The Critter Crew
Stories of the Paranormal
Stories of the Paranormal
When I say the bear spoke to me, I mean I heard it in my head. When you talk to a human, that is where the noise goes and that is where the thought sits. Well, Mr. Bear skipped all those steps and said to me: "Make my day." I did not want to make his day. He received that idea. At the same time his addressing me signified that he considered me the spokesman for the three humans, which I acknowledged, and said to Bob "Don't even think of it."
The four of us stood, the bear to my left. Bob facing the bear, and Greek to the left of Bob and facing me. To my right was a pulaski, a combination grub hoe and axe blade on a long hardwood handle. Bob should never have told me to "go for the pulaski." That is when the bear had looked at the pulaski and then across to me. We stood three feet apart. He was like a man in a bear suit. He understood what Bob wanted. He understood that Bob wouldn't do it. He knew it was my move.
So I said to Bob,"no one touch a thing." The bear took a small step toward Bob and sniffed his forehead. Bob was scared. I would have been if I were he. But I was not scared of the outcome, so long as Bob did what he was told. I was in charge of the human side. "Don't move, he's just going to sniff you," I kept talking. "Sniffing is their seeing, and he is sniffing your intent." The bear sniffed down Bob's front, very slowly and thoughfully. "You didn't mean to give him that tin of peanut butter," I explained, "You didn't expect it to get caught on his teeth." When the bear reached Bob's feet he stopped sniffing, rose up, then went on all fours back to the pile of cans.
"I hope he has the sense to not go digging about in there again." I said. Greek told Bob 'this is why you don't feed the bears.' Bob had been feeding the bear food tins, which the bear crunched like peanuts, until a tin got stuck on his teeth, and maybe cut his gums. The bear had connected Bob to the food tin, and the food tin to the pain in his mouth, and the pain in his mouth to Bob. That's when he jumped up and came over to us. And that was the first time a bear ever spoke to me. If you want to make friends with a bear, a good way to start is to feed him marshmallows with your lips --just kidding. Well if you take it figuratively it is good advice.
Al Fontana 7/28/07
My friend could not get me to take a cigarette. I had been bumming smokes off him --trying to quit -- and he was trying to tempt me. We were having the usual fun aroun the campfire. We made and ate a big clam chowder, and drank some beers. But he could not get me to smoke. 'No, that is the old me,' I wanted to say. But I let the fun go on. Whenever he drew out a cigarette for himself he offerred me one and I said 'no thanks.'
Finally the sun set and the summer evening turned over to mosquitos' bloodthirsty rule. As we walked the short path to the boat, there was a rustling of leaves to the right. Two black snakes took off through the leaves. One left behind its old skin. It seems that one had protected the other while it was molting. Or maybe one was showing the other its new skin.
I got to see this on that day because I was the 'snakes kin.'
Al Fontana 8/2/07
There is really nothing paranormal about the critter crew. First I noticed one critter hopping about the leaves. It dove into its hole in the ground. I did not see what it was. But then more came, chipmunks and mice, maybe a shrew or two. I decided it was time to leave. We put out the campfire. Then we waited in silence. The critters kept appearing and diving into their holes. The afternoon was bright and hot, what I call 'milk bottle weather,' because the sky looks so milky. A couple of boats landed on the beach and unloaded a bunch of kids, some government program to study the tidal zone creatures. "You don't have to leave because of us," one girl assured us. "No," I said, "I think we'd better leave because of the weather." We walked the boat into deeper water, when all hell broke loose. The students were running around the beach trying to save their samples and gear from the driving rain. We barely got the boat canopy up in time. But we had no excuse -- we had watched the critter crew escape the coming storm for the previous half hour.
Al Fontana 8/2/07
There is a bird here called a 'Phoebe' because its call at certain times is 'fee-bee', two notes with the second a minor third below the first. The official name of the bird is 'chickadee' because its usual call is 'chick-a-dee-dee-dee.' The bird has a white head with a black cap on it, so it is called the black-capped chickadee. It is a small bird. If you whistle these notes, or two notes at this interval, you can call a cat. The cat will look at you and try to resist the call, but then will walk over to you. You can call a cat from some distance away. My mother discovered this. She was born on Halloween.
There is a type of wild cat which imitates the call of a certain bird in order to lure the bird close enough to pounce on it. But it is quite another thing to call a cat. Perhaps the descending minor third opens a kind of code inside the cat's brain. Or, perhaps the cat thinks one is going to give him a bird to eat. You can't call a cat by imitating the other bird call. But phoebe gets them every time. You have to put feeling into it when you whistle.
Al Fontana 8/3/07
The chipmunk did not talk to me. It was brought in by the cat. I saved it. We sat on the front steps together. I have watched chipmunks live dangereously. They know how to play dead, then leap aside to avoid captors. I thought of the chipmunk color --brown with a white stripe down its back, and two black stripes on each side of the white stripe -- visible by night and by day. To a predator this must look like a restaurant sign, or at least a menu, the daily special. By Darwin's theory of evolution, the occasional 'black phase' chipmunk or all-brown chipmunk would have proven to be the best survivor. The rule is, 'survival of the fittest.' Why are not all the chipmunks black or brown by now? Why then has such a chipmunk not been born? Instead, an occasional white chipmunk is born, and a cat makes short work of him. If white, then why not brown or black?
Producing a solid color chipmunk would be easier than painting a striped one. But the chromosome and genes are silent, and the chipmunk must be very brave to wear his fur coat. Darwin would say the chipmunks survive by sheer numbers, but each chipmunk says "why me?"
Al Fontana 8/3/07