I found an unlikely companion in Greenwood.
When I first settled into my grandparents’ trailer, my dad told me about an alligator that lived in the nearby pond. He’s always been an expressive storyteller, and although I believed him, when we went to look for the creature, it was nowhere to be found. In a group chat, I told my friends, half-kidding, that I’d have to watch out for the resident gator during my stay. “Be careful!” they warned, also half-kidding, because they didn’t believe it at all.
Every day, I’d walk the perimeter of the water, scanning the bank and the gaps in the grassy patches wafting within. My dad said it usually stayed in one spot, in one of the holes in the pond’s flora. But every day, I’d look to no avail.
Then, it happened. I spotted what appeared to be a log floating amid the aquatic weeds. I zoomed my camera in as far as I could to examine it. Still not clear. Log or gator? I tried different angles, wishing I had some binoculars. That could be the bark of a thick fallen branch, I thought. Or was it scales? As I moved to and fro to get a better view of this tree or alligator, I must’ve caught its attention. Because out popped its snout and — as I could see through my zoomed-in phone screen — an eyeball, looking right at me as if to say, “Hi, yes, I’m not a piece of wood. Nice to meet you!”
I shrieked! Alligators can run 30 miles per hour on land, I’d been told, and if it decided I might be a tasty treat, I’d rather not be near enough for it to sprint in my direction and sink those sharp teeth into me and roll. I quickly snapped a few pics and walked, as calmly as I could so as not to appear as escaping bait, to the porch. Back to safety, looking through my camera roll, I could swear it had flashed me a crooked-lipped smile.
I stayed about two weeks out there in the country, working remotely and spending evenings and weekends either alone with my thoughts or with my dad and brother who live a short walk across an open field. The trailer had already been emptied out, aside from a couple recliners and beds, a few coffee cups and a coffee maker, a table and fridge, patio furniture, and some knickknacks. No TV, but I did have my laptop and hot spot to work on weekdays and watch Netflix at night. Sitting amid the sparse material items left behind from my granny (83) and pawpaw (86) was a bit surreal. A Bible here, some old photos there. A hummingbird feeder and plantless planters on the deck outside. Not at all representative of the full lives they lived, the work they’d done, the relationships they had with the world around them. But I did get a glimpse inside parts I hadn’t known before, simply existing in the space they once called home.
I made it a daily practice to check on my new alligator friend. One afternoon, my dad brought over a fishing pole and tried to catch it. Its foot got hooked, and my dad reeled it in within a few feet of the water’s edge. It flipped and struggled to get loose, and I felt bad for the thing. It freed itself, and when it snapped away from the line, my dad tripped into a beaver hole on the bank. I was having anxiety for both of them. But the gator slowly swam back to its place in the pond, unfazed.
I’m not a herpetologist and wondered why this alligator was so darn docile. A Google search informed me that it was in brumation, the reptilian equivalent of hibernation, where its metabolic, heart, and respiratory rates slow. They create mud holes for shelter and don’t eat but do come up on warm days to absorb heat through blood vessels in their backs. So it was simply chilling out — and occasionally sunning its scutes. Perhaps we wouldn’t have been friends if we’d met in summer.
The time there was a form of brumation for me, too — to rest and reset, to float and just be. Those walks down the gravel road, the moments spent with my dad, the stunning sunsets, the quiet, the quiet — a brief period of dormancy and rejuvenation to prepare for the coming season, full of blooms and bite.
There was no gator to check on this morning as I drank coffee on my own porch, but there was the familiar chirping of birds, a visiting cardinal, squirrels poking around the yard doing squirrel things.
Ready, as I, to shift into spring.
