This critter is grounded

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." 

                                                                 

                                                                        William Shakespeare

AUBURN, Maine — Here is another job I can add to my resume — trapper.

For several weeks, I noticed a nibble here, a nibble there as my broccoli plants were slowly being chewed to pieces. The phantom animal moved on to sample my cucumbers. 

What was next? My tomato plants! 

No way! This was my home and my garden was under assault. It was time to go to Defcon 5 and issue an APB on this elusive critter.

Whenever I turned my back, the culprit, which dropped in for breakfast, lunch, and dinner nearly everyday, is no stranger to gardeners across New England. 

Groundhogs are hated by green thumbs who the brave the elements, bugs and wildlife to grow vegetables. Groundhogs are the reason why makers of steel traps remain in business. There is no high-tech method to remove these scourges.

These fat bastards are said to be cuddly and cute, but let's remember it is a god damn rodent that is a nuisance as well as destructive. 

But it was time to throw down the gauntlet and take this sneaky rat out for a walk. I wanted to kill it, but my son, who has a kind heart and is a friend to all animals, persuaded me to cut the slovenly woodchuck a pardon. He said it would look stupid for big guy like me to beat up on a four-pound animal that is only guilty of doing what comes naturally to its species.

I cursed the groundhog's existence and threatened to the drop the fat fellow from a rope, but I listened to my family's common sense not to harm the gnawer, which treated my garden as its own personal smorgasbord.

My next door neighbor, Don, who often uses one of those effective Have-aHart traps to bag groundhogs, gave me permission to use his cage and trap the elusive bastard.

I set the trap, hoping this wasn't the brightest bulb in his family of adorable rats. But after a week, the varmint hadn't taken the bait. I figured the fluffy fat hairball knew what I was up to or found another garden to satisfy its insatiable appetite.

I had one more opportunity to capture the elusive groundhog. I decided to switch bait and go with a couple of sweet slices of watermelon to lure it into the trap.

I went to work Friday night when I received an urgent call from my wife. "Anthony found the groundhog in the trap," my wife said. "Wanna come home and see it."

I knew I could not leave work and told her that the old fat bastard would have to spend the night in our yard in a cage. 

It was not a happy critter.

The next morning Anthony and I paid the groundhog a visit. It hissed at me at times when I approached it and was not pleased with the cage's accommodations. 

We threw a sheet over him, lined the SUV with newspapers and headed to the outskirts of a state park. The groundhog was held in incommunicado until we reached our secret destination six miles from our home to set the voracious critter loose.

I placed the trap on the ground. I had Anthony on standby with a Bufford Pusser-type bat in his hand just in case the animal turned on me and wanted to pay me back for its apprehension.

I lifted the lid, and after a few seconds of hesitation, the groundhog bolted out of the cage like bullet of gun and headed for cover in the Maine woods.

"Look at 'em go," I said.

It wanted no part of us, but I am surprised it didn't give me the middle figure.

The best part of this adventure was being with my son. We cracked jokes and laughed all the way home.

It was a cool way to have a father-and-son moment and get up close and personal with nature.

I am sure this groundhog wouldn't agree.

Spring has not sprung

AUBURN, Maine — Despite a miserable, fu$% spring that might be responsible for triggering a wave of manic depression across the Pine Tree State, life is finding a way to poke through the cold, waterlogged ground and offer us hope that summer is waiting in the wings to make a grand entrance.

A sea of compost has been resting atop my garden all winter, protecting it from wind erosion. Every other day, Anthony or I have trudged out to the snow-packed garden and tossed peels, wood ash from our woodstove, coffee grinds, egg shells, and anything else that benefits our soil. Throw in mulched leaves and grass, rotten apples and pears from a final fall cleanup, and we have dirt that you could eat.

The snow is gone, but cool temperatures, intermittent snow flurries and hail have been unkind to plants that bloom in early spring.

Still, there are signs of life in this frozen tundra we call Maine. My chives and scallions are bursting forth and will be edible in a couple of weeks long before I plant my garden at the very end of May.

Right now, the garden looks like throw-up. It's as if Mother Nature heaved all over the land. In fact, the entire landscape of this beautiful state has been barfed on by a winter that just won't let us alone. It is still gray and any grass that wants to green up is gun shy.

But underneath this mushy, gooey compost, lies soil that makes a gardener's mouth water. The worms have been busy all winter turning this crap into pristine soil, and these guys work for free. I can't wait to take an industrial-strength tiller and churn this soil into a garden of delicious vegetables.

At this point, I am playing the waiting game, hoping April will suddenly resemble spring. I could go on and on about the weather, but shaking my fists at Mother Nature is like bitching about congress's inability to make one simple frigging decision without taking the "what's in it for me" attitude.

So I bide my time until the weather clears, but my patience is just about gone.

Mother Nature apparently forgot to tell Old Man Winter to scat!

Keeping track of my son

When any kid decides to play a sport, he should be applauded by his parents. Participating in any high school sport requires dedication and teaches students how to manage their time.

Colleges also like to see it on a prospective student's application.

My son has decided to give track the old college try, and I find it encouraging that athletes on the Edward Little track team encourage him to go the distance. There is a lot of camaraderie and goodwill going on in this squad, and that is a credit to a coaching staff who continues to inspire high school athletes.

My son has become good skier when he became a member of the Lost Valley Ski Patrol Team. This dedicated bunch taught him how to become a fine skier.

But when Anthony became aware of the rigorous, physical training at Maine Maritime Academy, he decided track would get him in tip-top condition.

But Anthony has opted to become a thrower. Running is definitely not his forte. Look, whatever he does, I will be there to root him on because that's what involved parents do.

Bitching in the rain

LISBON, Maine — We had enough of cowering inside our home, hoping the weather would warm up to take a short hike.

So we ignored threatening clouds, the of-and-on drizzle, and cold, and headed to the Papermill trail just off Route 196 in Lisbon.

It is about a two-mile walk along the Sabattus River. The slow, steady climb to the top ends near an elementary school. It is a great way to enjoy nature and the soothing sounds of a meandering river.

Showers drifted over the area and made for a damp hike, but we wouldn't let a nasty spring spoil our short journey.

We are still holding out for summer.