Place 3: Underground

I made a tremendous amount of noise walking into Homewood today. Each step crashed earthward with incredible force, more force than my body weight, sending waves of vibration out from my foot like ripples of a pond, and also down into the ground. I alerted every living creature there to my presence in my arrival; between the sound of my breath, the smell of my clothes, and the tremors caused by my footsteps (not to mention the car), all the chipmunks, squirrels, birds, insects, etc., knew to either get out or check it out.

The more active airborne and surface-dwelling insects seem to invariably decide to check it out. Almost as soon as I sit down they're on me and my notepad, crawling across the page and up my legs or flying around my head. Mostly I ignore them, though I'll admit I admire their fearlessness (or ignorance?) of a creature large enough to crush them pitilessly were I J.C. Oates. They are satisfactory writing fodder when I'm in a hurry, but that is almost never, and besides, I had bigger fish to fry today. By "fish" I mean "marmots."


The groundhog (a.k.a. woodchuck, land-beaver, or whistle-pig) does technically belong to a group of the squirrel family called Marmota. Marmots are ground squirrels, mostly found in mountainous areas, but this marmot is one of the few lowland creatures in its species. Its prevalence in North America today can be attributed to European colonists clearing vast amounts of forest, which provided the groundhog with many acres of premium habitat. I was surprised, however, to find the entrance to a burrow amongst the graves today.

And why should I be? Surely a graveyard is just as suitable a place to live as any other grassland. Ground predators are few, and you, graveyard groundhog, are protected from the winged hunters by a generous cover of foliage from the venerable sycamores and maples. Still, I stared into the void a bit too long, and my mind began to slip down the groundhog hole. I wanted to talk to this creature, I wanted to ask it questions. I wanted to say, "Why, Groundhog, to you choose to live amongst the bones? What could drive you to such desperation? What hunger do you have that the dead fulfill? What killer do you fear, besides Time?

"Do you find the bodies and think they are strange underground shrubs, with strangely smooth branches that crack and prick your nose when you bite them? Do you scurry away afterwards, tasting iron and calcium and copper from your own bleeding muzzle? Are you growing fat on marrow to prepare for winter? Are you becoming sedated like your fellows as the surface steels itself for the Chill, will you be ready when the freeze takes hold, to go down and sleep among the Sleepers?

"Can you feel me out here, staring into your home? Is it warmer inside? Can you hear the blood heaving through my veins? Is that what frightens you, while I, with the foolishness borne of my advancement, my civilization, fear the dormant shells of my own kind, with whom you spend a season?"

No answer came, so I retreated before I might be tempted to stick my head inside the hole and ask the questions aloud. Beneath my maple, twenty yards to the west, I sat very still, determined to wait until the groundhog emerged.

Five minutes passed. Ten. The graveyard came back to life, so to speak, with squirrels and chipmunks racing along the tops of tombstones and between bushes. Grasshoppers, playing their legs like violins, drowned out the distant hum of traffic on South Dallas Ave. Still, I waited, watching the light fade by degrees, afraid that it would be too dark for photographs by the time my subject emerged.

Then, coming down the hill, I saw a rolling flash of tarnished silver. A groundhog, ambling toward me. Victory, I thought, and slowly reached down to remove the lens cap from my camera.

The groundhog froze.

I responded in kind, cursing my stupidity for not having the camera ready when the rodent showed up. After thirty seconds I uncapped the lens anyway, raised the camera, turned it on. Eventually he started to move again. I snapped a photo.


(You see him there in the bottom right?)

I thought the shutter click was negligible, but apparently the groundhog thought it was akin to the report of a gunshot. He froze again. I remained motionless, shaking a little (I was in an awkward position) and counted to three hundred. Locked in this silent battle of wills, I hardly noticed the squirrels still scampering, carefree, oblivious, among the tombstones.

While I was counting I realized that this groundhog was perched right above a dark opening in the earth - another burrow. Well, I thought, glancing at the hole I'd found earlier, at least you've got some company.

After staring at me so long I would have told him, were he human, to take a goddamn picture, the groundhog shambled underground, pausing only long enough for me to snap one more photo. It was well past twilight in the hollow by then, hence the poor quality - but he's there, a small silver blur the same color as the stones, right above the bottommost row.


After he disappeared I walked over to take a picture of his front door, as it were. When I stooped down to look inside, though, I heard a hissing snarl, glimpsed a twitching whiskered snout, and then he was gone. A swish, a scuffle, and half a second later, I was blinking in disbelief. The little bastard had to give me one more tease.

I stayed a moment longer, staring into the abyss, no longer troubled by the prospect of it staring back. I imagined the groundhog in the darkness below me, heart pumping, nose searching, relieved at his escape from me, safe among the bones.