The pull to home

A week on the cape.
Afternoons of ice cream cones, egrets, sandy shoes and neat, white houses.

Here, the trees stand tall and solemn and somehow independent. Yards are filled with knick knacks and hand painted signs. Roofs leak. Paint cracks. And things works out just fine.

The Pow Wow Bone Case

Whilst Sir Domo was insulating the ceiling the other day, attempting to winterize the red house for his beaver, he came upon a big surprise. A large, heavy typewriter, sitting plump there in the roof; black, and old and ancient. He couldn't quite reach it from the tip of his ladder, so he perched and huffed a while, twisting and turning and trying to get closer. Hark! There was something else there, a white folder with black writing. "The Pow Wow Bone Case!" He yelled down to Beaver. "Does that mean something in English?"

"No!" Answered Beaver. "We've something to solve!"

Why did the former owner cram a typewriter into his roof? And what is the mystery behind the Pow Wow Bone Case? Like a hot loaf of stuffed bread, the red house is just oozing with mysteries. But what will come up next?

Ode to the sandwich

The deliciousness of childhood, lathered on with a spoon. The sweet, sparkled tang of simplicity. It is happiness itself, accompanied with a cool drink of something chocolate. Everything else seems snobbish in comparison. Alongside the fennel, the codfish, the frown-inducing rhubarb risotto, it lies on certain menus as a planted flag of Life as it Should Be. It is peanut butter. It is jelly.
The greatest love story America has told.

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.