In September 1969, Dick and I began our year in the wilderness on the edge of the BWCWA in the Superior National Forest. Our small cabin had neither road access nor amenities. This is a reprint of one of many stories about our lives during that special year.
I’ve received some memorable valentines in my life—a card from a fourth grade boy that read, “Kiss me buckteeth, my tonsils itch” and pink construction paper hearts with “I love you Mommy” scribbled in my children’s childish handwriting. But the Valentine Dick gave me on Tucker Lake is never to be forgotten.
The idea was good. Since the cabin floor was always cold, Dick suggested that he carve footstools from tree stumps and use them as footrests to keep our feet warm.
I agreed. “That would be great. Call it my Valentine present but make one for yourself too.” Methodically, he picked out two sturdy tree stumps, trimmed them with the chain saw and peeled the bark before bringing them into the cabin.
“Perfect! I said. Dishes were done, the sun had set and I was ready for an evening in front of the fireplace, especially now that I had somewhere to plop my feet.
Proudly, Dick set the footstools in front of us and we eased into comfort, feeling rather cocky once our feet were in the air. The footstools imparted a pampered sensation, akin to lounging in expensive leather recliners. I read quietly, Dick carved wood, a project he sometimes worked on. Then he too, opened a magazine and read. Occasionally, we’d stretch and yawn. Several pleasant hours passed in this way as the fire crackled in our toasty warm cabin. Suddenly, I jumped to my feet.
“There’s something alive in my footstool!” I screeched.
“What?”
“Something is crawling out of my footstool!” I yelled again.
We bent and looked closer. The kerosene light was soft but bright enough to reveal large, black, insect carapaces with long spiny legs slowly wriggling out from the wood.
I’ve never thought of myself as squeamish. I’ve never thought of myself as violent. Theoretically, I believe in the oneness of all earth’s creatures, but the sight of fat, shiny carpenter ants dropping to the floor of my house dissolved any Hindu-like emotions I might have had
“EEUU! “I shrieked.
My hero…my Valentine, sprung into action. Gallantly, Dick picked up the infected footstools and holding them away from his body, courageously moved toward the cabin door. I assisted by swinging the door open, and with a mighty heave, he threw the footstools through the frigid air and into a snow bank.
I enthusiastically stamped out the lives of any survivors.
So much for universal oneness.
Was I sorry for the poor unfortunate carpenter ants that had been deceived by the warm cabin temperature into thinking springtime had arrived? Not a bit, but I was disappointed we no longer had our footstools. Our quiet evening was shattered, and we searched for something to calm us. Finally, we soothed our frayed nerves by making a batch of chocolate fudge.
That night as I fell asleep with the taste of chocolate lingering on my tongue, I fervently hoped, no carpenter ants were now crawling up the walls.
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