In my tiny back yard, there is an old maple tree. It is a veritable hive of activity. Old Man Maple is home to several squirrels and countless birds, of course, but it is also a playground wonderland for racoons. A couple of nights ago, we were able to see two racoons gamboling around and up the tree. We watched them, enamored, for quite some time. My son upstairs in his room actually teased them by hissing. (I know, he’s 16, not 6, and should know better.)
This morning, my old man told me, “Wake up! There are racoons in the tree!” I grumbled and asked what time it was, but when he told me there were 4, and that they were babies, I put my glasses on and sat up to look. There were indeed four quite young racoons who had crossed over into our tree from the one across the walk from us and were gingerly making their way down to the ground, at which point they climbed the fence into the neighbors’ yard and then went on to wherever it is they sleep during the day. They were quite beautiful, and I felt blessed to see them.