Of course only one (s)hero of note comes to mind for this day on this blog, (a grand lady rumored to be Canadian by name if not by birth). That’s the way it should be. Mom beaver died on June 26, 2010, which the calendar tells me is nearly nine months ago but my own sense of time cannot possibly place. My heart says the loss either happened yesterday or a million years past, and both seem equally true in different moments. During her life in Martinez, Mom had 15 live births, built and rebuilt at least four dams, furnished two lodges and was generally beloved. Dad beaver was always cautious around humans or loud noises, but mom seemed to regard us with indifferent patience and would happily eat her stalk of fennel in your presence. When you ‘come upon’ our beaver there is always a chance that they will stop what they’re doing and swim off to do it somewhere else, but that rarely happened with mom. She pursued her goals while you were near-by, even high risk ones like walking on her hind feet to carry mud to the top of the lodge.
It is probably human fancy, but in my heart I have always been certain it was Mom that made our beavers such adaptive good sports: Mom who convinced Dad to settle here despite the urban disruptions, Mom who decided they could tolerate the dam being lowered by three feet (even when every text book and expert said they would rebuild somewhere else), Mom who was busy building a new lodge when the city was planning to install steel plates through their old one, Mom who would wait for 17 news men to be at the vote-counting building before ambling up the bank to boldly harvest some sow thistle directly in front of the cameras, Mom who taught the kits to tolerate the presence of humans, train whistles and garbage trucks, but always keep a respectful distance.
Mom was revered by children, admired by researchers, and protected by a city that roared to her defense. She left us with three furry testaments of her devotion and we see her every time we watch their futures unfold. Still Wordsworth seems strangely fitting to me this International Women’s Day morning.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, O! The difference to me!
