Monthly Archives: June 2013

The White Deer

IMG_9960Everyone has a pocket of the universe where they are in their element. This brings me to the story of our white deer. It was born late—a good month after most of the does had dropped their fawns in June. She was tiny and stood out so clearly against the summer green in her snow-white coat that at first I thought she was a young goat. But what was a kid doing frolicking with a small herd of white tailed deer? It didn’t take long before the piebald buck I’d seen tramping through the woods back in the winter, came to mind—an unusual sighting. This aberrant white fawn was not an albino; she had a black nose and dark eyes. She didn’t cavort like the other fawns, but seemed to hobble as though injured. My neighbor later told me he’d watched her being born in the woods behind our house. For the longest time she didn’t stand up and he wasn’t sure she ever would. But here was living proof that she was a survivor.

I watched for that fawn all summer, fascinated by its otherness. Her mother remained with the herd—probably a close-knit family of aunts and cousins and siblings—but always on the periphery. Perhaps this was due to the fawn’s awkward gait which made it difficult to keep up, or perhaps the other deer sensed its difference and kept it on the outside of the group.

Now you have to know that there is no love lost between deer and me. All spring and summer, I rain down curses on their heads as they steadily munch their way through my garden, waiting until the moment the plants they’re not supposed to like have just begun to bloom. This little white fawn, however, had wormed its way into my affections. I was rooting for her, aware that she was the proverbial underdog. While the other fawns with their tan coats speckled with white spots blended in with the dappled shade in the woods, she was a misfit that stood out like a neon target. I waited to see what hunting season would bring.

By the late fall the other fawns had lost their newborn Bambi coloring, and like the older deer, were now well camouflaged against the monochromatic grey/brown woods. The white deer was a spindly adolescent, still well behind the other fawns in size. She often came close to the house to feed and I could see that her ears were brown and she had a smattering of tan freckles on her back—a pretty little thing. And a perfect target for a trophy kill, for those unfamiliar with the many mythic tales of the sacred nature of white deer.

And yet she survived until the snow came. At last she was in her element. I watched her through my bedroom window, snow falling softly around her as she pawed through drifts, unearthing tufts of grass. The speckles on the coat helped her merge beautifully with the bramble thicket, while the herd, feeding beside her, stood out like, well, brown deer in a snowstorm.


In stories we root for the underdog. They have so many obstacles to overcome, they need our concern, our love. We can’t help but rejoice when they find their environmental niche and thrive. And in her case, rather than shine, blend in.IMG_0891

The white doe has made it through three winters—three hunting seasons. I always watch for the flash of white in the woods around the house. Sometimes in winter I’ll look out my bedroom window at night and find her sleeping right outside. No wonder she works her way into my dreams. The other morning, a damp, green day, I looked up from my computer and watched her step out of the woods and pick her way daintily across the lawn, and there, several paces behind her was a tiny, spindly, fawn—brown with white spots. I shouldn’t have to worry about it, but I do.




IMG_0323You’re a write eejit when you can’t control your knitting habits.

It hit me the other day like a blast from a water cannon that I’d become one of those crazy-aunt knitters. I knit things for people, unasked. I decide what they want—shape, color, pattern—and gift it to them so they feel obliged to wear it occasionally, and are terrified of tossing it in the bag for The Good Will.

“Socks, here ya go!” “Hats, I got that.” “Legwarmers—I thought of you!”

Yes, I know it became very trendy to knit a few years back, but honestly, I wasn’t riding that wave. I’d done it in a halfhearted, multiple unfinished projects at the back of the cupboard, way since I was a kid. I blame television, or rather, bad television. You need a distraction on hand—hence the knitting.

The success of my knitting hinges largely on how good what I’m watching is. I can rate a show, by how many rows I rip out the next day: the better the show, the more mistakes I make.

Mad Men, Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, all six-month sweater projects, for sure.

What do these programs have in common? Great storytelling, gripping scenes, emotional involvement. They suck you in. And sigh, yes, the writers of these shows are such experts in their craft that before you know it, you’ve knitted three armholes, or two left sides. I can always tell how good a season of Game of Thrones is if I’m still knitting a winter sweater in May.

Instead of torturing nearest and dearest with my knitted offerings, I should be sitting on the couch with a pen and paper, taking copious notes on story arc, character development, tension building. And I swear I will, just as soon as I’ve finished this tea cozy hat.