Ann's Blog
West Deptford, New Jersey:
February 28, 2010
Mice ate my headdress
I’m in New Jersey, visiting my 89-year-old dad, and my brother Marty (who lives nearby) and I have our work cut out for us this sunny Sunday. Dad lives in a retirement community that was carved out of southern NJ countryside less than a decade ago. The weather this winter has been surprisingly cold – which is probably why the local field mice decided to move into his garage for the first time in the six years Dad has lived in this house.
Struck gold: Before the mice attacked
We’re not talking a small family of mice: This was a major relocation of an entire city of mice to snug winter quarters, which the owners had generously (and, yes, stupidly) stocked with food: a big container of bird seed for the feeders on the patio. Professionals had to be called in, and now Marty, Judy (Dad’s caregiver), and I have to clean up the aftermath. The critters had also constructed many nests – using building materials the owners had also thoughtfully provided. Plastic bags shredded. Canvas duffels chewed. Lawn chairs attacked. A bag of Mom’s cookbooks (stored in the garage after she died a couple of years ago) sadly nibbled to bits. And everything liberally anointed with mouse droppings.
Struck with the blues:
After the invasion
Amidst all the detritus, there is a surprising amount of yellow fluff. I assume Steve has stored some of his fly-tying materials in the garage, which is often a way-station for things we no longer have room for on Receta. Alas, as I probe deeper into the stuff piled on the shelves, I discover the real source. My gorgeous, glamorous, full of memories Trinidad Carnival headdress – making a brief stop in Dad’s garage before moving to our Toronto condo, where I planned to hang it as a piece of art – has been chewed ragged on one side, and its long glorious yellow feathers entirely reduced to short nubbins on the other. The cookbooks and the crowning glory of my Carnival costume? I’m outraged.
But if you’re given lemons, make lemonade. A gloved flip through the bag of cookbooks before they’re added to the trash reveals they weren’t Mom’s (or my) favorites, and thus have little sentimental value. Whew. And I know I said playing pretty mas in a Carnival band was a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me – but now I’ve been handed the perfect excuse to do it again. Thanks, mice. I can hardly wait.
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