By Cathi Gerhard and friends
Over the holiday break, I was sitting at my desk working on the planning stages for this issue. Greg and Elizabeth were at work, and Robert was visiting his father: it was just me and the cats, while Bianca was having a winter run outside. All was quiet and peaceful except for the rat-a-tap-tap of my keyboard. I love days like this, especially in the winter when there’s no guilt about staying inside all day.
Typically these days begin about 5:45 am, and I work until after noon or one o’clock, with a cat or two circling to check on me a few times or birdwatch in the bay window next to my chair. This was a particularly productive day, until the relaxing silence was shattered by sudden terrifying screams and squeaks I couldn’t identify at first. In shock, I got up and walked around to the front of my desk and saw two cats: Winry Hughes with her paws inside Greg’s shoe; and Magic, the small black cat looking on from a short distance in the hall. Jim, of course, was nowhere near because he prefers his 16-18 hours of daytime beauty rest upstairs in one of our beds.
I quickly realized what was happening: the cats had cornered one of the field mice who often find their way into our old farmhouse, especially during the cold winter. I understand the need to control the rodent population around the farm. The cats and dogs do a superb job. But inside the house, images of Beatrix Potter characters quickly come to mind, and I cannot bear to face the truth and horror of nature’s order. So I scooped up the shoe and dumped its screaming contents outside onto the patio into a drift of snow. Too late to change my mind, I watched as the mouse fell to the ground – and so did one of the barn cats who likes to hang out by the back door, his head making an arching bob from shoe to snow. I turned my head to avoid the carnage sure to ensue, and went back inside. Winry and Magic were still looking around the pile of shoes. I sat back down at my desk and started to think about mice and cats and their eternal battle.
Here are few more stories about mice down on the farm, written by some LMP readers . . .
The Great Cranberry Famine of 1938
by Floyd Mauer
Actually, it wasn’t wide-spread, and might not even qualify as a ‘famine’ by a strict definition of the word, but it did have an impact on the families living in the little hamlet of Bloomville, NY — especially on those who shopped at E.M. Powell’s General Store on Main Street. Our Thanksgiving menu had been built around cranberry sauce since the time of the Pilgrims and it was a recurring feature of the Christmas menu as well, but in 1938 few of us living in Bloomville found any of it on the table.
The absence of cranberries wasn’t due to a widespread failure of the crop in Maine. In fact, it had been a good year. The farmers had been up to their hips in the bogs for well over a month, and had shipped their product all over the country in the traditional wooden crates that held a half bushel each. Mr. Powell had received his shipment right on time. He took the lid off the box and displayed it on the bottom shelf near the wood stove where folks warmed themselves while waiting for their orders to be filled. He was counting on picking up a few orders from folks who hadn’t remembered to write ‘cranberries’ on their list and needed a reminder.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed the display. As I’ve told my children a dozen times, we didn’t have school buses in those days. It was three miles to the school in Bloomville, and if you didn’t want to walk, you got a ride on the milk truck that hauled the day’s milk to the Sheffield Creamery in Bloomville. There was one problem we had to live with. The deadline for getting the milk to the creamery was 8:00 a.m. and the school didn’t open until 9:00. While the weather was fine, we would hang out around the school yard. The boys would toss a ball, and the girls would sit around and giggle.
When the weather turned cold, as it always did by the first week in November, we looked for shelter. That meant Powell’s store, and Mr. Powell accepted us rather grudgingly. He had to if he wanted to continue to do business with our parents. I was there with a half dozen of my classmates, and we all agreed on what we witnessed that morning in 1938.
Mr. Powell had a cat — an ugly old tom cat that he kept around to prevent the rodents from taking over the cracker barrel. When he wasn’t chasing the rats and mice, old Tom would hang out in a cozy spot under the stove; but on this morning, he woke up, stretched a bit and got to his feet. He yawned a couple of times and then walked over to the shelf where the cranberries were displayed. While we watched in amazement, he climbed into the box with the cranberries and started to dig a little hole. We were all farm boys, and knew exactly what he was doing! It was all over in a few seconds. We didn’t say a thing to Mr. Powell, but we said plenty to everybody else we met. In less than twenty four hours, there was a precipitous decline in the demand for cranberries, and it lasted for at least a year. I don’t know if Mr. Powell ever figured out why his stock didn’t move. Rob Maxon, the other storekeeper in Bloomville reported that business had never been better.
Famine is defined as an extreme and general scarcity of food, but in this case, the food was there, but nobody had any appetite. Is there a word for that? How about anorexia profunditas?
“Mice” by Rose Fyleman, 1932
Now a children’s book illustrated by Caldecott Honor medalist Lois Ehlert, Beach Lane Books, October 2012, amazon.com
I think mice
Are rather nice.
Their tails are long
Their faces small,
They haven’t any
Chins at all
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white
They run about
The house at night
They nibble things
They shouldn’t touch
And no one seems
To like them much.
But I think Mice
Are rather nice.
by Dr. Nancy Mauer
I have taken many views on mice. Mouse was my childhood nickname.
My brother and I rescued a trio of “pinkies” from a junk car when I was about eight. Surprisingly, our parents let us keep them, and we were successful at feeding them with an eyedropper. We named them Mustang, Torino, and Pinto. We transported them across state lines from our Grandfather’s farm to “return them to the wild” in our Maryland back yard.
Family friends had a hunting camp where we spent occasional weekends. One morning I had noticed a mouse nest in the cookstove. I warned the others about it. My friend’s mother assured me, as she struck a match, that it would burn up before she put breakfast in the oven. They had taken the view that the mice spent much more time at the cabin than they did, and seemed to peacefully coexist.
In my college years, I took a course on animal ethics. Considerable time was spent discussing rodent control, what is humane, and what is not. Consequently I have tried hard to keep the habitat that is my home unattractive to invading rodents (not easy when one has pets!). An old farmhouse I rented had a mud room in the entryway where I kept a bowl of dry food for my dog to help herself. Every morning there was a piece of kibble balancing on the baseboard above the bowl. After the third morning it seemed too coincidental that it rested there so precisely. On investigation I found a mouse hole, less than a half inch in diameter. The mouse fit through, but alas, his bounty did not. I have occasionally pondered whether he pulled or pushed trying to jam it through the hole, and wondered that his problem-solving skills did not extend to enlarging the hole or nibbling the pellet until it would fit.
Recently I was addressing my attic work room, where stalled hobbies languish for years at a time. I took a few minutes to review viruses that can be contracted from cleaning up mouse infestations, but since I’d never heard of a case of Hantavirus in Western Pennsylvania, I rolled up my sleeves and delved into the corners. At the back of a drawer I found a nest. Mostly paper, but luxuriously lined with soft green fibers that had originated from a bolt of velveteen I had inherited from my mother. She had intended to use it for interior decorating. I guess the mice were just fulfilling her dream on their scale. Score one for them! Indeed they had left other evidence of their presence throughout the cupboard; the rainbow of colors in a box of crayons comes through the mouse largely unchanged!
One Winter I worked at an aquarium. We had a wide variety of commercial feeds for the animals in the collection. Fish diet comes in varieties that sink, varieties that float, and sizes from twenty-grit to buckshot. Mice are not nearly as picky as fish, they loved it all. The bags of fish feed were stored on shelves, and I learned to expect that a thirty pound bag coming off the overhead shelf would often be accompanied by a shower of fleeing mice and spillage of fish food that was broadcast far and wide to entice the next wave of invaders. We rallied behind old “Mr. Jinx,” sounding the battle cry “I hate meeces to pieces!