Say Cheese!

Being a relatively peaceable person, I am not prone to bouts of murderous desire first thing in the morning. Nevertheless, early in the morning the other morning, before it was even light out, I stumbled into the kitchen and found a mouse running around in the sink. Oh great, I thought. Here it is, six in the morning, I just woke up, and now I have to kill a mouse.

My sink is pretty deep, and there were a few dishes scattered around in it, so with the mouse hiding under a tupperware container, I proceeded to prepare Lewis's morning meal and ponder my options.

A friend of mine had only recently brought to my attention the recent outbreak of hantavirus associated with Yosemite National Park. Having simply driven through Yosemite five months prior, I figured there was little risk of me having contracted this deer mouse-born disease. However, some light research tipped me off to the fact that apparently the majority of hantavirus cases occur from mice in the home. My decision was clear: the mouse would have to die.

Just then, the mouse whom I mistakenly assumed was "stuck" in the sink, levitated from his confinement and scurried behind the toaster oven. Mouse in the sink: well contained, accompanied by my knowledge of its whereabouts. Mouse behind the toaster oven: one mad dash away from a nebulous hiding place only known by rodents. I had to act.

Grabbing a handy tupperware, I moved the toaster oven away from the wall. The mouse faked left. I blocked it with my hand. It ran right. I tried to cover it with the tupperware. It broke left and slipped past my hand, across the back of the sink, and hid behind the radio. I pulled the radio out. The mouse stared at me. I hazed it from the left. As is broke right, I brought the tupperware down over it.

It jumped and squeaked. My heart melted. Thinking only of the fear in the rapidly beating heart of my little hantavirus-infested visitor, I slid him off the counter with the tupperware onto a magazine, trapping him inside.

Maybe some other day I will wake up with murderous thoughts on my mind. Maybe future rodents should quiver in fear because of my wrath. As for this mouse, I carried him out to the alley behind the house. Setting him free, he squeaked and ran under the neighbor's garage wall. I hope he's grateful. And that he keeps his mouse diseases to himself.

We Built a Barn

Being the younger sister and growing up in the woods with no other kids around, I pretty much went along with every scheme my older brother cooked up. Set up a lemonade stand in the middle of the forest and then wonder why no one is buying? Sure, no problem! Stand in front of him like a target while he hits a golf ball full force into my stomach, then writhe around on the ground, gasping for air? Count me in! Fill a five gallon bucket full of bricks, string it up in an oak tree, then tie a trip wire to my toe at night so I can wake up and release the bucket to fall on the head of potential intruders? Where do I sign up?!

Now that we are adults, we get to undertake more mature projects. Projects involving power tools. Projects where we could die if one of us, namely me, does not know what she is doing. The latest endeavor . . .

Indeed, we built a barn.

Having essentially zero construction experience, barn building provided an opportunity for me to try a multitude of new things. For instance, I have successfully lived through walking along the 1.5 inch side of a 2x4 while balancing on the side of a roof. Standing on the top rung of an 8 foot ladder, I lifted one end of a 150 pound truss up onto the top of one of the barn walls. I have somehow managed to maneuver a 16 foot extension ladder from the front to the back of the barn, set it up, climb up and down it, and paint the barn without falling off the ladder. I have experienced the exhilaration of hanging out of the hay loft door, holding onto the inside truss with one hand while painting with the other. Working with a number of saws, I can now indeed cut a board at 34 and 15/16 inches, and thus far I still have all my fingers. And when I nail T-111 siding, I can say that most of the nails hit the studs.

I have crouched, crept, crawled, climbed, lifted, cut, hammered, drilled, nailgunned, caulked, and painted my way through this experience, all at the behest of my brother, who believes I have the ability to do anything. And sure enough, I know how to do a lot more now than I did before this project.

Next on the list, whole house building. Considering the journey so far, I can just see us now, each balancing an end of a 40 foot beam on our shoulders, the cross piece for the top of the trusses. Climbing up extension ladders, rung by shaky rung, we will eventually place the beam in place, hold our breaths while we nail it, hoping it doesn't fall. Then we can sit back and chuckle to ourselves, thinking, we built a house . . .

The Flying Cow

Ah, rodeo. That timeless experience where grown men in tight jeans show us what they are made of. Leaping off horses at full speed, they wrestle steers to the ground. They ride bucking horses and bulls, risking their lives, their limbs, their ability to father children . . . But nothing can capture the imagination of the multitudes like the age-old sport of cow milking.

My understanding of the history of rodeo is that it evolved from the days when ranchers would get together in the spring, breaking young horses, branding cattle, moving cattle from one feeding ground to another. So theoretically, most of the sports one watches during a rodeo have a relatively strong tie to those cowboying days of yore.

For the life of me, however, I can not grasp the purpose of cow milking. For those unfamiliar with the sport, a cow runs out of a chute, at which point a cowboy on a horse chases her down and ropes her around the neck from horseback and forces the cow to stop running. Now a large guy resembling a football linebacker runs out to the roped cow and pounces on her head, presumably to hold her still. The cowboy on horseback then leaps off of his horse, runs up to the cow, and grabbing an available teet, squirts some milk into a bottle. The clock doesn't stop until the cow is free from the rope and the cowboy has run to the judges to present his bottle of milk.

I will confess I know nothing about cows. Perhaps dairy acquisition is a hurried event. However, I always thought that a rushed cow was a kicking cow.

To illustrate my point, just today a cow in the cow milking event had other plans. Surely her head was filled with pastoral visions of lazily munching hay while her milk is being squirted into a bucket, sans rope around her neck and football linebacker holding onto her head.

She ran from the chute. The cowboy chased her down on his horse. He threw his rope. The loop sailed around her head and shoulders as she jumped through its opening like a circus performer. Feeling the rope tighten around her middle, she conjured every image she ever had of being a peaceful dairy cow, solidifying her dream in her head. The gate loomed close . . . And she leaped. Clearing the five and a half foot gate, she trotted smugly toward her heard. No speed milking today boys, she chuckled to herself. Quietly she started munching hay.

Bugging You

Just tonight I was walking Lewis amidst groups of bats flitting two and fro through the dusky night sky. Coming upon the "swimming hole" (euphemism for a slow part in the river, dammed and filled with mosquito larvae), many bats skimmed the surface. Repeatedly they skimmed and circled, skimmed and circled, presumably consuming some kind of gnat hovering just about the still water.

While Lewis fearlessly plunged into the water, bats barely missing him as they swooped by, I kept my distance, covering my mouth and hoping my hair was sufficiently plastered to my head in a such a way as not to snare a bat if one were to swish by my head.

In spite of my half-hearted attempts to protect myself from a bat entering an orifice or getting stuck in my hair, I would not have been surprised had one ran into me. After all, I'm decent sized in comparison to a bat. And there were lots of bats. And though they have their little sonar thing going, they have been known to run into things. This diatribe is leading somewhere, so please only remember this: it would have been understandable if a bat had run into me.

There are other times when I can be walking along on a warm summer evening, and I see a rather large swarm of gnat-like things hovering around in a group. Logic would serve that if I walk into that group of gnats, I may get a gnat on me. I may inhale a gnat. A gnat may go up my nose.

I Walla Walla, when school starts in early fall, these curious bugs with blue fuzz on their butts start to fly all over the place. As a friend of mine once learned during blue-butted bug season: ride your bike in a swarm of blue-butted bugs, spend 20 minutes picking blue-butted bugs off your sweatshirt.

And . . . this is the grand finale. If there is a large group of something and you walk into it, you may physically encounter at least one element of that group. But this is my question of the night. Why, when I am out mowing the lawn, does one single, solitary gnat or little fly or something fly around in front of my face the entire time? Out of the infinity of atmosphere this one bug could inhabit, it chooses to inhabit the two inches in front of my face. For an extended period of time. No matter how much I try to wave it away. Forever will I be confused by this phenomenon.

Beware the Cervidae

My small town, located precisely in the middle of nowhere, is quite the sanctuary for roving deer. (I also think the deer are aware that one cannot discharge a firearm within city limits, so they take sanctuary. Plus there are an abundance of gardens for them to graze on. Bright little Cervidea). On any given day while walking down the sidewalk, I may either be joined or gawked at by large groups of deer. By large, I mean up to 7-ish. Maybe.

While this is not a number to rival herds of wild horses or the often raved about groups of shaggy buffalo who used to rove across the Montana plains like swarms of locusts, you must remember that I am only one person. Seven deer. One person. Bad odds.

I bring this up because deer on the outside are serene. They munch on grass. They spring around on cute little cloven hooves. They stare at you with doe eyes. . .

Lest anyone be whiled by their charms, please do not forget When Wild Animals Attack. Those pointy little antlers and hooves, once dainty while seen springy across a field, take on a whole new meaning when stuck in your eye.

Don't get me wrong, I do not live in fear of our deer. I like seeing the doe with her babies walk down the sidewalk in front of my house every morning. I just like seeing them from the other side of a locked door.

It's my understanding that male deer, otherwise known as bucks, will attack without provocation, particularly during October-December, their months of rut. 

I do remember walking on a cold fall day around dusk a couple of years ago. There was a small buck in a field, at least a hundred feet away. Stopping to admire his beauty, my mind told me, ah, what a beautiful deer. Look at him standing proudly in that field.

Just then the deer stomped his foot. I got a nervous look in my eye. The deer snorted. I tensed. The deer took a step in my direction. . . . Thinking only of imminent puncture wounds, I fled the scene, and I now have a healthy respect for our deer.

Sagebrush Roads

Above, you will see my most recent acquisition. Having ridden dirt bikes in the past, I had some nostalgic recollection of the activity. But as seems to be the way with most things of late, experiencing this activity in my thirties has opened my eyes to a new and better understanding of the joys of dirt biking.

First off, there is quite a sense of freedom going out, firing up my own bike (that I can actually get kick-started with minimal effort), and riding off into the sagebrush.

After purchasing this bike, I was a little timid on my first ride, trying to force the bike to do what I wanted. Recently, however, I have been trusting it more. Instead of fighting where to bike wants to go, I go with it, trusting in the off-road tires to manage to terrain. And after that . . . I started having fun.

Riding this bike out on the open plains, wind whipping by, surrounded by nothing but nothing. . . I highly recommend it.

The Gift of Adversity

We've all heard it before, something about a piece of sand, an oyster, and a pearl. Or there are those perseverance motivational posters, which of course make me NOT want to persevere just because the posters are so darn upbeat.

But there is something about being a little older and wiser than I once was that is causing me to understand that many of these vague tidbits of philosophy are actually true.

I remember being in junior high, and there was some class where the teacher was talking about the difference between eustress and distress. Eustress being the type of stress that causes a positive response. In our sand and oyster scenario, I suppose this would be the bit of sand that turns into a pearl as opposed to distress, which would be like the oyster getting sandblasted. Probably no pearls there.

What I'm getting at here though, is that I'm starting to experience this concept and actually be able to cognitively reflect on it. Not that my life is particularly adversarial or anything. I'm just saying that I see a more diligent side to me when I am faced with some kind of stressor.

Busy day at work: more gets accomplished in a more diligent and efficient manor. Slow day at work: eh, I can do that later . . .

Perhaps everyone else is ahead of me on this one, so I apologize if I am stating the obvious. It's just that I've been a lot more aware of my pieces of sand that have become pearls.