Leavin Train

Grandpa Was

Grandpa and the Deer

At first, he thought they were the noblest of creatures. Everyday one or two would visit our meadow, grazing like little brown and white lawn mowers across the four acre expanse. “Beautiful creatures,” he would smile. But by the time the whole ordeal reached its volcanic conclusion, the fuzzy four-legged former friends would be forever known as Devil Deer ― The Purveyors of Hell. I had never seen anything like it except, perhaps, in Donald Duck cartoons. My dad had gone off the deep end when it came to what the calmer part of the family tree jokingly dubbed “The Deer War.”

Dad is a retired nurseryman, as was his father before him. It is in his blood. Grandfather to eleven adult grandchildren, my youngest came as a surprise, and Dad happily discovered that his new (and probably last) granddaughter, Alex, was the only grandkid who arrived with a green thumb. Dad was so proud, and it didn’t matter that Alex was a girl. As only someone born before the days of women’s lib and Gloria Steinem could say with a straight face, “Girls are capable nurserymen too, you know.”

Over the summer of her seventh year, Dad taught Alex any and everything about plants, and was particularly proud of the way she could pronounce the Latin names. Mom was overjoyed that Dad finally had a plant buddy.

On misty mornings Dad would mutedly call Alex into the front room for an up-close look at the beautiful creatures grazing in the meadow. Alex called it the Bambi Show, as Dad and she would gaze appreciatively at the majestic deer. Dad would snap picture after picture of “his” deer, showing his prized photographs to anyone he could snare. Then, came the day: planting time for the vegetable garden and flower garden.

From years of experience, Dad knew what deer like to eat and so he made an effort to plant marigolds along the garden perimeter in a humane bid to stave off the deer that might happen to view his new garden as more of a kitchen. “The marigold smell keeps the deer in the meadow,” he confidently declared. “There’s plenty to eat out there,” he would tell Alex.

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

So Dad and Alex planted zucchini, watermelons, carrots, green beans, cucumbers, and tomatoes, and every day was filled taking care of that pretty little garden. The neighbors marveled at the bounty Dad’s garden produced. People would drive past our colorful place with the stunning flower gardens and the orange and yellow dahlias, where sweet smelling roses, bonny sunflowers, tall stately hollyhocks and the morning glories that Alex had planted from seed made their home along the flagstone path.

Dad had laid all the path stones himself and planted the fast spreading Moneywort groundcover sneaking between each stone. Breathtaking. As a botanical piece’ résistance, Mom purchased two massive petunia plants in huge baskets and hung them next to the back door.

One day, Dad happily noticed not just the usual two deer but seven; two adults and five fawns, to be exact. They were the cutest little things, following their mamas all over the meadow, eating the meadow grass down, and as the days passed, they began to move a little closer to the house. One morning he noticed the petunias in the three foot baskets had just disappeared. Dad’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the telltale signs that trouble was afoot, and it had arrived on four feet! There were little droppings on the ground and when Alex asked what they were, he mumbled something about them not being Raisinettes. “That my dear, is war.”

The deer had gotten to Mom’s precious petunias; a line in the sand (or in this case, soil) had been crossed.

Next went the sunflowers. If Dad wasn’t already bald, he would have been from pulling his hair out. He wanted to protect his vegetable garden and that is when Alex got an education.

Dad erected twirling ground flower stakes in an opening volley to scare the Devil Deer away.

CASUALTIES OF WAR

He was already resigned to losing casualties every day, and those cheeky deer had no compunction about walking up on our porch ― right up the stairs ― and munching every rose off its stem.

Dad would tear onto the porch armed with a pot and a spoon, and bang the heck out of the pan. Early in the game the deer would scatter in all directions. It was like watching Donald Duck with the chipmunks.

But there was soon a point when they wouldn’t even glance up whenever Donald Dad flew out the door, pot and spoon at the ready. They must have thought he was playing music just for them. They would merely stare at the crazy man with flowers hanging out of both sides of their mouths (The deer mouths, not Dad’s…).

Now we were up to eight deer; one more plus Santa and a sleigh and we’d really be in business.

Then it happened; the vegetable garden took a hit. A new theatre of war had been declared.

By this time, Dad was experiencing knee problems so he would send out his little soldier, Private Alex, armed with the pot and spoon. Even with Dad’s bad knee he would sometimes hobble out to the battlefield with his cane and wave it up and down. “You Devil Deer! Did you come from Hell? Get out of here. That’s my dinner you’re eating. Those are my beans!” The only thing missing from the cane was the white flag.

We could almost see the deer laughing, enjoying the excitement of it all. Alex launched a new offensive, running through the garden with her umbrella open, and that seemed to snap the deer out of their green bean coma and they would run. Well, not exactly run; more like a saunter.

DON’T’ FENCE ME IN

Dad bought some fencing. He laid netting over the green beans and around the whole garden area. “That should take care of it,” Dad harrumphed. That very evening, I looked out the window to see all eight deer inside the fencing, their faces under the netting enjoying their green beans. And they were their beans, don’t let anyone kid you. They knew someone had planted a smorgasbord just for them. Not since the Pilgrims and the Indians had such a feast been laid.

Dad was livid. He complained all day long about the Devil Deer. He bought magazine after magazine to find the cure. Here he had been a nurseryman all his life and had never had such a problem with deer. The Devil Deer had ended up smashing all his watermelons as they stumbled through the garden to gobble up the cucumbers. They had to be stopped.

And now, the incident that once and for all sent Dad over the edge.

One day, near dusk, he looked out the back porch and saw all eight deer wolfing down Alex’s morning glories; the ones that she had so painstakingly grown from seed. “ALEX!” he shouted. “Get the umbrella!” She came bounding down the stairs and headed automatically out to the veggie garden until she saw what the deer were eating. “NOT MY MORNING GLORIES!” She grabbed her umbrella and started flapping it like wings. “GET OUT OF HERE!” She rushed the door as fast as her eight-year-old little legs could carry her, and chased the deer off the porch. She wrangled them into the meadow, screaming at the top of her lungs, and although the deer looked at her like they couldn’t believe what this crazy little creature was doing, she did scare them away.

She also scared our neighbor who jumped off his tractor and came flying over to our house to see “if Alex had been shot or something.” When we explained to him about the sacred morning glories and the Devil Deer, he just shook his head.

“It’s time to let it go Harold. You even got your granddaughter all wound up!” Dad didn’t say a thing. He actually didn’t say much after that day.

Two weeks passed without a single word about the deer.

“Did a package come for me?”

“No Dad, are you expecting something?”

He’d shake his head no, but four weeks later a package arrived. The stamps announced that the mystery package had originated in a foreign country. It seems that internet banking scams are not the only things that come from Nigeria. The box was about a ten inch cube and it smelled faintly of cat urine.

“Dad, what is this?” I asked, wondering what the faint odor of cat urine rising from the package could possibly mean.

He grabbed the package from me, trying his best to mask the mischievous grin on his face. “Nobody eats my granddaughter’s morning glories!” He opened the package and it turned out that it actually was cat pee but, not the kind you’d imagine. He had ordered lion urine from Nigeria to pour in the garden. “Grandpa, how do they get the pee?” asked Alex. “From the circus,” he replied.

“You didn’t, Harold.” Mom gasped. “Did you actually order lion pee to scare those deer away?” she asked, with a disgusted look on her face. “Do you think our deer will even recognize the smell of lion pee? How much did you pay for that?”

I don’t think Dad heard a single word she said as he headed for the garden with his cane, a little girl’s umbrella, and a box of Nigerian lion pee. As I watched him hobble to the garden with a new mission, and a revived sparkle in his eye, I knew that I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that there are no lions in Nigeria.

About the Author

Beth McCain lives in beautiful Oregon with her husband, Lee and their four children. Beth and Lee are published authors and instructors in applying the Law of Attraction in every day life. For more information, please visit: http://www.bethandleemccain.com

Tags: family, grandpa, grandpa was a carpenter, grandpa was a carpenter chords, grandpa was a carpenter john prine, grandpa was a carpenter tab, grandpa was a stormfuhrer, history, humor, martial-arts

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 5th, 2008 at 10:14 am and is filed under Trains. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.