Zephyr's Creatures

The groundhog came out from under the barn, which is where he chooses to sleep through winter. It is likely that the other groundhogs are waking up as well. I have heard that there is a groundhog who prophecies the change of the seasons; mine seem not to have that skill. They only emerge when winter has been over for long enough that they can be absolutely sure.

I am bound, by my name and by my nature, to this land, but I am not one of its original inhabitants. I am an immigrant, a transplant. This place was once occupied by members of the Iroquois league of nations, although I must be forgiven for omitting the names of the exact groups for the sake of my privacy. Occasionally, an errant plow will turn up arrowheads, and careful observation may disclose the occasional remnant of a fire or a tent-post. I can make no claim of their heritage nor of their history.

I came to this place just slightly more than two hundred winters ago, when the gunpowder of the American Revolution still hung in the air. It was a revolutionary soldier who brought me. He took me for a superstition, but I am real enough. There are not so many farms which can boast of such longevity, and I am fond of my weather-worn barn and my drafty old cabins. It has been a post office and a general store; it has been a stop on the underground railroad. It has been a prosperous place and an impoverished place. It has history, which is to say that it has been a home. Which is to say that things have happened here both good and bad.

The groundhog delights in springtime. I am quite fond of him. He, too, has made his home here for many years.

An anecdote:

Once, there were two humans living here: an old one, and a young one. The old one lived in the farmhouse, and the young one lived down in the valley, taking advantage of the summer’s warmth to sleep in one of the cabins.

“Grandson,” said the old one, “Do you see the groundhog which lives under the cabin?”

“Every morning,” said the young one.

“There’s a gun in that case on the rustler,” said the old one, as though the young one could possibly have missed the rifle case which sat against the seat of the vehicle. The vehicle itself was somewhere between a four-wheeler and a golf cart. “It’s a real gun. It’s loaded.”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Your great-great grandfather used to eat groundhog,” said the old one.

“Yes, Grandpa.”

The next morning, without prompting, the old one brought it up again.

“Your great-great grandfather used to like the taste of groundhog,” he said. “Did you see him again this morning?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

A long pause. The young one was watching the eggs carefully, as though they might run away, or burn themselves.

“You can take out the gun in the rustler and have a look at it anytime you like.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

The next morning:

“Did you take a look at that gun?”

“No, Grandpa.” The young one did not like guns. Frankly, neither do I. So much of war was ruined by their invention.

“Did you see that groundhog again?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

This went on for some time.

That groundhog has passed of noble old age. His den is now occupied by another groundhog, one of his kin. In the way of groundhog dens, it has two entrances: one beneath the tree fort, and one by where the creek occasionally threatens to flood. I am not as startling to the lesser creatures of the land as a human would be, but they are still wary of me. It is only by holding still that I can coax her out of her den. She is very rectangular, and would make an excellent cat.