Margotlog: Mornng Medley: the Commons
"My home is my castle" makes me think of an impregnable, guarded estate, high above the plebs. That might work for some city or suburban neighborhoods but not for mine in Saint Paul. Here with lots leaving about ten feet from the side of a house to the property line, we have a lot in common with our neighbors on either side. Not to mention the common boulevard which stretches down the block and around the corner.
The English who settled New England brought another form of commons to the "new world." A town phenomenon, not a plantation one, so not much visible in Virginia and points south. But I enjoy considering the New England commons as I walk about ten blocks west and back, crossing many property lines, noticing many boulevard trees, and enjoying a small "pocket park" with huge oaks. The New England settlers used a "commons" to pasture livestock, and possibly to cut hay. It was often land in the middle of a group of houses, thus allowing all the users to keep an eye on it.
Recently the Minneapolis city council has passed an ordinance allowing for feral cat "commons," as long as the humans in charge neuter and vaccinate and "chip" the feral felines. One council person opined that she had a bird guide and had learned to identify the English sparrow. Bird-lover that I am, I keep all my cats indoors. That wasn't always the case, I admit, but the more I learn about the enormous damage feral cats do to bird populations, the more firmly I support trapping and euthanasia for feral cats.
Here's a notion that occurred to me as I walked: Let's take the Mpls city council members on a bird walking tour. Let's remind them that the English sparrows are an invasive species (sort of like feral cats--neither has a predator sufficiently strong enough to keep their populations in check). Let's introduce these well-meaning council members to ten native and common American birds, starting with the robin, blue jay, crow, chickadee, nuthatch, and yes the humming bird (more of these in a moment), on to the adorable goldfinch, the slightly less adorable house finch, the beautiful singer the cardinal, and completing the list with several native woodpeckers--hairy and downy. All these birds regularly visit my back yard, which, as I say, is quite small, but full of eight varieties of trees. Plus, regular fresh water, suet, and seeds. You might say I have a bird commons.
Some falls (I think today feels like fall), I have seen maybe one humming bird passing through on its way south. This year, perhaps because I put out a sugar-water feeder with eye-catching red top and bottom, I've seen or heard maybe ten. This morning I stood in awe as one brilliant iridescent green mite hovered in the air, up and down, in and out, closer and farther from a huge silver maple. It was picking gnats from the air. Yes, it took a few sips from my feeder, but mostly it was tooling up on protein for its very long journey south.
I love it that people whose yards I know quite well from this daily walk are now watering their boulevard trees. We are again in a drought, and it's a crucial time for trees. They need to have moisture in their roots before the freeze; otherwise their roots may die and they'll meet the spring without leaves. Dead. Since our street has become a summer cathedral of arching green, I applaud tree care. Also because trees are our best defense against excessive heat and poor air quality, i.e. they're on the front line against global warming, breathing in CO2 and exhaling oxygen.
More and more, I think we're learning that our care of the land, air, water, soil, native birds and animals, bees and butterflies, fish and plants rebounds mightily on our own well-being. It also helps our neighbors--Lady Bird Johnson, years ago, was so right when she urged a clean-up and beautification of American highways. I love the sheets of stamps in her honor currently for sale at the P.O. Beautiful images of lovely landscapes and one of her as a handsome young woman. I think I might have to buy up a whole carton.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Margotlog: Blood Red
Margotlog: Blood Red
I'm lying beside a window which blushes red, dark, red, dark. I'm aware of myself as a watcher, almost a listener for the first time. This is an awareness of consciousness, of watching rhythm, color, pattern, and silence. Across the hall lies another being in the dark--my baby sister just born. It will be years before I have a memory of her separate from her relation to myself.
What is it that makes us who we are? Years later, I will marry for the second time. On the first date with this eventual mate, we will argue about Lilian Hellman's writing. Sitting in a spring Sunday restaurant, he becomes argumentative. Not harsh or cruel, just engaged. Now I remember only the general subject and the fact of each of us taking a stand and arguing about it. I am also aware of my continuing surprise that from this beginning we evolved into mates.
Why? Because my father's arguments ricocheted through the house of childhood, leaving me stunned, with my back turned to him. I was a child then, and he was arguing with my mother about whether there was a spot on his uniform. Typical work-day anxiety but at exhorbitant decibels. He was racked with anxiety. Later I faced him in our Carolina kitchen and talked back, told him "colored people" were not massed outside our door, ready to murder us in our beds. Talking back--a crucial effort to sustain sanity and the worth of my own opinion.
Blood red. Not a color I would ever choose for a car, but my second husband has bought a number of red cars and drives one now. Recently it occurred to me to consider when I've encountered women writers describing the cars driven by men. Trish Hampl in A Florist's Daughter considers her father's Oldsmobile, a car for the wealthy, it seems to me, and in this case, also of a man edging toward death, and buying himself something fine. Women, as a whole, do not fixate on cars. So I notice my noticing of this red car parked outside our house.
I'm guessing it was six summers ago when I was yanked out of writerly solitude on the North Shore by my husband saying to me over the phone: "My left leg is swollen." Remember how we argued on our first date. He has shown himself to be a man who almost reflexively responds with disbelief when I assert something. A form of argument. In this case I was so concerned that I phoned back the next day. The leg was more swollen.
You perhaps have guessed what I began shouting at him long-distance. Finally after several more days, I packed up and started the five-hour drive back to the Twin Cities. When I arrived, he was not at home. But I tracked him via cell phone to the emergency room where he was waiting to be seen. Quite a bit later, he appeared at home: he had a blood clot in that leg, he had a prescription for a blood thinner and a return appointment in a few days.
Thick blood. Blood is thicker than water. Thick head. Argument is thicker than assent. Three or four years passed without blood trouble, our pattern of assertion and denial, assertion and denial, with me insisting and he usually, though not always, taking the action I urge. Telling it this way makes me sound like a bully. I hasten to add that many times he will assert something, and I will argue back. Oddly enough, given the pattern of our first date, he is not as determined in his stance, or at least he doesn't desire to pursue a point the way I often do. This makes him seem like a softie, which he is not. Result: we occasionally have quite bitter exchanges, arguments, fights--whatever you want to call them, because he has finally had it and let me know. Then I often capitulate. Or not capitulate but come over to his way of thinking. Or act as he wishes because it is he who wishes it.
Blood red. When blood hits the air it is rich, vibrant red, but it soon turns darker. Think of a scab, almost black on your leg. Two summers ago my husband and a guy friend took a baseball driving trip to Kansas City. They were supposed to be gone three or four nights, a long weekend. I invited some friends over for the dinner to keep me company the night before they were supposed to return. That afternoon my husband called and said he was not feeling well and they would be home around 5 p.m. Not to change my plans, he urged, he was going to bed.
He crawled through the front door. I could not believe my eyes. "My stomach feels terrible," he said. "I was afraid to stand up because I might faint." With his friend's help he got upstairs to bed. I brought him some ice to suck on--all he wanted. And a basin in case he vomited. Then I went downstairs and had my little dinner party.
Over the next few hours, he vomited blackish stuff. Argued that his stomach was upset and it was probably the ribs he'd eaten in Kansas City. I went to bed. Around midnight I was aware that he was not beside me. Going into our large bathroom, I found him on the floor. He was not very articulate. I felt the rise of anxiety and decision. I called 911. The paramedics came within minutes and took his vital signs. "You know, his vitals are all normal," one told me. "We usually don't take someone in if that's the case. Call us if things change."
Two hours later, after sleeping and waking to sharp awareness, I found he'd vomited. This time it looked like blood. The paramedics worked upstairs while I gave all the pertinent information by the front door. I saw him carried out, so weak he couldn't hold his head up. They had him in a sling.
I often wake very alert around 3 in the morning. The city streets were eerily lit and very dark. By the time I reached the emergency room, he was being pumped full of blood. He'd been bleeding internally. Various doctors had inspected him. But it was the team of emergency-room nurses that saved his life.Their concentrated and knowledgeable efforts, and the blood that replenished the many pints he had lost.
Several days later, after an endoscopy showed a tear in the esophagus, he admitted that he and his buddy had been drinking quite a bit during their baseball adventure--beer in the ballpark, then several or more shots of the hard stuff in the motel room at night. For someone on blood thinner, alcohol in more than one drink is very dangerous because alcohol also thins the blood. The tear in the esophagus probably resulted from various kinds of acid reflux and eventually vomiting. It's a phenomenon common to hard drinkers.
Needless to say, we don't argue about how much he drinks any more.
I'm lying beside a window which blushes red, dark, red, dark. I'm aware of myself as a watcher, almost a listener for the first time. This is an awareness of consciousness, of watching rhythm, color, pattern, and silence. Across the hall lies another being in the dark--my baby sister just born. It will be years before I have a memory of her separate from her relation to myself.
What is it that makes us who we are? Years later, I will marry for the second time. On the first date with this eventual mate, we will argue about Lilian Hellman's writing. Sitting in a spring Sunday restaurant, he becomes argumentative. Not harsh or cruel, just engaged. Now I remember only the general subject and the fact of each of us taking a stand and arguing about it. I am also aware of my continuing surprise that from this beginning we evolved into mates.
Why? Because my father's arguments ricocheted through the house of childhood, leaving me stunned, with my back turned to him. I was a child then, and he was arguing with my mother about whether there was a spot on his uniform. Typical work-day anxiety but at exhorbitant decibels. He was racked with anxiety. Later I faced him in our Carolina kitchen and talked back, told him "colored people" were not massed outside our door, ready to murder us in our beds. Talking back--a crucial effort to sustain sanity and the worth of my own opinion.
Blood red. Not a color I would ever choose for a car, but my second husband has bought a number of red cars and drives one now. Recently it occurred to me to consider when I've encountered women writers describing the cars driven by men. Trish Hampl in A Florist's Daughter considers her father's Oldsmobile, a car for the wealthy, it seems to me, and in this case, also of a man edging toward death, and buying himself something fine. Women, as a whole, do not fixate on cars. So I notice my noticing of this red car parked outside our house.
I'm guessing it was six summers ago when I was yanked out of writerly solitude on the North Shore by my husband saying to me over the phone: "My left leg is swollen." Remember how we argued on our first date. He has shown himself to be a man who almost reflexively responds with disbelief when I assert something. A form of argument. In this case I was so concerned that I phoned back the next day. The leg was more swollen.
You perhaps have guessed what I began shouting at him long-distance. Finally after several more days, I packed up and started the five-hour drive back to the Twin Cities. When I arrived, he was not at home. But I tracked him via cell phone to the emergency room where he was waiting to be seen. Quite a bit later, he appeared at home: he had a blood clot in that leg, he had a prescription for a blood thinner and a return appointment in a few days.
Thick blood. Blood is thicker than water. Thick head. Argument is thicker than assent. Three or four years passed without blood trouble, our pattern of assertion and denial, assertion and denial, with me insisting and he usually, though not always, taking the action I urge. Telling it this way makes me sound like a bully. I hasten to add that many times he will assert something, and I will argue back. Oddly enough, given the pattern of our first date, he is not as determined in his stance, or at least he doesn't desire to pursue a point the way I often do. This makes him seem like a softie, which he is not. Result: we occasionally have quite bitter exchanges, arguments, fights--whatever you want to call them, because he has finally had it and let me know. Then I often capitulate. Or not capitulate but come over to his way of thinking. Or act as he wishes because it is he who wishes it.
Blood red. When blood hits the air it is rich, vibrant red, but it soon turns darker. Think of a scab, almost black on your leg. Two summers ago my husband and a guy friend took a baseball driving trip to Kansas City. They were supposed to be gone three or four nights, a long weekend. I invited some friends over for the dinner to keep me company the night before they were supposed to return. That afternoon my husband called and said he was not feeling well and they would be home around 5 p.m. Not to change my plans, he urged, he was going to bed.
He crawled through the front door. I could not believe my eyes. "My stomach feels terrible," he said. "I was afraid to stand up because I might faint." With his friend's help he got upstairs to bed. I brought him some ice to suck on--all he wanted. And a basin in case he vomited. Then I went downstairs and had my little dinner party.
Over the next few hours, he vomited blackish stuff. Argued that his stomach was upset and it was probably the ribs he'd eaten in Kansas City. I went to bed. Around midnight I was aware that he was not beside me. Going into our large bathroom, I found him on the floor. He was not very articulate. I felt the rise of anxiety and decision. I called 911. The paramedics came within minutes and took his vital signs. "You know, his vitals are all normal," one told me. "We usually don't take someone in if that's the case. Call us if things change."
Two hours later, after sleeping and waking to sharp awareness, I found he'd vomited. This time it looked like blood. The paramedics worked upstairs while I gave all the pertinent information by the front door. I saw him carried out, so weak he couldn't hold his head up. They had him in a sling.
I often wake very alert around 3 in the morning. The city streets were eerily lit and very dark. By the time I reached the emergency room, he was being pumped full of blood. He'd been bleeding internally. Various doctors had inspected him. But it was the team of emergency-room nurses that saved his life.Their concentrated and knowledgeable efforts, and the blood that replenished the many pints he had lost.
Several days later, after an endoscopy showed a tear in the esophagus, he admitted that he and his buddy had been drinking quite a bit during their baseball adventure--beer in the ballpark, then several or more shots of the hard stuff in the motel room at night. For someone on blood thinner, alcohol in more than one drink is very dangerous because alcohol also thins the blood. The tear in the esophagus probably resulted from various kinds of acid reflux and eventually vomiting. It's a phenomenon common to hard drinkers.
Needless to say, we don't argue about how much he drinks any more.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Margotlog: Go, Musicians, Go!
Margotlog: Go, Musicians, Go!
This is addressed to you, the excellent musicians of the Minnesota Orchestra! Don't be a rhinoceros. Try instead the part of a gazelle. Yes, I know: gazelles are brought down by big cats, and rhinoceros can stand as long as they like in their wading pools without worry. They're covered with horny plates. But, consider this: gazelles can run forward. They can mauenver quickly. And they are not endangered. For all their vaunted impregnability, the fortress-animal rhinoceros is as easily shot from a distance with a high-powered rifle as a gazelle. And there are far fewer of them.
But this is not Africa, you say. True, and musicians with their bows and horns are not four-footed African animals. However, in the dark of night, it may interest you to know these are the comparisons that occur to me.
Your counterparts and competitors across the river in Saint Paul have not only bargained and settled with their management, but they are beginning a new season with a reputation burnished by their flexibility and by the outstanding support of their audience, personified in the organization Save Our SPCO! You, beloved musicians of the sister city, have just been offered a quite reasonable (my opinion, of course) proposal by your management. It's time to come out of your wallow and take action.
In the tides of public opinion, you musicians have received a great deal of compassion and concern. But tides turn (ok, now I'm onto another metaphor, I admit it!). And with such changes, you stand to lose audience members -- after all, they now can cross over to the other side, and it is not a dark side at all.
Yes, the SPCO is a changed organization, smaller and younger. Ten of its older musicians have retired on the package offered by management. But it has emerged from negotiation with two musicians on the leadership team (whoops, another metaphor), and a return of a former president, giving management a broader leadership base. My family is eager to return to our favorite fall/winter/spring arts activity: sitting in the audience and enjoying the SPCO sound.
You too have a loving audience, very eager to see you take up your instruments and play. It's time to bow to reality. Change will occur, with, or without you. If you care about the organization that has nurtured you for many years, and for the audience who have made your talents a high priority in their lives, it is time to negotiate and PLAY!
This is addressed to you, the excellent musicians of the Minnesota Orchestra! Don't be a rhinoceros. Try instead the part of a gazelle. Yes, I know: gazelles are brought down by big cats, and rhinoceros can stand as long as they like in their wading pools without worry. They're covered with horny plates. But, consider this: gazelles can run forward. They can mauenver quickly. And they are not endangered. For all their vaunted impregnability, the fortress-animal rhinoceros is as easily shot from a distance with a high-powered rifle as a gazelle. And there are far fewer of them.
But this is not Africa, you say. True, and musicians with their bows and horns are not four-footed African animals. However, in the dark of night, it may interest you to know these are the comparisons that occur to me.
Your counterparts and competitors across the river in Saint Paul have not only bargained and settled with their management, but they are beginning a new season with a reputation burnished by their flexibility and by the outstanding support of their audience, personified in the organization Save Our SPCO! You, beloved musicians of the sister city, have just been offered a quite reasonable (my opinion, of course) proposal by your management. It's time to come out of your wallow and take action.
In the tides of public opinion, you musicians have received a great deal of compassion and concern. But tides turn (ok, now I'm onto another metaphor, I admit it!). And with such changes, you stand to lose audience members -- after all, they now can cross over to the other side, and it is not a dark side at all.
Yes, the SPCO is a changed organization, smaller and younger. Ten of its older musicians have retired on the package offered by management. But it has emerged from negotiation with two musicians on the leadership team (whoops, another metaphor), and a return of a former president, giving management a broader leadership base. My family is eager to return to our favorite fall/winter/spring arts activity: sitting in the audience and enjoying the SPCO sound.
You too have a loving audience, very eager to see you take up your instruments and play. It's time to bow to reality. Change will occur, with, or without you. If you care about the organization that has nurtured you for many years, and for the audience who have made your talents a high priority in their lives, it is time to negotiate and PLAY!
Friday, August 23, 2013
Margotlog: Orchestras on the Slide: A Tale of Two Cities
Margotlog: Orchestras on the Slide: A Tale of Two Cities
"The Twin Cities were separate at birth and far from identical," I wrote in a novel called Falling for Botticelli (not yet published). Yet sometimes these separate cities suffer similar fates. Take the duo lockouts of orchestra musicians by management which both cities have endured over the last year. The Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra resolved its dispute in the late spring, 2013, and played the final three or four concerts of the season. The Minnesota Orchestra (I know, it pretends to be the state's orchestra, but in fact it began as the Minneapolis Symphony and remains housed in Minneapolis. More of that in a moment)--the Minnesota Orchestra's difficulties are, in my opinion, far from resolution. Therein hangs a tale.
The SPCO audience was roused to battle quite early after the lockout. Under expert (and feisty) leadership, an organization called Save Our SPCO created a logo, began to gain members, who with all kinds of other music-lovers supported three hugely popular concerts to raise money and remind the community (of both cities and circling suburbs) of how they value and enjoy the SPCO. .
The audience and musicians of the Minnesota Orchestra took a wait-and-see, or perhaps a dig-in-our-heels and resist approach. The musicians refused to negotiate until management canceled the lockout. On the other hand, the SPCO musicians formed a determined and resilient negotiating team who continually attempted to meet with management. To their credit, management was often willing. Yes, there was acrimony and they sniped across the divide. The audience organization SOSPCO held several meetings a month. They helped bring up the question of using MN Legacy money (each orchestra had been granted money under this program) to the state representative in charge. Though nothing changed in real terms, the publicity created by groups of musicians attending the capitol to lobby helped keep the issue in the public eye.
As the SOSPCO membership grew, the organization staged a public declaration that it was considering negotiating with the musicians to form a cooperative orchestra. Public in its very being--held in Rice Park before the Ordway Music Hall where the SPCO performs, and quite near the mayor's office--this public demonstration of determination and forward-thinking, I believe, helped spark Mayor Coleman's decision to become an advocate for a solution.
NOW, finally the MN Orchestra's audience has become aroused. It's banding together, listening to Alan Fletcher, CEO of the Aspen Music Festival, assert that not all that happens if negotiating can occur will satisfy everybody. Some musicians will leave--taking other jobs, being relieved of their posts, etc. Salaries will be cut--as they were for the SPCO. And perhaps long-time musicians will be encouraged to retire, as ten of the SPCO did, taking a buy-out package offered by management.
The moral of the story: Be feisty. Be active. Don't sit on your laurels and wait for fate to come to you. At a recent meeting of over 300 Orchestra Excellence supporters, the first discussion question was "Does Minnesota want a world class orchestra and why?" I point out that Minnesota has two world-class orchestras. And one of them has resolved its gripes.
As Alan Fletcher reminded us, there is no way to predict whether a restored orchestra will be the same as the one locked out. But resolution is crucial. Audience in-put, in my opinion, needs to be regular and argumentative and creatively confrontational. The public, and even more the musicians and management, need to know that they are being supported. Tell stories, as did the SOSPCO, about musicians who are losing their health insurance, having trouble paying their mortgages. There is a very human face to this lock out. Audience needs to care deeply not just for the result, but for the hardship in the ongoing trouble.
Band together, my friends. Lobby, make noise. Do not be afraid of stepping on toes. Don't be excessively nice. Be smart. Be savvy, but most important of all, show the musicians that you care about them and their talents and dedication.
Our hopes are with you. .
musicians were not working.
"The Twin Cities were separate at birth and far from identical," I wrote in a novel called Falling for Botticelli (not yet published). Yet sometimes these separate cities suffer similar fates. Take the duo lockouts of orchestra musicians by management which both cities have endured over the last year. The Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra resolved its dispute in the late spring, 2013, and played the final three or four concerts of the season. The Minnesota Orchestra (I know, it pretends to be the state's orchestra, but in fact it began as the Minneapolis Symphony and remains housed in Minneapolis. More of that in a moment)--the Minnesota Orchestra's difficulties are, in my opinion, far from resolution. Therein hangs a tale.
The SPCO audience was roused to battle quite early after the lockout. Under expert (and feisty) leadership, an organization called Save Our SPCO created a logo, began to gain members, who with all kinds of other music-lovers supported three hugely popular concerts to raise money and remind the community (of both cities and circling suburbs) of how they value and enjoy the SPCO. .
The audience and musicians of the Minnesota Orchestra took a wait-and-see, or perhaps a dig-in-our-heels and resist approach. The musicians refused to negotiate until management canceled the lockout. On the other hand, the SPCO musicians formed a determined and resilient negotiating team who continually attempted to meet with management. To their credit, management was often willing. Yes, there was acrimony and they sniped across the divide. The audience organization SOSPCO held several meetings a month. They helped bring up the question of using MN Legacy money (each orchestra had been granted money under this program) to the state representative in charge. Though nothing changed in real terms, the publicity created by groups of musicians attending the capitol to lobby helped keep the issue in the public eye.
As the SOSPCO membership grew, the organization staged a public declaration that it was considering negotiating with the musicians to form a cooperative orchestra. Public in its very being--held in Rice Park before the Ordway Music Hall where the SPCO performs, and quite near the mayor's office--this public demonstration of determination and forward-thinking, I believe, helped spark Mayor Coleman's decision to become an advocate for a solution.
NOW, finally the MN Orchestra's audience has become aroused. It's banding together, listening to Alan Fletcher, CEO of the Aspen Music Festival, assert that not all that happens if negotiating can occur will satisfy everybody. Some musicians will leave--taking other jobs, being relieved of their posts, etc. Salaries will be cut--as they were for the SPCO. And perhaps long-time musicians will be encouraged to retire, as ten of the SPCO did, taking a buy-out package offered by management.
The moral of the story: Be feisty. Be active. Don't sit on your laurels and wait for fate to come to you. At a recent meeting of over 300 Orchestra Excellence supporters, the first discussion question was "Does Minnesota want a world class orchestra and why?" I point out that Minnesota has two world-class orchestras. And one of them has resolved its gripes.
As Alan Fletcher reminded us, there is no way to predict whether a restored orchestra will be the same as the one locked out. But resolution is crucial. Audience in-put, in my opinion, needs to be regular and argumentative and creatively confrontational. The public, and even more the musicians and management, need to know that they are being supported. Tell stories, as did the SOSPCO, about musicians who are losing their health insurance, having trouble paying their mortgages. There is a very human face to this lock out. Audience needs to care deeply not just for the result, but for the hardship in the ongoing trouble.
Band together, my friends. Lobby, make noise. Do not be afraid of stepping on toes. Don't be excessively nice. Be smart. Be savvy, but most important of all, show the musicians that you care about them and their talents and dedication.
Our hopes are with you. .
musicians were not working.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Margotlot: What We Fear Can Sometimes Help Us - aka Bats!
Margotlog: What We Fear Can Sometimes Help Us - aka Bats!
For years "bat attacks" in my Minnesota residences wrought terror so extreme I was reduced to a quivering mass. What! Malevolent creatures flying across the moon, then swooping into my hair! Didn't they carry rabies? On dark winter nights, I heard them scratching and squeaking inside the walls. I taped up a small door to a crawl space, and NEVER opened it afterwards. I pounded on the walls to scare them. Once a claw emerged through the bathroom vent. I ran screeching from the room and refused to enter for 24 hours.
Worse yet, one night I woke up to something crawling in my pillow case. Shrieking I lept out of bed, fled to the hallway, and collapsed. While my husband beat the pillow on the floor, I could not look. When he dumped the contents into the toilet, I peaked over his shoulder. There floating in the bowl was our four-year-old daughter's hamster. I don't remember how long we sat on the bathroom floor in a stupor.
I know I'm weak and sniveling. I admit I always turn over bat capture to the resident guy. If none was resident, I'd drag in someone off the street. I only get involved once the critter has been thrown outside. Usually this is the next day. And winter. Once I couldn't find the invader. Husband # 2 said he'd thrown it into the trash can. When the garbage guy lifted the top, something flew up and out. We watched him starting around, with a very puzzled look on his face.
I've taken at least three dead bats (frozen to death) to the University of Minnesota Ag campus to have them tested for rabies. None has ever tested positive.A few years ago we installed a bat house on the northern, highest point of the house--it's where the bats seemed to emanate. Who knows if it's the right spot because, truth to tell, we now have fewer bats around. I'm probably testing providence when I admit it's been a year since we had a bat attack in the house.
Of course, they don't attack. They, like mice, compress their bodies through unbelievably tiny spaces and then begin flying in their erratic, sonar mode. Often it's a winter warm spell that wakes them out of hibernation too early. They reaching toward warmth - i.e. inside, rather than cold outdoors. I should pity them, really, but I can't shake the memory of that squirming mass in my pillow--even thought it wasn't a bat.
Lately, my fear and concern have shifted. Now I'm afraid FOR the bats, not OF them. Eastern bats have been dying in droves from something called "white nose syndrome." This fungal disease made its way to the U.S. from Europe where bats have developed an immunity. How long, how many hundreds or thousands of years it took for this immunity to develop, we don't know. But like other foreign invasions, the presence of this fungus has been lethal on bats without the immunity - aka all American bat colonies that come into contact with it.
Many states, including Minnesota, have bat caves where huge numbers of bats live, sleep, wake and fly around . Where they go home to roost after eating millions, billions of mosquitoes. Like so many other companions in the natural world (Yes, Dorothy, we humans are actually natural, part of nature, though we often act as if we aren't.), bats have a crucial niche. They devour small flying insects in exorbitant numbers. No Minnesota bat sucks blood! I promise. Furthermore, the more bats there are, the more they help keep these flying menaces in check. Doing us a huge service. Not that they care about us. They care about living, breathing, eating, sleeping, and mating. And not being sick.
Now some statistics. According to the Center for Biological Diversity: some 7 million bats in 22 Eastern U.S. states and five Canadian provinces have died of white-nose syndrome. Now the fungus has been discovered in Arkansas and in several Minnesota bat caves. These caves are in two Minnesota state parks--Mystery Cave in southeastern Minnesota (with 2300 bats) and Soudan Underground Mine in northeastern Minnesota with between 10,000 and 15,000 bats. (StarTribune, 8/10/13)
The Center for Biological diversity calls the white-nose syndrome outbreak "the worst wildlife epidemic in history." It's not that we--you, me and the guys next door--have caused this, but we could suffer significantly if bats in North America are reduced to such small numbers that they don't survive.
It's time to stop being afraid OF the bats and begin fearing FOR them. We need to recognize them as comrades deserving a chance for survival. Forget Batman. Forget Dracula!
And call the Department of Natural Resources to urge that they close these two caves to tourists--651-296-6157. Human contact with the fungus spores transfers the spores indiscriminately. Not even washing clothes will kill whiite-nose fungus spores. Only washing clothes in a 6% bleach solution. That's asking a lot. Not to mention wiping off shoes, and all other items carried into the caves. The chance to make a difference is NOW. We also have a great opportunity to educate kids and adults about how our behavior can make or break chances of survival--our own and other species. We are in this together.
For years "bat attacks" in my Minnesota residences wrought terror so extreme I was reduced to a quivering mass. What! Malevolent creatures flying across the moon, then swooping into my hair! Didn't they carry rabies? On dark winter nights, I heard them scratching and squeaking inside the walls. I taped up a small door to a crawl space, and NEVER opened it afterwards. I pounded on the walls to scare them. Once a claw emerged through the bathroom vent. I ran screeching from the room and refused to enter for 24 hours.
Worse yet, one night I woke up to something crawling in my pillow case. Shrieking I lept out of bed, fled to the hallway, and collapsed. While my husband beat the pillow on the floor, I could not look. When he dumped the contents into the toilet, I peaked over his shoulder. There floating in the bowl was our four-year-old daughter's hamster. I don't remember how long we sat on the bathroom floor in a stupor.
I know I'm weak and sniveling. I admit I always turn over bat capture to the resident guy. If none was resident, I'd drag in someone off the street. I only get involved once the critter has been thrown outside. Usually this is the next day. And winter. Once I couldn't find the invader. Husband # 2 said he'd thrown it into the trash can. When the garbage guy lifted the top, something flew up and out. We watched him starting around, with a very puzzled look on his face.
I've taken at least three dead bats (frozen to death) to the University of Minnesota Ag campus to have them tested for rabies. None has ever tested positive.A few years ago we installed a bat house on the northern, highest point of the house--it's where the bats seemed to emanate. Who knows if it's the right spot because, truth to tell, we now have fewer bats around. I'm probably testing providence when I admit it's been a year since we had a bat attack in the house.
Of course, they don't attack. They, like mice, compress their bodies through unbelievably tiny spaces and then begin flying in their erratic, sonar mode. Often it's a winter warm spell that wakes them out of hibernation too early. They reaching toward warmth - i.e. inside, rather than cold outdoors. I should pity them, really, but I can't shake the memory of that squirming mass in my pillow--even thought it wasn't a bat.
Lately, my fear and concern have shifted. Now I'm afraid FOR the bats, not OF them. Eastern bats have been dying in droves from something called "white nose syndrome." This fungal disease made its way to the U.S. from Europe where bats have developed an immunity. How long, how many hundreds or thousands of years it took for this immunity to develop, we don't know. But like other foreign invasions, the presence of this fungus has been lethal on bats without the immunity - aka all American bat colonies that come into contact with it.
Many states, including Minnesota, have bat caves where huge numbers of bats live, sleep, wake and fly around . Where they go home to roost after eating millions, billions of mosquitoes. Like so many other companions in the natural world (Yes, Dorothy, we humans are actually natural, part of nature, though we often act as if we aren't.), bats have a crucial niche. They devour small flying insects in exorbitant numbers. No Minnesota bat sucks blood! I promise. Furthermore, the more bats there are, the more they help keep these flying menaces in check. Doing us a huge service. Not that they care about us. They care about living, breathing, eating, sleeping, and mating. And not being sick.
Now some statistics. According to the Center for Biological Diversity: some 7 million bats in 22 Eastern U.S. states and five Canadian provinces have died of white-nose syndrome. Now the fungus has been discovered in Arkansas and in several Minnesota bat caves. These caves are in two Minnesota state parks--Mystery Cave in southeastern Minnesota (with 2300 bats) and Soudan Underground Mine in northeastern Minnesota with between 10,000 and 15,000 bats. (StarTribune, 8/10/13)
The Center for Biological diversity calls the white-nose syndrome outbreak "the worst wildlife epidemic in history." It's not that we--you, me and the guys next door--have caused this, but we could suffer significantly if bats in North America are reduced to such small numbers that they don't survive.
It's time to stop being afraid OF the bats and begin fearing FOR them. We need to recognize them as comrades deserving a chance for survival. Forget Batman. Forget Dracula!
And call the Department of Natural Resources to urge that they close these two caves to tourists--651-296-6157. Human contact with the fungus spores transfers the spores indiscriminately. Not even washing clothes will kill whiite-nose fungus spores. Only washing clothes in a 6% bleach solution. That's asking a lot. Not to mention wiping off shoes, and all other items carried into the caves. The chance to make a difference is NOW. We also have a great opportunity to educate kids and adults about how our behavior can make or break chances of survival--our own and other species. We are in this together.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Margotlog: Monarchs in the Mirror
Monarchs in the Mirror
My yearly summer jaunt up to the North Shore of Lake Superior used to run me home through a lazy blizzard of black and orange--not Iowa Hawkeye footballers, but Monarch butterflies on their way south and west. This year, I saw not a single Monarch, either on the road, or anywhere else on my lake-shore rambles. In fact I saw fewer winged insects of any kind than I can ever remember. One spectacular Luna Moth was plastered to the steps of the hardware store in Lutsen. And I plucked a smashed Buckeye butterfly from a side road after a thunderstorm. Yes, there were dragon flies in decent numbers, but that was it, except for, of course, mosquitoes. Plentiful as always. Too bad mosquitoes don't pollinate, carry beauty on the wing, or unfurl long tongues like the huge blue dragonflies I fed one year with sugar water.
Yes, it's too bad, isn't it. But (shoulder shrug) what can we do? We, meaning all of us who permit a farm policy that pays farmers by the area they have under cultivation. And what's wrong with that? says the defensive farm-supporter. Isn't industriousness a virtue? Isn't farming a multi-billion dollar Minnesota industry?
I call it greed. Environmental madness sanctioned by a powerful lobby. And, with all the Calvinist vigor I can muster, I predict we will pay, Big time. Not just with the loss of one of summer's most beautiful and mysterious visitors, its treasured butterfly, but with illness generated by water running off fields planted to the edges of water ways, bringing us, thanks to Monsanto and other herbicide and pesticide fabricators, diseases and huge remedial costs. It is simply not good for us life forms to eat and drink what kills other life forms. Try repeating this mantra: Monarchs, Milkweed, Waterways, and Me! Monarchs, Milkweed, Waterways and Me.
I am not heavily invested in farming, but I like to eat decently. I appreciate drinking water that is not polluted with cancer-producing, insect-killing chemicals. I appreciate farming practices that reduce the need for chemicals by using crop rotation to discourage pest production. Remember how cold it gets in a Minnesota winter? That cold can kill off pests if they are not given the same corn crop, season season to fatten up on.
I appreciate farming practices that use natural means to clean water running off fields. And that natural way is allowing buffers of what we sneeringly call "weeds," but are actually time-honored homes and food for winged creatures that benefit us: BEES for honey and pollination and MONARCHS.for beauty and inspiration. And a host of others.
Here's a thought: email this blog with a note of approval from you personally to your congressional representatives. Let them know you support a farm policy that REQUIRES all fields be buffered with native plants to clean run-off water of chemicals. Tell them that you OPPOSE a farm policy that encourages farmers to plant one crop (especially that DEVIL CORN) year after year, without allowing fields to go fallow.
By doing so, you will significantly reduce the insane marriage of excessive plowing with chemical spraying. You will be supporting a return to saner and more life-supporting practices. BECAUSE YOU want to stay healthy, and we are finally figuring out that the whole world is in our hands. Yup, we are that powerful, and that deadly, and too much of the time, that stupid.
Don't look in the mirror and see a thousand, a million dead Monarchs. And behind them, a thousand, a million sick and dying humans.
My yearly summer jaunt up to the North Shore of Lake Superior used to run me home through a lazy blizzard of black and orange--not Iowa Hawkeye footballers, but Monarch butterflies on their way south and west. This year, I saw not a single Monarch, either on the road, or anywhere else on my lake-shore rambles. In fact I saw fewer winged insects of any kind than I can ever remember. One spectacular Luna Moth was plastered to the steps of the hardware store in Lutsen. And I plucked a smashed Buckeye butterfly from a side road after a thunderstorm. Yes, there were dragon flies in decent numbers, but that was it, except for, of course, mosquitoes. Plentiful as always. Too bad mosquitoes don't pollinate, carry beauty on the wing, or unfurl long tongues like the huge blue dragonflies I fed one year with sugar water.
Yes, it's too bad, isn't it. But (shoulder shrug) what can we do? We, meaning all of us who permit a farm policy that pays farmers by the area they have under cultivation. And what's wrong with that? says the defensive farm-supporter. Isn't industriousness a virtue? Isn't farming a multi-billion dollar Minnesota industry?
I call it greed. Environmental madness sanctioned by a powerful lobby. And, with all the Calvinist vigor I can muster, I predict we will pay, Big time. Not just with the loss of one of summer's most beautiful and mysterious visitors, its treasured butterfly, but with illness generated by water running off fields planted to the edges of water ways, bringing us, thanks to Monsanto and other herbicide and pesticide fabricators, diseases and huge remedial costs. It is simply not good for us life forms to eat and drink what kills other life forms. Try repeating this mantra: Monarchs, Milkweed, Waterways, and Me! Monarchs, Milkweed, Waterways and Me.
I am not heavily invested in farming, but I like to eat decently. I appreciate drinking water that is not polluted with cancer-producing, insect-killing chemicals. I appreciate farming practices that reduce the need for chemicals by using crop rotation to discourage pest production. Remember how cold it gets in a Minnesota winter? That cold can kill off pests if they are not given the same corn crop, season season to fatten up on.
I appreciate farming practices that use natural means to clean water running off fields. And that natural way is allowing buffers of what we sneeringly call "weeds," but are actually time-honored homes and food for winged creatures that benefit us: BEES for honey and pollination and MONARCHS.for beauty and inspiration. And a host of others.
Here's a thought: email this blog with a note of approval from you personally to your congressional representatives. Let them know you support a farm policy that REQUIRES all fields be buffered with native plants to clean run-off water of chemicals. Tell them that you OPPOSE a farm policy that encourages farmers to plant one crop (especially that DEVIL CORN) year after year, without allowing fields to go fallow.
By doing so, you will significantly reduce the insane marriage of excessive plowing with chemical spraying. You will be supporting a return to saner and more life-supporting practices. BECAUSE YOU want to stay healthy, and we are finally figuring out that the whole world is in our hands. Yup, we are that powerful, and that deadly, and too much of the time, that stupid.
Don't look in the mirror and see a thousand, a million dead Monarchs. And behind them, a thousand, a million sick and dying humans.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Margotlog: Mouse Attack
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. .
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. .
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