Margotlog: Mouse Attack
Yes, we've had a few in our Saint Paul house over the years. One crept across the dining room floor, almost under Fluffy's legs. She, the aged Maine Coon cat, sniffed at the tiny intruder, Fran scooped it up and tossed it in the backyard. That was the end of that. We've had far more bats, over the years, though none this season, knock on wood. And one rat crept into the basement, probably through the sewer pipes, and somehow drowned itself in the toilet. A shocking thing, as one lowers the derriere to the toilet seat.
But not until last week, have I ever felt invaded by mice. The site was a large dwelling by big Lake Superior. "In the woods," remonstrated the mother of the dwelling's owner. In other words, what should I expect?
The attack unfolded with a grace I'd never have prophesied. My third or fourth evening there as I relaxed downstairs on the sofa after dinner, a slow shadow made its way from some secret place to my right and scurried across the rug, then paused to look back at me--"What are you doing here!?" it seemed to say. I yelped and stomped. The mouse, rather large in my limited estimation, was not, I was sure, a rat. It withdrew, where I knew not, nor particularly cared..
Maybe the next morning--I didn't begin to chart such things until fear and vengeance drove me to it--anyway, just as light was beginning to seep through the tall pines and aspen, a furry critter, low to the ground and not very long, appeared in the kitchen, just beyond a heat vent. There were lots of places where a critter could enter. Even at that early hour I thought so. I yelled and stomped again. The white-throated mouse withdrew again.
That was enough to set me looking for mouse droppings. Little pellets about the size of a pencil point. I found them in front of the fridge, along some of the kitchen counters. Not furious, just determined, I cleaned and moped with a few paper towels. That would take care of any stray crumbs luring the critter inside.
The next morning, more droppings, this time in the adjacent dining area on the round oak table. This disturbed me more. I washed not only the table top, but also a round decorative dish that had been sitting there when I arrived. Now when I inspected it, I discovered it was strewn with what looked like crumbs. I gave it a thorough washing.
That evening as I sat upstairs in bed, light on, a tiny form scurried from the alcove just to the right of my bed and across the carpet, then under the door to the chamber and disappeared. Oh, HELP! I'd had enough of mice. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I'd do something to get rid of the mice. I called the owner, one time-zone west. She was polite but bored. "Sure, buy some traps. Have the hardware store put them on my bill. I'll even call them and alert them you're coming."
The following afternoon, I searched the huge store on Highway 61 for traps. There they were, two to a cellophane packet, along with various kinds of poison. Poison was not an option, or at least not after discussion with various people in town who pointed that that poisoned mice takes themselves outside where they can be eaten by pets or wild critters. I certainly didn't want to do in other mammals who had the decency to stay where they belonged.
"Put a little peanut butter on the 'trip,'" advised the young sales clerk. He was showing me how to set the things. "Not too much. Some mice figure out very fast how to snitch a bit and not spring the trap." So warned I made my way back to the MacCabin. Hands trembling I set two traps, one just outside the door to my bedroom--Heaven forfend, the thing should die in my viewing. And the other downstairs just beyond the kitchen heat fixture, where I could almost see through the wall to the outside.
Then again I sat up in bed and distracted myself with reading. Light seeped from the sky. Soon it was dark. "SNAP!" I heard from outside the door. OMG!. My heart started to pound. What would I find? One of my interlocutors in town advised simply throwing the trap with its booty in the trash. I remembered that.
Putting on my slippers with their hard soles, I tied my robe securely around me, and slipped into my slacks--no rodent was going to run up my bare legs! Then pulling open the door, I saw a tiny mouse lying in the trap. Its two beady eyes stared up. The gold spring of the trap fastened it securely behind the ears. It didn't seem to notice me. I kicked it with my foot. Nothing--no blink, no tail twitching. It was surely dead. But I couldn't bear to bury it now. So I left it there, thinking perhaps encountering one dead of their kind would send other mice back into their hiding places.
I slept fine. Fortified, I repeated the garb of the night before, and opened the door again. The mouse in its trap with its black bulging eyes was still there. Now, with more light I could see that it had bled profusely into the small hollow of the trap. I pulled on a plastic glove and lifted the trap from the end without the mouse and carried it downstairs. There in the kitchen, the other trap had sprung with a somewhat larger victim caught precisely in the same fashion as the tiny upstairs critter.
It was morning. I had stamina and courage. With plastic gloves on both hands, I opened first one, then the other trap, taking the victims outside and flinging them into the grass. "Someone will eat them," I thought, glad I had not poisoned them. Then I drank some coffee.
The next evening, I had enough courage to set the traps again with a bit more peanut butter to sweeten the kill. Then I put them in the same places as before. And again, with some trepidation, I sat upstairs in bed and listened. Nothing happened outside the bedroom door. But after about 20 minutes, I heard a loud SNAP! from downstairs and an odd flailing. OMG! I caught a mouse, but it's not dead! Heart pounding, suited up as before, I stole down the long stairway and crept into the kitchen, first turning on the glaring overhead light.
There with its back to me, tail extended, crouched a much larger mouse than the other two. Just beyond it, the trap sat, sprung. I had no idea what to do. The mouse though stunned, and no doubt injured--there was some spots of blood on the floor--was not dead. Lightning thoughts flashed this way and that. On the counter sat a large hardcover edition of The Joy of Cooking. Lifting the book, I approached the mouse who did not move. Then bending a bit closer, I heaved the book on top of it.
A wild flicking of the tail. A scurrying of feet. With all my might, I brought my foot down on the top of the book and jumped. Under the book, something splintered. The mouse--what I could see of it--lay silent. I was sure I had killed it.
Stunned and mindless, I went back upstairs, washed my hands, and eventually crawled back into bed. In the morning, again with more courage and emotional stamina, I lifted the heavy tome. The mouse's skull was crushed into a blackened profile of its head. The rest of its rather large body, yes with a white chest, lay inert. Again hand in glove, I lifted it by the tail and flung it outside. There was a lot more blood to clean up this time.
I set no more traps and made plans to leave the next day. These three mice, dear reader, were my first and I fervently hope, my last, intentional, live kills. .
Monday, July 29, 2013
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Margotlog: A Cathedral in the Pines
Margotlog: A Cathedral in the Pines
My North Dakota cousins had one of the most beautiful churches I have ever entered--an outdoor cathedral in the pines. Air and sunlight fell down upon us. Breezes blew. Music and text, belief and sustenance rose into an immensity tempered by the tree tops.
Now, the closest thing I can find to that piney chapel is the Saint Paul Cathedral. Unlike many churches, the cathedral is almost always open. It commands the city like a huge tree commands the lesser brush down below. I enter a high, hushed atmosphere. Light.streams down from two rose windows, rich with deep blues. Through a dome spreads the light of the sky. We rest from the traffic, and in the quiet, say what is in our hearts.
There was nothing objectionable about the Presbyterian churches of my childhood, the first in Charleston, the second in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. The churches introduced me to notions of prayer and praise, but they did not enfold and elevate me. Perhaps I was too young. The ministers were a little frightening in the sweeping black robes. What they said made almost no sense to me. Yet I liked to the hymns and singing them.
.
Taking the collection made a little drama as adults slipped tiny envelopes into large silver-edged platters and I put in my dimes. The buildings--both plain and white, with narrow sanctuaries and green velvet draperies--did not offend. I stared out wide windows in a kind of trance. Outside sun filtered down, leaves fluttered, an occasional bird flew by. Gravestones made a pleasant change and I entertained random notions about who lay beneath them. As a teen, dressing for church with white gloves and hat occupied me far more than anything that actually happened inside the church. As a child, drawing on the program passed the time.
Had this been all, I doubt that I would enter the cathedral today. It was life that taught me the need for offering up my insignificance into a quiet whose enormity I could never plumb. Where I could rest from fear, and hope to be sustained. Where I was humbled enough to kneel, and where the statues and images carried the familiar gentle Christ and his parents of my childhood.
We live in a deeply secular world. Also a deeply divided In the United States, the "religious right" has become a political force. I am not so naive as the pretend that the "religious left" doesn't also have a secular agenda. When a religious leader like the newly elected Pope Francis comes on the scene with a message of love and compassion for the poor in spirit and in purse, I almost weep with relief that goodness and mercy can still make waves in this world. But it's my deep concern and love for the natural world, that compels me most emphatically toward that old-time religious action. Not because it fits with any dogma or creed, but because it rises from what the cathedral teaches me about our place in the world.
We are not alone. Nor are we omnipotent. When I enter the cathedral and sink into the immensity, I eventually feel the truth of both these statements. I emerge freshened by insignificance and buoyed by weakness. But also freed to think and feel toward what is good and right, and emboldened to take action where I can. The cathedral puts what is busy and selfish about my own pursuits within a circle of connection. It is that piercing revelation--I must answer for what I commit--which helps me find my place within our world's enormous generosity of creatures and oceans, water and air, seasons and darkness. I belong to them, and owe them as much attention and action as I can possibly contribute. If I and many others are to sustain the bees, there must be wildflowers on my altar. And water for our Eucharist cleaned through rejuvenated soil. And bread for our communion ground from seeds with enough sustenance in them to keep us alive and alert. .
My North Dakota cousins had one of the most beautiful churches I have ever entered--an outdoor cathedral in the pines. Air and sunlight fell down upon us. Breezes blew. Music and text, belief and sustenance rose into an immensity tempered by the tree tops.
Now, the closest thing I can find to that piney chapel is the Saint Paul Cathedral. Unlike many churches, the cathedral is almost always open. It commands the city like a huge tree commands the lesser brush down below. I enter a high, hushed atmosphere. Light.streams down from two rose windows, rich with deep blues. Through a dome spreads the light of the sky. We rest from the traffic, and in the quiet, say what is in our hearts.
There was nothing objectionable about the Presbyterian churches of my childhood, the first in Charleston, the second in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina. The churches introduced me to notions of prayer and praise, but they did not enfold and elevate me. Perhaps I was too young. The ministers were a little frightening in the sweeping black robes. What they said made almost no sense to me. Yet I liked to the hymns and singing them.
.
Taking the collection made a little drama as adults slipped tiny envelopes into large silver-edged platters and I put in my dimes. The buildings--both plain and white, with narrow sanctuaries and green velvet draperies--did not offend. I stared out wide windows in a kind of trance. Outside sun filtered down, leaves fluttered, an occasional bird flew by. Gravestones made a pleasant change and I entertained random notions about who lay beneath them. As a teen, dressing for church with white gloves and hat occupied me far more than anything that actually happened inside the church. As a child, drawing on the program passed the time.
Had this been all, I doubt that I would enter the cathedral today. It was life that taught me the need for offering up my insignificance into a quiet whose enormity I could never plumb. Where I could rest from fear, and hope to be sustained. Where I was humbled enough to kneel, and where the statues and images carried the familiar gentle Christ and his parents of my childhood.
We live in a deeply secular world. Also a deeply divided In the United States, the "religious right" has become a political force. I am not so naive as the pretend that the "religious left" doesn't also have a secular agenda. When a religious leader like the newly elected Pope Francis comes on the scene with a message of love and compassion for the poor in spirit and in purse, I almost weep with relief that goodness and mercy can still make waves in this world. But it's my deep concern and love for the natural world, that compels me most emphatically toward that old-time religious action. Not because it fits with any dogma or creed, but because it rises from what the cathedral teaches me about our place in the world.
We are not alone. Nor are we omnipotent. When I enter the cathedral and sink into the immensity, I eventually feel the truth of both these statements. I emerge freshened by insignificance and buoyed by weakness. But also freed to think and feel toward what is good and right, and emboldened to take action where I can. The cathedral puts what is busy and selfish about my own pursuits within a circle of connection. It is that piercing revelation--I must answer for what I commit--which helps me find my place within our world's enormous generosity of creatures and oceans, water and air, seasons and darkness. I belong to them, and owe them as much attention and action as I can possibly contribute. If I and many others are to sustain the bees, there must be wildflowers on my altar. And water for our Eucharist cleaned through rejuvenated soil. And bread for our communion ground from seeds with enough sustenance in them to keep us alive and alert. .
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Margotlog: Wanna Know How I Beat the Heat and Saved $100 a Month?
Margotlog: Wanna Know How We Beat the Heat and Saved $100 a Month?
Numero Uno: Gave up air-conditioning. Hated it anyway. Dried up the nostrils, made ears ring. Instead: we
* Put in tight-fitting new windows with UV glass in the 1912 house.This meant winter and summer, the cold and hot stay out, the bearable temps stayed in.
* In summer we track the sun around the house. (Yes, we are the center of the universe. Just in case you didn't know!) Hot morning sun on the south side we slap in the face with closed windows and lowered shades.
Hot afternoon sun on west-facing kitchen windows, ditto with window closings and shades. Remember those dainty Victorian females who pasted cologne-wettened handkies to their fevered brows? They collapsed in darkened rooms. Dark in summer equals cooler.
When the sun moves away and the windows are in shade, we open them and position floor fans to draw cool air inside.
Numero Due We planted trees like there's no tomorrow. Over twenty-five years, our no-tree lot has become a green jungle. Eight species of shade now cool us north and south. We can't control east and west. These belong to the driveways, but our neighbors are close. They shade us. We shade them. Note: we planted mostly northland natives--better survivors. Silver Maples our favorite.
Numero Tre Cotton, cotton and more cotton. Abhor synthetics--they paste the sweat to your body. Cotton breathes. Cotton like linen and wool is a natural fiber. Light, loose clothing for summer--easy skirts, tank tops, shorts. Bulky layered clothing for winter. Many many layers like a critter adding fur. Simple, but humans don't have smarts born in. We have to teach every generation over and over and over. (Watching TV from a young age doesn't help.)
Numero Quatro We stopped plugging in what we weren't using. Mostly. It was a fight, but I won. The husband went blah-blah-blah, this won't work on a power strip, this is too much trouble on a power-strip. I bought the strips, I power-stripped TVs, computers, fans, DVD players, shredders. I also began pulling out of the sockets the dangling plug-ins for stupid phones. What kind of smarts keeps a power cord plugged in when it's not attached to what it's supposed to be juicing--eh? That's when the electric bill really bottomed out. We power-strip TVs, computers, fans, DVD players, shredders.I'm still working on the coffee pot.
Numero Cinco We changed all the light blubs to compact flourescents and LEDs. Our Christmas tree now has bright blue LED lights. (Maybe Rudolph needs a blue LED nose?) ALL the lights are flourescent or LED--in the ceiling fixtures, in the lamps, under the cabinets, above the stairs, in the basement, in the attic. ALL the lights. When we leave a room, we turn out the lights. I get a little zing when I turn off his lights!
Now he's frowning and turning off my lights.
Postscript: Energy conservation, and staying cool and cheap was all my schtick. But he's caught on. In winter, we conserve by turning up the thermostat to 68 and down to 62. Every night. I cheat with an electric blanket. My argument: I'm a southern girl. My blood will never be thick enough for 30-below. My first winter in Minnesota I had frostbitten fingers and toes. I was wearing thin leather gloves and boots. Fine for New York. Stupid for Minnesota.But I didn't know!
Postscript: Some African women wet their long, scarf-like clothing to cool off by evaporation. I keep an inch of water in the tub, and on 90+ days, step in, douse myself all over, pat dry. The fan feels heavenly on wet skin.
Finale: Our monthly electric bill has shed $100. This began about 9 months ago. No reason to think it will go back up. We got energy credit with the replacement windows.
.
Numero Uno: Gave up air-conditioning. Hated it anyway. Dried up the nostrils, made ears ring. Instead: we
* Put in tight-fitting new windows with UV glass in the 1912 house.This meant winter and summer, the cold and hot stay out, the bearable temps stayed in.
* In summer we track the sun around the house. (Yes, we are the center of the universe. Just in case you didn't know!) Hot morning sun on the south side we slap in the face with closed windows and lowered shades.
Hot afternoon sun on west-facing kitchen windows, ditto with window closings and shades. Remember those dainty Victorian females who pasted cologne-wettened handkies to their fevered brows? They collapsed in darkened rooms. Dark in summer equals cooler.
When the sun moves away and the windows are in shade, we open them and position floor fans to draw cool air inside.
Numero Due We planted trees like there's no tomorrow. Over twenty-five years, our no-tree lot has become a green jungle. Eight species of shade now cool us north and south. We can't control east and west. These belong to the driveways, but our neighbors are close. They shade us. We shade them. Note: we planted mostly northland natives--better survivors. Silver Maples our favorite.
Numero Tre Cotton, cotton and more cotton. Abhor synthetics--they paste the sweat to your body. Cotton breathes. Cotton like linen and wool is a natural fiber. Light, loose clothing for summer--easy skirts, tank tops, shorts. Bulky layered clothing for winter. Many many layers like a critter adding fur. Simple, but humans don't have smarts born in. We have to teach every generation over and over and over. (Watching TV from a young age doesn't help.)
Numero Quatro We stopped plugging in what we weren't using. Mostly. It was a fight, but I won. The husband went blah-blah-blah, this won't work on a power strip, this is too much trouble on a power-strip. I bought the strips, I power-stripped TVs, computers, fans, DVD players, shredders. I also began pulling out of the sockets the dangling plug-ins for stupid phones. What kind of smarts keeps a power cord plugged in when it's not attached to what it's supposed to be juicing--eh? That's when the electric bill really bottomed out. We power-strip TVs, computers, fans, DVD players, shredders.I'm still working on the coffee pot.
Numero Cinco We changed all the light blubs to compact flourescents and LEDs. Our Christmas tree now has bright blue LED lights. (Maybe Rudolph needs a blue LED nose?) ALL the lights are flourescent or LED--in the ceiling fixtures, in the lamps, under the cabinets, above the stairs, in the basement, in the attic. ALL the lights. When we leave a room, we turn out the lights. I get a little zing when I turn off his lights!
Now he's frowning and turning off my lights.
Postscript: Energy conservation, and staying cool and cheap was all my schtick. But he's caught on. In winter, we conserve by turning up the thermostat to 68 and down to 62. Every night. I cheat with an electric blanket. My argument: I'm a southern girl. My blood will never be thick enough for 30-below. My first winter in Minnesota I had frostbitten fingers and toes. I was wearing thin leather gloves and boots. Fine for New York. Stupid for Minnesota.But I didn't know!
Postscript: Some African women wet their long, scarf-like clothing to cool off by evaporation. I keep an inch of water in the tub, and on 90+ days, step in, douse myself all over, pat dry. The fan feels heavenly on wet skin.
Finale: Our monthly electric bill has shed $100. This began about 9 months ago. No reason to think it will go back up. We got energy credit with the replacement windows.
.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Margotlog: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
Margotlog: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness
So wrote Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence. Those words give me a shiver--they promise so much! But on this eve of July 4th, our Independence Day, let's start with "Life." The opposite of Death. We are very moved by death, personal, national, global. The recent deaths of 17 firefighters in Colorado. The deaths of thousands in New York and Pennsylvania during 9/11. The starvation of some 200,000 Somali children during a prolonged famine in the 1990s.
If we pause long enough, as I did recently at my parents' beautiful (but buggy) gravesite near Charleston, South Carolina, Death means personal loss. It means memory and appreciation and forgiveness. These emotions for essentially good people, my parents, who nurtured me physically and artistically and socially. They made huge mistakes, but often their mistakes were so different that they balanced each other out: excessive rage at black people, versus excessive silence and noninvolvement. Excessive order versus excessive randomness.
Life comes first, to us personally and as an aggregate.
Recently, a masters student in education concluded her final project surveying violence prevention and protection in three Minnesota schools. As we talked, one of her committee, a white woman who works in a northern Minnesota Native American school, commented that during her friend's survey of the school, a horrendous murder occurred among Native American youths--one was hacked to death with an ax. Yet the school said nothing about it. Of course the students knew. They went home to the community where it happened. Yet the school, peopled largely by whites, kept silent. This is neither preventive nor protective. It's about fear and a huge sense of distance. A refusal to act in concert, as if the basic right to Life did not mean the same to all of us.
There are many instances of violence that snuffs out life among people marginalized by poverty, disease, race. The violence is also marginalized. It does not receive the scrutiny or larger mourning it deserves.
Now we come to Liberty. Liberty initially meant freedom from England, freedom from the oppression of what had become an alien power, across the seas. Freedom to set our own national standards and mores, to pursue our own goals. This was not the kind of liberty that gave license to violence. This kind of Liberty supported Life.
Yet, as we discussed during our review of this student's project, any recent attempt to enact national gun-control legislation has been met by excessive ramping up of gun-purchasing and toting. The loud shout of NO legal body of the United States, CAN INFRINGE ON THIS BASIC RIGHT. How basic is this right to snuff out another's life? Hmm? How basic is it to carry an automatic weapon with hundreds of fast-shooting rounds of ammo along a crowded street, into a school? Is this Liberty or unbridled license?
Finally we come to the Pursuit of Happiness. I love pursing happiness. Basic sybarite at heart, happiness is for me is leisure, happiness is chosing a mate and having the right and liberty for full protection under the law for your union. Happiness can demand vigor. Think of those runners at the Boston Marathon whose pursuit was bombed. Think of the happiness of young families whose children were shot. Happiness is NOT shooting or bombing. But sometimes it requires fighting, as in the First Minnesota Regiment who volunteered to fight for the lives, liberty and yes pursuit of happiness for African Americans. .
Happy 4th, Happy celebration of all our Lives in the Liberty of safe and secure protection, in our individual and collective happiness.
So wrote Thomas Jefferson in the Declaration of Independence. Those words give me a shiver--they promise so much! But on this eve of July 4th, our Independence Day, let's start with "Life." The opposite of Death. We are very moved by death, personal, national, global. The recent deaths of 17 firefighters in Colorado. The deaths of thousands in New York and Pennsylvania during 9/11. The starvation of some 200,000 Somali children during a prolonged famine in the 1990s.
If we pause long enough, as I did recently at my parents' beautiful (but buggy) gravesite near Charleston, South Carolina, Death means personal loss. It means memory and appreciation and forgiveness. These emotions for essentially good people, my parents, who nurtured me physically and artistically and socially. They made huge mistakes, but often their mistakes were so different that they balanced each other out: excessive rage at black people, versus excessive silence and noninvolvement. Excessive order versus excessive randomness.
Life comes first, to us personally and as an aggregate.
Recently, a masters student in education concluded her final project surveying violence prevention and protection in three Minnesota schools. As we talked, one of her committee, a white woman who works in a northern Minnesota Native American school, commented that during her friend's survey of the school, a horrendous murder occurred among Native American youths--one was hacked to death with an ax. Yet the school said nothing about it. Of course the students knew. They went home to the community where it happened. Yet the school, peopled largely by whites, kept silent. This is neither preventive nor protective. It's about fear and a huge sense of distance. A refusal to act in concert, as if the basic right to Life did not mean the same to all of us.
There are many instances of violence that snuffs out life among people marginalized by poverty, disease, race. The violence is also marginalized. It does not receive the scrutiny or larger mourning it deserves.
Now we come to Liberty. Liberty initially meant freedom from England, freedom from the oppression of what had become an alien power, across the seas. Freedom to set our own national standards and mores, to pursue our own goals. This was not the kind of liberty that gave license to violence. This kind of Liberty supported Life.
Yet, as we discussed during our review of this student's project, any recent attempt to enact national gun-control legislation has been met by excessive ramping up of gun-purchasing and toting. The loud shout of NO legal body of the United States, CAN INFRINGE ON THIS BASIC RIGHT. How basic is this right to snuff out another's life? Hmm? How basic is it to carry an automatic weapon with hundreds of fast-shooting rounds of ammo along a crowded street, into a school? Is this Liberty or unbridled license?
Finally we come to the Pursuit of Happiness. I love pursing happiness. Basic sybarite at heart, happiness is for me is leisure, happiness is chosing a mate and having the right and liberty for full protection under the law for your union. Happiness can demand vigor. Think of those runners at the Boston Marathon whose pursuit was bombed. Think of the happiness of young families whose children were shot. Happiness is NOT shooting or bombing. But sometimes it requires fighting, as in the First Minnesota Regiment who volunteered to fight for the lives, liberty and yes pursuit of happiness for African Americans. .
Happy 4th, Happy celebration of all our Lives in the Liberty of safe and secure protection, in our individual and collective happiness.
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