This is the unofficial Year of the Groundhog.

Poor Farmer Gary just had to re-plant the soybean field next to our house. Why? Not the usual reason of too much rain or not enough rain.

Why, then?

Our local groundhogs have apparently decided that Gary is their personal chef and the soybean field is their grand buffet.

Deep down, though, surely they realize they’re in the wrong. After all, the rows closest to the woods are the first to be consumed. Gary’s watched them dash out, grab some chow, and high-tail it back to the forest. As the weeks (and the eating) progress, they have farther to run.

A groundhog wandered over to our front yard the other day, heading toward some daylilies and rosebushes. I saw him out the kitchen window and could tell he thought he’d finally found the dessert bar.

Stepping out onto our front porch, my inner Irish took over, as I hollered:

Off with you, then! Shoo! Off with you!

This was one of the many times I was glad we don’t have neighbors. No good could come from Nelly Next Door hearing me yell at a groundhog. With an Irish accent, no less.

He mostly ignored me, but eventually waddled off and posed so I could snap a long-distance photo.

When I read yesterday’s blog post aloud to Gary (that’s our thing), he chuckled at how often I can successfully search for a random word to see if Mom wrote a poem about it.

So … did your mom ever write about a groundhog?

A quick search produced … of course … results.

A mention, anyway. And here we go:

High Rise

With great aplomb
the pumpkins rise on bamboo poles
in the rooftop garden

Impossible suns in the city sky
no groundhogs threaten here
whatever becomes of them
in puddings pies or jack o’lanterns
no transformation can exceed the wonder
of the space vegetables they were
heading for Heaven

~ joan vayo October 16, 2004

So. We’re in the process of getting a new roof on our garage. Said garage just happens to be adjacent to the aforementioned twice-planted soybean field.

Yesterday, Gary was outside with the crew. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed a furry critter watching back. Half a furry critter, actually. The bottom half was still in his groundhog hole.

And that groundhog was actively munching away.

I’m not sure how this will all end. We’ve wickedly talked about launching a catch-and-release program, trading ideas about whose picture-perfect lawn we should release groundhogs on in the middle of the night.

I’m not sure I’ll tell Gary this until after the (hopefully robust) soybean crop is harvested, but those hungry rodents are plentiful and here to stay. They are listed in the Least Concern category by the folks who classify which animals are in danger of extinction.

One fond memory we do have is of our Regal Groundhog. The typical lifespan of a groundhog is three years, so my royal friend is certainly long gone. But his lordship was discovered early one morning sitting on top of the railing that surrounds our deck. I’m not sure how he balanced himself, but he was sitting up straight as can be, gazing off into the woods.

Dreaming, no doubt, of soybean fields yet to be.

“High Rise” © 2004  Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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