Portrait of an Adorable Nuisance

Outside my window - what do I see?

A masked face staring back at me.

Onto a branch he held on tight,

And pulled the feeder with all his might.

The feeder swung, a dizzying spin,

As tiny hands reached deep within.

While holding on, he stuffed his face;

Handfuls vanish without a trace.

In just one year, five feeders gone,

By furry thief before the dawn.

To mend the damage, takes much toil,

And money, too, a costly spoil.

So now I must go out each night,

And pull the feeders out of sight.

I bring them in from porch to door,

And hang them out at dawn once more.

But if birdseed’s gone, that little sneak,

A sugary target, he will seek.

The hummer's feeder, he will wreck,

And leave the pieces on the deck.

One time, he took a feeder far,

Into the woods, beneath a stars.

This little scamp, with cute masked face;

The biggest pest in all this place.

He costs me time, he costs me dough,

This furry friend, I love him so.

He's quite a pest, it's plain to see,

But oh, that face just gets to me!

There I was — chin resting on the back of my overlapped hands, lying face down on a table covered in crisp, white paper. The sterile scent of disinfectants lingered in the air, and a white hot spotlight beamed directly at my booty. Apprehension hung in the room as I waited.

How did I end up in this precarious predicament? Allow me to explain.

My husband and I were on a trip to the mighty metropolis of Uncertain, Texas, population 85, a little fishing village that sits on the banks of Caddo Lake. We had journeyed the 11 hours to Uncertain in our camper van, dragging Bill’s 29-foot bass boat behind. Bill hoped to catch a trophy bass, and I was eager to witness and photograph the russet hues of autumn in the cypress bayous of Southeastern Texas.

Our first full day began gloriously. I photographed a stunning foggy sunrise from the dock at Caddo Lake State Park, and Bill launched his boat and cast his lines into the lake's black, murky waters.

Around 2:30 p.m., Bill suggested I go back out with him on the boat in order to see the lake from a vantage point other than the shoreline. I happily agreed and we spent a couple of hours slowly winding our way through the complicated trail system of Caddo Lake and ultimately made our way to the Red River just north of the state park. He cut the motor, and I stretched out across the back deck of the boat to steady myself on my elbows while photographing a long-legged heron fishing along the shore. Bill picked up his rod and reel and whipped a few casts off the front of the boat. It was a perfect afternoon — side by side, admiring the tranquility and beauty surrounding us, and both engaged in activities we love.

Eventually, Bill asked if I was ready to head back to The Shady Glade Marina and Campground. I nodded yes and moved down onto the back seat. Bill hit the gas. The front of the boat lunged upward out of the water, and I decided that I should move to my usual seat for safety — front left, behind the windshield. As I slid from the back seat, around the curved bench seat, to the front however, I felt an intense sharp pain in my butt region. I reached toward the source of the stinging sensation. I touched something needle sharp, pronged and metallic. Over the roaring of the 250-horsepower Mercury, I screamed, “STOP!”  Bill brought the boat to an abrupt halt and looked back.

I stood, turned around gingerly with my legs awkwardly spread apart so he could get a good look at whatever was stabbing me.  “Oh,” he said with a subtle hint of guilt and concern in his voice.

“What is it?” I demanded to know.

“It’s a crank bait,” he said matter-of-factly.

“A WHAT?”

He cleared his throat then added, “It’s a Strike King KVD Square Billed Silent Crank Bait with dual treble hooks.”

For those of you who may not know what I am talking about, a large, pronged fishing lure had pierced my ass cheek, and it wasn’t just any fishing lure. This particular fishing lure looked like a white and red baby fish, with two hooks dangling from the bottom, and each of the two hooks is a triple. That sucker had a total of six barbed hooks on it.  Six! Count ’em! Six!

In an attempt to analyze the situation and determine next steps, Bill got down on his hands and knees on the bottom deck of the boat as to be eye level with my pierced derrière.

“Bend over,” he said.

It was not the time for modesty, so I attempted to comply. Unfortunately, when I moved, the Strike King KVD Square Billed Silent Crank Bait — with its jagged barbs — implanted deeper and deeper into my delicate tushy. It had pierced my denim jeans, my favorite jeans, I might add. The hooks had plunged into my booty flesh, essentially pinning my jeans to me.  With every tiny movement I made, my jeans tugged it, and the Strike King Square Billed Silent Crank Bait pulled and shoved the barbs deeper into my gluteus maximus.

I quickly became desperate. Notwithstanding the pain, I knew we had to attempt to remove the dangling plastic fishy, so I bent over placing my forearms on the side of the boat with my legs spread apart and my ass sticking high up into the air — a glorious sight to behold, I’m sure. And Bill, like a surgeon, tried to extricate the Strike King with a pair of old rusty needle nose pliers he found in the boat’s glove box.

It became clear that there was no easy way to remove this thing as it had completely impaled the flesh of my derrière. Again, every slight movement, no matter how small, caused it to embed deeper.

“I can’t get it out,” Bill finally uttered in surrender.

Then using the steadiness of a military bomb tech and the rusty old pliers, he snapped off the dangly fish replica leaving just one of the two treble hooks lodged in my throbbing badonkadonk.

I crawled slowly to my usual seat (left front behind the windshield) and carefully lowered myself down onto my left cheek. Bill once again hit the gas, and for the next 45 minutes, we sped through the swampy Texas Bayous like a bat outta hell, eventually making our way to the dock at the Shady Glade Marina and Campground.

I already knew that standing, sitting and moving caused the barbs of the Strike King KV Square Billed Crank Bait to plunge deeper into my bootāy, but oh baby, let me tell you, making the giant step up from the boat to the dock … that was a real doozy!

I moved awkwardly through the parking lot and stepped up into our sprinter van — one giant step for man, one extremely painful step for a woman with a Crank Bait stuck in her ass cheek. Bill drove as I balanced delicately on my left cheek only.

I called ahead to the Emergency Room at Christus Good Shepherd Medical Center in Marshall Texas. When the receptionist answered I said “Are y’all able to remove a fishing lure from my ass?”  Well, that is what I intended to say, but realizing how ridiculously funny that sounded I began to laugh uncontrollably and was not able to continue the conversation.

Bill grabbed the phone, posed the question and after consultation by the medical staff, they told us to come on.

So, as Bill navigated the highway, I had time to further reflect on the events of the afternoon. It was clear to me that my current predicament was caused by a fishing lure being left out of it’s tackle box, and some people may find it difficult to believe that at this point, I was not mad at Bill for his failing to stow the lure in a safe place. I realized that it was a simple accident, and I actually found the whole ordeal somewhat funny.

But Bill, sensing that I was further evaluating the cause of this accident— trying to make sense of the painful predicament — went into full defense mode, and my good nature was about to be tested.

Let me interject here: Bill is a great guy, and he has many, many wonderful attributes and qualities, but what I am about to tell you is an undisputed fact - The word “sorry” is not in his vocabulary.

And an apology was not necessary. I knew that he probably felt badly, and he was doing all he could to get me to the ER as quickly as possible. I was not even a tiny bit irritated — at this point in the story.

  We raced west on Texas Highway 43, me on my left cheek and hanging on to the armrest for dear life as we rounded every curve at 75 mph in a big ole sprinter van, and that’s when he said it.

“I think I know what happened,” he began.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Up until that moment I did not think ‘what happened’ was in question.

“I think it was the glove,” he said to me.

“WTF? What are you talking about — It was the glove?” I answered, my irritation level going from about a zero to full scale in a little less than a second.

Then, my beloved husband of nearly 34 years proceeded to detail his theory of how this series of unfortunate events occurred.

“When you got in the boat you were carrying gloves. I think the Strike King KV Square Billed Crank Bait got stuck on one of your gloves and then the glove ended up on the back seat.”

That, he theorized, is how the Crank Bait came to be lodged between the cushions of the rear bench seat and ultimately implanted deep into my ass cheek.

As he spoke, I became more and more annoyed by his theory - his “justification.”

“You mean to tell me you are going to blame this on a glove!?”

So I sat there, perched uncomfortably on my left hip, clinging to the armrest to keep from moving any more than necessary, blood rushing to my face as I pondered the two possible scenarios:

Scenario 1: In his quest for a trophy bass, while fishing earlier in the day, he took the Crank Bait off his line and attached another lure to bring him better luck  — something that he does multiple times per fishing trip. He simply forgot to put the removed lure in the tackle box and as we stepped in and out of the boat, the cushions moved and the Crank Bait became lodged and concealed between the rear seat cushions.

Or

Scenario 2: Perhaps all of Bill’s hundreds of fishing lures were stowed properly and safely. Then I entered the boat carrying a pair of gloves. I tossed them carelessly up onto the dashboard behind the windshield, a solid 18 inches away from the little plastic container where the Crank Bait might have been. Then, miraculously, the glove crawled over on its own, and the Crank Bait got stuck to it. Then somehow the glove made its way to the backseat of the boat, pushed the Crank Bait down between the seats and then by some supernatural, unexplained force, the glove made its way back up to its spot on the dashboard.

Friends. I ask you all: Which scenario is more likely?

We pulled into the ER parking lot and I limped in gasping with every single step.

I explained to the triage nurse that there was a fishing lure stuck in my butt and I needed help getting it out.

She promptly put me into an OB/GYN room saying with a compassionate tone, “It’s the most private room we have.”

A nurse was first to assess my “situation.” She had me lie on the paper-covered table face down and butt up and then she swung a bright spotlight around to get a closer look at my denim-covered ass. I felt her probing the afflicted area and I tried hard not to flinch.

The way the Crank Bait was embedded into my keister through my jeans made it difficult to see exactly how bad the situation was, but she could tell that at least one of the six barbs had impaled me. She said they have a little trick called the “String-Yank Maneuver.” She explained that they tie a string to the hook and then, as the name suggests, they “yank” it out.

After her description of the “String-Yank Maneuver,” she asked me if I was okay to proceed.

“Well …” I said, “that sounds kind of painful. What are the other options?”

“There are really no other options,” she said.

"Well … if there are no other options, I guess it will have to be okay with it. Let’s roll!” I said.

It sounded unpleasant, but I did not care. I had a Crank Bait lodged into my tushy, my jeans were pinned to me preventing me from pulling them down to go potty, and I was over four hours into a large Aquafina and a 16 ounce Diet Mountain Dew. Time was of the essence.

She left the room and said she would be right back.

I prepared for the worst.

Finally, Dr. Oyler came in with his three-person entourage in tow — nurse, nurse practitioner and paramedic. What a treat to meet the doctor and his medical coterie with my butt up, spotlight shining on my denim-clad buttocks.

It was such a utterly hilarious moment I could not even find it anywhere in me to be embarrassed. I just laughed and in response, he laughed too.

“You will be surprised just how often we have to remove fish hooks,” he said reassuringly. “But this particular location is a first.”

Not knowing exactly how to proceed he asked if I could take my pants off.

“Hahahahahah! No, that is actually part of the problem,” I replied.

Then Dr. Oyler devised a plan.

Still lying face down, prone, butt up, surrounded by a group of sympathetic onlookers, I, like an inchworm, hoisted by rear end higher, reached under my belly and unzipped my favorite jeans. Then the nurse kind of peeled them downward like a banana, stopping at the place where the crank bait had stapled them to me.

Finally, the doctor could see it. Two of the three barbs of the treble hook were indeed pushed deeply into my flesh.

So, with me on the table, butt up, jeans folded down, spotlight on my derrière covered now by only my cutest pink-striped undies, Dr. Oyler and staff got to work. I could feel them moving around the treble hook while trying to tie the sting onto the barbs.

Then, finally the moment of truth, as he inhaled and said, “This is gonna hurt like hell. Are you ready?”

I was ready and did not even care one little bit how much it hurt, how embarrassing it was or how angry I was at Bill’s stupid “glove theory.”

I. Did. Not. Care.

“Ready!” I exclaimed.

And then … he yanked it.

OUCH! He was right. It hurt like hell, but it was fast and thank God it was over!

But then I heard Dr. Oyler speak the words that nearly broke me.

“One down, one to go.”

OMG! I screamed silently to myself as I realized, “the two barbs would have to come out separately, one at a time.”

And then, he jerked it again. And again, I remained motionless.

And then, right there in front of the crowd of medical onlookers, and without permission, I stood up, jeans folded down exposing my pretty pink striped undies, blood running down the back of my leg, and said “I’ll be right back — I’m going to pee.” They watched me waddle to the door at the back of the OB/GYN room and into the restroom.

When I returned, they slapped a bandage on my boo boo, and in no time I was on my way back to Shady Glade Marina and campground.

Again, I swear this: I was still not mad. But I will note that it was a very quiet drive back to Uncertain. I think Bill may have been a little scared of me.

To this day, over two months later, Bill continues to maintain his innocence in the ridiculous misadventure, but I made three important observations:

First. Bill almost always complains about how much he dislikes my music, but on the drive back to the campground that night, Bill played my favorite playlist (John Denver and James Taylor).

Second. On the night when we arrived back at the campground, Bill quietly went to work and prepared my favorite dinner — salad with grilled chicken and a cold Diet Coke.

Third. Days later when we finally returned home to Cartersville, he promptly went outside and washed, waxed and detailed my car inside and out.

Ladies, I ask you: Are these the actions of an innocent man?

In hindsight, the “Crankbait in the Butt Caper” was undoubtedly a memorable adventure. Despite the circumstances that landed me in that unforgettable situation, I can't help but look back and find humor in that series of events. And yes, while Bill's bogus “glove theory” will live on in infamy, his subsequent actions spoke volumes, and actions speak louder than words. Right?

And in the end, Bill remains the “Catch of my Life,” and I’m thankful to navigate the boring and mundane days with him, as well as all of the unplanned moments, regardless how chaotic, embarrassing or absurd. It is his unwavering support and love that stand as steadfast as an anchor, guiding us through life’s unpredictable waters. I truly treasure him.

But we all know that he left the lure on the seat.

The meadowlark sang for no reason other than there was a song in its heart. The little girl did the same.

The first time I ever saw the little girl she was seated at a table in the middle school library. Pen in hand, slowly, deliberately and nervously forming each letter of her signature. I smiled as I watched her sign her scholarship contract, knowing that she and I would get to spend a lot of time together over the next 5 years.

As the years passed, Phoebe and I did spend much time together in our relationship as Mentor/Protégé. We met regularly. We chatted in the school’s conference room over chicken sandwiches and sweet tea. She rode shotgun in my jeep on afternoons when I drove her home from band practice. We hiked the mountainous trails near our little town. And together we even cooked meals in my kitchen that would be delivered to the local children’s shelter. As we did these things, we discussed life and school - me always making sure that she was on solid ground academically and in her personal life.

Early on, our relationship was friendly and light and Phoebe frequently made passing references to her home life and family members but nothing to merit my concern. No matter where we went, people would enthusiastically shout her name then run to her for an exuberant hug. Phoebe you see, is well known in our little town and noticeably beloved by all. She is charming, kind and always happy as a lark. Phoebe is one of those people with a magnetic personality who just seems to have it all together. Everyone assumed that her life was a fairy tale.

But beneath the veneer of a perfect life, and unbeknownst to almost everyone, a darkness lurked. Difficulties that seemed so insurmountable, they threatened to silently consume this cheerful little songbird.

Two full years into our time together, as we hiked up Pine Mountain trail, the flood gates opened and Phoebe began to describe the hard realities about her family and her life.

As a young child she had been removed from her Mom and placed in foster care in another city. It happened in early December and she remembered her Mom’s promise that she would come get her and that they would celebrate Christmas together. Phoebe waited, but her Mom never came. Instead, she celebrated Christmas with people she barely knew. But amidst the sadness of her mother’s unfulfilled promise came a small moment of happiness. Beneath the Christmas tree that year there was a beautifully wrapped gift with the name “Phoebe” on the label. Inside was a teddy bear wearing a festive plaid scarf, embroidered with the name “Aero.” It was the first Christmas gift Phoebe had ever received. She was six years old.

As we continued up Pine Mountain, she continued to tell her heartbreaking life story. Then came worst revelation of all. She revealed painful facts about her mother who by this time she had not seen nor spoken to in over 10 years. The mother who was so drug addicted that she was never able to regain custody of her little girl, actually lived just a few miles away. Phoebe sobbed as she confessed that her mother frequently begged for handouts from strangers on the interstate exit ramp, and then used the money to buy drugs and cigarettes. Her face was racked with pain and embarrassment as she shared the torment of knowing this about her own Mother.  I know that there must have been many times when, like Jenny in the movie Forrest Gump, she wished to be a bird so that she could just fly away.

Her story continued and she described the next eight years of her life. She eventually landed in a more stable home when one of her Mother’s Ex Husbands gained legal custody of her and her two half sisters. Things there were better, but they were still far less than perfect. It was an existence of poverty, food scarcity and continuous uncertainty. My little songbird, who most believed to be living a comfortable life, frequently relied on the generosity of teachers, friends, and even strangers to help with food, school supplies and other necessities. Even though none of this was her fault she felt embarrassment. She disguised this shame with her signature million dollar smile.

“If you want to fly, you must first give up what weighs you down.” I believe that her disclosure of the many painful realities of her life was a cathartic first step in purging a heaviness that was holding her down - she was now free to take flight. I knew that a better life was within her grasp and I was determined to help her get there. And I hoped that her awful circumstances would not extinguish the beautiful song that was in her heart.

And miraculously, she did continue to sing and begin to take flight. Through all the difficulties and challenges Phoebe became determined to “get out”. She never missed a day of school. She achieved very high grades in difficult classes and participated heavily in extra curricular activities. And even though she herself faced many challenges, she was always unselfishly concerned about the well being of friends and classmates. She not only wanted to fix herself, she wanted to fix everyone!!

I recall one time when we were in my car together talking about her boyfriend; someone I had concerns about but had never brought up until that day. I said to Phoebe, “I have concerns about him. He is into bad things, and I'm afraid that he will change you.”   Without hesitation she offered me a sincere but surprising reply. “Maybe I can change him” she said softly. Wow! That was a plot twist that I had not anticipated. It illustrated the depth of her unselfish concern for others.

Her junior year was coming to an end and we continued preparations for her life after high school. In addition to her regular school work, she spent much time preparing for the ACT. In order to afford clothes and food, Phoebe worked 30 hours weekly at a fast food restaurant, bumming rides home each night when the store closed. Without complaint, she managed an extremely challenging daily schedule. She sacrificed sleep and social activities in order to achieve her goals.

And all of that hard work eventually paid off. She was accepted into every college to which she applied and ultimately made the decision to pursue a degree in Mechanical Engineering at Georgia Tech. In the summer of 2021 she left behind everything she had ever known and struck out on wing and a prayer. We packed up my jeep, moved all of her belongings into Perry Dorm and hugged goodbye on the corner of Bobby Dodd and Techwood Drives.

Phoebe is now half way through her sophomore year at Georgia Tech and is doing well. Her classes challenge her but she is surviving and learning. She is a member of the color guard in the marching band and gets to perform in a cute (kind of sexy - ugh) sequin outfit on game days at Bobby Dodd Stadium. She enjoys the company of a large group of supportive friends. She still stretches herself thin by working almost 30 hours weekly at a part time job.  AND…She shouts “To Hell with Georgia” like her mentor used to do!”

Emily Dickinson wrote that “Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul” and indeed it has been hope alone that has sustained Phoebe for years. Her hopes and mine. It is my hope that she will continue to grow and realize that her future is not dictated by her past. I hope that she can break the stigmas and heartbreak caused by intergenerational trauma. I hope that her compelling life story of perseverance and survival will eventually be something that she chooses to share with others to inspire them to overcome similar circumstances. And I hope that the beautiful song that she carries in her heart will be an inspiration to many others.

She is growing up and becoming self sufficient and we are not in contact nearly as much as we once were…but this is all a part of the plan, right? I have her for a short time. I help and guide her through her high school years and hopefully give her confidence and wings to fly.

On a frosty morning last October, as I sat in my jeep waiting for the Cades Cove gate to open, my phone rang. What a surprise! A call from Phoebe at 7:20am!  She was up early and about to trudge up freshman hill en route to an 8am lecture in The Howie Physics Building. Her call was just a friendly “hello” and we chatted about her roommates (she adores them) and her lab partner (she does not adore him). She told me that somehow in her very busy schedule she has made time to regularly attend a bible study. She is living a good and wholesome life but as is always the case, concerns about her family privately occupy a large space in her mind and in her heart. She is slowly climbing out of that world she used to live in, but her half sisters can not seem to do the same and it hurts her greatly. She is conflicted by her own success and  by the opportunities she is beginning to see on the horizon. I just remind her to continue to do the best she can in this moment at school. Since my earliest association with her, we have often talked about the idea that “she must put the oxygen mask on herself first before she can put it on others.”

I am so very proud of her!

Our call ended just as the gates opened and I rolled into Cades Cove hoping to photograph fall color or perhaps even a bear. With Phoebe still on my mind I slowly navigated the loop, passed the visitor center and turned left onto Hyatt Lane. I was mesmerized by the magical icy landscape that had been created by the season’s first frost. Glancing out into a field I saw a flash of yellow, It’s just a maple leaf caught on a tree branch, I thought to myself.

But I saw it move again and I wondered aloud, “Is that a bird?”

I lifted my Nikon with the 600mm lens already attached and snapped a quick shot of the subject which was over 60 yards away. I looked on the rear display and zoomed in even further.

"By Golly! That is a bird!  I think its a Meadowlark!!”

I jumped from my jeep and crossed onto the edge of the meadow. I took a shot and then inched a few steps closer, but I was still too far away for the bird to fill the frame. I continued to move closer, taking a shot every few feet and to my surprise the bird did not fly. Even when I was just 30 yards away it remained atop a dead branch singing its heart out. It sang a song so perfect and pure, that I could actually see the notes formed by its breath. I clicked photo after photo and as I did, the meadowlark continued singing the most joyful song.

I have heard it said that a bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. The Meadowlark sang in spite of the bitter cold. It sang in spite of the approaching winter. I was drawn to its song and its hopefulness. And I realized that this cheerful and joyous Meadowlark was a perfect reflection of my Phoebe. In spite of bitter circumstances, she too had a joyful song in her heart. She sings a song so beautiful and pure that others are inspired by her example. Both make the world brighter and more bearable with their song, their purity and with their joyful noise, and I am thankful and lucky to have been in just the right places at just the right times to bear witness to both.