Another squirrel story for the books

When my dad found a smashed tomato in the bottom of his fishing boat I knew my latest war with the red squirrel would go public.

I was helping Dad winterize the boat and everything was just fine until he held up that oozing remnant of tomato and said, “How did this get in here?”

I swallowed hard and did a fast analysis of what fib I could reply with.

a)   I don’t know

b)   I dropped it while delivering tomatoes by boat to a neighbor

c)    The fish I caught while on the lake had the tomato in its mouth

The stupidest reply of all was the truth.

“I was throwing tomatoes at a red squirrel,” I said, and then waited for a lecture on wasting a good vegetable.

My dad is the greatest. He just looked at me and laughed.

The squirrel and I have had it in for each other for years. In fact I think the opportunistic rodent has been featured in more of my columns than any other creature with a heartbeat, including humans.

The red squirrel weighs about the same as the half block of cheddar cheese in my fridge. I am amazed that all 250g of the little bugger believes and defends a year-round attitude of exclusive territorial rights to property here that he does not own.

Once upon a time my nemesis shredded the insoles of and stuffed his pinecones into the wrong person’s boots--and ever since I found said boots in said condition some two or three winters ago, I’ve had it in for the squirrel.

I’ve come face to face with the beady-eyed varmint on multiple occasions inside my garage; poking its head out of the wicker basket it was shredding my boot insoles into and giving me a look of rodent contempt, to having a near mid-air engagement with the little sucker as it leapt off the garage shelving and flew by me in a race for the open door.

I have obsessed and fumed about the squirrel all day while at work; about ways to sneak up on it, traps I could set for it, and how I could repatriate the fur ball to the other side of the creek with my slingshot.

And then after making it nearly impossible for the squirrel to get into my garage, I found him climbing into a hole in the old wooden soffit where I’m sure he was making a winter home out of the down of the sleeping bag I left airing on the picnic table last week (no Dad, not your sleeping bag.)

I was sorting through the wheelbarrow full of tomatoes I had just plucked from the vines in the garden when I saw the varmint race up the garage siding and into that hole.

When I moved in for a closer look, the hairy little beast did a 360 in the hole and stared down at me in another territorial standoff.

Then I threw the first tomato.

By the time all was said and done, I’d thrown three tomatoes into the soffit hole, two more across the roof of the garage when the rodent made a run for it (including the rotten tomato that rolled off into boat), and at least four more projectile veggies into high tops of the trees where the squirrel sat unscathed and scolding me.

I’ve said it before and I said it again, shaking my finger at the squirrel and giving it a piece of my mind, “I would trade dealing with you for cleaning up copious amounts of cat barf.”

I think the cat and the squirrel are in cahoots with each other. Later that evening when I walked into my bedroom, there it was—copious amount of cat barf all over my brand new reading chair. Ewww.

No word of a lie.

A cranky turn out of pet peeves

Although I treasure a patient, intentional path in my life’s journey, I am reminded that sometimes I am an anomaly to that virtue.

Sometimes I fly by the seat of my pants when it comes to my mood.

Granted I made the choice to ingest far more caffeine than I usually do on this, the “Writing Eve.” In fact I hardly ever drink coffee after 7 a.m.

Three cups, maybe four, of heavily heaped “Black Silk” into the coffee maker at 5:30 p.m. have since become both my “glass of wine and whiskey” as the song “Honeybee” by Blake Shelton (now playing on Songza) spells out. 

Sure, I could blame my pet peeve mood on the java, but that would be stupid.

I woke up this way, so I’ll go so far as to say that I must need to let off some literary steam.

First of all; if you pass by me at a grocery store check out and get my attention by saying “Hi Beth, how are you?” and then walk away and out the door—big pet peeve. 

If I wasn’t already wearing my “insignificant cap,” I certainly was after that brief and disinterested question period.

I pet peeve people too quick to respond and less likely to listen (which leads me back to Pet Peeve #1) and those hell bent on sharing what they think is a similar situational story from their life instead of just keeping their ears open.

I pet peeve parents who use threats of abandonment to the vehicle in the grocery store parking lot for children who, if they don’t behave, will be set there to wait alone. I think that threat of punishment should be outlawed. I do realize that most parents never actually follow through with this archaic garbage. I still believe it is wrong to lead a child to believe it would happen.

I further pet peeve couples that are rude to each other in public. Shame on you for your disrespect. If you cannot manage to honor your partner in a public setting, it’s time to get to the heart of the matter before your next trip out together to buy something for the life you share.

I pet peeve simple things like October days too short to get my “to do” list finished or days too quick to the cold to find that certain wool sweater I tucked away last spring.

Most of all, I pet peeve the global giants of media for sending us disparaging messages of illness, disease, and warfare as the top stories in the gentle waking hour of the day.

But what do I know. I’m just an ordinary gal who woke up cranky and drank too much caffeine too late in the day.

Better luck next time.

The important stuff I didn't know

Lisa Kogan doesn’t know how to do algebra and neither do I. As soon as it was acceptable to drop math class in high school I ran screaming with joy down the hallway to English class. 

Math remains one of my weakest skills—unless of course I’m figuring out how many days are left before payday or calculating how long it will be before the bag of chips I just ate migrates to my hips.

Kogan, who is the writer-at-large for “O,” The Oprah Magazine also penned that she doesn’t know how to iron pleats. That I do know how to do and I learned it eons ago as a kid when ironing was one of my weekend chores.

I loathed ironing but I did it anyway because I was told to and because it was one of the ways to earn my allowance. But I cannot remember the last time I ironed anything in the last four decades. In fact I would rather find a wolf spider in my washing machine than have to iron. Well, maybe not.

I know how to make fabulous homemade pizza, beef stew, and chicken soup medicinal enough in vegetables to kill any virus within 100 miles.

I know how to whistle pretty well, accept a compliment with “thank you” even if I don’t believe it, and interact at a party consisting of more than eight people. 

I do not know how to kill a lobster but I can make short order of a troublesome skunk or a gopher and I’m a sure shot for the bulls eye on a target. (And yes, I legally hold the licenses required for the varmint and target practice.)

I know how to use a level and how to check the oil in my car engine. I know how to build rock gardens and pathways, teach computer lessons, write well, paint, and I have a very good eye for interior decorating.

I know a thing or two about sailing and how to build an outhouse. I can spell just about anything correctly the first time and I know that good sleep is the most important factor in determining health. This I know for sure.

Kogan said she knows this one little thing about men with crystal clarity; she knows what she likes. Me too.

I can sew and hem and I know how to crosshatch.

And I memorize license plates of people I know. That’s how I roll.

I know Greek mythology and I know how to restore old photographs.

I know how to canoe and I could survive by myself in the bush without amenities.

I know how to snowshoe and skate and drive a lawn tractor and a standard vehicle. I can lay carpeting, use a “Sawzall, ” and I know how to build a great bonfire.

Yet, despite all that I know how to do, I didn’t know until a week ago just how fantastic and fearless my father’s attitude is. He showed me what it means to have zest for life.

And little did I know he even has a bucket list for when, in 11 years, he turns 99. 

Here’s to you, Dad. The best is yet to come.

Outhouse and spider share spotlight

Never in a million years did I think I would call an outhouse with a roof and walls “deluxe.” 

But having sat on a makeshift “box” out in the open in the middle of the bush on a very cold fall day where anything with eyes can see me “do my do’s,” gives me license to tout luxury in the upgrade taking shape in the wilderness camp where I spend some of my time.

Some would say I need to get out more, but I can hardly wait to have to use the “loo” and be able to go in and shut the door and latch it. It will be akin to a “Calgon take me away” moment.

The next “middle of nowhere” triumph for “Little Miss Pioneer” will be getting from the wall tent to the deluxe relief station at night without summoning all the carnivorous night creatures merely by my sheer fright of the “black as the inside of a cow” darkness of the forest.

To paraphrase a saying I read once; “I may not be a great warrior, but I still need courage. Sometimes it takes more courage to do the ordinary things in life (like getting to the outhouse in the dark) than it does to walk to the door of the airplane and jump.”

Uh huh.

A close second to the courage it takes for my dark walk would be looking in my washing machine and finding a full grown wolf spider inside and trying to figure out how to get it out. 

I usually run my hand around the bottom of the agitator to check for bobby pins and other pencil-thin projectiles headed for collision with the gears in the washing machine motor before throwing my clothes in.

Thankfully that day I didn’t stick my fingers down there and connect them with the fangs of that big spider.

I shut the lid and ran upstairs and washed a sink of dishes while I pondered my next move.

Insecticide! A big grin reshaped my face. 

I grabbed the spray can and went back to the washing machine, lifted the lid, let it rip, dropped the lid, ran in a panic back up to the kitchen and dried the dishes, pondering my next move.

10-15 minutes passed and I was sure the tarantula’s cousin had succumbed to the near full can of chemical spray I had emptied like a pistol into the guts of the washing machine.

Wearing elbow-length rubber gloves and carrying a big stick, I gingerly opened the lid and nudged the hairy thing. It moved, I squealed and ran back upstairs for a long pair of barbecue tongs.

With a pail of water at the ready, I summoned all my courage and that of my ancestors and picked out the wicked, wiggling creature and plopped it into the pail and carried it outside, where I learned quickly in the light of the sunshine that I would rather walk to the outhouse 10 times in the dark without a head lamp than find one of those arachnids in my washing machine again.

Jumping out of an airplane? Piece of cake.