THE LIFESPAN OF CHICKADEES A thesis submitted To Kent State University in partial Fulfillment of the requirements for the Degree of Master of Fine Arts by Marybeth E. Cieplinski May, 2014 © Copyright All rights reserved Except for previously published materials Thesis written by Marybeth E. Cieplinski B.A., Kent State University, 2010 M.F.A., Kent State University, 2014 Approved by David Giffels, Assistant Professor of English, NEOMFA, Masters Advisor Robert W. Trogdon, Ph.D., Chair, Department of English Raymond A. Craig, Ph.D., Associate Dean, College of Arts and Sciences TABLE OF CONTENTS...................................................................................................iv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS..................................................................................................v MOVING ALONG AT THE SPEED OF . ....................................................... 1 THE LIFESPAN OF CHICKADEES.................................................................... 6 CONFESSIONS OF A WOULD-BE GARDENER............................................. 22 THE ACCIDENTAL CAT..................................................................................... 33 PENNSYLVANIA IN MY BLOOD.......................................................................51 BELLS! THE RIDE BEGINS................................................................................ 59 WISHES LIKE SHOOTING STARS..................................................................... 63 EMPTYING THE NEST......................................................................................... 72 AN INVITATION TO THE BATTLE: NOVEMBER 2012, KENT, OHIO.......... 80 A NIGHT OWL AT THE BREAK OF DAY........................................................... 94 THE NEIGHBORLY WAY..................................................................................... 98 20 YEARS GONE, 40 YEARS AGO..................................................................... 121 COUNTING MOMENTS....................................................................................... 134 THE DEATH OF A TREE...................................................................................... 145 HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN............................................................................ 161 iii Acknowledgments I would like to thank a number of people who were instrumental in making this essay collection possible: thesis committee readers Catherine Wing and Robert Miltner, two poets, for taking on a creative nonfiction cuckoo's egg; David Giffels, Masters Thesis Director Extraordinaire, whose guidance as I explored the new concept of nature writing was invaluable; my husband Dan, and children, Danny and Jay, my long-suffering cheerleaders and moral support. They are much better cooks now because of my frequent absences. My friends and colleagues in the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts Program deserve my deepest thanks for their workshop comments and encouragement, especially my carpool partner, Ian Kundus, who let me tag along on many road trip adventures. My grateful appreciation goes out to all of you. iv 1 Moving Along at the Speed Of... The ants are on the move again. They're streaming east to west along the gentle slope beside the driveway, trekking up each grass blade in their way, then down the other side, cradling rice-grain eggs in their mandibles to create a new nursery wherever they end up. The line starts at a crumble-pile of dirt outside the kitchen windows and squirms horizontally a good twenty feet before disappearing into a tiny hole with fresh dirt crumbles around it. A few wander off for a while, but they always seem to find their way back to the line before too long. They all race at top ant-speed, as if an eviction notice has arrived. Quick! Get everything out before they lock up the crumble pile! They'll make the deadline with no problem if they keep up this pace. I've been sitting in the driveway for at least an hour, cross-legged, joints stiffening, as I watch their single minded migration. This is the third time in as many months that they've made the same trip, first in one direction, then back the way they just came a few weeks earlier. I poke an ant with a dried ailanthus stem as it marches up a grass blade. It topples into the mat of vegetation below, then nudges its way back into line to continue the epic journey. Most of nature migrates, mainly to reproduce or find food. Ruby-throated hummingbirds leave Ohio every September and fly all the way to Central America. Banding studies have found that many follow the Texas coastline, while others zoom 500 miles straight across the Gulf of Mexico, an 18-22 hour non-stop flight. Then they make the reverse trip north in the spring, just to drink sugar water from the feeders in our yard so they can go back to Central America in a few months. During the first warm rains in late March or early April, frogs, newts, and salamanders cross driveways, parking lots, and major roads to get from their winter hibernation site to a breeding pond. Back when we were newly married, Dan and I stopped one evening on our way 2 through Brecksville Reservation because our usual route was blocked by saw-horse barriers and signs stating that salamanders needed the road to migrate. We parked the car, jumped out, and hiked around the barriers to find them. Among the fog tendrils caused by warm rain on cold asphalt, spotted red amphibian bodies shone in the car's headlights, determinedly trekking from one side of the road to the other, all going the same way. Salamanders pick their legs up the way most lizards do—right front and back left, then left front and back right—rocking from side to side as they walk. There were dozens on the road that night, legs like pistons, right/left left/right right/left left/right, wobbling and lurching their way across the road as fast as they could go. We walked around for a little while, lukewarm raindrops soaking the shoulders and backs of our clothes, laughing and shouting to each other in excitement, cheering the participants of this watery exodus, trying not to step on them with our 1970s chunky-heeled platform shoes. Both of us were in dressier-than-normal clothes, yet I don't remember where we were going. All I remember is the salamanders. I wish I could migrate right now. I've been torturing myself with the housing sale ads in the Saturday paper, and going online to find every For Sale sign I drive past. It's not the first time I've wanted to leave, either, more like the fourth or fifth since we moved here, but it's happening more often now. For me, the "seven year itch" means an uncontrollable desire to move rather than have a love affair. I used to wonder why I get this ant-like impulse to migrate. I thought maybe it was because I moved a lot as a child, and the longest I ever stayed anywhere was twelve years—four in Cleveland, eight in Chesterland, one-and-a-half in Northfield Village, twelve in Macedonia. Then I got married and was off to five more places with Dan over seven years' time, until we landed in a rental duplex in Stow. We were there for nine years. Then we moved to Kent. 3 The place had almost no closets, no attic, there was a 1930s sea-green gas stove in the kitchen that terrified me, and a basement that leaked so badly it was useless for storage. We found that out when it rained the day after the mortgage was signed. But it was ours, and we couldn't have been more thrilled. I had a wonderful time setting up the kitchen cabinets—what goes in which drawers, where to put the things we use most so they're close to hand, where the cereal goes, what to put under the sink. I have a mania for organizing—bookcases, room layouts, desk drawers, closets. Whenever we move, I have a legitimate reason for haunting every office supply store in a twenty-five-mile radius, not to mention the housewares section of every WalMart, Target, Home Depot or Lowes I can reach. I'm usually not allowed in those places without a good reason and a list. Now we've been here more than twenty years and, like the ants, I can't wait to move again. The thought of staying in this house until I die makes my skin crawl. When we left Stow, I was so happy to get away from the sardine-can duplexes and finally have our own space. We were only going four miles, about the equivalent of the ants' march down the driveway hill, so it wasn't like we were moving away from everything familiar. I guess I just didn't realize that we were trading one sardine can for something only slightly larger. At the time, the house was fine for two adults and two children. Now, it's nowhere near large enough for four adults. And moving away from rotten neighbors doesn't guarantee that you won't end up with a new set. The neighborhood was a bit run down back then, but the majority of the residences on our block were owner occupied. Many people were in the process of fixing up their homes. Except for the hotel behind the house, there were only four standard rental units on our block, and no student rentals. Now, there are three or four owner occupied homes, and I think they're all on the same side of the block as us. Most of the other houses are student rentals. A couple are known drug houses. 4 The first time we pulled in the drive and saw police three doors down, crouched behind open squad car doors with handguns drawn, we cowered inside the house and peaked through the curtains until they went away. Last fall, I saw a lone officer creeping up our driveway, shotgun pointing the way as he snuck into the yard on the other side of the drive. I simply closed the back door and told the guys, "Don't go outside. The druggies are at it again." After nothing else out of the ordinary occurred for fifteen minutes, I called the police station and asked if I could leave. I had an appointment, and I wasn't about to go outside until I got the all clear, but I was more annoyed by the inconvenience than anything else.