The Seventh Month Itch

Today is a strange day. A bad dream, an awkward look, a general sense of disconnect. It occurred to La Beav as she was swimming this morning that she felt somewhat homeless. The tidal pull of restlessness keeps carrying her away. Why lay roots out here, in Sandisfield, while the West is softly singing?

There are so many places. So many unknown creatures to befriend. Is it wrong to give in to the life of the nomad, if this life feels most true? Beaver has the saddest of feelings in her belly. Arising from a bad dream colors your day khaki. Nothing stands out. Little makes sense. It’s like she’s simply floating.

Not Quite Right

Sometime back in the land of Sandisfield, a young elk went skinny-dipping at West Lake, late at night, when all the other creatures of 01255 were asleep. In place of the shimmering shores she’d grown so attached to, she was astonished to find representatives of the Po Po, chock-full of questions and “exactly who are you”s.

A moose had been found, belly up and floating, a gunshot in his side, and they thought the elk had done it. “I’ve just come for a swim!” She replied, bathing suit in hand. After further questions and suggestions to “get dressed”, the Elk went home, much saddened. She hadn’t had her swim.

In the days and weeks that follow, she was surprised to hear nothing further about the mysterious moose murder. On hazy afternoons, she overheard things at the swamp; a revenge story between the two rivaling families of Sandisfield. Which family’d done it? No one has discovered the truth about that evening. But no one's ever tried to. Beaver’s on the case now. Who killed that darn moose?

Visiting Season

Sunshine, swimming holes and sweet corn; summer visiting season is finally open.

Boy and girl beavers from the overheated city have been arriving via log jam this past month by the baker's dozen.

There's sunbathing, rib-grilling and wood-cutting to be done, ale and deep slumber to follow. Horseshoe clubs are forming and mandolins are struck. The house isn't finished, but no one seems to notice, so welcome is the company of these long-awaited friends.

Not so mellow yellow

The evening started out oddly enough to suggest that it might happen. The bumbling Internet technicians, sent via horseback to repair La Beaver's Internet connection, arrived two weeks and seven hours late sans excuse. They materialized out of the hot, humid air, letting themselves into the kitchen while Beaver had her back turned. Who were these two strange groundhogs in her kitchen? She gasped and cried for Domo. Two hours and two bags of potato chips later, the Internet was back, but the yellow fridge was finished.

Fur-lined friends might remember the story of the antique Frigidaire the former owner so kindly left behind him. Overheated and thirsty, it used up all their electricity and shook wildly each evening, but Beaver and Domo became very attached to it after painting it yellow one cool winter's night. But summer has come, with three digit temperatures, and La Yellow Fridge is no longer. It died a solemn death with a solemn goodbye. I...just...couldn't...take...it, it croaked, with much sadness. Beaver and Domo could only stand and sigh. And they had just gone shopping!

The evening's adventures were only just beginning. As Beavy climbed the ladder to her long-awaited dam, she was nearly knocked out cold by a monstrously large bat, flapping around aimlessly, asking for directions.

"Never in the bedroom!" She shouted, tumbling downstairs. Whatever happened to the respect of matrimonial spaces? The bats are going batty!The battiest of bats! Vintage Bjorg-like racket in hand, Domo headed to the dam quite gallant and manly, swinging this way and that without fear, without fright. Not one, but two bats had taken over the arched ceiling. "You've got the wrong neighbors!" He told them, when they finally settled down. "It's those guys you want, they're only here on weekends!"

The bats, visibly embarrassed, promised to bring by some choco-choco truffles and left where they came from, a hole too small to see.

Time out

It’s been three weeks now that our happy couple has been in Paris-- City of mating pigeons, zigzagging between benches, dragging their tails. City of chocolate pastries and infinite politeness, except on the boulevards where cars hunt down small girls on bicycles.

After an early burst of inspiration, Beaver is left with some questions. Why did they leave the planet Franche in the first place? They left in search of some sort of dream…. It happens everyday; you put down the plastic bag your lunch came in and you take some time to daydream. Minutes later, the plastic bag is floating away and is it just your imagination or doesn’t it seem to float even higher the minute you run after it?

The parcours is similar. Franche. Manhattan. Sandisfield, MA. If you don’t run after it, it just might end up in the sea.

The 100 Year Floodplain

Good news from country. The beaver's leaky roof, which has instilled great fear and contempt in the three little creatures living under it as of late, has stopped leaking. Several days ago, brave Domo took to the tippy-top of the red house, and started working on it with an Exacto knife, following an ancient technique employed by his grandfather, an artisan pipe maker.

Fear lingered late last night when an belated thunderstorm moved in on the town, sending down torrents of rain and other-worldly lightening upon the little house. Little Beaver crept into the living room with much apprehension to find her duck, Mylo, setting happily on the couch. A couch that was dry
for the first time this season. She checked the other leaky spots that Domo had highlighted with glow-in-the-dark tape, and they too were dry as could be.

Hippity-hop, could the news get any better? Lady Beaver has been working for the Beagle following all sorts of exciting hallmarks such as the acquisition of a brand new Sander for the town of Otis, and a dispute over a roof right here in Sandisfield. Indeed, leaky roofs plague the South County mountains almost as frequently as Mayflies. It remains to be seen if last night was a fluke, but for the moment, we've got two little Beavers, sitting high, dry and happy in their little red house.

Happy feet

After intense deliberation at the massively attended Sandisfield Cultural Council meeting last night, little Beaver has been elected to the board as Grant Coordinator. She will be in charge of deciding what lucky artists, senior citizens and Brownie Troups will get to do what with how much money in the upcoming year.

She is very pleased to step one foot closer to small town immersion, and is also eagerly awaiting the outcome of an interview she has on Friday to write for the region's daily paper, the Pulitzer Prize winning Berkshire Beagle. She has met several local Beavers who are quite active in the small, but strong-willed intellectual sector of Sandisfield, including one bubbly lady who never wears shoes.

This resistance to shoe wearing is something that Beaver has pondered in the past, and she has concluded that it has little to do with one's economical status, and everything to do with one's outlook on life. Some people just find them constraining. Beaver is always cold, so she can't quite understand why one would go without, but she is pleased to meet some new creatures, footwear free, or not.