The Things I Have Seen in the Last Two Years on the Five Acres I Now Call Home

1. I saw a three-legged, half-decayed deer on our lawn, his little fawn-carcass eaten clean; no guts, no gore, just long bones and fine fur, the blood-smeared tufts in the grass the only indication of a fight.

After driving cross-country and upon pulling in the driveway of our new home, this body of bones greeted us like a barbaric totem; we chose to believe it was a natural occurrence and nothing more sinister. When I looked into where his big Bambi eyes should have been, he told me that nature itself is sinister, that it’s rough and rugged, survival of the fittest—not fit for the fainthearted. Yet, he said, there is beauty in its boldness, its directness, its in-your-face fearlessness. And I saw the beauty of which he spoke, even in death, in the intricate patterns of his hide and the perfect curvature of his spine.

Not knowing what to do and having no shovel for a proper burial, we lifted his small body into a trash bag, managing to tuck in each hoof so we could tie it off, and we took him to the local dump, discarding him with our household trash. The man pushed a button and the front wall of the metal dumpster crushed and compacted him along with egg cartons tissues styrofoam orange peels toilet paper rolls moldy tuna casserole. When I heard his bones crack, I felt as fragile as a fawn, a walking pile of hair and bones, also entirely disposable.

I saw the fourth full leg on the third day, gripped in the mouth of my dachshund Lola, much longer than she was. Her very alive eyes told me she was joyful, a brave explorer presenting a treasure found, and she told me to take primal pleasure whenever and wherever I can find it, even among the dark and dismal things.

2. I saw a three-story mansion in a fern, an architectural wonder made entirely of organic materials: twigs and straw woven together, mortared with patches of snow-white dung, built by a fine family of finches.

When we bought the ferns to bring the house to life, we didn’t know how many lives the ferns would bring to the house. Unbeknownst to us, we’d created prime real estate for purple finches, who moved in immediately after we did, turning our hanging plants into a multi-family complex, where couple after couple came to roost and raise their babies.

In winter I bring the ferns in and save the nests on a windowsill—such craftmanship! They’ve made these beautiful structures with their beaks and tiny claws; we too are building a home with our own hands. But they do in a day what for us is taking years. For them it seems intrinsic, and much less expensive, much less overwrought and overthought—and, yes, at times Niklas and I have overfought. I never once heard them arguing about where or how to build the nest, never heard the male birdsplaining the best way to weave the straw, never saw the female roll her eyes and grow defensive, squawking, nagging, and worrying aloud about the end result.

The second summer, I was peering in to check for tiny eggs as blue as the sky, and when I ever so gently moved the fern fronds aside I saw a nest underneath, and when I dug deeper I saw yet another nest below; three tiers, much like our own split-level house. Were they showing us how it’s done? Mocking us?

They build and they rebuild what the winds blow away, and I am reminded of the spiderwebs that crisscross the deck, the art installations filling every opening with ever-widening concentric circles that sparkle in the moonlight. I have seen a spiderweb built in a day, one I knocked down with my broom the night before, horrible human that I am. When I watched him work to rebuild what I had destroyed, gliding back and forth without so much as a tape measure—the only tools he used contained within his body—leaving behind perfectly angled strands of silk, despite having no drawings or the ability to step back and take a look, I was so impressed that I didn’t have the heart to take it down, huge and hairy as he was.

3. I saw the wind. I saw the invisible become visible on the mountain across the way in the arms of a thousand trees, a rolling sway through the forest, gaining momentum like a growing wave, with a roar as loud as the sea.

It whipped across our lawn until it reached the wild grove of cherry trees, then screamed as it twisted them, bending their tops—making them bow down to the ground—till I thought their trunks would snap and they would pummel towards us. The dark purple cloud I’d seen in the distance now engulfed us. We, on the porch, four of us tiling the patio, thinking we could beat the storm. And now thinking we better outrun it. I was first inside, but the wind wrestled the door out of my hand, banging it against the brick wall repeatedly, testing the strength of its hinges. Come in, I shouted to my nephews and my husband, who were trying desperately to lay the last tiles.

That’s when I saw the wind rip a 10-gallon bucket full of concrete mix straight out of the arms of a strong middle-aged man, toss it into the air, and then blast it down the hill topsy-turvy. In the next instant, the wind winked and yanked the fedora off this same man’s head and spun it through the air like a Forrest Gump feather, dropped it in the creek, then whirled it away out of sight. Come in, we can finish tomorrow! I yelled again above the shrieking wind and groaning trees and bang-bang-banging of the door. But they didn’t make it. The rain came in a torrent: no drips, no drops, just a solid wall of liquid sky, and in the two seconds it took them to get inside they were drenched to the bone. We turned on the news to hear a panicked anchorman warn of the destruction the 70 mile-an-hour gusts could wreak, and now I know firsthand what winds at interstate speeds can do. I felt the velocity on my skin, and saw the force with which nature takes what she wants from man, be it from his hand or from his head.

4. I saw a shimmering cloud floating not over but under the covered bridge on our property, a strange glistening fog hovering above the sun-kissed river. It was our first summer here, and I remember it being hot and humid, and I remember the sunrays bursting through under the bridge, flooding the area in warm dewy light. When I walked toward the glow, I saw that the cloud was made up of the fluttering wings of dragonflies. Now I’m no expert on insects, but these were a very fine, delicate variety, with slender helicopter bodies that were electric blue and as shiny as if they were powder coated and gloss varnished, while their webbed wings were a soft cerulean.

As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were hundreds, no, thousands, and my focus wavered between trying to take in the entire scene and honing in on one dragonfly, one wing. But because of the way they hovered and darted, my eye couldn’t still the image enough to capture it. While their iridescence made them hard to miss, the wings were made of silky net that would flicker and then disappear, so I moved closer. Slowly I crept down the rugged path, between the wonderfully invasive bamboo that runs along both sides of the river, until I was standing on the waters’ bank with leafy stalks looming overhead. It was otherworldly, like stepping into the pages of some Japanese fable. I saw more and more dragonflies: on the rocks, resting on the water, and hovering thick in the air, and I felt like I was in a dream. In the sense that for me being present in the moment is the dream, since my daydreams are riddled with the anxiety of making them happen, and my night dreams are all panic-driven.

Sitting on a rock, I realized that the insects were mating, that many of them were double-headed creatures with two bodies and four fluttering wings, and that I was part of some magical moment, perhaps an annual pilgrimage drawing dragonflies from neighboring fields counties states to this exact spot, under this bridge, when all the elements align and the weather is nice. I wanted to remain there forever but sat for probably ten minutes, all I would allow myself during my “busy day.” When I came into the house I told Niklas what I’d seen, and I should have made him come out with me to see for himself, but I assumed we would see the same thing later that day, the next morning, the next summer, but we didn’t and we haven’t.

5. I saw a black turkey vulture floating down the stream on the bloated body of a rigormortised armadillo. As I rushed to the creek to take a closer look, I thought the great bird was shrieking about the atrocity of death; it seemed like such a mournful wail, full of grief and anguish, ringing through the mountains for all to hear. I imagined they had been “unlikely friends” in life—until I got close enough to see the sheer size and shape of the bird, the crook of his neck, his head down, his beak breaking through belly, penetrating the armorlike shell of the armadillo and pulling out innards. I saw his blood red eyes and realized I had been naïve; the black beast was squawking in pure delight, in satiated ecstasy.  

6. I saw the ground cracked open, and looked into the giant, jagged hole to see the rock-belly of the earth splayed open and exposed. I peered through the vortex of time itself to see sedimentary stone, shaped and layered over millennia, flattened and hardened across eons. Saw into its past as we planned our future on this land. Surrounding the crater, I saw upturned soil covered in gray stones that had been scattered around by the long steel arms of a futuristic machine, so that what moments before had been green grass—our lawn—now looked like the surface of the moon. I walked outside into this dystopian scene thirty minutes into the contractors attempting to install a septic tank.

While hitting rock three feet down was fascinating from a geological standpoint, from a financial standpoint it increased the price of the job considerably. And as such, when the men left frustrated, unable to penetrate the deeper layers, I gathered the loose stone in buckets. That rock became a valuable natural resource: valued by me as a frugal person and as an artist—they would charge a pretty penny for stones of this quality at a rock quarry, for each one was a beauty: all angular shapes in the richest shade of charcoal, their chalky texture so tactile. So I carried load after load in buckets, hauling the largest ones to the porch by hand until I thought I would vomit from heatstroke. I had to collect as many of these gems as I could before they would be swallowed up by the gaping mouth of the earth and buried again for centuries.

I saw a man come back the next day with a bigger yellow machine with all kinds of robotic extensions and I watched him use these massive tools like appendages, his giant metal fingers scratching the earth and then clawing in deep; tossing boulders around like grains of sand. While stressed about blowing the budget, I secretly thought it was worth it to get a glimpse inside the crevices of the earth under the carpet of grass under the layers of soil deep under the foundation of our home. Now when I look at the rocks I gathered I’ll always know what lies beneath. And I’ll remember what it feels like to walk on the moon.

7. I saw a groundhog walking across the grass like a human. Dapper, with a pep in his step and better posture than a butler, he looked like a true gentleman—all that was missing was a bowtie, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if he pulled one out of a furry pouch. So calm and confident was he, taking his time, leisurely but purposefully walking the two acres of grass from the creek to the apple tree. He chose a ripe, red one that had fallen from an overloaded branch, picked it up on his first try and held it in both hands, and back he walked, arms outstretched, as regal as if he was carrying a gift for a king, to his den deep in the riverbank.

Sure, these critters are cute, but beyond that they seem so civilized. They meditate out on the lawn, day after day, facing sunward, chest out, head back, basking for hours. In fact, they seem to have such a high standard of living and such great manners that I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he invited others over and served the apples along with fine cheeses on a lovely charcuterie, with little crackers and tiny napkins, paired with an aged cabernet sipped from the caps of acorns.

8. I saw the sky lit up in the dead of night from my bedroom window, awakened by near-constant flashes, shards of pyrotechnic lightning thrown this way and that. Standing on the deck, I admired the stellar production value, but was frightened when an insanely long flash of light revealed a purple-green sky.

We had gone to bed under a severe tornado watch, but still, but still I had to admire the spectacular display before heading back inside, and now the thunder was rolling and picked up speed until it was as steady and rhythmic as that dreaded freight train sound that functions as a last-second tornado warning. Niklas and I made our way to the downstairs bathroom, but with our arguing and the chaos—get dressed—why do we need to get dressed—get the pillows—we don’t need pillows—get the puppy!—where’s the puppy?! I found Dolores deep under the covers and cradled the wrinkly velvet lump in my arms, Lola trotting down behind us. By the time we’d set up the blankets and pillows just so and cuddled up together if the tornado had chosen to touch down it would have really been too late. And when we finally did get settled, Niklas immediately left the safe zone to look out the French doors, standing centered in front of thirty panes of glass, unable to pull himself away from gawking at the storm. We humans are really not that bright. Or maybe we’re smart enough to know that when it’s man versus nature, nature will win whenever she wants to.

We spent the next hour watching the news and sure enough the map was lit up angry red and hot pink above us, all around us, and we watched as it moved north toward my cousin’s town in Kentucky. We wouldn’t know until the next morning the true damage, that it did pass directly over my cousin’s house, destroying her neighbors’ homes as it made its way on a 225-mile journey from Arkansas to Illinois. It was the first on record of its kind, rare in the middle of December. We later learned it touched down not ten miles from our house, and I saw the devastation on the news: towns less than an hour from ours taken down and totally decimated.

But like many things, it didn’t become real until it became personal, and it didn’t become personal until I saw it with my own two eyes. While driving north on I-24, a lone tree in the middle of a field was split open and twisted in a way that made me twist my neck. In the next moment I was witnessing the tornado’s very path along the interstate to the left, making every hair on my arms stand up on end. An expanse of the forest was shredded, a wide corridor that looked like it had been stomped on by giants or mangled by monsters. But the reality of tornados is wilder and far worse than fiction: molecules of air itself twisted into a force so ferocious that the actual sky becomes a rotating blade demolishing anything and everything in its way.

I could trace its every movement, first seeing a wide row of trees ripped up from the root and flipped or tossed, then passing mile after mile of trees snapped at the trunk, then following the gnarled and chewed up treetops as it lifted off again—perhaps to destroy another town—only to return at the next entrance on the feeder road, now overtaking both sides of the interstate, now weaving back and forth across the highway like a drunk driver. Whether an intoxicated god was behind the wheel or whether it was guided by the warm winds of climate change, and why it chose to spare us, I will never know, and I am grateful. But it has left me with a creeping fear in the center of my spine that has crawled up to my neck and shoulders and manifested itself in a deep, ever-present ache.

9. I saw ten-thousand red-winged blackbirds fill the silvery sky above our house in formations that brought to mind a marching band, weaving between one another in the heavens like they had rehearsed.

Each evening before dark, sometimes backlit by the setting sun, sometimes dotting the darkening sky, the massive flock sail synchronized, then hundreds split off to make their separate circles until they braid themselves back together. They’ve grown bolder; they swoop toward us and over our roof like jet fighters, they dive bomb into the bamboo. The flock has doubled in size since last year, and you see, these birds aren’t passing through, they seek shelter in our bamboo during inclement weather, so they are our birds, or rather we share the land and a large slice of the sky. And when they come they stay a while. 

And the sound! Oh, they can make a ruckus. When a few flap their wings in the bamboo, the leaves tinkle like chimes, but when thousands flap in unison, it creates a loud rolling roar, probably to scare off predators. To my ear it’s like the pounding waters at the base of a waterfall, and in fact the first time I heard it I thought a large deer—or a bear—had fallen into the river. Yet it also sounds like a rumbling release of wind that makes you frightened of the unknown—a sound so powerful that it sucks the air out of your lungs, this wind-water symphony made from thousands of whipping wings and flapping feathers.

These red-winged blackbirds are a good omen according to my uncle, and he is an old farmer, a retired veterinarian in Oklahoma, so he knows. And if it is a good omen, we’ll have luck in droves until the end of time. I study them hard, squinting to see a flash of red; it’s on the upper wing, a patch of crimson only visible when they spread their wings to take flight. When they cover the high tree tops of elm and oak in the nearby field they look like jet black leaves. But when they come closer and turn at just the right angle, I see a spark of their hidden fire, and while I know nothing of witchcraft or spells or omens, each flash of blood red wing stirs my blood red heart.

10. I saw a rambling creek transform into a raging river. As I walked down to the bridge during the torrential storm, my umbrella didn’t protect me from the waves of water that blew in at an angle that made me question the direction of the sky. I reached the covered bridge, it too transforming: into a guest house, the new window holes wide open and not yet covered, the fresh-cut wood releasing a musky, sweet scent. I looked down through the opening to see the usually aqua undertones of the spring-fed creek’s deeper waters muddied to a rusty brown, like boiling earth. The turbulent river raged as it picked up speed. I saw it widen and deepen, swiping things from the shoreline, swallowing leaves and branches and clumps of cliff.

I saw the rising waters carry things down the mountain: a twelve-foot tree trunk, a huge piece of metal siding, two-by-fours, now a tin can, now a fifty-gallon barrel, now an old shoe, sucked up under the bridge house and spit out on the other side. Like a super-sized game of Pooh sticks—do you know it? When you drop twigs under a bridge and let them race to the other side; a game I picked up as a small child from Winnie the Pooh, but this was a dangerous adult version. It was wild to watch through the absent window, and I leaned out of the hole, and the thrill was that I could fall, and I imagined what a fifteen-foot fall would feel like, how cold it would be, how deep, getting pummeled by the waters, whether I could catch a foothold, whether I would hit my head on a big rock, and it made me feel alive.

11. We have seen plagues of biblical proportions in the past two years; a plague of plagues, you might say. The Egyptians faced ten, and I have lost count, but I can tell you that we, too, have been tested.

There was a plague of ladybugs throughout the house when we moved in, their polka-dotted carcasses an inch deep in some places, followed by a plethora of stinkbugs, followed by hundreds of fireflies, then the dragonflies, followed by a beautiful invasion of indigo blue, swallow-tail butterflies, followed by another infestation of ladybugs, followed by the red-winged blackbirds, followed by more pesky and persistent ladybugs.

On steamy summer nights we have hordes of toads that cool themselves on our front porch. We have plagues of ticks each spring that crawl toward our private places and suck our blood and must be plucked off. We have swarms of wasps, armies of ants, and outbreaks of almost invisible gnats that leave welts the size of nickels on my legs.

And we have a surplus of unstoppable spiders that seem to want to wrap our entire house in their webs, to swallow it whole.

And of course we saw a human plague of epic proportions. We all saw it. Beyond the numbers we saw on our screens daily, we lost people to the to the pandemic, people we knew personally: coworkers, neighbors, high school friends, many parents of friends.

Yes, we have seen so much death these last two years, and death has visited us at our house, knocked on our door, and taken from us an eight-month-old baby girl. Dolores was part of our family, an innocent pit bull puppy who only knew love in her short life; how to give it and how to receive it. She was closer to me than any person, in a way, because every night she slept with her head resting on my leg, and while having a human body this close to me feels far too invasive, the weight of this girl’s big, velvety noggin made me feel safe. I watched her grow from six pounds to forty-six and then grow no more. Nine days after being spayed, due to rare complications, she went into cardiac arrest, or her heart came to rest, as the vet explained in layman’s terms in order to try to help me understand what I still don’t understand.

They say don’t hold onto a thing too tightly, but I can’t imagine how to hold something loosely. When I said goodbye to her at the hospital—and this was not supposed to be a final goodbye, mind you—she was healthy enough for a hardy hug, her wagging tail pounding against my leg, my arm, the floor, and then incomprehensibly dead seven hours later. Her warm, breathing body was reduced to hot ash and handed to us in a little wooden box that fit in my hands in the same way she fit in my hands as a puppy when I carried her home, but now what had been soft and cuddly and light was cold and heavy and had hard edges.

The autopsy revealed that her insides were riddled with infection, probably bacterial, attacked from the inside out by single-cell microorganisms that her body should have expelled. Could have been a congenital defect, they said: nature malfunctioning. Could have been hormonal, they said: nature overstimulating. Could have been an allergy, they said: nature overreacting. While nature can be dazzling from a distance, up close she can be a stone-cold killer, and we have seen her strike again and again and again.

12. I need to see the indigo wings of the swallowtail butterflies this year. I remember last spring, waiting for them to come back, to flutter around the front and porch like they did the previous year, almost friendly, landing on the puppy’s nose, landing on my arms, tickling my skin with their sticky feet. Last year only two returned. While I thought certain things in nature would be cyclical, I’ve learned that each season is different. When I asked my same wise old uncle about this, he confirmed what I have observed: from season to season you might see something similar, but you’ll never ever see the same thing twice. Keeps things interesting, he said in his Southern drawl. Indeed. In nature—and in life—you don’t get a second chance to exist in a moment.

Christie Grotheim’s debut novel, The Year Marjorie Moore Learned to Live, was published in 2019 by Heliotrope Books and was a finalist for best new novel from the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. Her stories have been featured in Salon.com, The New York Observer, Prometheus Dreaming, Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood, West View News, and Petrolicious.com, among others. Christie facilitates the monthly Draft Chat at The Porch in Nashville, where she is also a creative writing instructor. In 2020 Grotheim and her husband relocated from Manhattan to Ashland City, TN, where after two long years of renovations, she’s finally realizing her dream of hosting artist and writers retreats (Writers Retreats on Blue Spring Creek) on the property. See more of her writing at www.christiegrotheim.com and follow her on Instagram @christiegrotheim.

Published October 15 2022