It Isn't A Mouse At All!!

Hahahaha.... joke's on us! That little grey mouse we'd only caught glimpses of is actually a silver-grey mole!

And what a healthy coat he has! Well, I guess he should, since he's been living off salmon and free-range chicken cat food.

Last night we were sitting at the table solving all the world's problems when I noticed a grey nose sticking out from under the fridge. "There's the mouse," I said, with what I thought was a remarkable grasp of the obvious.

The slow, fat cat came over and took an interest, crouching into the pounce position. Then, here came the little critter out from under the kitchen counter toward the cat dishes. The cat did nothing. And I said, "hey... that's not a mouse. It's a mole."

To which Hubby replied, "yes it is. And apparently the cat is keeping it for a pet."

"We should call it Digger," I said, helpfully.

"I should get a REAL mouse trap," said Hubby. "And I like Driller better," he added. We watched the mole and the cat for awhile longer, then our daughter came into the room. We told her what was going on.

"I like Digger better," she said, adding her two cents.

"Sorry Dear," I said to Hubby. "You're out-voted."

"Again," he observed.

Meanwhile the mole came out to sniff at a bottle that was sitting on the floor near the sink. The cat watched it, but didn't seem to want to pounce. The mole ducked back under the counter unit and came out a minute later at the cat dishes again. It took another piece. All together it came out 4 or 5 times for a bit of dinner, but before it was done, the cat lost interest and just wandered away.

A mole. We have a mole named Digger living in our kitchen. I wonder what it's fate will be. Hubby was wondering if moles and mice co-exist. "Maybe," he pondered, "if we leave it alone, the mice will stay away."

Heh... my kitchen is turning into some sort of bizarre zoo. :p

The Cats, the Mouse and the Dust Bunny

Ok, so here’s the whole sordid story:

Awhile back we put in a new kitchen counter. At first Hubby and I thought we could do this ourselves. We were trying to change the taps and got stuck, so we put them back on. Or so we thought. But then there was this big bang and first one, then another geyser spewed forth from where the knobs used to be. (The knobs were now bouncing around in the kitchen.)

Our daughter heard all this from her room, said to herself, “oh my God, they’re plumbing!” and promptly hid under her covers.

Hubby and I decided we really ought to get help, so we called on a handy man type fella. Together he and hubby took out the old outfit and put in the new counter. While they were doing this they took out a few extra pipes that were just there, doin’ nothin’. This left holes in the floor under the new counter. We don’t have a basement. Underneath the kitchen is a crawl space. A crawl space into which tiny wildlife types generally move when the weather turns cold. You know, like mice for instance.

I thought everything was under control when they were putting in the counter. I went out to pick up a few things. I left the MEN to look after things. Which is to say, no one thought to plug up the holes in the kitchen floor from the extraneous pipes BEFORE putting in the new counter. Yep. So here come the li’l miceys with their tiny suitcases just as soon as that autumn breeze blows a little cold. Into the crawl space under the kitchen they squeeze. They look up.

Ok, excuse me a minute while I work on this WRITTEN INVITATION to the tiny creatures to move into the house proper. *sigh*

So we see evidence that there are mice in the kitchen. No, no... this will not do. We have cats. We have steel wool with which to plug those holes. Better late than never, right?

Longer story, shorter:
There are two cats. They sleep a lot. *yawn* You want us to catch what?? One cat just happens to be standing by her food dish when the mouse peeps out from under the counter. She takes a swipe at it. She misses; it scurries back under. She shrugs, scratches her ear, goes in search of a comfy place to flop.

Irony: the mouse seems to be thriving on little pieces of cat food. My life is fraught with little ironies.

It's a little grey mouse. He seems to be alone. Hubby plugged up the holes, apparently trapping the lone, adventuresome mouse on this side of the holes. (Mouse: “Hey! Who locked the doors??”) Hubby put out a “humane” trap. The mouse PLAYS with it. Like the guy who bungee jumps for kicks, this mouse routinely goes into the “humane” trap and wrestles around for awhile. He is NEVER in there when Hubby checks the trap.

There’s an elusive dust bunny under my couch. I’ve gone after it with a broom. I’ve gone after it with a duster. I’ve gone after it with a vacuum. It’s a dancing dust bunny and it dances around under there out the way of any weapon I bring to the battle. I wrestle with it. It wins.

So last night, I was sitting here, by the fire, using this computer, the cats were sleeping contentedly, the dog was snoring beside me, and I heard noises. It occurred to me that maybe the dust bunny was trying to catch the mouse. Now, you can say what you want, but I think they were actually dancing. I really do. While the fire crackled on one side of me and the animals all slept, the mouse and dust bunny were tripping the light fantastic in the dark corners of my wee house. I know it. *sigh*

This is Will

Handsome, freckle-faced, almost always smiling, talented, youthful. He’ll always be youthful. Will played the fiddle, piano, wind instruments. He loved music. Seems whatever instrument he attempted he could play. His talent was just natural. Will’s dad and uncle were in the army, so when his country became embroiled in a conflict, Will wanted to join the army too. Problem was, he was only 17. That was too young. But Will was determined, so he ran away and tried to join under an assumed name by lying about his age. He was caught, fortunately, and returned home.

But his mom was frightened. She worried about him running away again and maybe getting away with joining up under another name, and then, if something bad happened, she might never know what became of him. He really wanted to join up, so she signed her permission on the condition that he was admitted to the bugle corp, which was supposed to be kept behind the lines.

And so he went. Wounded in France, he was transferred to an army hospital in England. He was able to send a few letters to his mom with the help of the nurses there. The mayor of a city near his home heard about him and raised money to send his mom overseas to be with him. But even as she packed for the trip, she received news that Will had succumbed to his injuries.

I don’t like war. I guess no one really does, except maybe despots and power mongers. We now try to teach our kids that problems aren’t solved with violence. We discourage them from fighting for things in the school yard, in the back yard, or anywhere. We don’t even let Mom and Dad whack the kids anymore, because corporal discipline is no way to properly raise a child. Even the measured blow of a loving parent on the bum to make a point is a no-no.... because violence doesn’t solve anything. And yet, in amazingly hypocritical governmental policy for dealing with other countries and their policies, we still send young people to war to fight and die for political reasons.

Will died in the “war to end all wars,” or the first world war. He was a bugler with a Canadian drum and bugle corp and was wounded in the head with a piece of shrapnel in a small town in France. He was 17 and ½ years old when he died. He is buried in a military cemetery in England. If he had not been killed in a war, who knows what innovation to style, recording or instrumentation this young man might have contributed to the music industry? And perhaps if he’d had kids, one of them might have inherited his talent and made great strides in music too.

Will was my uncle. I never knew him. Hell, my mom, who was his sister, never knew him. I have his fiddle. On Remembrance Day (Veterans' Day in the U.S.) I will remember my Uncle Will who went overseas to help in the political struggle that was supposed to end conflict. And I will salute my dad, who probably died younger than he should have because he went overseas in the big war after that ~ for four years. I don’t like that we are so primitive as a species that we still have wars, but despite what we tell our children, we still do. So on November 11th I will pay homage to the sacrifices of the men and women who have given so much to preserve our freedoms. I do this not just because of their sacrifice, but because of ours. Yes, we have freedoms for which I am grateful. But I can’t help wondering how different, how much better, our world and our way of life might have been if all those vibrant, talented young people who gave their lives in conflict, hadn’t had to.

Imagine. Just imagine.

The Legend of Rock Soup Examined

It’s a great story, about how this wandering peasant came into a village hoping for some handouts. He was hungry, he was willing to work, but he needed some sustenance first. But the houses... the humble wee houses... were all locked up tight, their occupants keeping to themselves, protecting what little they had from everyone else.

They were all poor themselves. Each of these households only had so much, they had no intention of sharing. None of them had enough to share, they thought. So the wanderer picked up a rock and called out to the villagers, proposing to light a fire in the square and make a soup out of this rock. It was to be a big pot of soup they could all share. The villagers watched this crazy man from their windows as he somehow assembled a fire, a large old pot which he filled with water from the river, and then added his rock. One by one they came out of their houses to watch this crazy man. Each brought some small thing they could afford to show him what was really needed to make a healthy soup. One came with a carrot, one an onion, one a potato, one some cabbage, etc. Before long, the rock soup began to resemble a real soup, giving off the delicious odour of a nutritional meal. As it cooked, neighbours got acquainted and shared their stories, and when the soup was ready, everyone got a meal from the pot, including the resourceful wanderer.
Of course, it’s a story of community. None of us is an island and all that. And indeed, there are some great places online to share nuggets of our experience, knowledge, acquired wisdom, as well as great sites to learn new things and toss around ideas, and blogs to read about what others are experiencing. Many are focussed on one aspect of one thing, such as health, but if it’s where you need to be, that’s great. Some are more general in their scope, and are also free. Physically ill from the gluten in my diet and very depressed from it as well, I went to several sites this past Spring, and it was on the health sites that I discovered what might be my problem. I removed gluten from my diet and began to feel better. I took vitamin D and Omega 3 and began to pick up mentally and emotionally as well. I found ideas at one site and began a renewed exploration of self, where I was at and where I was headed. It was here I discovered the legend of Rock Soup.

The owner of this site is well versed in legend, learning, philosophy and life. He put out some very thought-provoking ideas in videos as well as posts that helped get my brain working again. The only problem I had with this site, was that there was no one of my age and experience to talk with. This man was gathering quite the following of young people. Now don’t get me wrong... I have nothing against young people. They are refreshing and often have approaches and ideas that keep the aging mind alive. Out of the mouths of babes and all that. But a sprinkling of older folk would be nice on such sites too... sort of for balance.

Also, I can't help noticing that the internet is not the money-making glam marketplace some think it ought to be. A lot of sites start out free and wind up trying to make their buck up front because people just aren’t buying the products advertised. Others earn their keep by getting visitors to at least click on an ad. But do they? Too many internet users are like me, I suspect. I will not pay to toss around ideas and I do not buy what others tell me I need. Cheap? Ok. C'mon, rabid consumerism just isn’t sustainable. So I decide for myself what I need, thanks. I have only ever paid for one site: enchantedlearning.com. It’s a nominal fee to access a plethora of educational materials that would cost substantially more in a trendy education store. It was a very worthwhile fee in other words, and I paid it gladly.

So, as helpful as any chat site might be, I'm just not paying for one. I will bring a carrot to the soup, a nugget of what I have learned, I will bring something to share and take away a small bowl of soup, but I will not pay for the privilege. I have been casting around, looking for art sites and have found a group of quilling artists I can relate to, as well as other ways to keep in touch with others, while leaving myself enough time to pursue improved health, my writing, my art, my projects, my life. And if I have to go back to hiding inside my humble home because everyone wants money, I guess I can always dust off my library card ~ a less personal form of community. I have something to give while I’m on here, but it isn’t money. Here’s a valid question to ponder: if every one of those villagers makes their own soup and is trying to sell it door-to-door, who’s going to do the buying?

Mmmmmm.... good soup. Please pass the salt.