JamieSue

Crocodile Hunter - Who, Me?

 If a bleeding chicken and a big gun are your idea of a good time, please contact me. 

Usually, I’m okay with alligators. Really. In the last 30 years there have been only eight alligator attacks on humans in South Carolina. Those are pretty good odds.  I know the alligators are out there. I know that there are probably a few even living in my very slough, the slough where I swim and float for hours, dangling my feet like bait under my raft.  I know that the alligators exist the same way I know that there are serial killers. They’re out there. They might get me. But as long as I don’t see any obvious ones, I’m happy to keep swimming in the lake or shopping in malls where either predator might hunt.

The not seeing them part, though, is key. If I don’t peek at the monsters in the closet, they won’t get me. This summer, we’ve had an alligator around. I had seen him occasionally in the morning or the early evening when he didn’t expect me out. As soon as he saw me, the alligator submerged, politely denying that he existed.  He wasn’t even very big- maybe 3 or 4 feet.  So, the alligator and I had an agreement. He swam in the early mornings and nights. I got the daylight. He stayed on the weedy side of our slough. I got the beach. Aside from a few cases of “oh my lord what are those bubbles in the water coming toward my raft I’m getting out of the water right now”, the agreement was working and I wasn’t afraid. Until recently.

Recently, some relatives came over and we had a last-minute minor beach event. It involved a few adults on shore in folding chairs, a radio playing country music, and six kids and me in the water for most of the day. There was shouting, music, boat paddling, pier jumping, inner tube rocking, swim racing, and shrill Marco Polo.  In other words, much loud, annoying human water frolicking. I didn’t even consider the gator. Clearly, he would be intimidated by the loud mass of playing on the beach. Most humans would be intimidated by the sheer noise of us. Obviously, the shy alligator would.  That’s what I thought. Instead, after a few hours of our noise, Mr. Gator swam casually into the slough, showing much of his body on top of the water. This was a step outside of our agreement, but I figured he’d just keep swimming over to his agreed upon domain, over the invisible line which divided the slough into my half and his.  He was truly trucking through the slough toward his half. Then, when he got to the center of the slough just opposite all of our commotion, he stopped.  What nerve!  He actually stopped and just watched us. He practically pulled up a folding chair. He hung out there in the middle of the slough for a good fifteen minutes while we pointed, and talked, and Keith Urban sang, “You look good in my shirt.”  Eventually, the alligator turned and swam into the weeds where he usually lurks, but it was too late. He had broken our treaty.

The next day, I called the SC Department of Natural Resources. In the past, when we had an alligator who was too bold, my would Mom call DNR and exaggerate the alligator just a wee bit so they would send out a Shootist.  A shootist?? Yes, a shootist.  The shootist arrived, usually in a pickup, with a folding chair, a big gun, and a dead chicken.  The shootist would slit the throat of the chicken and hang it from our pier, unfold his lawn chair in the grass, and wait for the gator. It was an event. Neighbors might come over with their own lawn chairs. Eventually, the alligator would show up for the dead chicken and then be dispatched. Perhaps there would be a beer involved or a neighborhood parade or maybe a statue erected. In any case, the alligator would be gone and summer activities could be resumed.  Simple.  So, I called the DNR about our current nuisance alligator and explained the situation complete with slightly exaggerated details. Willie, the Wildlife Biologist I reached on the phone, told me that the laws had changed. Since I’m a private landholder and the alligator is being a nuisance on my property, I am now allowed to kill it myself. Not shoot it, exactly, but first trap it, haul it to the pier, and THEN shoot it at close range. Oh joy. Wait, what?  Two days later I received in the mail an official yellow envelope including my permit to kill 1 alligator without fear of the $200,000 fine. Additionally, the folder included a plastic green zip tie with an illustration of how to tag the alligator carcass within six inches of the tail.  Where oh where is the shootist? The folding chair? The dead chicken?  All replaced by one tiny piece of plastic.   So far, I have tried waving the plastic at the alligator, but he is not impressed.  Neither am I.

How I Built My Very Own Car Bomb

My mother is a bad passenger. Sure, we could blame this on her inability to breathe because of  Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD), but that wouldn’t be honest. She has always been uncomfortable in the car. Even when I was a child, in our small town of Manning, Mom would not make left turns across traffic. Seriously. She always turned right and then drove around the block. As a passenger, her key contributions include pointing out possible road hazards, the phrase “it’s not clear my way” at nearly every intersection, and a teeth-grinding-air-sucking-noise that indicates her displeasure at all driving maneuvers. This is Mom’s level of participation on a good day in slow traffic in a tiny southern town.  This summer, we decided to drive from South Carolina to Indiana so my mother could see two sisters and a brother she hadn’t seen in more than 30 years.

My mother has been sick for 11 years. She has Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD). For the last five years, she has been on oxygen 24/7. The only time she has spent the night outside of home has been for hospital stays and one night in a hotel in Charleston for my Dad’s surgery. Traveling with Mom requires serious packing skills.  I made an excel spreadsheet of all the medication we needed and what could be packed in the car and what needed to be in the front seat reachable and what needed to be refrigerated. Machinery alone included a large oxygen generator, a nebulizer, a convertor that allowed the nebulizer to plug into the car cigarette lighter, and many many backup spare parts. Plus, we had a wheelchair, 20 tanks of compressed oxygen, and a giant wedge pillow that she uses to sleep upright. Oh, and, well, some clothes that we stuffed in small bags so they could be squished in around the machinery.

Throw all this in the car plus the oxygen deprived old lady (kidding, kidding)  who is seriously in need of new glasses and it made for quite a driving experience. Mom highlights included her watch-dog like skills warning me of: “Watch out for that old hunched lady crossing the Burger King parking lot!” – actually an employee pushing a grey trashcan,  “Be careful for the sparks being thrown on the highway!” – actually a flashing yellow roadwork sign, “Watch out for those kites!” – Kites?? Actually, the plastic balls they attach to power lines so airplanes can see them.

In case the deadly kites were not enough, as we were outside Indianapolis Indiana, the sky got very dark and we could hear sirens around us everywhere. “Tornado sirens?” my Mom asked. Of course, I didn’t believe her. Then it started to rain so that I could see nothing and we switched on the radio to discover that yes, in fact, they were tornado sirens and that tornadoes had touched down in the county we were driving through. As we crawled along the interstate through the rain we passed two semis which had been turned over by the high winds.  And the entire time I’m thinking, exploding oxygen tanks exploding oxygen tanks exploding…

But, we didn’t explode. And, overall, the drive went fantastically well. My Mom did an amazing job of managing her anxiety (you might be just a bit nervous too if you knew that forgetting some bit of equipment might mean you couldn’t breathe). And, as with any good road trip, we had some laughs – for example, when Mom said aloud, “Oh, I thought that was my boob.” 
Me: “What?”
Her (holding the pillow that she likes to keep in her lap): “The pillow. I felt it there but I thought it was my boob.”
Me (laughing, the pillow is neon blue): “Why did you think it was your boob?”
Her: “Well, it was soft and squishy and laying against my waist.”
Me (more laughing): “Oh god.”
Good times, good times. And no explosions.

(Ogden Dunes, Indiana)

Communing With Nature

I maintain that I grew up on a lake.  Google maps claims that it is a swamp. Wyboo Swamp, says Google maps. Lake. It is a lake.I swam in this lake for many years and I’m swimming in it again now. Yes, there are fish, turtles, crawdaddies, and snakes and yes, even alligators, but this is a lake (not a swamp) and it is safe.  True, I have a security routine. When I go swimming, I make a lot of noise on the pier, because, you see, nothing wants to eat me on PURPOSE.. perhaps a startled water moccasin might bite me, perhaps a confused alligator might take a shot if it didn’t realize that I’m a big people sized creature, so I make a lot of very intimidating pier stomping. Then, I slosh my way into the shallow water and then I swim. Noisily. I kick very loudly on top of the water all the way out past the pier, then back in, then out, then in many times, startling away all creatures which I might otherwise surprise.  Once I feel like I have identified my territory, I drag in my float. It’s a lovely float- more a mini bathtub really – only the edges are inflated and the center hangs down into the water so it’s like a water hammock with only my head and feet sticking out of the water.  And I float and I read for an hour or more. Lovely, really.

 

So, there I am reading The Inheritance of Loss. Floating in the lake, reading about India, transfixed, out by the end of our neighbor’s pier. I’ve been quiet and still and reading for about an hour when  a striped green and black turtle head pops up right next to my float.  I smile. Obviously the turtle doesn’t realize I’m a person. Obviously, he thinks I’m just a floating log or something. You see, turtles float out in the lake all the time – their little green heads are everywhere and you can see their big brown bodies just below the surface, but as soon as you walk on the pier or get close to the turtles they disappear quickly underwater. I smile at the turtle. He blinks at me and I can see his big brown clawed feet treading water around his body. I’m being very still so I won’t scare him away. I’m admiring his black and green stripes.  He goes under then and reappears further down along my float only an inch or two away. His body is bigger than a dinner plate. I’m really grinning. Mockingbirds and finches are calling in the trees overhead. The water is perfectly smooth. The day is very humid but overcast and the lake water is bath temperature. I am trying to be so very still because I don’t want to change anything. The turtle’s back comes up above the water for a second and I can see the smooth brown layer of algae growing on him and the way it moves under the water is beautiful. He blinks at me again and I wonder if he is scared or completely oblivious to my presence. Turtles have totally black eyes – expressing nothing. They would be good at poker, I think. The turtle goes under again and reappears near the end of my float. He still doesn’t realize I’m a person, I think. Probably thinks I’m floating debris, perhaps a log, or a fellow lake animal. I’m smiling. Peaceful. Me, here, communing with nature so successfully that I am indistinguishable from a log.  Then suddenly there is a harsh pinch on the side of my foot and I see the turtle’s beak latched on just under my small toe. I shout, “you little fucker.” And I’m kicking my foot. The turtle loses his grip, but I have kicked him into my little hammock float and now the dinner plate with claws is scrambling across my belly, digging his little nails into my Argentina Boob-exposing swimming suit, and I’m trying to eject him from the raft but the pleasant inflated edges encircle me and the turtle. He’s panicking. I’m panicking. My book is also panicking because the bottom of it is now wet. The raft is indifferent to all of our plights. The turtle decides to climb toward my head. I’m trying to grab him but his shell is slimy and slick. I’m still half-shouting “you little fucker” and probably startling the hell out of the quiet fishing Baptist a few piers down. Finally, I get one hand under the turtle and flip him out of my raft. Then, very suddenly, I’m laughing loudly.

 

If I were you, I wouldn’t believe this story. Totally improbable. Why would a big box turtle float to the surface of the lake and bite some girl on the toe?  He wouldn’t. Really. He just wouldn’t.  But it really did happen. Right now, I imagine the dinner plate turtle swimming back down into the depths where he will return home and tell the story of this strange white log he bit that suddenly started moving. Or perhaps he will collect the bet money from his turtle friends, proving once and for all that he had the guts to attack a person.  I don’t know.  The only thing I do know is that this is a lake, not a swamp. No matter what stories you hear.

 

(June 30th, Manning, South Carolina)