CATS

Yesterday Martin and I turned our heads away from our steaming tea cups for a moment and caught this impossible vision: down the hill, a veritable convention of seven black and white cats sat in a perfect circle. In the middle of the circle, another cat lay on his back, one paw extended into the air. He luxuriated on the grass and pointed in the air again in provocative way. Another cat took him up on his challenge and--I can't help it--pussyfooted into the ring and pounced on him. They rolled about and the circle dispersed.

We went back to our tea.

About five minutes later, we looked back down the hill and the cats had reconvened, in exactly the same formation, but this time more centrally in our yard. The same thing happened again; the cat-in-the-middle, the playful tussle, the cats scattering. They played follow-the-leader over to the trunk of the Black Walnut, where they watched one scramble up the bark after a bird. They seemed to be having a wonderful time.

Cats rule Wazoo Farm. As many of you know, I can't get anywhere near cats without swelling like a balloon or scratching my own eyes out. But these cats are different than your average house cat. They're like little gods fallen from heaven; they prowl proudly around the garden; they all have their own paths and patterns, and they seem to be utterly careless of our existence, except when we startle them and they streak off into the sky. We don't know where they live. They are great, heavy, sleek beasts with gleaming coats and certain paws.

I watched one pick his way delicately through a foot of snow last winter, finding the prints of a cat-gone-before and fitting his paws precisely into each indentation.

At night they wail like primordial spirits.

This afternoon Martin and I (yes, we were drinking tea again), craned our necks out the window and saw a cat, black as coal, sitting on the edge of our deck, swishing his tail. He was watching something and I heard him mew. But then I realized his mouth was not opening. I did not think he was a ventriloquist. So I stood up with my tea cup and leaned farther toward the window pane. A huge white cat, its fur standing up and its back arched, was facing down a third cat--I know not what he was in face or manner--I was too consumed by the white cat, who was magnificent.

Martin banged on the window. They did not heed him.

I went to the other window, slid it open and chided them: "No fighting, kitties!" The white cat fixed me with a stare that told me she did not care to be condescended to, but they evaporated into the afternoon.

They will be back. It's a jungle out there. And apparently it's all theirs.

Rocky Raccoon came into the room. . .

Martin said that Beatrix fell asleep as he was reading the second chapter of a new book tonight. What better way to drift off, he said, and I agreed with him. I was off in the evening to my friend Sal's house, who turned another year older today, and am I ever grateful she was born and is tucked up in the same corner of the earth as I. I see her almost every day; she provides sanity and joy to our family and is truly a generous auntie to my kids and godmother to Beatrix.

Rocky Raccoon is busy in the trashcans outside so Martin is rapping on the window and yelling in a fake, gruff voice. Rocky knows Martin doesn't really mean it. He's tenacious, that animal--he found a tiny hole in the top of our can and persevered until he had pulled a plastic sack through it. Our neighbors have a live trap ("We heard you have a problem with coons, too," they said, and reserved our pick up truck to drive into the country in case they catch one). A man who lives by the creek not far from here and has been gardening for forty years or so told me this story in an interview. It was "off the record" (of course--the best ones always are).

"The coons kept eating my garden," he recalled with a twinkle in his eye, "So I caught them all and took them up the hill to my friend's property and let them go. Well, my friend comes down and he's all surprised and says, 'Harry (not his real name), I opened the door to my pick up this morning and guess what was sitting there staring at me? A coon! Now, how did he get there?' I just shook my head and shrugged. 'I have no idea,' I said."

This cloak-and-dagger operation has got to be better than another of our neighbor's solutions--that was, shoot the coon and drop him into the trashcan (which they kept four feet from the side of our house). In 85 plus degree weather, you can imagine the wretchedness--it smelled like a morgue until the sanitation crew came for regular pick-up, and. . .no, I'll stop there. It's too awful.

Martin said Rocky's tail flashed as he ran off just now--but he'll be back, poking his black-gloved fingers in the hole in the top of the can. And if that's the way he wants to pass his evening. . .well, so be it. I'm just grateful not to be nocturnal, especially as tomorrow holds an interview with about two hundred elementary school kids. And an hour of photos and flats of plants. Should be fun.

My father, who is currently waiting with his pants rolled up to his knees in Bangkok, wrote that though he was distracted by the flood waters rolling their way, he was nevertheless sorry to hear about poor Merwin's destruction.

Dad, Merwin's not DEAD. Merwin lives, at least he did when we slipped him from his black box, the clever TIP TRAP. Merwin enjoyed his tasty peanut butter snack until he bolted like a flash into the underbrush by our favorite cemetery, the one where Martin once fled from a threatening buck and where a stained glass woman with strange eyes and foreboding mouth terrifies college students. THAT cemetery, the one to which I hiked with you and Mom one sunny Christmas afternoon when the house was heavy and somnolent with pumpkin pie and turkey smells. We stood in the crisp air among the stones on the hill, watching the red-roofed houses sleep off Christmas dinner. On the way back you trapped yourself on the banks of Purman Run creek, rolled up your pants, threw across your keys, wallet and phone, and proceeded to wade the icy, rushing waters.

Turns out that western Pennsylvania adventure was good practice for now, now that you are waiting for a flood that hopefully won't reach you. Why do you end up in floodwaters? Wasn't Mozambique enough for you? Perched on a roof, throwing children and women into helicopters, didn't you decide then, "This is a thrill but perhaps not one that I should repeat." ??? Is mouse-catching and disposal and the thrill therein not enough for your sense of excitement? Must you go to Thailand for MORE?

In all seriousness, we're glad you're there helping; we hope you do not see water coming your way; and not to worry, Merwin lives and you can now concentrate your energies on survival. I thought I'd put your mind to rest.

I remain
your faithful daughter

PS. The kids and I wish you were here eating apple cake and pumpkin cookies.

Dear one,

I surprise myself: I miss you. Will this letter find you out in the grey cemetery? It's raining tonight, and I'm thinking of you, hoping you've found a warm place among the dripping goldenrod, beneath the deep sweet mat of maple leaves.

The night we finally realized you must leave, I made you a last meal--your favorite. Pouring peanuts into a bowl, Martin laughed at me for grinding them for you, but I knew you'd enjoy it. You never really appreciated my cooking but by golly, I knew you loved peanut butter.

The next morning, leaning over the long black box where you lay, we knew it was time to ease you into the car for our first and last trip with you. The box was so dark, we could barely believe you were inside. The girls wanted to come, but I told them I would describe the moment of your departure, and I vowed to memorize the trees, the way the road curved up toward the skyline, the way we said goodbye to you. I even brought my camera, but it would be to no avail--you left us much too quickly.

We thought it would be a safe place for you, the quiet of the grey stone. From the hill, you can see the whole town with its towers and steeples laid out before you like a sea full of ships. The morning was cool, the sky bright through layers of mist.

We stopped the car and stood around your box for a while. And then we said goodbye, and you were gone in an instant, dissolving into the underbrush. We got back in the car and drove slowly away, and the sky in my rear view mirror filled with illuminated clouds, so bright I stopped the car, jumped out, and watched them, wondering that they could look so much like another world passing over this one.

At home since you've been gone, I miss your face in the evenings, the way you stopped and turned your head as you looked at me. I miss the sudden sound of your entrance when you joined us in a room, the feeling that I was never completely alone with you nearby.

You were such a fastidious, unassuming presence here, dear Merwin, but it always seemed as if you should not be with us. And now you have gone and there are no more Merwins, no shadows of you, as I once thought. You, with your sleek brown face and cunning manners, were one of a kind.

I have to admit, I half hoped that perhaps you had thumbed your considerable nose at us and stuffed the box with a decoy, and that when we reached the cemetery we would suddenly find that it was not you inside, but some impostor, a limp doll or a scrap of blanket. I had faith in you, Merwin, as someone of letters and intellect. But I was mistaken.

I hope this epistle reaches you somehow, Merwin, and I hope that you have not wandered too close to the buildings next to the cemetery hoping for respite. I have heard they are cold-blooded killers there waiting for you and your kind. Much luck, Merwin, and may you have a litter of twenty, twenty times over.

Yours,

K Cockroft, Wazoo Farm

Questions I'd Like to Ask M

Subject line just in from Mr. Patrick David, in my spam box: "OPEN THE ATTACHMENT AND GET BACK TO ME." No problemo, Patty. I'll just click on your bonny attachment and wait for your call.

I'm feeling pretty good at the moment because I just finished a feature article on the Town and Garden Country Club (it's their 60th anniversary); the sheer weight of information and expectation was hanging over my head like an anvil. So I began to chip away, evah so slowly, remembering all the while that tomorra is anutha day. . .and now it's done! Hallelujah! The first draft was so boring that Martin fainted into a deep sleep while reading it, but the second and final draft moves along at a crisp pace and even I am still interested when I read it.

Two people in particular fascinated me. The first was a woman in her mid 90's who has spent her life saving and then giving money (along with her husband) to colleges and other worthy institutions. Sitting in this woman's modest home, you would never guess the astounding amount of funds this woman and her husband have given away. I didn't see many ornaments in her home besides a vase her mother had painted, a painting she had done of bearded irises, and a pretty table runner she sewed. Her husband built the house and they have lived there for sixty years. She sat in the sunporch, laughing and chatting with me, light catching the plant next to her elbow. She described the sacrifices her father (who worked at a coal mine) and her family made to send him, and then herself and her brothers, to college. She was handing over all her extra pocket change to the bank teller when she was a kid, depositing it in her education account that would grow sufficiently over the years to send her to college and to graduate school at Duke. She was married during World War II, and seventeen days after the wedding, her husband, who had already returned to the service, was sent to Africa. For two and a half years.

Before I left she told me how she had taken a small handful of hollyhock seeds, planted and watered them in a box. All winter she watched the tiny stems unfold: two, three, four leaves. They bloom in a bright, majestic row in her garden this summer.

Though she is almost 101 and can't talk or hear much anymore (so I didn't get to meet her), M, another woman, intrigued me. She earned a degree in home economics, never married, and worked 19-hour days operating a ferry boat (it was part of an inheritance), a rough task that involved unsticking the ferry when needed and transporting miners across the river and back. In the photo, her face is exquisite: creamy skin and movie-star eyes, a hat turned back so she could see where the boat was headed. Amazing. The woman who visited and told me about M mentioned that M's eyes are still as beautiful and as captivating as they were when she was a young woman with an inherited ferry boat and endlessly long days in front of her. And I want to ask her a whole book of questions, want to hear her voice rising and falling as she explains what her life was like, why she persevered, if she enjoyed her job, whom she met, if she would do it all over again if she had the chance.

Before I change into my jammas, something I am anticipating with glee, I will give you a quick update on Merwin. Seen, once, at 7:00 as I sauteed onions, skipping with umbrella in paw from the kitchen cart under the piano. He was wearing a fake glasses/nose combo, but I recognized him, all right. Tomorrow, the trap comes.

I am a sentimental fool

Merwin miraculously appeared in two places last night at almost the same time. This is how I think he did it, but first let me describe Merwin's first appearance. Our friend John glimpsed him in the hallway. "You've got a mouse!" he announced, and offered to lend us a trap.

"Are you going to tell him?" Martin asked. Somewhat sheepishly, I explained how we had gotten to know Merwin over the past couple weeks and couldn't bear to kill him. John chuckled in disbelief and Merwin's neck was safe for another night.

Merwin must have heard our conversation and felt a little nervous at the mention of a trap because at that point, he scaled our heating pipe to the second floor, probably with the little ropes set he ordered from Amazon (it arrived yesterday morning, in a wee little package, with Merwin's name typed on the front. Next time I need to tell him about the Free Shipping option.)

Later that night, as I stood upstairs, poised to scratch Bea's back as she lay in her crib, Merwin streaked across the floor, almost over my feet.

"I'm getting used to that scream ," Martin said, coming into the room, kneeling down and singing to Merwin in the voice he reserves just for mice. "Come on, little buddy!"

The girls were delighted by my scream and my subsequent perch on the black four-legged stool, and they ran from their bedrooms and began a Merwin search.
But he was nowhere to be seen.

Not until. . .later still that night, when I was grading essays on the couch. Now, Merwin's got this routine down, so I should have been expecting him, and I should not have shrieked like a stuck pig when he scurried across the floor, almost over my feet again, and scooted under the couch. I set my feet on our coffee table refused to get up all night. It was a good excuse to beg Martin to serve me my Sleepytime Tea.

Either Merwin is getting really fast and efficient or there are more than one Merwin. I have to admit, I thought the Merwin I saw two nights ago lacked a certain perkiness about the ears.

After two attempts at setting up my own traps with bowls, spoons, a trail of Fruity Cheerios (which Merwin snubbed)--and then, an ingenious little track that led to a delicious peanut butter cracker plopped on the bottom of a tall trashcan, I have decided that my own inventions, though FANTASTIC, are not smart enough for Merwin, who is after all a poet and a mouse of letters.

So I ordered a live trap from a selection at Amazon, much to the relief of Elspeth, who begged me last night and again this morning, "PLEASE don't kill that mouse, Mommy!" Little does she know what a sentimental fool her mother has shown herself to be.

Waiting Breathlessly

Beatrix, missing as of ten minutes ago, was found buckled into her car seat out in the blue Subaru. I waved to her through the glass of the sun room window, and she waved back through the glass of the Subaru's window, grinning like a leprechaun. I wonder if she's imagining herself on an exciting trip. It's been grey in our county for about six days running, so maybe she's hoping I'll come out and drive her to Texas.

My father just sent me an e-mail that began, "Waiting breathlessly for an update on Merwin."

Last night, we heard him. Once again, he appeared only to me, running from behind the piano into the kitchen, from whence we heard, throughout the evening, rustlings and crunchings. We were bombed last night, my eye was dry and felt blasted by desert wind as I stared at my column, which was a jumble of facts that I had no energy to find a form for; Martin was grading a stack of student reflections and he kept groaning, "I don't know how long. . ." The appearance and bustle of Merwin actually perked us up somewhat. He was just starting his day at ten o'clock at night; he wasn't tired; he was feeling industrious and inquisitive. Maybe we could follow suit.

That night, I muttered from my pillow (into which I was dissolving and becoming one): "We've got to get rid of Merwin before he chews through an appliance. I know who's going to be cleaning up his poop, and it's not you."

"I can't just get rid of someone I'm starting to know," Martin said. (Apparently, during my absence this past weekend, Merwin appeared to Martin several times, and it gave him a sense of peace and comfort. For my part, I saw a row of dead, stuffed mice in the Museum of Natural History in NYC and lovingly tried to pick out the one that most closely resembled Merwin. It must have been because they were dead, but none of these mice had the same style or perk that Merwin possesses in spades). "I know him now and I can't just break his neck," Martin persisted. "It feels wrong."

Plans this weekend, then, include finding a "Have-a-heart-trap," in which we will hopefully catch Merwin and transport him to a place of safety. . .far away from our house.

But here's a postscript: Though I appreciate him on a personal level, I'm not too impressed with Merwin as a mouse. Today while rearranging a pile of blankets and pillows in the sun room, I found the remnants of a pretzel and a grape, abandoned by the children some afternoon a while ago, and not too appetizing for a human but pretty darn tasty if you're a mouse.

I know Merwin's been around and goodness knows he's had plenty of unsupervised playtime, but he hasn't touched the unintentional offerings. What is he, a gourmand? Is he waiting for his own cheese platter? A thimble of champagne?

Curious, very curious. . . .

Update: Merwin the Mouse

If Merwin weren't so minute and darling, we would have less trouble doing away with him.

As it is, Martin and I spent a good deal of last night chasing Merwin around the house. Yes, after a last snide comment that the mouse was my spirit animal and only existed for me, Martin finally saw him. "He's a little guy," he said, and he is. He's like a storybook mouse; he's got tiny black pointed ears, an intelligent face, and gleaming black fur.

But he does NOT belong in our house, even if he is handsome. I can see Merwin in a little cozy hole under the garden, with a potbellied stove, a thick rug, an easy chair, and a cup of Earl Grey. Hold on. Maybe he's a green-tea mouse. It's hard to tell.

Anyway, last night Martin armed himself with a bowl and a plate. I went nowhere without a chair to stand on. At one point, we got Merwin cornered in the front hall closet. Martin crouched down with his bowl--I was terribly impressed at his bravery, but as he said with bravado, "I've been this close to a black bear. What's a mouse to me?"

Merwin kept poking his little black nose out into the hallway, whereupon I would shake a hand towel at him to make him retreat back into the recesses of the closet. We finally blocked off his escape routes, I perched on a chair, ready to inch the vacuum cleaner forward, thus coaxing Merwin to flee into Martin's blue bowl.

"All right, easy now," Martin instructed, as I lifted the Dyson. . .slowly, slowly. No sign of whiskers or tail anywhere. We let out our breath, studying an apron that had fallen in a heap, wondering how the little rodent had hid so well. . .and then--shazam! Merwin scrambled down from the bottom of the vacuum, where he had jammed himself into the roller, and he was off with a flash of brown fur.

Discussion followed as to where he might have hidden next; under the piano or in the sun room. Martin sauntered around the room in a non-threatening way, calling, "Come on, little fellow. . .come on. . ."

But Merwin was gone for the night. The problem is, we're getting a bit fond of him now. His speed and sneakiness is impressive and we're gaining a begrudging respect for his intelligence and downright cuteness. I even found myself thinking that I should perhaps leave him a little treat for the night--a bowl of Kashi Autumn Wheat crumbs. . .Yes, Merwin would love that.

But in the wee morning hours, I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. I had been awakened by the sound of tiny squeals, accompanied by the scattering of--not one--but many little feet. It sounded like a herd of mice, with Merwin right at the front, leading the brigade with a toothpick lifted like a sword. . .I found I did not like the reality of a full-scale invasion.

And what's the old adage? Where there is one mouse, there are always two? Or three? Or an army?

Martin tried to convince me the hubbub was only a group of swifts in our chimney, but I think he might be trying to protect Merwin with smoke and mirrors. The thought of our little mouse smashed in a trap does fill me with regret, but I know, no matter how admirable Merwin is, he has to be digesting food. . .and excreting. And when I find the little black pellets in my dishes or towels, Merwin's days will be numbered. Poor little guy. If only he would see reason and leave quietly. I'd even send him off with a good supply of Tetley English Breakfast. Or maybe Orange Pekoe? It's hard to tell.

I'm sorry, but I haven't had the time to post photos recently. I wish I could post a photo now of the stunning colors outside of my window, but the second-hand rendering would just be a disappointment, anyhow.

It's raining, so the garden path is a dense, layered, carpety sort of green, and the different tones of red and white in the brick path Martin lay are as faceted as a cut stone; then there's the lupine blue of the shed, edged with bright white, and the flowers themselves: pumpkin-orange cosmos against pink coreopsis, traffic-cone nasturtiums, the delicate, yellowy lace of dill, the Queen Anne's Lace ruffling up everywhere because we can't be bothered to pull it up.

And now I come to the real drama of our lives these days: one wee brown mouse. This chocolate-colored mouse appeared last week while I was watching TV; he scooted across the floor, spotted me, and skittered back into the sun room. Since that time, he has appeared multiple times and each time he is more brazen in his entry and less fast to disappear. Last night, while I was reading, he ran into the living room again, heard my voice, and came straight for my feet.

EEEEEKKK!

I am silly around mice.

I would not put my feet down for the rest of the evening, and Martin had to come into the room and fetch things for me.

Then Martin had a dream, in which the brown mouse appeared, pleading with Martin to spare his little life.

This morning, at BREAKFAST, mind you, while I, Martin, and Bea were drinking our tea, the mouse twirled across the pergo, gave a little bow, and ducked under the dishwasher.

EEEEEEEK!

The mouse! I yelled, The MOUSE IS HERE! He will be waiting for me when I return from class! I will never be able to put my feet on the floor again!

"He's just a little mouse," Martin said, "And besides, I'm beginning to think he doesn't really exist."

I have seen this mouse, in Martin's company or alone, about five times at least. Martin has never, ever, not even for an instant, spotted it. Except in his dreams, and those dreams are not helpful for one resident of Porter Street who KNOWS the mouse will march over her feet, playing cymbals and a bass drum and sticking out its tongue, with a whole band fleet of mice behind it.

It is kind of a cute little guy, and if I were desperately lonely or in prison for ten years, I would be tempted to befriend it. But, matters being as they are, I want him to just GO AWAY. Maybe I'll try to talk to it nicely and reasonably, or write a letter and leave it in the crack in the sun room floor. He seems like a pretty rational fellow.

The Misfortune of Others: It Makes Me Laugh

The rain, it's a poundin' down outside the windows. Sounds like there's a wall of water headed our way. I'm struggling against the soothing white noise, actually, because Martin's grading a stack of poems and I should be writing reading questions but I feel so alienated from my blog writing lately I thought I should come by for a visit. And the warmth of my slippers and the weight of the day easing into the comfort of evening tempts me to slip into an early sleep.

I just read a funny blog entry on "Days Under the Sycamore" (link below right) wherein my friend Sally and her family go for a lovely stroll up a ridge, enjoying the September evening sunlight gleaming on fresh-cut piles of grass waiting for the hay baler. It all sounds pretty bucolic until their son, Will, withdraws a stick from the earth and lets loose a mass of swarming bees. The family of five, covered with these buzzing horrors, tear down the hill, shrieking all the way, and the boys sprint the half-mile or so to the van (leaving their parents in the dust) where at least one of them has to be strapped in practically naked because he's covered in bee stings. Once they've recovered, Sally has to wonder cautiously back up the road, retrieving the clothing they had stripped off and flung asunder in their hasty retreat.

The whole story gave me quite a chuckle, even though it includes bodily injury to people I love.

Martin is half-asleep now and resorting to food to keep himself awake through the rest of the poems. Last night I tackled a mountain of prose, so I have less sympathy for his poetry. Oh blast. He brought back chips. I have sworn to eat better and now the bowl of chips is. . .within. . .my. . .reach. . . .

I may have to get myself some Fruity Kix to stave off temptation.

And now, to Huxley and Africa.

Happy evening to you all, and if anything really bad but not permanent happens to any of you, please let me know so I can laugh heartlessly at your expense. Thanks.

Take Me Out [to my own couch] to the Ballgame[s]

If you sat in the brown chair near to me here in the living room, you'd hear the clock ticking. In the far distance, the faint, ever-present whine of the coal mine. The sound of car wheels on a wet street. But no baseball.

Baseball has created a new white noise in our house every night for the past month. Martin discovered he could order the entire MLB season on our Roku, and this translates to more games than one person could possibly watch. Baseball players never take a night off, apparently. Every night Martin tucks the girls in and then almost falls over his feet on his way to the TV, where he flips on yet another Astros game. Ah, the sound of the crowd; the sonorous voices of the announcers; the applause when Pence Whathisname makes yet another fabulous base hit.

I am being a good friend to Martin, and I have watched quite a few hours of baseball at his side, even though I have no natural interest in the sport or in any sport. I've eased into the rhythm of the pitchers, hitters, RBIs, the catcher signalling pitches into his crotch with two or three fingers. There is a certain narrative quality to the sport, and this I respect and even enjoy. But let me ask you all a question. Why is it that baseball players feel feel compelled even to engage in socially unacceptable behaviors? I'm not referring to the occasional yelling between coaches and referees on the mound. I'm talking about the endless clothing adjustments (particularly to one sensitive area), and the eternal spitting. Who needs to spit that much? In what world is scattering the hulls to sunflower seeds along with your own saliva okay? And as for the scratching, the pulling, the shaking of the crotch, why? I started to wonder, do the uniforms just not fit anyone? Are they made badly on purpose? Or is it all just part of the glorious baseball tradition?

I have a favorite player, though I can't remember his name. Hold on, let me ask Martin. Brett Wallace. I like his face and his boyish eyes; he always looks like he's trying to be serious as befits the occasion.

Baseball is back on. Martin was out with our friend Kevin, checking out some flooding in our county. They didn't get very far because an emergency vehicle that was blocking a flooded road. Martin reported briefly that the roads were deserted and the fog made the countryside eerie, and then he returned to baseball.

It's like we have a house guest who will never leave. And Baseball season is not particularly brief. It ends (wait for it) in EARLY OCTOBER!

And then comes the playoffs. Good times. There's a lot more crotch grabbing in our future. Guess what? David Wright just hit a homer. The Mets are ahead, 5-4. We're on the edge of our seats. Ooo, my man Brett Wallace is up to bat. (According to the announcer, Wallace's legs are like tree trunks). He swings. . .gotta go.

Eating Crow

I was making lunch for the two little ones while talking to Martin about the short story I've been working on, "Empress Chicken," when another call came in.

"Hello," chirped a cheery voice on the other line. "It's S--."

"Oh, hello, S--," I said, wedging the phone under one ear and slicing apples. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said.

It struck me that S-- was Elspeth's preschool teacher, and I wondered suddenly if Elspeth were sick. Instead S-- continued, "I just wanted to let you know that no one picked up Elspeth today."

Until that second, I had been feeling blithely in control of life--I'd taken the two little ones to the grocery store and the park, the day before I'd finished my column for the week and another draft of the chicken story. The column turned out well and though the chicken short story was borderline garbage, maybe I'd be able to salvage it. I'd finally tackled the piles of laundry that were threatening to burst the walls of our bathroom, and I had a stack of peanut butter sandwiches ready for lunch.

"Elspeth! I forgot Elspeth!" I was more than fifteen minutes late. I've always consoled myself that though I forget everything else, I never forget the children. I can't say that anymore.

"Come on, you two!" I shouted, tearing around the house to grab my keys. Though it was forty degrees outside, I grabbed little E in his sock feet and threw open the door. Beatrix skittered down the sidewalk, barefoot and coatless.

The teachers at the preschool came to the door with big grins on their faces. The oldest said, "Don't worry, honey, it happens to all of us." I did not ask how many of them have ever forgotten their children.

My week so far is indication that maybe I have too much going on. Last night, as I drove home from a friend's house on a road I've driven countless times, I thought abruptly, "I'm going the wrong way!" So I drove for a while down the dusky, twisty road, turned around and started back the other way. Not long after that, the girls said, "We don't recognize any of this, Mommy." I had to admit they were right, so i I pulled off the road, turned around again, and drove back to the place where my mind had gone south. "Have you always turned at the old one room schoolhouse?" I asked myself again, gazing up the darkening road. I pulled the car up the hill and sure enough, I HAVE always turned that way. The girls chorused triumphantly: Told you so! and I fired back, "And THAT'S why you must always put on your shoes and socks when Mommy says. Because Mommy can't drive very well in the dark, see?"

This is not the first time such a familiar road has suddenly become strange to me. This is just the (let's see) eight thousandth time.

Today as I steered the car toward home, I muttered, "I'm becoming my mother." My mother has forgotten me numerous times on street corners and, most notoriously, when I was three months old, at a party. She and my dad went home, undressed, and put my sister to bed. They showed up later at the party in their pyjamas and asked for me, who had fallen asleep on the hostess' floor. My mother and now I celebrate a long tradition of forgetfulness. My greatgrandpa showed up a day late for his passage on the Titanic. This is not a joke. Most of us who suffer from chronic absentmindism do not get such a good story and a second chance at life. Instead, we wonder, as my mother often did and I did today, if we are slipping into early onset dementia. We vow to write everything down so we don't forget it. We consider leaving notes for ourselves with obvious messages like "Don't forget your five-year old at school." And we eat crow as a regular part of our diet.

girls, sleepy me, and just pictures

Sorry, y'all; I'm beat. I feel I cannot summon the power to take all the events of the past days and blend them into a perfect cocktail. I will do it later. Martin's late night and the girls aren't quite in bed; Bea's wailing up a storm because her sisters are still up; Merry's stacking books for late-night reading, and Elspeth is cleaning up the doll house. . .We had a crazy snow last night, the sort that felt like someone was shaking an open feather comforter all over us. I am on strike; the weather is just acting silly and I will not tolerate it. I am tired of being cold and refuse to be cold anymore, so the weather will just have to cooperate if it wants to see my sunny face singing anthems any time soon. The weather became childish last night, when I was called away out of my pre-p.j. shower by a command that I show up at I. T.'s house. Over the phone, I. T. informed Martin, "I would like Kim at my house at 7:15." So I went because I was intrigued, only to be served wine, salad and homemade pizza. My hostess, I. T., told all her guests (I was the only one who found out at the last minute I was going) that she loved and hated her little dog and would have the little dog stuffed when it died and then she would love it all the more because she could pet the little dog and not have to care for its capricious needs anymore. After dinner, I. T.'s husband literally blew in the door and told us all we'd better go home because there was a horrible storm outside (we laughed; we thought he was joking) but then someone remarked he was serious and we all left in huge, tea-saucer sized snowflakes.

I didn't suppose I was going to write much and I shan't write any more, since Bea is terribly and horribly put out.

February Crazies

Plan for the next two hours: make like Beatrix, grab the tupperware of eclairs off of the top shelf of the refrigerator, and hide under the dining room table. Proceed to stuff eclairs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

Plan for the next two days: make myself bright red wings. With much flapping and flying feathers (like a burlesque dancer with boa), take off from my office window, circle around the sleds lying in mud, and take off for east Africa. Children stare, agape, from windowsill. "Come back!" they cry. "We need a drink of water!" I hear: the rush of wind in my ears, the distant hum of a jet engine, the rumble of distant thunder.

Plan for next two years: Pile all our possessions on the curb, five things each evening, until our house echoes. Sleep on grass mats on the floor. Hire someone to clean the bathtub. Let the children paint bright murals on the walls and floors, until the soles of our feet are covered in rainbows. Dance to guitar music with no socks, shirts, or medicines of any kinds. Eat peas from the garden for supper.

Recommended actions for next two minutes: Throw phone out door down the hill. Hold white conch shell to ear, wait for music.

Superbowl and My Dad

My Dad came back from a trip to Haiti just in time for the Superbowl, and I chatted with him today about many things, including the illness he picked up in the Miami airport, the cholera epidemic in Haiti, and family news. And the Superbowl. Even the most globally minded American gets pretty excited about football. As we spoke, my mother returned from Trader Joe's, where she'd been stocking up on Superbowl fare.

One of Martin's favorite parts about being at my parents' house this past Christmas was watching football, Sunday and Monday, with my father. My Dad's the calmest man I know (he reprimanded my sister after she almost broke a plate glass window by folding his newspaper, leisurely getting out of his chair, and telling her, 'Not smart'), but even he gets somewhat excited over a really good run or an excellent pass. And after my parents' stint in Baltimore, he's suddenly a Ravens fan, which colors his opinion of the Steelers.

You can't live in my town without being a fan of the Steelers, at least by appearance. I'd probably be beaten to West Virginia if I were stupid enough to slap a Packers sticker on my window. But it does make the game tomorrow more exciting to know that up in Washington State, my Dad, purely from bitterness over the Ravens game, will be rooting for the Packers.

And for the first time in my entire life, I will actually make a cake with the name of a football team written out in black icing. The background will be gold, and maybe I'll even watch more than the advertisements this year.

Images of Texas: Can You Guess?

Since this post got buried a bit in the Sunday festivities, I wanted to give people--especially the kiddos--a chance to check out the Texas wildlife.

All right, detectives. Can anyone guess what the girls (our girls and their cousin, Isabella in Brookshire, TX) are studying. . .

in this picture?

And here?
This sleek green fellow actually changes colors like his African cousin (I'm not sure about the actual connection as far as genus or whatever goes, but they have the same common name).

Now, what about this handsome devil?

Thing, thing! What IS that thing? (Here's a hint: in this pic, it's dead.)

It actually belongs here in the waters of Iron's Creek, but an animal had decided it would make a tasty snack.

Probably not Nino, the cat, who hunts more for birds and snakes--and there are plenty of the reptilian family in this part of Texas. If only I'd captured a picture of the nutria (think Rodent of Unusual Size) this Christmas, too!

Our Piano Tuner is a Prophet

Martin is cooking bacon and the smell is making me feel like disgracing myself. Truth is, I don't even really like eating bacon all that much--I have a piece once in a blue moon, especially if it's our friend, Mike's, thick-cut, peppered bacon from one of his happy pigs--but the smell! It makes me want to bite into everything, hoping for satisfaction.

The snow is piled a good foot outside in our window box. Today the kids were off school due to the snow, so we all lolled around in bed, happy and satisfied until Martin realized he must pay the piper. So we all rolled out, he rushed through breakfast, and went out to shovel the front walk. Two minutes and he's back in, yelling, "The piano tuner is here!"

Wha?
I was in my big red robe, had just poured milk into my cereal bowl and mixed cream into my coffee. Ah. I have no pride left, not even a little. Stripped the piano of its philodendron, music, lamps, and throw, welcomed the fellow at the door with a big grin that showed the world I love being all mussed up in a robe and opening the door to company.

And tune the piano he did, and showed the girls a DVD of his impressive show dog, and prayed for my uncle, and took my hand a gave me a word from God. The piano tuner, who three years ago on his first visit, seemed taciturn and silent, turns out to be this sometimes very talkative man who is also a prophet. He gave Martin a word from God last year at our annual tune-up but not me. So I was kind of happy he was giving me one this time, and curious--would he make some fabulous prophecy about fame and fortune?

Instead he said, "God says you're doing a really good job with the kids. Keep on doing that good work, and take a break when you need it."

Well! Not a bad word, all in all, kind of nice and encouraging, actually, since he'd been in our house all morning and listened to me interact with our three girls, plus two more, and one boy. I'd only raised my voice once when Elspeth went tromping through the house with snowy boots. Was that the break God was referring to through the piano tuner? That is, I should have taken one right then?

And the news for the evening is, we have run out of diapers. We are absolutely bereft of diapers until some good Samaritan stops by and drops off a little pack of Huggies. Bea's been peeing, in her clothes and in the potty, and thankfully, mostly in the latter.

The piano tuner forgot his galoshes, huge rubber affairs that sat in our hallway like two slouching men until he picked them up just before dinner. "You tried the piano yet?" he asked Martin.

Nope, not yet. My man is cooking us a pot of chili. Time for mama to have a little, God-ordained break. Yes, siree. It was prophesied, after all.

Mice and Other Small Things

Martin stole this line from me and sewed it into his fabulous poem, Proposal:

We must have a proliferation of pockets--
pockets for money and mice and other small things.
We all must give a little.

Martin loves dashes. I am fond of semicolons, and it is this sort of diversity that brings real spice to our marriage.

He also loves the song, "Dreams," by Fleetwood Mac, which he is strumming out on the guitar next to me here. This is his second time through; the first time was folky, but this time he's playing it with staccato notes and a bluesy flair: When-the-rain-washES-you-clean-you'll--KNo-ho.

Back to mice: my friend Michelle ma Belle went to to a big box pet store yesterday and, persuaded by her love for her adorable children with their angel faces and the salesperson, who assured Michelle that the mice were of the same sex and therefore would not produce more rodents in the privacy of wood shavings, she brought home two manmice.

Next day, and the boys have made urine that would sink a freighter, much, much urine. So Michelle M.B. does a little research on the big-box-pet-store site, and finds out:

NEVER, EVER BUY TWO MALE MICE, YA IDGIT. TWO MALE MICE WILL FIGHT AND PRODUCE ENDLESS STREAMS OF UGLY-SMELLING PEE TO MARK THEIR TERRITORY AND PROCLAIM DOMINANCE OVER THEIR SMALL BUT SIGNIFICANT REALM.

So Ma Belle calls the good old staff back at same pet store and repeats information gleaned from their website.

"Oh, we only have male mice here," they say. "We only carry males of everything. But there's a Female Big-box-pet-store up in Pittsburgh."

It turns out mice are returnable for twenty-some days. Maybe damaged or already-been-opened goods go to the snakes. . .in any case, M. M. B. was going to buy something reptilian or amphibian in the first place, but it turns out that those suckers are rather expensive.

All I can say is that I hope my girls, when they visit their friend's new female mice pair, are not smitten. I was forever turned off of rodents-as-pets when I walked into my bedroom as a child and saw Juliet eating Lady MacBeth and two other tiny pink, squealing hamster babies. Romeo was small and a coward; he just stood by and let it all happen.

Then there were the Russian hamsters who escaped and attacked my mother in the middle of night--amid her shrieks my father had to locate a thick winter glove to haul the crazy buggars away. Soon after, they escaped into the local park. Nobody knows how exactly they got so far from home, but perhaps it was in the same manner as when my little brother's goldfish slipped into a hole in the arboretum's frozen pond. My mother said, "I'm sure he'll be fine." She may have added something about the wild being an animal's natural habitat, and I think my brother was placated. At least he didn't have to clean the bowl anymore.

Your Assignment IS. . . .

On this grey day, I've written a column and a draft of a children's picture book text. Folded one load of laundry and look forward to another exciting basket of underwear, socks, and shirts. Eaten maybe four pieces of lemon tea cake. Kettle heats, as we speak, for more tea. Diapers changed, children dressed. I can't remember what I fed them for lunch because I didn't--Martin's dear mother gave them mac 'n cheese while I finished working.

In one way, Elspeth and I are very much alike.

Like her, I'm always craving excitement. A check, neatly tucked inside the acceptance letter in the mail, the envelope flap licked days ago by some bushy-browed or braided editor somewhere. Where did I get this sense for impending delight? Is it folded into my personality? Where's the next party, people? Where's the next new thing to happen? This is not a trait of an adult, I don't think, or not an especially good one when it feeds impatience and makes me want to shout out in church or nail somebody with a whipped cream pie.

Which I did. Last year. The pie, but not in church. Sometimes life needs refreshing, a little injection of the absurd, a little performance art. My pie-throwing was misunderstood by several people. But real artists have been misunderstood throughout history. Why do I live with my tongue in my cheek?

Today it looks like Wazoo Farm is past 32,000 visits. Thanks, all you who check up on me and the craziness. To celebrate this vague occasion, go do something absurd and interesting in: Five, four, three, two, one. Yahoo! Wazoo!

Autumn Weeds and Rodents

A few visions of autumn at Wazoo. . .no pictures of the colorful leaves (yet) but a child in a corn maze up at a creamery/farm. Here's my maze-partner, JM, who calls me "Aunt Kim" (isn't that fine?)--with her I wandered through stalks and learned that cows have four stomachs and a full-grown Holstein weighs far more than 950 pounds. . .

and then there's my favorite, cosmos, as happy as if it it were July. Cosmos never lets me down, probably because it is technically a weed. I love weeds. They don't make a big fuss about themselves; they're just happy to be alive.

And they're tenacious little suckers. This is also why I secretly love our groundhog, Grassy Sam, who has been with us many years now. Enormous rodent though he be, he found a way up to the table where we were housing Merry's prize pumpkin, beautifully orange and plump with a smooth skin. He ate a huge hole (seemed partial to the seeds) as he sat on our table. Thanks to visiting friend "Uncle Jeff" for the picture.
So we moved the pumpkin (we figured we could still carve part of it into a jack 'o lantern) to the front porch and. . .something else ate it. Possibly Rocky Raccoon found it there--he is a menace I could do without, since he is cheeky enough to come in the back door to our enclosed porch for our trash. Grassy Sam, I like to think, has better manners than this. For instance, he never molests our main garden, though he could; and we are fairly good natured about letting him roam about the back yard. I did shoo him away from the red raspberries one year, and as far as I can tell, he hasn't been back.
I figure, if you're going to be a rodent, you should be a big one. The poor and awful field mice have been fleeing the harvesters and I keep seeing their blackened carcasses around town, one in our driveway and another on a sidewalk. The Wazoo cats (none of whom I know by name, none of whom are friendly or seem to care about us, but who prowl around the garden like royalty) keep them at bay--we haven't had a mouse problem in the house for years. That may also be in thanks to Sammy the Snake and his prolific offspring.

It's a jungle out there, I tell you, but nothing like my friend, Tonya's country lands where she almost gets run down by cows in the night and then horses the next night and then has to pound a rabid 'possum on the head with a flashlight and bury him early the next morning. That is exactly why I am a townie--3/4 of an acre is pushing it for us, but really it's the perfect size to tuck flowers and herbs and trees in helter-skelter and have it be alright.

Okay, just one little leaf picture.

Our magnificent maple. She's almost bare and the sound of the wind through her crisp leaves seems from another world--I puzzled over it for a while the other day. Is it a rushing sound, or a whoosh--does it sound like the ocean or a thousand birds flying through the sky--and I've come to conclusion that it sounds just like a strong autumn wind blowing through hundreds of dried yellow maple leaves. I love that tree. She wouldn't nod at any of my metaphors. And so a rodent is a rodent, a weed is a weed, and a maple is a maple. And with those deep thoughts, lovlies, plus a picture of Elspea hard at work in the playhouse, I bid you goodnight.