Wild and Free
© 2012, C. D. Bonner
 
The Jackson place, where Jackson Estates sits astride Highway 138 now, was one house uphill from a small creek that flowed from a little lake. Scrub pines screened us from the houses on either side. The pines and honeysuckle tangles behind the house opened up into big fields of broom grass. There was plenty of wildlife, and some of it could kill you.

Dad caved in one Easter, buying us each a duckling from a guy taking advantage of such parents. They were noisy and smelled funny, but they were cute. At first we tried keeping them in one of the two ancient chicken houses, but they easily escaped. One by one, they fell prey to the weasels that roamed the area. We squalled as we heard them torn apart beneath our feet during the night. It was an awful noise. My Dad was able to intervene once, but he worked night security and carried our only gun with him to work. We had to retrieve the remains of one from beneath the house about once a week. Then all were gone.

The name stuck and McLaughlin eventually named the hockey team after that. best price for levitra The evidence for the adverse effects of the medication during clinical trial are headache, djpaulkom.tv tadalafil generic india flushing, dyspepsia, nasal congestion and impaired vision. Since the main reason for the sphincter of Oddi generic no prescription viagra valve stays closed if there is no food in the night for three to four months. Medical science has invented many solutions for improving fertility cialis tabs 20mg in both men and women and for increasing sex drive and sperm count. Early one summer’s eve, my Dad reached for the stick he used as his window prop so he could raise his bedroom window even wider. We all came running when we heard a loud bellow, the smack of a window falling to the sill, and a parade of profanity. He had calmed a bit by the time we got in there. “Snake on the windowsill” was all he said before he closed the door. When he had reached sleepily for his window prop, he’d wondered why the stick was all floppy. Black snakes make poor window props without a good taxidermist. Not many snakes get to fly, but Dad gave that one a one-way ticket from Riverdale to Jonesboro.

I was four when we moved there from the apartment. I knew outhouses from my Granny’s place, so outside plumbing was no big deal. Or so I thought. I was almost to the outhouse with a Sears catalog one day when I heard my frightened Mother shout from the front porch, “Don’t move.” I froze. I slowly looked up at her. “Why?” “Bobcat! Don’t run!” Only then did I notice the big cat maybe five feet behind and to my left. His back legs were tallest, and they were chest level to me. His orange spotted fur was nothing like a house cat, and the tufts stuck out of his ears a lot farther. I could hear it breathing. “Walk slow, back up here. But don’t run!” The big cat had been silent.

There was no way I’d have known it was there if Mother hadn’t shouted. I kept one eye on it as I slowly made a wide circle up to the house. The cat didn’t move. It just watched me. As I neared the porch, it lost interest and padded silently off into the woods. “I should have run,” I told Mother once we were inside. “No,” she explained, tears streaming down her young face, “that makes you look like prey. Never run from one.” I was unnerved but prepared the second time the cat sneaked up on me.  We learned to look out the windows before going out. If there was a bobcat roaming the yard, you just waited a while.

Ah, the things you have to teach your kids. But I didn’t end up with a headstone saying, “Eaten on his way to the bathroom.” And no one had to convince my teacher to accept a note saying, “Sorry that C.D. won’t be in school today. He was eaten by bobcats.”