with their bodies torn up, their blood pouring out of their wounds. Searching for the right thing to say to them was nearly as hard as watching them die. I’ve fought my temper since I was a kid. Not just to keep myself from using my fists to dominate my loved ones the way my father did, but to keep from saying mean or stupid or outright cruel words. My father could destroy people with either his fists or his mouth. Words do matter.”

  Buck’s face went sheet white. “Dad, you’ve never told us any of that stuff before. I didn’t know about your father . . . why didn’t you tell us?”

  The way I saw it I had two choices—continue to ignore the past and hope I didn’t repeat anything close to this behavior. Or I could face my fears and let my kids know how much I love them by finally giving them my trust along with the truth. When faced with an enemy, sometimes the best course of action was face-to-face confrontation.

  I thought about suggesting we go inside and sit, as families do, at the kitchen table. But I needed to be outside, in the sunshine, surrounded by the garden I hoped would represent the roots we were planting here. I needed to be in th
e center of what I’d made of my life.

  I waved a hand at Meredith and Grace. “C’mon outside. If I’m going to finally do this, I only want to go through it once.” Meredith reached for my hand and squeezed lightly. That one touch, that one show of faith and love gave me the courage I needed.

  After taking a deep breath, I started. “My father was a miserable drunk. He worked odd jobs, or pawned stuff he managed to steal. He stole even more when my older brother grew up enough to help him.”

  “You have a brother?” Grace asked.

  “I let you believe I was an only child because I was ashamed of my family. My brother’s nine years older then me and was the spitting image of my father in looks and temper. Most of the money the two of them got from thieving they used to buy booze.”

  “That’s why you never drink,” Buck said.

  “That’s right. When the old man wasn’t beating my mom or me, he used words to belittle us, to make us feel worthless. His favorite taunt was that I was too stupid to ever amount to anything.”

  Grace let out a small gasp and reached for her mother’s hand, but I continued to look Buck in the eye. “I believed him, especially the night he knocked me out cold after throwing me against the wall when I tried to get between him and my mom. When I woke the next morning, my mom was gone. He had a field day with that one for the next two years, always saying it was my fault that she left. Who would want me when I was too stupid to do anything right? Then I came home one afternoon and he and my brother were gone, too. I was sixteen.”

  “They left you alone?” Grace asked.

  “I didn’t care. For once I didn’t have to worry about someone beating me or yelling at me. But I also didn’t have food. So I did what I’d seen my old man do. I stole from a convenience store. It didn’t take long for me to get caught.” I smiled at the memory. “Only instead of being thrown to the cops, the store owner told me he knew about my father and brother taking off. He gave me two choices. I could end up like them or he could pull a few strings to get me enlisted and let the Army make a man of me.”

  “At sixteen?” Buck asked with something like awe in his voice.

  “The Army gave me the chance I would never have had otherwise. I had three squares a day, a bed with clean sheets, money of my own and I didn’t have to worry about getting a beating. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel stupid or worthless. When I received orders to Fort Benning I met your maternal grandfather and he saw to it that I completed my degree. I got more than I’d ever had then, too.” Meredith and I shared a smile before I looked back at Buck.

  “That’s why I’ve pushed for you to go to West Point, so it won’t be so hard for you. You’ll have advantages I never did. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.” He stood. “I’m sorry, sir, if I said anything to make you think I don’t respect you, because I do, very much. Now, sir, let’s get this fish situation settled so I can get to work on my Candidate Questionnaire.”

  For the next two weeks Buck and I worked on the pond with none of the previous tension between us. He dutifully completed all the paperwork and additional requirements for his admission application to West Point.

  One afternoon Miz Erma brought by members of the Mossy Creek Garden Club, and I watched my son patiently answer questions and discuss plantings. While I couldn’t fault my son’s diligence while we worked together, I had to admit this was the only time during those two weeks that I saw a spark of enthusiasm for the work.

  It was the day we had a backyard party to show off the completed pond and waterfall for all of our new neighbors and friends when I overheard a conversation between my son and Peggy Caldwell, a member of the Mossy Creek Garden Club.

  “Did you ever hear back about your application from the School of Horticulture at UGA?” Peggy asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was accepted.”

  “Oh, Buck that’s wonderful. Your parents must be thrilled.”

  “I’m going to West Point, Mrs. Caldwell. It’s what my Dad wants.”

  “What about what you want, Buck?”

  “There are worse things than a career in the Army. I’ll be fine. To be honest, it feels like this is the way I’ve been heading my whole life. Kind of like the water for this pond, everything works best when it goes the way nature meant for it to.”

  I glanced across the yard, at all the new friends who’d been interested and supportive of this project from the beginning. Just as they’d welcomed my family into theirs. These were the kind of people who stood by a friend, offering support in whatever way was needed. How could I accept that kind of approval when I couldn’t give it myself?

  The Army gave me my chance at the life I now enjoyed. No matter how it came about, there was nothing I wanted more than for my children to be happy. I’d done everything within my power to try and give them the life I’d not had growing up. Even if it meant giving up my dream for my son.

  With my hand in Meredith’s, we stood beside the waterfall and I called for everyone’s attention. Slowly the chatter died down.

  “It’s a good day,” I began. “Not only have I finally finished the pond but it means there’s less yard to mow.” The crowd laughed. “I wanted to build this pond as a way to show we’ve settled here in Mossy Creek. But it’s been all of you who have really made us feel at home.” I looked over the crowd, spotting Miz Erma, pregnant Sandy Crane and her husband Jess, Hank and Casey Blackshear among so many others. “While it might have been my idea and my money, it was my son’s design that made it all come together. He taught me a lot while we worked on the pond.” I looked at Buck.

  “He taught me that some things are supposed to go a certain way even when we imagine them going another. He was right about the way the water should flow from this waterfall and stream into the pond. And he’s right about what he wants out of his own life.

  “That’s why I’m sure he’ll be the best student the School of Horticulture at The University of Georgia has ever seen.”

  Among shouts of “Go Dawgs!” our new friends applauded and congratulated Buck the way I expected. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at me. It took several minutes before the impromptu celebration settled down and Buck and I had a chance to talk.

  “Dad, what about West Point?”

  “It’s not where you want to go, Buck. I might not always listen, but I’ve got good eyes. All I have to do is look at what you did here to know this what you want.”

  “But you want me to go to West Point.”

  “I did, yes.” Surprisingly it was an easy dream to let go. It had, after all, been my dream, not Buck’s. “The Army was good for me. It gave me what I needed. I’m proud that you don’t need something like that.” I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and we both looked over the landscape we created. “Besides I don’t know squat about this gardening business. I’m going to need your help keeping all these plants alive so I don’t have the Mossy Creek Garden Club coming down on my head.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “All I want is for you to be happy.”

  “Well, you know, I was thinking Mom would get a kick out of a pergola with a writing desk at the back of the yard. She could hang flower baskets and maybe do some container planting. Hostas do great in the shade.”

  “Why do I feel like I’ve created a monster?” I asked, but with a smile.

  “Dad?” Buck stepped back so he could see my face. “I want you to know that the reason I don’t need the Army is because I’ve had you to show me the kind of man I want to be.”

  Those simple words make up for all the bitter insults and criticisms of my childhood.

  “C’mon.” I gave his shoulders a squeeze and felt my chest swell with pride and love. “Let’s see what your Mom says about this latest idea of yours.”

  Mossy Creek Gazette

  Volume VII, No. Four • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  Koi Are Our Friends, Not Our Food

  by Forestry Ranger Bradley “Smokey” Lincoln

&nbs
p; I recently got asked to advise on remedies for protecting people’s backyard koi ponds from critters that like to munch on pet fish. As I am primarily trained by the state conservation service to advise on protecting wild mountain trout and big fat lake bass, and thus “koi fish” are to me as unnatural as wiener dogs to a lion tamer, I am hereby asking my fellow Creekites to help me out with suggestions for keeping General Sam Greene’s koi fish safe from raccoons.

  As for me, my best advice is to sit by your koi pond with a loaded shotgun, but I don’t think that tip is in the state regulations handbook. So you didn’t hear it here, okay?

  I want to hear from y’all, though. So sound off! Topic: how to discourage coons from fishing.

  Regards, Forest Ranger Smokey

  The Mice that Roared

  Part Five

  Win

  After I closed the diner the next day, I drove out to Hank’s veterinary clinic and found him doing his rounds in the kennel. He’d already examined the animals who were there for medical reasons, and invited me to help him feed the five dogs that were boarding. Casey and her beautiful, silent daughter LiLi had already taken them for their evening exercise, so all we had to do was feed them and clean out a couple of cages.

  I did more petting than feeding as we went through. I’d had to board Cherry a couple of times, so I knew how lonely dogs get without their families. These dogs were so grateful, I hoped that someone had done the same for her.

  Hank had already heard that I was considering running for town council. Since he was a member, he had an opinion about that.

  “You’re going to make a lot of people very happy,” he said to me as he dug his scoop into the dry dog food we were wheeling down the row of cages. “Dwight’s overstayed his welcome on the council. That’s more than my opinion. That’s flat-out fact. I won’t be the only one who’s happy to see him gone.”