December 10, 2009
As the snow began to fall, I noticed that the birds in my backyard appeared to be searching more furiously than usual for food.
Squirrels, too. They sensed a big storm on its way.
About then is when I remembered the French baguettes. These hard as brickbat loaves of bread reside in our garage ever since I forgot to serve them with soup on Thanksgiving Eve. Now, they await the trash truck.
Sending them out with the refuse would not do now since the birds quite obviously need some breadcrumbs.
And quickly! The snow is falling hard.
The idea of spreading baguette bread crumbs around two lonely cedar trees along our creek spawned another thought--those trees need some attention, too.
What if I wrapped the cedars with the old red, glittery garland stored in the basement, I wondered.
So, I trekked, French baguettes and sparkling red garland in hand toward the cedar trees.
Once there, I discovered that the trees were bigger than they appeared from my breakfast room window. I walked around the trees along the steep creek bank using broken tree limbs to stuff the garland as high as I could, rounding the trees many times.
Occasionally, I slipped on the wet bank, and my aging knees gave way a few times as well. At least I did not fall in the creek, I sighed with relief.
Satisfied that I decorated the cedars as much as I was physically capable of doing, I turned my attention to the French baguettes.
I tried to break the hard bread loaves into pieces for the birds and squirrels, but they would not break. I had no tools to help, no hammer, nothing at all, as I walked precariously along the creek bank in the new-fallen snow. Nothing would work, not even stepping on the loaves with my foot.
I tried pounding the concrete-like bread against a black locust tree trunk, but the loaves broke in halves and thirds, not in bite-size pieces as I hoped.
I gave up.
Next morning as I surveyed my handiwork, half-decorated cedar trees and half-loaves of hard bread strewn under them, I realized that neither squirrel nor bird found the bread.
It was then I noticed the red fox. Straight to the cedars he pranced searching for his breakfast. He meandered along the creek bank until he caught a scent, probably a ground squirrel or a mouse, I decided.
Incidentally, I never saw a fox dance before, but this one did.
He danced as he dug in the snow searching for the source of the scent. He danced as he held tight in his mouth his prey--an eight-inch French baguette. He nibbled and danced some more, and then carried the hard loaf down the bank toward the creek. Minutes later, he was back and grabbed another baguette.
Again and again he made his trip to his den with baguette in mouth.
I can only assume that Daddy Fox (and he was a big red one at that) was taking food to his offspring in a brush-covered hole somewhere along the creek bank.
I admit it, Daddy Fox made my day. Who knew foxes dance and who knew they like French baguettes? Not me.
I certainly wonder, though, if Mr. Fox happened to notice that festive red garland around the cedar trees.
Well, if foxes can dance...?
