A friend of mine is traveling through the Southwest and posting things to FB. I was feeling nostalgic, and serendipitously found the journal I wrote in 1996, when I was driving R to Austin. We camped along the way. The big name places were Bryce, Zion, Grand Canyon, and Carlsbad. Here's what I had to say about Bryce:
Left Hwy 70, following the Sevier River. It's a sage-green, tumbling, fast-moving river - seems to have cut through the mountains, and the road we're on is squished in. There are oval and half-moon-shaped holes in the tops of the mountains - most of it looks river-cut. It's amazing to think of how long it took to make this canyon.
Bedtime
We're at Kodachrome State Park: Bryce was full by the time we reached it, but we're just as glad. This is a lovely site, in a bowl of yellow/white/golden/red cliffs, with streams trickling through, scrub pines at every site, spires, etc. We're very isolated, yet close to the water and the bathrooms (which have HOT SHOWERS!) Our fellow campers are quiet - we see their lights, hear some low-voiced comments, a quiet laugh here and there, some rattling dishes - all very peaceful and distant-seeming. Crickety insects are singing. This being both desert and mountain, the stars are incredible.
R called RB (her husband, whom we were joining in TX), and then she made a white sauce out of pancake mix, dried milk, mozzarella, and oil. Some turkey ham and zucchini went in it, and we finished up the pasta. We pulled out the cheap CA wine and it was pretty good. So, we took our mugs and went for a walk in the gloaming. There are rocks here like a miniature version of Ayers Rock - red, smooth, rounded, with oval holes in the base. Behind them, spires climb into the light-blue, darkening sky. I wanted to climb, but it was too late and R wouldn't let me anyway. But it was beautiful.
Then we sat at the table and killed the bottle, while eating Chevalier Noir cookies. Yummm.
We planned tomorrow a bit, and while R went to the bathrooms, I knit by candle lantern light and watched the stars brighten. Then, a walk to the restroom myself, head tilted upwards identifying constellations and marveling. R's already asleep. I'm using her lantern to warm the tent, write, and read. But, I'm getting tired.
Sunday
At North Campground. Just watched the stars come out over East Rim of Bryce Canyon and got totally lost coming back. For a completely packed campground, this is a pretty quiet one. Lighted tents, campfires, lighted RV's looking like houses - it was like walking around a small town without street lights. I made a right downhill when I should have made a left up - and then I began to ramble. Found RV-land, found a bathroom, on trying to find the road I walked into a campsite with a VERY bright light. I asked if they knew where the road was, and they pointed 2 feet away. I got back - candle-lantern lit on table but no R - she'd gone to look for me and ended up at the campfire canyon talk, which she says was pretty hideous. Anyway, she forgave me - said she'd been blaming herself for letting us split up at dusk. We'd gone for a post-prandial cliff-sunset walk and ended up at the general store where she called RB and depressed him by telling him the stove was turning black.
Some beautiful hikes today - first at Kodachrome Basin Panorama Loop. (We woke up freezing cold, and everything we'd left out on the table was soaking wet, even my bag of knitting.) The panorama hike was a cross between John Day Fossil beds and Ayers Rock. At the last we climbed a hill and had the whole basin spread out below us. R left 1st, and I was alone, high above the earth, an intermittant cool breeze making the only sound. Perfect peace. I met 3 German lads on the way down and recommended the climb.
Lots of Germans at Bryce, too. We're flanked by them. An elderly couple in a van (which R covets: "They look so cozy") is directly adjacent.
We mainly drove around to various viewpoints, did a few short hikes. Wind was very cold. We had sweatshirts but were still wearing shorts. Lunched at a viewpoint and shivered. Tomorrow I hike in slacks, I think.
Mmm, wind roaring in the pines, very nice, time for sleep.
Monday, early pm
Today I'm unable to breathe in the scent of sun-warmed juniper and bristle-cone pine to which I've been growing fondly accustomed. I woke up to R rushing me from the tent to see the sunrise before the sun got buried in the rain clouds. There was just a thin line of clear blue before the gray cumulonimbus stuff started. We reached the rim, too late it seemed. So, back to the site to take down tents and make breakfast. As the coffee was brewing, the little weasel of a sun popped up. The camp host in his little golf cart was driving by picking up expired registration tags and he asked us what we were looking at. I said, "the sun" and he said "what sun?" like he'd never heard of such a thing.
After breakfast, while Rhonda was changing in her tent, I saw a little puff-chested bird, white and black, with a black mask, dive onto the table inches away from me, peck for the non-existent food, and dart back up to a low branch of the overhanging pine. He did this several times. No fear of me.
We stopped by the store for a rain poncho for me, and set off down the Queen's Garden Loop. It was terrific to be down amongst the hoodoos, winding in and out along the valley floor. We came back via Navajo Loop, a lung-bursting ascent. The monsoon held off until the very end, when a little fear of heights and slippery trails added to my breathlessness.
Back at the store porch for lunch. The clerk who sold us ponchos was there with coffee and cigarette. I said, "Look at this piece of junk you sold me," and pointed out the split hood. He offered to give me a replacement, and seemed very serious. The thing only cost $2.99; one doesn't expect great things from an essentially garbage bag mit hood and snaps.
It's amazing to me that I went through this area close to 20 years ago, and now I'm living here. It's all still there: stars, rocks, skies, peace. Clearly this is what I've wanted for years.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Domesticity in the mountains
A few days back, I wrote about the trauma of removing a squirrel from the Portland house. Now, I don't really believe in Bored Angels, but Something was clearly paying attention to that. How else do I explain the presence of a mouse in this house?
Yeah, I know, I live in the wilds, I should just be glad the foxes and mountain lions aren't besieging me. (To any Bored Angels....LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!)
However, it's always a little tricky figuring out an effective and sustainable way to deal with these issues. One point of living out here is to co-exist peacefully with the wildlife. Rodents in the house are a problem, though. There was a recently documented death from Hanta Virus in Santa Fe. C says that it's caused by exposure to mouse feces, and mainly affects people harvesting pinon: the mice have nests in the bushes. But, we have mice in the woodpile and they do get in the house, and we have to deal with them. The accepted method is a jug of water. This being desert country, the mouse is attracted to the water, falls into the jug, and drowns. C checks the jug (which lives on the kitchen counter in the main house) and tosses the mouse corpse out for the resident snakes. Or, in winter, the coyotes. So, a few days ago I sent this message to E and C (E being the house owner, and C being the Co-op expert on practical life skills.)
Thought I'd let you know, D saw a mouse running the perimeter of the living room. (Why do I never see these things?) I've put out a jug full of water, but so far there are no corpses.
Also, I've been hearing a knocking/rapping sound most mornings, but when I open the door I see nothing. So today I went around the side of the house and caught a glimpse of a woodpecker, pecking at the peak underneath the eaves on the west side of the house (above the door to "my" room.) It was huge, with speckled body and flashes of red. D said she saw a pileated woodpecker in the trees outside, so that's probably the same bird.
What shall I do? Is it causing damage, do you think?
C's Reply:
No damage by flicker/woodpecker. They are always around and create no damage -- they are looking for bugs and will roost each night under EB's eaves as they are deep and protective. They've been here for 7 years and can't do anything truly harmful. It's rather comforting to see them nestle in during cold weather. If they are primarily tan and have red underneath their wings, they're flickers.
Be sure to put the glass/ jug of water on a low bookshelf against a wall, with some way for a critter to climb up and do a swan dive-- a stack of books or something like that. It may take a few days but it should work
My reply:
Got it. Thanks for the reassurance. Are flickers speckled? Will check the bird book. Re: mousy... I haven't arranged the diving platform properly, and it's skittering around the bathroom, but tomorrow I'll put my engineer's hat on.
Of course, this was not the end of it. I arranged a diving platform of sponges and brooms in the bathroom and the next day I saw a mouse curled up in the jug. I was equally triumphant and dismayed: I so prefer the idea of a live trap.
A diving platform
And a pitcher of water: Non toxic mousetrap.
(I feel awful, though.)
A few hours later I nerved myself to deal with the corpse, and went into the bathroom, only to see it looking up at me, with its bright beady eyes and furry face. It looked like Ernest Shephard's illustration of the Water Rat.
I dithered a bit, and finally put the jug outside, tipping it over. When I next looked, the mouse was gone. I confessed to C, who said, "That's one lucky mouse." We both assume it will return, and I'll have to deal with it again. So, now the hunt is on for a deeper jug.
I told this story to S, who said they used a big plastic waste basket with 6 inches of water. Apparently, some time in the past, they found a mouse and put a yellow Sharpie dot on its forehead. The mouse, now named Yellow Head, continued to effect entry into the house and they continued to release it into wild until they finally found the entry point and blocked it up. As S said, "That was one useful mouse."
I don't think I have what it takes to do this.
Yeah, I know, I live in the wilds, I should just be glad the foxes and mountain lions aren't besieging me. (To any Bored Angels....LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!)
However, it's always a little tricky figuring out an effective and sustainable way to deal with these issues. One point of living out here is to co-exist peacefully with the wildlife. Rodents in the house are a problem, though. There was a recently documented death from Hanta Virus in Santa Fe. C says that it's caused by exposure to mouse feces, and mainly affects people harvesting pinon: the mice have nests in the bushes. But, we have mice in the woodpile and they do get in the house, and we have to deal with them. The accepted method is a jug of water. This being desert country, the mouse is attracted to the water, falls into the jug, and drowns. C checks the jug (which lives on the kitchen counter in the main house) and tosses the mouse corpse out for the resident snakes. Or, in winter, the coyotes. So, a few days ago I sent this message to E and C (E being the house owner, and C being the Co-op expert on practical life skills.)
Thought I'd let you know, D saw a mouse running the perimeter of the living room. (Why do I never see these things?) I've put out a jug full of water, but so far there are no corpses.
Also, I've been hearing a knocking/rapping sound most mornings, but when I open the door I see nothing. So today I went around the side of the house and caught a glimpse of a woodpecker, pecking at the peak underneath the eaves on the west side of the house (above the door to "my" room.) It was huge, with speckled body and flashes of red. D said she saw a pileated woodpecker in the trees outside, so that's probably the same bird.
What shall I do? Is it causing damage, do you think?
C's Reply:
No damage by flicker/woodpecker. They are always around and create no damage -- they are looking for bugs and will roost each night under EB's eaves as they are deep and protective. They've been here for 7 years and can't do anything truly harmful. It's rather comforting to see them nestle in during cold weather. If they are primarily tan and have red underneath their wings, they're flickers.
Be sure to put the glass/ jug of water on a low bookshelf against a wall, with some way for a critter to climb up and do a swan dive-- a stack of books or something like that. It may take a few days but it should work
My reply:
Got it. Thanks for the reassurance. Are flickers speckled? Will check the bird book. Re: mousy... I haven't arranged the diving platform properly, and it's skittering around the bathroom, but tomorrow I'll put my engineer's hat on.
Of course, this was not the end of it. I arranged a diving platform of sponges and brooms in the bathroom and the next day I saw a mouse curled up in the jug. I was equally triumphant and dismayed: I so prefer the idea of a live trap.
A diving platform
And a pitcher of water: Non toxic mousetrap.
(I feel awful, though.)
A few hours later I nerved myself to deal with the corpse, and went into the bathroom, only to see it looking up at me, with its bright beady eyes and furry face. It looked like Ernest Shephard's illustration of the Water Rat.
I dithered a bit, and finally put the jug outside, tipping it over. When I next looked, the mouse was gone. I confessed to C, who said, "That's one lucky mouse." We both assume it will return, and I'll have to deal with it again. So, now the hunt is on for a deeper jug.
I told this story to S, who said they used a big plastic waste basket with 6 inches of water. Apparently, some time in the past, they found a mouse and put a yellow Sharpie dot on its forehead. The mouse, now named Yellow Head, continued to effect entry into the house and they continued to release it into wild until they finally found the entry point and blocked it up. As S said, "That was one useful mouse."
I don't think I have what it takes to do this.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Irritability
I woke up in Albuquerque and drove home in the dawn. The sunrise was lovely further south: feathery golden clouds outlining a sharp ridged blue-black mountain range. Then the clouds got thicker, with wispy coverage down the slopes, and the mountain's outline went dim, merging into the clouds, which extended into the sky. The rising sun kept climbing, trying to get above cloud cover, continuously edging it with gold, but finally the clouds won. By the time I reached home, we were socked in, the temp was 33 degrees, and the wind was whistling through the top story, where the windows are shut but not bolted. (They will remain so until someone with a tall ladder comes by.)
This is fine with me: I'm trying to take care of business in the house, and that bloody sunshine keeps dragging me outside. Unfortunately, stormy weather brings out the worst in E. "Don't you think we should bring in those chairs?" "No, they've lived outside for 3 years, they are fine." "But they'll get wet." "And then they'll dry: it just takes a short time." "I think they should come inside." "They are fine outside, there's no room inside." "Just put them in front of the door." "That's in your path to the bathroom." "I'm going to bring in the chairs."
I put aside the crossword puzzle and bring in the chairs. One is against a wall in the living area, the other in the shower part of the bathroom. It actually looks okay, but I'll have to move it every time I take a shower. And of course, there will be a chair shlep every time we want to sit outside.
Back to the crossword puzzle. "We're running out of toilet paper." "No, we have 8 rolls, I checked yesterday." "We should get more toilet paper." "We're fine for now." "I guess E can buy some when she gets here." "That's 8 days from now, there's no way we'll be using a roll a day." "I think we need to buy more toilet paper."
To distract her from this topic, I set her up to read and reply to email. That keeps her fairly occupied, with only occasional interruptions. "I've lost everything I typed!" "No, it's right there, see?" "Oh, yes....but what's that?" "It's the letter you're answering." "Where's my letter?" "Right there."
In between, I try to fix the cord to the Mac. It is almost completely severed, and tape doesn't fix it. So, I bring the laptop next door to recharge, and then start up the Dell. And every time I try to open a site, I get the wheeling symbol that says nothing is loading. I click on the reload button and go to the next site. And click on that reload button. And then back. And then click. And then close the window and try again. And then click on the reload. And....
I can feel my jaw clenching. E gasps and calls my name, with a rising note of panic: "I've lost the letter!"
At this juncture, a person with access to her wise mind would put on jeans and go for a walk in the now cloudless day. But instead, I go into my room and start going through mail and papers and desk drawers. I find a stack of things that need to be taken care of: bills to pay or dispute, Cobra to be answered, the Sprint iPhone to be returned, receipts to be recorded and filed, tax info to process.
What have I been doing for the past month? Clearly, not taking care of business.
It's all sorted and put away, still undealt-with. E has successfully emailed her letter, and I'm trying to get motivated to do something productive or creative. Or at least, non-irritating.
This is fine with me: I'm trying to take care of business in the house, and that bloody sunshine keeps dragging me outside. Unfortunately, stormy weather brings out the worst in E. "Don't you think we should bring in those chairs?" "No, they've lived outside for 3 years, they are fine." "But they'll get wet." "And then they'll dry: it just takes a short time." "I think they should come inside." "They are fine outside, there's no room inside." "Just put them in front of the door." "That's in your path to the bathroom." "I'm going to bring in the chairs."
I put aside the crossword puzzle and bring in the chairs. One is against a wall in the living area, the other in the shower part of the bathroom. It actually looks okay, but I'll have to move it every time I take a shower. And of course, there will be a chair shlep every time we want to sit outside.
Back to the crossword puzzle. "We're running out of toilet paper." "No, we have 8 rolls, I checked yesterday." "We should get more toilet paper." "We're fine for now." "I guess E can buy some when she gets here." "That's 8 days from now, there's no way we'll be using a roll a day." "I think we need to buy more toilet paper."
To distract her from this topic, I set her up to read and reply to email. That keeps her fairly occupied, with only occasional interruptions. "I've lost everything I typed!" "No, it's right there, see?" "Oh, yes....but what's that?" "It's the letter you're answering." "Where's my letter?" "Right there."
In between, I try to fix the cord to the Mac. It is almost completely severed, and tape doesn't fix it. So, I bring the laptop next door to recharge, and then start up the Dell. And every time I try to open a site, I get the wheeling symbol that says nothing is loading. I click on the reload button and go to the next site. And click on that reload button. And then back. And then click. And then close the window and try again. And then click on the reload. And....
I can feel my jaw clenching. E gasps and calls my name, with a rising note of panic: "I've lost the letter!"
At this juncture, a person with access to her wise mind would put on jeans and go for a walk in the now cloudless day. But instead, I go into my room and start going through mail and papers and desk drawers. I find a stack of things that need to be taken care of: bills to pay or dispute, Cobra to be answered, the Sprint iPhone to be returned, receipts to be recorded and filed, tax info to process.
What have I been doing for the past month? Clearly, not taking care of business.
It's all sorted and put away, still undealt-with. E has successfully emailed her letter, and I'm trying to get motivated to do something productive or creative. Or at least, non-irritating.
Friday, November 8, 2013
When the heart speaks, take good notes
This is NaNoWriMo, and once again, I am NOT writing a novel. But, it's only right that I should pay attention to the stories that I am not writing.
E tells me about life in the depression. She was born in 1915 and grew up on a farm. They had a horse and buggy. She did the family ironing, including her father's shirts, using a flat iron heated on the wood burning stove. They moved to the city of Bakersfield when she was 8. Her father couldn't get carpentry job, and moved out. Her mother supported the household because she was very good with the needle and "could make a poor figure look good." Her mother was also a Christian Scientist. After the war she lived in Germany. She's been married twice, once to a chemist who worked in the radiation labs and played viola.
I've heard all of these stories so very many times, I could easily write a novel about it.
Then, there are my own stories. I have travel journals for any trip that lasted more than a week (unless it was a Christmas trip home.) I have the journal I kept when my sisters and I visited our 93-year-old aunt, shortly before she had to move out of her home. There's my first trip to Europe with B, right after college. The trip to Australia with K, where I met R. The 2nd trip to Europe with B. The trip to Italy to visit A and then meet up with V in France. Another France trip with V. A third France trip, followed by a boat ride through the Channel Islands and a train ride up through Wales to Cumbria: the Millennial Goldsworthy trip. The visit to Yorkshire and London when my niece was studying abroad for her junior year. Mexico and Hawaii with D. Ad infinitim.
But now I'm not doing much external traveling. This blog has been chronicling the internal journeys for the last few years, and I'm not sure how much more of that I want to think about. Recently I sent extremely despairing letters to friends, even more despairing than the blogs I've been writing, which my friends and family also read. It might be useful to have the journals to look back on, but what's the point in worrying people who love you?
When my sister E retired (early), she started keeping a journal. It's more a date book than a journal: she wanted to be sure that she had some sense of accomplishment, now that her life was no longer going to be scheduled around a work week. My friend H (writer/reader extraordinaire) posted Lynda Barry's description of the 4-minute diary:
Why is it so hard to keep a diary?
IT ISN’T!
Keeping a diary is much easier if you limit your writing to four minutes each day: two minutes spent writing a list of what you remember from the day before and then two minutes making a list of things you saw.
E tells me about life in the depression. She was born in 1915 and grew up on a farm. They had a horse and buggy. She did the family ironing, including her father's shirts, using a flat iron heated on the wood burning stove. They moved to the city of Bakersfield when she was 8. Her father couldn't get carpentry job, and moved out. Her mother supported the household because she was very good with the needle and "could make a poor figure look good." Her mother was also a Christian Scientist. After the war she lived in Germany. She's been married twice, once to a chemist who worked in the radiation labs and played viola.
I've heard all of these stories so very many times, I could easily write a novel about it.
Then, there are my own stories. I have travel journals for any trip that lasted more than a week (unless it was a Christmas trip home.) I have the journal I kept when my sisters and I visited our 93-year-old aunt, shortly before she had to move out of her home. There's my first trip to Europe with B, right after college. The trip to Australia with K, where I met R. The 2nd trip to Europe with B. The trip to Italy to visit A and then meet up with V in France. Another France trip with V. A third France trip, followed by a boat ride through the Channel Islands and a train ride up through Wales to Cumbria: the Millennial Goldsworthy trip. The visit to Yorkshire and London when my niece was studying abroad for her junior year. Mexico and Hawaii with D. Ad infinitim.
But now I'm not doing much external traveling. This blog has been chronicling the internal journeys for the last few years, and I'm not sure how much more of that I want to think about. Recently I sent extremely despairing letters to friends, even more despairing than the blogs I've been writing, which my friends and family also read. It might be useful to have the journals to look back on, but what's the point in worrying people who love you?
When my sister E retired (early), she started keeping a journal. It's more a date book than a journal: she wanted to be sure that she had some sense of accomplishment, now that her life was no longer going to be scheduled around a work week. My friend H (writer/reader extraordinaire) posted Lynda Barry's description of the 4-minute diary:
Why is it so hard to keep a diary?
IT ISN’T!
Keeping a diary is much easier if you limit your writing to four minutes each day: two minutes spent writing a list of what you remember from the day before and then two minutes making a list of things you saw.
I do a version of that, by posting pix and haiku regularly to my facebook account. It's a way to let myself and others know that I'm alive, and that things are basically okay.
C says I'm a writer, and have always been one. But I think that I'm really a frustrated storyteller. I'm not good at it, and I need a patient audience. D used to interrupt me constantly, and then I'd be silenced and go pouting off to my morning pages or blog and spew out my thoughts, complete with a dose of whine. That's not writing, though. It's processing. I need to feel like I'm alive, like I'm doing something. I need to feel like I'm connecting with someone. So, I blog, and I post, and I look for the comments and the "likes" and I re-read what I wrote a year ago and I think....have I progressed at all?
At one time I kept my morning pages religiously, and I also ticked off activities from the online record, Joe's Goals. These were more private: only I saw them. The morning pages were often laundry lists of things I needed to do, as well as things that made me feel bad about myself as well as rants about D or about work. The goals were things like walking, knitting, origami, writing letters, tai chi chuh, practising, drinking 8 glasses of water, crafting, lifting weights, yoga....a mix of creativity and self-care. It was like giving myself gold stars.
Now I'm at a place where work does not distract me, but I have nothing to say. The stories really do depend on an active life. So....let's see about that four minute diary.
- D came in at around 5:45 with tales of wrecks and horrible traffic in Santa Fe. I determined to take 599 to rehearsal.
- M gave me keys to the SF office and we talked about early music, the coop, and caregiving. She said that it took a friend of hers a full year to get the caregiving organized for his parent, and that he wound up with two full-time caregivers. Another friend had 4 caregivers. All for one person. It's a darn expensive proposition.
- I got the code to 1st presbyterian church back door, so next time we rehearse there I don't have to stand in the cold until another person arrives.
- Driving to SF in the dark featured a beautiful crescent moon. After rehearsal, it was low and yellow on the horizon.
Okay, that's over two minutes.
- I saw the moon.
- I saw Venus, bright over the mountain as the sun set. The mountain was blue-black and craggy.
- I saw rocks and dirt as I dug out rocks and continued to create the labyrinth.
- golden sun, blue sky
- a spider, drowning in the shower water (I took it outside, crumpled and dead looking on a magazine. It was gone 20 minutes later
- dust on a picture
- lots of zits on my face. :(
And that's over two minutes, too. I seem to remember a lot of banal things. But, it is proof that I am alive, I guess.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Mighty hunter cats
I just heard from a friend who was up in the wee hours, monitoring her cat who was chasing a rat around the living room. It sounded like a children's rhyme: there once was a lady who watched a cat who chased a rat who hid under a hat which sat on the mat....
It also reminded me of a late night I spent with Bunji, my beloved tuxedo cat who died about 8 years ago (right before Simone came into my life.) I had been lying on the low maroon corduroy couch, reading by the light of a table lamp. The lamp was set on an old locked trunk which my cousin found many years before and lugged into the house to serve as an end table. We never found out what was in it: it was brass-cornered with teal-green metal sides. The trunk was a little shorter in length than the couch, and was lined up with the couch's front edge, thus leaving a little gap by the wall.
This gap is important to the story.
Around 10 pm I got up, turned off the light and began to move towards the stairs. Then my brain processed what my eyes had seen as I looked down at the light: a round furry grey-brown object, wedged between the trunk and the wall. Reluctantly, I moved back to the lamp and turned it on. There, motionless, nose in the corner, was a medium-sized squirrel. I thought back a few nights, when I had noticed Bunji crouched at the far edge of the couch, which was too low for him to get under, nose and eyes to the space between couch and floor. I thought, great, he brought the squirrel into the house, it went to ground under the couch and died in the corner.
Bunji was actually in the room with me, and Yo-cat was upstairs. I pulled out the trunk to get at the corpse, which then leapt into life, dashing past me across the room, to settle beneath the couch over there. Bunji chased after it and began scrabbling under the couch (this couch is further off the ground). I quit gasping for air and grabbed him, shutting him into the music room.
Then I stood and pondered the situation.
Here's the layout: low maroon couch against the north wall of the living room. Large opening, approximately 8 ft wide, into the foyer. Music room to the west of the foyer. Open stairwell as the north wall of the foyer, with doorway on the east side of that wall, at the bottom of the stairs, leading into kitchen. Pantry on the west side of the kitchen, with a bathroom/darkroom opening to the north. Water heater closet in the bathroom. Back in the living room, another couch (which the squirrel is under) along the south wall. Doorway to outside porch on the east wall, close to the entry into the foyer. The maroon couch has a long narrow back that never got attached: it's propped against the wall, on top of the couch proper.
I decided that my best course of action was to keep Bunji shut up in the music room, shut Yo-cat into the upstairs bedroom, and try to herd the squirrel out the front door. I positioned the detachable couch back along the opening into the foyer, propped open the front door, and took a broom. One swipe under the couch and the squirrel shot out, running straight towards the barrier which he hit full tilt, vaulting it in one smooth acrobatic motion, disappearing towards the kitchen.
Following the squirrel, broom in hand, I observed him leaping from island to counter top, and I realized: there is no way to herd a squirrel. I called B, who said, "what do you think I can do?" She suggested a live trap. I dithered, and she got in her car and came over with some black sunflower seeds to help lure the squirrel out. When she arrived, the squirrel was nowhere to be seen. We eventually realized he'd gone into the bathroom, and thence into the walls, via the (sadly) open door to the water closet. B commiserated with me, left the seed, and went home to her well-earned rest. I shut the door to the bathroom, freed the cats, and went to bed (but not to rest: I had a SQUIRREL in my house!)
Next day I called the live trap folks. When they discovered that my house was over 100 years old and the squirrel had access to the walls, they informed me that I was doomed: the squirrel would die in the walls and smell up the house and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. But I went over, got a trap (at $20 an hour), baited it, and returned to the bathroom. As I placed the trap on the floor, I looked up at the darkroom shelf and saw two beady eyes peering out from amongst the beakers of chemicals.
Half an hour later, I heard the trap gate slam shut. I brought it outside, opened the gate, and told the squirrel to run free and warn his friends to stay away from this house of horror. A few minutes later, I went back. Squirrel was gone, story was over.
It also reminded me of a late night I spent with Bunji, my beloved tuxedo cat who died about 8 years ago (right before Simone came into my life.) I had been lying on the low maroon corduroy couch, reading by the light of a table lamp. The lamp was set on an old locked trunk which my cousin found many years before and lugged into the house to serve as an end table. We never found out what was in it: it was brass-cornered with teal-green metal sides. The trunk was a little shorter in length than the couch, and was lined up with the couch's front edge, thus leaving a little gap by the wall.
This gap is important to the story.
Around 10 pm I got up, turned off the light and began to move towards the stairs. Then my brain processed what my eyes had seen as I looked down at the light: a round furry grey-brown object, wedged between the trunk and the wall. Reluctantly, I moved back to the lamp and turned it on. There, motionless, nose in the corner, was a medium-sized squirrel. I thought back a few nights, when I had noticed Bunji crouched at the far edge of the couch, which was too low for him to get under, nose and eyes to the space between couch and floor. I thought, great, he brought the squirrel into the house, it went to ground under the couch and died in the corner.
Bunji was actually in the room with me, and Yo-cat was upstairs. I pulled out the trunk to get at the corpse, which then leapt into life, dashing past me across the room, to settle beneath the couch over there. Bunji chased after it and began scrabbling under the couch (this couch is further off the ground). I quit gasping for air and grabbed him, shutting him into the music room.
Then I stood and pondered the situation.
Here's the layout: low maroon couch against the north wall of the living room. Large opening, approximately 8 ft wide, into the foyer. Music room to the west of the foyer. Open stairwell as the north wall of the foyer, with doorway on the east side of that wall, at the bottom of the stairs, leading into kitchen. Pantry on the west side of the kitchen, with a bathroom/darkroom opening to the north. Water heater closet in the bathroom. Back in the living room, another couch (which the squirrel is under) along the south wall. Doorway to outside porch on the east wall, close to the entry into the foyer. The maroon couch has a long narrow back that never got attached: it's propped against the wall, on top of the couch proper.
I decided that my best course of action was to keep Bunji shut up in the music room, shut Yo-cat into the upstairs bedroom, and try to herd the squirrel out the front door. I positioned the detachable couch back along the opening into the foyer, propped open the front door, and took a broom. One swipe under the couch and the squirrel shot out, running straight towards the barrier which he hit full tilt, vaulting it in one smooth acrobatic motion, disappearing towards the kitchen.
Following the squirrel, broom in hand, I observed him leaping from island to counter top, and I realized: there is no way to herd a squirrel. I called B, who said, "what do you think I can do?" She suggested a live trap. I dithered, and she got in her car and came over with some black sunflower seeds to help lure the squirrel out. When she arrived, the squirrel was nowhere to be seen. We eventually realized he'd gone into the bathroom, and thence into the walls, via the (sadly) open door to the water closet. B commiserated with me, left the seed, and went home to her well-earned rest. I shut the door to the bathroom, freed the cats, and went to bed (but not to rest: I had a SQUIRREL in my house!)
Next day I called the live trap folks. When they discovered that my house was over 100 years old and the squirrel had access to the walls, they informed me that I was doomed: the squirrel would die in the walls and smell up the house and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. But I went over, got a trap (at $20 an hour), baited it, and returned to the bathroom. As I placed the trap on the floor, I looked up at the darkroom shelf and saw two beady eyes peering out from amongst the beakers of chemicals.
Half an hour later, I heard the trap gate slam shut. I brought it outside, opened the gate, and told the squirrel to run free and warn his friends to stay away from this house of horror. A few minutes later, I went back. Squirrel was gone, story was over.
Friday, November 1, 2013
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