The Legendary Albino Moose

We were driving home from Bangor, my father and my brother and I. Down 295, it was snowing. The roads were bad, but the highway was clean enough to make some distance on. I was young, sitting in the back of my father’s silver and gold Jeep Grand Cherokee with my younger brother. Gazing out the windows at the dark trees sliding past, I let my mind wander and the fantasies of different extravagant scenarios play out in my mind’s theater. We came upon a truck stop, also an information kiosk. Dad pulled into the lot and parked the car before saying anything. Then he flicked the interior light on and twisted around in his winter jacket and seatbelt to talk to us.

“You know, once, years ago, I heard about this albino moose that lived around this part of the woods.”

We were intrigued.

“I swear, I saw it once, one night, coming home from Grammy Curran’s.”

“What did it look like?” Fletcher, my brother, asked.

“It was all white, and had red eyes that lit up bright when my headlights passed over it.”

He paused for a second.

“It wasn’t in the road though, I didn’t hit it. I just saw it standing off on the other side of the ditch and did this.”

He imitated a person staring wide-eyed, jaw hanging open, gaze panning from the windshield down the length of the Jeep, clearly seeing something that drew amazement, bewilderment and incredibility all over a man’s face. We laughed at his performance.

“I’m going to go look around and see if I can find it again.” He explained, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car.

Fletcher and I sat there, underneath the yellow incandescence, the light lime green leather interior, dead convinced our Dad was out there in the woods, searching for this rare albino moose he’d seen once. We peered out the windows, hoping to catch a glance of this creature, maybe we could see it’s sheer white coat, see how large it’s antlers were, if it’s eyes were really red. Or pink. I didn’t know much about albinism at the time.

My Dad doesn’t like his mother. We go visit her on holidays, but not every holiday. She’s old enough to always be sitting down, and is always delighted to see my brother and I, and we treat her like you should treat a grandmother. But he’ll tell us, over his shoulder in the dark Jeep Grand Cherokee as we cruise down 295 homewards, the yellow lines slipping away under the left side of the hood. He’ll tell us what he thinks of his mother.

But it was all a long time ago, when he hated her. Now she’s an old woman, who he is obligated to care for, and love, and bring her grandsons to on her birthday. And that’s just the way it has to be.

My Dad wasn’t outside looking for a moose. Of any kind, albino or not. He was taking a piss behind a tree. I didn’t know it until he got back to the car, then did it dawn on me like a setting sun of realization. Sometimes he’d say “I’m going to inspect some local flora,” or “I’m going to go check out some of those ferns over there,” and I’d know what he meant, but that night, sitting in that Jeep, I thought he was actually looking for some sort of albino moose.