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Health & Fitness

A Mouse in our Farmhouse

High Meadows Farm is the centerpiece to a collection of heartwarming stories that take place in this small New England town where good manners and treasured friendships never go out of style.

 

A deep freeze has settled over our meadow with sub-zero temperatures and record lows. The days are now spent warm and snug, tucked behind a bank of kitchen windows that look out over the meadow; windows that I insist be thoroughly cleaned each fall in preparation of these artic like days.

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          Andrus hates cleaning windows and approaches the task with all the drama of a martyr. As he rummages through the back shed for pails, rags and his extension latter, his rumblings can be heard clear across the meadow.

          “Don’t know why she insists on cleaning all the windows in the fall when later, the snow, sleet and winter grit are only going to dirty them up again.”

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          Of course, he knows why I insist on this annual ritual. When the sub-freezing temperatures force me to take shelter indoors, I want a clear view (void of streaks and spots) of the entire goings on at our High Meadows.

          He marches into the kitchen and fills a pail with warm water. “Where’s the vinegar at?” he grumbles, in case I don’t know how off-putting this annual ritual is to a man who would much rather be fixing fences or cleaning gutters. These he considers manly jobs.

          Meanwhile, the dogs, normally his constant companions due to his ability to root out woodchucks, squirrels and an occasional deer from their hiding place as he goes about mending things on the farm, eye him warily, safely hidden beneath the kitchen table.

          I point to the gallon container on the kitchen counter clearly visible to his right. He pours a liberal amount of white vinegar into the tin pail then heaves the pail out of the sink with a grunt and comes close to splashing water all over my clean kitchen floor. For just a second, I catch a look of uncertainty in those beautiful, blue eyes. Then, just as quickly, he regains his look of martyrdom as he retraces his steps across kitchen and out the back door. The wooden heavy screen door resounds with a sharp thud as it slams in his wake.

          I glance down at the floor I had scrubbed just 30 minutes before and sigh. Andrus’ thick rubber soled shoes have left chunks of dirt and crushed leaves across his path.

          I head towards the pantry for a mop and decide to serve leafy green spinach with supper. Andrus has an aversion to anything green. But to be fair, I know how much he hates to wash windows, especially on a house with 12 over 12 glass panes. So, I’ll also serve his favorite gingerbread with candied ginger and a touch of rum topped with thick, snowy white whipped cream.

         

Andrus and I are always amused when our city friends call to find we are not at home.

“Where were you all this time?” they asked astonished that we could find anything of interest to do in the country, especially during the winter months.

I’m sure they think that we languish away our days sipping hot chocolate, staring into a roaring fire and reading dime store novels. 

Country living is dictated by the seasons, none of which are spent idle.  In the spring there’s plenty to keep us busy as we clear away the winter’s debris, transplant delicate flowers into newly turned beds and setup our gardens.   Summers are for repairing fences, painting the out-buildings, weeding the gardens, caning and freezing bushels of fresh garden produce.

In the fall, we cut and stack firewood, clean out gutters, put up the storm windows, and generally get ready for winter. And in the winter, although there is less to do in the outdoors, there’s plenty to keep us busy inside.  The woodwork needs a good scrubbing and my sewing room is always in need of organizing. The cellar will be cleaned and some years given a fresh coat of whitewash which gives us a chance to closely inspect the fieldstone for chinks that make great entry points for snakes.

Seldom do we go a winter without painting a room. With three dogs and seven grandchildren I suppose we should be happy that only one needs to be painted at a time. Then, of course, this leads to making new curtains and designing a new quilt for the bed. I might also try to persuade Andrus to build me another bookcase for my bedroom, knowing that no matter how many he builds, I will run out of space and end up stacking books along the floor.

“Why don’t I just build you a library and slip a bed inside,” Andrus often quips.

The animals always need tending regardless of the time of year. Baths must be given, nails clipped and dogs let in and let out. With three, there always seems to be one stationed by the back door with a look of the utmost urgency in their eyes, or outside howling to be let in. There’s also a cat that must occasionally be rescued from under the dishwasher. 

Now these are the animals we have agreed to share our house with, but there are others, the interlopers.

No matter how hard Andrus works at sealing up our home against unwanted outside critters, we seldom make it through a winter without someone taking up residency. 

Harsh, New England winters often force field mice, flying squirrels and voles into homes. Although they can be a real nuisance especially when they decide to play field hockey between the floor joists with an acorn at two o’clock in the morning, or decide to gnaw on a tasty stud behind our bedroom wall, who can blame them for seeking refuge? Wouldn’t you wish to trade icy, cold woodlands for the comfort of a snug, warm, insulated house?    

But these charitable thoughts quickly vanish after several nights of sleep deprivation.  When one especially active critter kept us up to 3am for two consecutive nights, we decided that a call to our pest control man, Dale, was warranted.

Dale is a rare individual who truly loves his work. He sees his role as exterminator as a never-ending drama, the fight between nature and man.

Recently, he shared the tale of a clever raccoon. For weeks, a couple had been falsely accusing their teenage son and his friends for depleting their cereal supply and leaving the kitchen in shambles. Their enterprising son, not willing to accept the blame for something that he had not done, setup a video camera in the kitchen. Imagine the parents feeling of guilt when the tape revealed the real culprit. A clever raccoon was using the doggie-door to gain entry into the kitchen, and from what the tape reviled, the clever critter knew exactly where to find the cereal cabinet.

I told Dale he should write a book.

“Maybe I will”, he said.

But this morning, Dale marches right downstairs with just a wave of his hand. Dale is like a detective and is eager to scout out any clues that might be lying about which will reveal the genesis of our intruders. 

As I measure coffee beans and take Andrus’s favorite coffee cake out of the oven. (Take a box of Duncan Hine’s yellow cake mix. Make according to directions. Grease a jelly roll pan and evenly spread out the batter. Bake for 20-25 minutes or until just a little undercooked.  While this bakes, melt 2 sticks of butter. To this add 1 cup of sugar, 2 cups of flour and 4 teaspoons of cinnamon. Refrigerate. Five minutes before the cake is done, take a fork and rake it across this mixture to make crumbs. Spread on top of cake and return to oven for 5 minutes.  Let cool. Sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar.)

As the smell of cinnamon fills the kitchen, Dale and Andrus pound up the cellar stairs and out into the yard. While waiting for the cake to cool, I wash the baking bowls, watching out the window above my sink as Andrus fetches the tall ladder out from the shed and then helps Dale steady it against the house.

They shout short, staccato sentences at each other which I can’t seem to make out.  I lean over the sink to get a better view through the window. The three shepherds have gathered at the base of the ladder. Within minutes the dogs and Andrus have their heads tilted skywards, watching Dale poke around by the gutters.

I place the last bowl on the drain-board as Dale clamors down the ladder, the metal hits the clapboard in a rapid, gun-fire series of raps as he pounces down, setting the house to vibrate. Before reaching the last step, Dale shouts for Wolfgang to find his ball. Dale is one of Wolfgang’s favorite friends. And while the dogs all follow in hot pursuit, the men make their way back inside the house, pausing by the thick mat outside the kitchen door to wipe their feet, a courtesy, I am certain, made more earnest because I am standing at the kitchen sink.

They wash their hands before settling around the kitchen table for a cup of piping, hot coffee and a piece of warm coffee cake. I cut several extra pieces and place them on an ironstone platter. I know requests for second helpings will be forthcoming.

 “It’s mice,” Dale says, pouring a liberal amount of heavy cream into his coffee. I watched with envy mindful of my cholesterol.  I drink mine black.

“I’d say from the looks of the droppings you’ve got a couple dozen living inside the walls.”

“Maybe we should get some more cats?”  I suggested.

Andrus has a one cat limit and rolls his eyes at my suggestion.

“It’s more humane than using poison,” I insist.

“Yes, I can see how being eaten can be construed as more humane than then being poison,” Andrus counters.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. 

How can it be mice?  I want to know. Andrus had set a dozen mousetraps all around the basement this fall and never once has one been sprung.

Dale plops the last crumb of coffee cake into his mouth, pushes it to one side with his tongue and says, “That’s because he didn’t put them in the right places. I’ll put out some bait before I leave. They’ll be gone in a few days.”

This seems too simple. “How do you know which are the right places?”

Dale leans back in his chair and smiles.  “I know because I think like a mouse.”

How could I dispute that?

That morning Dale baited the cellar. We were mouse free for the rest of the winter.

 

 

Copyright©2014 Katherine Valentine

 

Katherine Valentine is an Award Winning Author whose novels center on the charm of small town living. To learn more about Katherine and to be placed on her mailing list, visit: www.katherinevalentine.com. And check out High Meadows  on Facebook.  Do you know anyone in need of a cozy read? Then please share this charming, feel-good new series with others.

 





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