Scooter and Sally

We told stories Pia and I - sitting on that hillock in the mossy green twilight behind the Foxboro house. I always thought of a long-forgotten image of children calling on the green from a poem - Wordsworth I think. It was a scene right out of the Lake District - cold ponds that iced over in October and thawed slowly in May. She would toddle up that slope arduously, my ten month old, brow furrowed, lips pursed - drooling slightly as is the case with an assiduously teething toddler. And, I would diligently sing "The Grand Old Duke of York - marching his men up to the top of the hill and then down again". She would look at me with her button eyes and titter at "When they were up, they were up and when they were down, they were down - " - not comprehending why they were neither up nor down when half-way up.

Scooter and Sally were our two bush-tailed furry friends who lurked in the dark green shadows overhead. We glimpsed them when we peeked out of our shuttered bay windows downstairs and I stood at the door, Pia's warm soft sweet-smelling weight in my arms and the light, warm feather touch of her little hand on my shoulder, as I spun tale after tale - about our two squirrel pals - neither chip 'n dale, nor Brer Rabbit - but an elfin duo that was quintessentially ours.

I would spin stories for her, fine and flaxen like the silk that the fabled dwarf wove into gold. My daughter would listen, her rosebud mouth a round "O" of anticipation, as I conjured castles of acorns in which our furry friends nestled, tired and happy after evading pursuit by some evil raccoon. They were always the villains those striped bandits. Never foxes, never wolverines - by implicit agreement. We lived in the town of Foxboro after all. The magic stones that we had arranged in the mosaic shape of a shiny tactile heart would be covered completely by harmonious russet leaves in the New England Fall. We would sing about "the hole in the middle of the yard, the prettiest hole we ever did see" and she would spin in giddy circles, Pia, when I paused for dramatic effect, then resumed the rondel of "The green grass grew all around, all around, the green grass grew all around."
Her grimy little hands full with acorns - nuts and twigs too, that had been secreted in their nests by Scooter and Sally we fondly hoped for the long cold winter - Pia had just stumbled in through the door with her no-brakes typical rush that afternoon, when the news crashed our forest fantasy. It was off to a land where cactus grew, we heard, not tall oaks and pines that cast the long shadows we loved to shiver in - imagining they were monster trees that came alive at midnight. That was the witching hour when my little daughter was sweetly asleep, lips slightly parted, as always....drooling slightly, lashes like fans on her stained cheeks. The bright eyed friends in the oak tree whose branches scratched our windows, were as blissfully oblivious.

We poked and scattered the crackling leaves morosely the next dewy morning - looking for nuts as usual, for our beady eyed pals who looked askance at our somber faces. "Don't worry Pia Pie" I whispered to my trusting daughter, as she toddled around from bush to rocks, tightly clasping sticks in her left hand and fingers closed tight over stones as usual in her right, knowing that it would be A-ok no matter what. I talked about the flight in the plane (wheeeee) to Texas sotto voce, also because we didn't want Scooter and Sally to hear. They were sensitive squirrel souls after all.

The day of departure dawned clear and Foxboro bright. Bewildered by the hustle and bustle of so many movers in overalls, we hid behind packing boxes, crouching with the goggle eyed Scooter and Sally who chewed meditatively on those acorns clenched in their paws rather like Pia clasping her sippy cup. All three faces trained on the movers and their mighty mission, one anxious face, and two blissfully innocent and ignorant squirrel faces. Pia stopped kneeling and settled back on her haunches, sneezing as Sally's tail swept her nose like an animated broom out of Disney movies, one that had a will of its own. But then, so did the owner of that tail. Sally was a very self-possessed and opinionated young squirrel, we had always agreed. We trudged, toddled and scampered, respectively, over the magic circle of pebbles that aunty Joanie had arranged for Pia, the one I explained much to her wide-blue-eyed bewilderment, was like the charmed ring that Rama, the azure hero of mythology had drawn around his captive wife Sita, and appointed his brother Lakshmana to keep intact. "Not for my Pia pie, she exclaimed! No, no, no - !" with a smackaroo of a kiss on my baby daughter's brow. (never, never, never, I whispered to myself) as the subject of our high-serious discussion blew meditative bubbles and drooled with as much delicacy as a two year old could muster.

But, wait! Today was the day we had been awaiting for a year..that sunbathed gold-green afternoon, we had chanced on a naked, scrawny pink, soft-brown eyed and utterly plaintive looking baby critter in a leafy nest, on that elm tree outside the crib-window, ...the one Pia could see, first thing every morning when she emerged sleep-stained, jet hair tousled, and eyes rounder than a black button, the tree aslant with early morning sun, that she hauled herself up to see the better, holding onto the crib rails and reached one dimpled hand with dainty doll fingers out every single day, as if to touch the sun rays as they stroked the furry squirrel nest. I watched her, standing by the door, wishing her the sights and sound of sunshine coming down, always. I waited, enjoying the micro-moment before I walked over to her crib, and clasped a delicious powder scented armful of baby to my heart. Happy Birthday baby Scooter, I said that day. May your dance always be joyful, may your song always be sung, may you always be...forever young.