Category: writing Page 3 of 31

Rabbits

three rabbits huddled in pine needles
Sylvilagus obscurus and strawberry.

Sure, life finds a way. So do all the forces conspiring against it.


Friday morning I was leaving for work when I opened the garage door and found what appeared to be a large pinecone in the driveway. As we don’t have any conifers next to the driveway, I was curious as to how it ended up there, and I went to explore.

It had been raining all week, and there, next to a puddle, was a baby rabbit. At first glance, I assumed it was dead, but after a few seconds, I realized the poor critter was in fact alive, breathing shallowly now and then. The morning temperatures were in the 50s; it was probably hypothermic.

There really wasn’t anything to do. Most of what I know about baby rabbits revolves around a grim understanding that they die. They are comically vulnerable. Loud noises could spur them into fatal shock. I wasn’t sure how this fellow had ended up in our driveway, but I needed to get to work. I put him under a rhododendron next to the garage.

My mistake is that I told the kids what I’d done.

Cat Head

The joys and exhaustion of becoming a college mascot


Tuesday we hosted an event on campus to kick-off our month-long “I Love WCU” celebration. We set up a couple of tables at the university center, we hand out cookies, we generate good will. It’s a fun event, and the most worthwhile part is hearing from students about the things they love most about their alma mater.

The unexpectedly fun part, though, came after the fellow who normally plays Paws, the WCU mascot, called in sick. Rebekah, one of my colleagues, called to let me know. Back in November, Rebekah portrayed the mascot herself in a commercial we produced for Giving Tuesday, but she suggested this time I should don the suit instead. I was wary at first, and later I would find out why she was happy to pawn this off on me, but eventually I agreed. The athletics staff delivered the mascot costume, and I jumped in.

Well…jumped isn’t exactly the right word. You have to carefully strap into the get-up. It took probably ten or fifteen minutes to get it all assembled–not that it’s that difficult, but mostly that the more implements you put on, the fewer fine motor skills you have left. It’s a bit like a band uniform–overall bottoms, covered by a pull-over top (padded, muscular, not English-major-ish at all) that are directly connected to the cat’s hands. You strap on humorously large sandals that are its feet, and you pull on an oversized head connected to a football helmet. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no quick exit.

There’s an opening in the cat’s mouth about the size of an iPhone that lets you see out–but even that is covered by black, mesh fabric. The interior carries the lingering smell of a sweaty locker room. When fully assembled, the costume renders you into a human baked potato. I was sweating before I finished getting dressed.

The Many Choices Observed in Terminal D

If you see something, say something.


On an early Sunday morning, sun rising over the skyline, the airport is a full spectrum of humanity, arrivals and departures, a tide of inspiration. Men and women arriving for their morning shifts, raising the gates on shops, punching in key codes and warming up registers. Some have been here awhile; several shops are empty, music blaring out into the terminal hall while the attendant sits behind a counter, scrolling her phone.

The terminal is a sartorial fantasy. Men wearing Hawaiian shirts, silk dress shirts, pressed oxford shirts, crumpled t-shirts. Hats of every kind: cowboy, trucker, straw, felt, beanie, wrap, hood, webbed, baseball, fedora, driver.

There are college athletes ambling through the lanes in packs, noticeable because of their height, pulling mascot-branded luggage, most often in sweatpants or baggy clothes hanging off their frames, tall socks bunched about their ankles, sliders, headphones—always headphones—eyes looking above and away, but not at you.

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