The Sweet and Slightly Tragic Tale of Two Small Girls and a Couple of Very Tiny Mice

I have a friend who has encouraged me repetitively to post my family stories on my blog rather than only on facebook.  There are many of you facebook friends, therefore who may have seen this story.  So if you don't want to read the extended play version, just don't click on the link, OK?  And from now on, you may see more and more of such facebook stories repeated here.  And perhaps even an old one or two excavated from the deep, dark depths of facebook history.

As I was sitting around today doing nothing (as most moms do all day, you know) Inge and Donna came running inside. Inge's little hands were cupped closed together as if they held an exotic treasure.

Donna yelled, "We found a baby mouse.  Inge caught it!"

Joe happened to also be sitting around doing nothing.  In all truth just prior to this episode, he and I had been engaged in a rare adult conversation.  It turned out to be short-lived, to be co-opted by a more interesting adventure.

Joe called Inge over and peeked into her little cupped hands.  Yes, within was indeed a baby mouse.  Joe got Inge a small bucket into which she gently and carefully set her tiny friend.

"Will it get away?" she asked her dad.

"No, I don't think it will be able to climb the sides of the bucket.  They are too slippery, and he is too little."

They watched if for awhile. 

"Do you want to see it, Mama?"

"Mmmm.  I'd like nothing more," is the sarcastic response that flitted briefly through my mind.  But since I'm such a good mom, what came out of my mouth sounded more like, "Oh, sure.  Cute!  That is so cool."

And it was cool.  It was a very little mouse, about an inch around and perhaps just a tad longer.  Just a little round bundle of gray fur, really.  With two sparkly eyes and two teeny round ears.  And a little slip of a black tail, also about an inch long.  I have to admit, he really was quite cute.

"I can't believe you girls caught a mouse.  How did you do it."

"The cat had it first.  He was catching it in his mouth, and then throwing it, and catching it again," they explained.

"Mm-hm."

Joe watched them with the baby mouse for awhile, and told them to be sure to wash with soap and water after playing with it.  Joe suspected that perhaps it had a punctured lung, since he could hear a strange clicking noise when it breathed. 

Pretty soon Joe left us to go to his church office.  A few minutes later he came back with a little covered dish in which was another baby mouse.  Funny isn't it, how the Inge can catch one with her hands, but Daddy has to use a little dish?

"Daddy, Daddy, how did you catch one?  Where did you get it?  Why did you bring another one in?"  were some of the questions cascading from the two girls, as they hopped up and down in excitement.

"The cat had this one, too," Joe explained.  "If we keep taking away any that he finds, he'll keep finding more of them, and maybe he'll eventually get the whole nest.  That's why we have a cat, you know, to kill the mice for us.  He's earned his keep today.  So you can't keep the mice, understand?  We will have to kill them.  But you can watch them for a little while longer."

As the afternoon progressed, the little girls were in and out of the living room where the mice were dwelling in the tenuous security of their bucket home.  Inge and Donna came and went, checking on and watching the baby mice.  And then whoosh, away again, off to play elsewhere for awhile.  In and out, each in its turn, as afternoon hours slipped by.

At one point, Inge was dancing with the bucket of mice, swinging it back and forth, while singing a little song.  I became a bit concerned that she'd dump them out with her antics, so I suggested she take them outside to dance with them.  Pretty soon she and Donna left the room, I assumed to go play outside.  I thought no more of the mice.

It turned out the girls did not wish to continue to look at their little friends, and dance with them, and otherwise befriend them under the watchful eye of theMom.  Unbeknownst to theMom, the girls had taken the bucket, complete with mice, into their bedroom for a more intimate interpersonal experience.

But of this further development, I remained blissfully unaware.

Eventually the older kids got home from school, with the typical rush and bustle of three kids getting off a school bus.  Each had tales of the day to relate.  They get home hungry and clamoring for a snack.  The younger ones are always eager to show me their papers and any notes from their teachers.  And the school kids, in turn, get to hear all about our day from Inge, Donna, and I.  It really gets to be quite a commotion. 

Since I was a little under the weather today, I still sat in the living room doing nothing.  When everyone got home, I tried to stay on the sidelines of the fray, keeping mostly to myself until the initial excitement quieted down. 

I heard from the other room, one of the little ones telling about the mice.

"There used to be two, but one of them kept biting us, so we smashed him."

! ? ! ? !

Of course, this is not the kind of talk I prefer to hear from my little girls.  Parents walk a fine line raising kids these days.  "Be kind to animals," and, "No bullying," etc.  But yet at the same time, we want strong and independent kids.  We want kids who know the difference between people and animals, and who if necessary, can kill their own food to provide for their families. Or kill a threatening or dangerous animal to protect themselves or others.

Yes, I realize the mice had to die.  But I must admit I was a bit chagrined to hear such a calloused explanation of the demise of one of those cute little creatures.

Sentimental, yes.  But, where to draw the line?  I struggle with this as a mom.  Where does practical end and unwonted cruelty begin?  Sigh.

The final chapter in my tale occurred a short time later.  The rush of the daily homecoming had subsided.  The snacks were eaten.  Activity had once again diminished to include only the normal hubbub of a houseful of children.

Suddenly the calm was broken by the shrill hollering of one of the bigger girls, "GROSS MOM!  There's dead mouse in the hallway!"

Begging Chickens

"Whistling girls and crowing hens Always come to some bad ends." 
                        from Farmer Boy, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Although I do whistle, I've yet to hear a crowing hen.  But this morning I was privileged to see a begging chicken.

After I had Matt's lunch made and had checked my e-mail and facebook for anything important, I headed out to my front porch to have my morning cup-o-joe and sit for a few minutes with Master and Commander, by Patrick O'Brian.  I also snuck a peanut butter granola bar; since the big kids have been sleeping in, we don't serve breakfast until late these days.  (OK, really I just snuck it because it was there.  This is why I don't buy packaged foods as a rule.  They have a way of calling and calling....)

When I opened the door to go out, I was greeted by both a barred rock hen and one of our cornish cross meat birds.  They've taken to slipping out under the electric wire and exploring the grounds.  And occasionally they even hop up our front steps.  They tend to be a bit shy, so I wasn’t surprised when they both hopped back down the steps after I first poked my head out the door.

It was a bit chilly (54F), so put down my coffee and book.  I came back in to grab a couple of throw blankets with which better enjoy the crisp air of a northern Minnesota morning.

I don't like cold feet, so I wrapped one blanket snuggly around my lower half, with a little extra hanging down in which to tuck my feet.  The other blanket I draped around my shoulders; and so I settled in for my coffee and read.  I took a few cleansing breaths as looked out on the morning I listened to its sounds.  I crossed my legs and settled more comfortably into my wicker chair.

And I began to read.

The chickens had returned to the porch and were wandering around, curiously exploring the nooks and crannies among my potted plants.

After a few paragraphs I braved my coffee to test whether it was yet cool enough to drink.  Alas! it was not.  Sigh.

Read a few more paragraphs.

Test the coffee again.

Aah.

Now for my granola bar.  Mmmm.

As I nibbled at my granola bar, and sipped my coffee, I noticed the cornish cross chicken was looking at me very intently.  He came right up to my left side and just stood there looking up over the edge of my lap.  I put down my book and my cup so I could give my full attention to this curious behavior.  That chicken just kept staring at my granola bar and waggling his head from side to side, like chickens do, so each eye in its turn could get a good look at what that human was eating.

After several moments of him giving me the chicken version of puppy-dog eyes, Mr. Chicken moved to the other side of me, I suppose to get a different angle on the granola bar.  Since I had crossed my legs, my blanket-wrapped foot was hanging at just above eye level for the chcken.

Mr. Chicken took a deep breath, spread his wings a bit, and then with a mighty flutter, he flumped his way onto my foot.  (Flump, in this case, is the combination of fly and jump; because cornish cross chickens are bred to be heavy birds, they don't fly easily or gracefully.)

I giggled a little bit and just watched to see what he would do next.  Soon Mr. Chicken flumped his way up to my knee.

I quickly popped the last of my granola bar into my mouth.  I was not about to have to share such an indulgence with a chicken.  After that, I just watched and waited.

After a little bit further exploration, he pecked a few times at my thumbnail.  We've noticed that chickens like finger and toe nails; I think their slight shine must look like the iridescence on bug shells.

I was chuckling the entire time.  I remember saying something like, "You better not poop on my blanket, Mr. Chicken."

Eventually, in one final attempt at making himself at home, that silly chicken plumped up his feathers and swayed a little from side to side in what gave every impression of being the chicken version of a dog's turning three times before lying down.  He then proceeded to settle himself upon my knee.

I guffawed.  Yes, sitting out on my front porch, nobody out there but me and the birds, and I giggled and laughed right out loud.  I might have seemed a little touched had anyone happened by.

But really, that chicken reminded me for all the world of a pet dog or cat.

Or more frightening yet, is it that my lap looks so very like the soft and comfiness of a nesting box?

A Most Excellent Sunday

I had a great day yesterday.  Most of the day, the sun was shining, the grass was green, the wind was mild.  The day ended with a burst of rain and a vivid reminder of God's promises.

My day started, however, on a more questionable footing.  I was late for church.  But the pastor was late too, due to a baptism and communion at the earlier service at St. Petri.  So I was off the hook on that one.  I didn't have much hope when I was lovingly putting the finishing touches on our dinner before putting it in the oven to bake during church; I was still in my pjs; the little ones were dressed, but no sock/tights or shoes...Louisa says to me, somewhat exasperatedly, "Mo-om, we only have about 2 minutes to get to church."

But alas, I got there before the opening announcements were finished and so got all the important stuff.

We sang one of my favorite hymns in church.  In its entirety!  Luther's Nun Freut Euch (Dear Christians One and All Rejoice).  What awesome lyrics.  My favorite verses are 2 and 5, but really, how could one choose?

Fastbound in Satan's chains I lay;  Death brooded darkly o'er me.

Sin was my torment night and day;  In sin my mother bore me.;

Yea, deep and deeper still I fell;  Life had become a living hell,

So firmly sin possessed me.

He spoke to His beloved Son:  "Tis time to have compassion.

Then, go, bright Jewel of My crown,  And bring to man salvation.

From sin and sorrow set him free,  Slay bitter death for him, that he

May live with Thee forever."

After the kids and I got home from church, because there is no summer Sunday school, we had time to get everyone changed and the dinner on before Joe got home from his third service at about 12:30.

I also had a little free time and couldn't decide what to do. My front porch furniture was calling to me, looking all nice and white in the sunshine.  But I didn't want to just sit there doing nothing.  (Trust me, usually sitting doing nothing is not a problem for me, but yesterday I wanted to do something.)

I grabbed my crochet and headed out to the loveseat.  It had rained quite a bit overnight, so although the sun was warm and bright, there were still puddles on the porch.  I planned to sit in the bigger seat and have room for my ball of yarn off to the side.  As I opened the door to head out, I saw our big mama cat lounging under one of the smaller chairs.  I squinted evilly at her, mentally daring her to come play with my yarn ball.  I sat down, arranged my stuff, took up my yarn and hook... and there was the cat.  Didn't take her 20 seconds to join me.  So back in I went. 

I surveyed the lighting in the living room, weighing my desire to crochet, compared with my desire to be outside.  I put down the crochet stuff and, taking up my current book, I headed back out.  By this time, mama cat was back under the other chair, so I sat down in the loveseat once again to read.  (I just want to say here that somebody should make books printed in negative for those of us who like to read in the sun.  It's getting harder and harder, the older I get, to read in the bright sunlight.  But I always manage to do it a little bit each summer, squinting  to beat the band, trying futily to get the least amount of reflected sunlight as possible into my eyes, while still being able to make out the words.) 

I enjoyed about three squinty-eyed sentences of my book before mama cat joined me again.  She crawled up beside me under my elbow and started headbutting me to pet her.  I'm not a big cat person.  They are cute and all, but I'm allergic.  So I have to enjoy them from afar.  Usually, they don't bother my allergies outside, unless of course I pet them.  Which petting, mama cat was adamantly demanding to receive yesterday forenoon.  After I ignored her head butts, she started pawing me.  When that action failed to yield the desired result, she began scratching me.  Grrr.

After all the rigmarole, Joe was due home soon, so I came in, put down my book and went into the kitchen to finish the last minute dinner preparations.

I had fixed a pork chop and rice hotdish with celery, onion, garlic powder, and parsley, cooked in cream sauce.  We had steamed broccoli and cauliflower with butter and a squeeze of lemon on the side.  It was very good if I do say so myself.

The parsley I used was some we had dried from our garden last summer.  We dry it on cookie sheets in the car or van, with the windows cracked open to allow the air to circulate.  I don't know where we got that tip, but it's really cool to have a giant solar dehydrator sitting in our driveway all summer.  But it's more handy yet when I remember where I put the stuff I dry.  I can't tell you how many times I searched throughout the winter for that jar of parsley that I KNEW we had, and couldn't find it.  But the other day, there it was in the very back of the top shelf of our spice cupboard.

The vegetables I cooked were from fresh.  I haven't often used fresh vegetables for the last several years.  Frozen is just way too easy.  Open the bag and pour it into the pot, right?  But of late, I'm trying to use more fresh.  Each time I shop, I try to get something fresh: green beans, brocolli, cabbage, sugar peas...  There is a specific reason I've made this change.  It doesn't have to do with freshness or nutrition or even taste, although the fresh steamed veggies are ever so much better tasting than the previously frozen steamed vergetables.  It's because all the frozen vegetable companies have gone to those stupid steamer packs that only come in small packages and cost way more.  Now that may be very convenient to most families who routinely cook for two or four people.  But let me tell you, it is a true bummer for some one who is accustomed to buying frozen veggies in the huge bags, two or three bags of each kind at a time. And how hard is it, really, to put a little water in the bottom of a pot and pour the vegetable in.  I suppose it's the clean-up that is saved on, by steaming them in the bag, but really...I wouldn't mind it if they offered those to the people who want to use them.  But do they think everyone will want them that way? (Sorry about the rant.  It' really, really irritates me.  Can you tell?)

I very much enjoyed the fresh steamed broccoli and cauliflower today.  And it's not really that much more work to cut and rinse it before putting in the pot. Totally worth the extra work.  (And this way, I don't give my money to the frozen veggie companies who can't accommodate my spending habits.)

After lunch, I lay down with Inge to get her to sleep.  She's in that stage at which she doesn't think she needs a nap.  But when she doesn't take one, she either 1) falls asleep at supper, before eating of course; or 2) is so beastly come evening that we all suffer.  So I've taken to lying down with her in the hopes I can coax her to sleep.  Yesterday was a successful nap day, both Inge and Mom were coaxed into a refreshing slumber.

After I crawled back to consciousness, I decided to putz around in my flower beds.  It was a good day for it.  After all the rain Saturday, even the dandelions came out easily.

Toward late afternoon I had made my way over to the bed that borders our driveway.  The evening sun was still warm.  The dandelions were still coming out easily.  The light breeze was from the east, from behind me.  But I tell you, sitting right next to Joe's 30 gallon garbage can of some sort of stewing deer head concoction takes a little bit of the joy out of working up the flower beds.  Pee-eew!  As long as I didn't inhale, I could pretend the day was still nice.  I'm sure he's working on some entirely important food preservation or hide tanning method or something.  I'm absolutely certain that when the grid goes down, whatever is brewing in that garbage pail will no doubt save the local economy.  Really, Joe, did you have to do it right in our front yard? 

"My husband, some hotshot.  Here's his ancient Chinese secret." 

But when Joe noticed me sitting with my nose pinched shut while weeding, he was kind enough to drag the sloshing mixture several yards further away.  Thank you, dear.

At another point in my weeding, shortly before it was time to head in, Donna ran up to the house from down alongside the church parking lot where the kids were playing.  Stark naked.  Covered with grass and water.  Yikes!  The kids were swimming in the ditch that separates the parking lot from the hayfield south of us.  Good gracious!  Stella and John at least had shorts on.  But Donna and Inge were stark naked.  And please recall that there are no trees at all between them and the highway.   Our poor members... naked pastor's kids in the church ditch.  I wonder how many phone calls were buzzing the local lines yesterday afternoon. Thankfully it was so beautiful out that maybe, just maybe, nobody was out driving.

The kids' wet clothes hanging on the rail to dry.  Won't work very well during the downpour.

The day was topped off by several beautiful downpours that rolled through the area after supper time.  It went from sunny and blue, to dark, angry and raining sheets in a matter of minutes.  Then the sun peaked through once again to give us a beautiful, bright, entire rainbow before another dark cloud rolled in, and again rained sheets on us.

Just a Couple of Turkeys

Our three littlest ones looking at the turkeys

I have been contemplating for some time now, the idea of raising Heritage Turkeys.  We don't have extensive property, so it would be on a very limited basis.  But when I've thought of home based businesses, that is one idea that has flitted though my head. 

Some considerations are space.  How much space does it take to raise, say, a dozen turkeys?  Feed type.  Would we want to do organic, or free range, or standard, or what?  Market.  These birds, when finished, bring in potentially $80 each.  At that price, is there any market for them in this corner of the world?  If not, how far owuld we have to go to sell them?  Regulations.  There are always government regulations, but I assume, from the little I know about it, that we'd have to use an FDA approved locker.  If we do that, rather than butchering them ourselves, there is another added cost.

So at this point we are not raising Heritage turkeys.  But we've thought about it. 

I thought that perhaps we could get a couple, just to raise for practice, then if we ever decided to pursue the idea further, we'd have that experience under our belts. 

With that in mind, when Joe called the Fleet Supply in Bemidji to find out about chickens, he asked about turkeys, too.  He found out that they can special order the Eastern Wild, so we'd need to get a full dozen.

Inge is very curious

The other variety the sell is the Bronze.  Now, from my previous reading on Heritage breeds, I know that there is the Standard Bronze, which is a Heritage breed, and the Broad Breasted Bronze, which is a commercial breed.  When we asked, the Fleet Supply people did not know which they had, as the order forms specify only Bronze.  I asked which hatchery they used. 

Hoover. 

When I got home, I checked the website and the Bronze birds they sell are the Broad Breasted Bronze.  So we still do not have Heritage Turkeys. But  we have turkeys and we will have fun with them and learn as we go along.

Inge letting a poult eat from her hand

Sheep Shearing Day: Pictures and Homeschool Ideas

When the shearer arrived, I was still sweeping the dining room floor after supper, so I didn't get out to see the beginning of the shearing.  The shearer is Willard Malwitz.

Thank you, thank you to Mr. Malwitz.

This is the ram.  He is being done on our driveway, in front of the garage.

When a sheep is plopped on its hinder, it will instantly settle down.  I've heard tell that a sheep, if stuck on it's back, will soon die because of some sort of breathing issue.  I wonder if this is part of why they seem so calm in a sitting position.

The shearer held the ram's head between his legs when necessary.  It was getting quite windy by this time.  The wool would blow across the area Mr. Malwitz was working, somewhat impeding his progress.

The kids gathered any loose wool and put it in the box before it could blow away.

Done with the difficult belly area, and now on to the sides.

And then the back.  Look at that thick fleece.

He looks pretty naked.

This is the "after" shot of the ram.

And the "before" of the ewe.

They moved into the garage for her.  She looks like she's wearing a thick scarf.  She is tamer than the ram.  She nipped Mr. Malwitz once on his chest.  He said that often the tamer sheep are harder to shear because they are not afraid.  They remain a bit more frisky even in the sitting position.

I wish I could have better captured how nice and soft the large pieces of fleece looked as they fell loose.  Even though the two sheep looked the same to us, Mr. Malwitz said the ewe's wool was much different.  A different clumpiness to it and much oilier.

I didn't stay for the finish of the ewe.  The kids were getting wild and it was getting pretty chilly after our nice 70 degree day.

This morning it's very cold and wet.  I feel bad for the naked little sheep. But then I remind myself that most other sheep are sheared before lambing starts in March.  That means there are still days of below zero weather, with snow and even blizzards.  If the sheep survive that, I am sure they can live through low 40s and wet.

The sheep newly shorn

Look so forlorn

Out in the wet and the cold dreary day.

But they'll be alright

They will live through the night

And frolic once more when the sun comes to stay.

There are a great plenty of homeschool ideas to use with sheep.  There are stories on shearing and wool; spinning and yarn dying; weaving and crochet and knitting.

After Joe tried to spin a hemp bowstring using a piece of dowel and a plastic sour cream lid as a drop spindle, I ordered a couple of wooden drop spindles for our family along with a few bundles of wool.  I got them from Pacific Wool and Fiber, in Newberg, OR.

We haven't used them much, but we've lent them out, so they have been used, at least.  We still hope to have a chance (make time?) to figure them out one day.

A New Coat for Anna, by Harriet Ziefert
In post WWII Eastern Europe, Anna needs a new coat.  But there is no money to be had even for necessities.  Anna's mother barters the few remaining family treasures to first get wool, then spinning, then weaving and tailoring done for Anna's new coat.  She and Anna pick Lingonberries to dye the spun yarn a lovely red before it's sent to the weaver.

An accomplished homeschooler who keeps the wonderful Bugs, Beetles, and Barefoot Days blog posted on her fieldtrip to the Worcester Museum, Worcester, MA, and its sheep shearing demonstration.

Charlie Needs a New Cloak, by Tomie DePaola
Charlie is a shepherd whose cloak is in tatters.  When he finally decides to address this problem, he does the shearing, carding, spining, dying, weaving and finally even the sewing.  His labors yield a beautiful and warm cloak in time for the coming winter.

A creative homeschool mom has done a unit study based on this book.

There is also a social studies unit using Sheep Shearing as the center point at Hot Chalk Lesson plans.

Other books I've seen recommended, but have not read or used myself:
Farmer Brown Shears his Sheep, by Teri Sloat
Farmer Brown Goes Round and Round
The Thing That Bothered Farmer Brown
This series, done in cute rhymes, traces the entire wool to sweater process.  These books appear to be out of print, but check your library.

Phoebe's Sweater, by Joanna Johnson
Phoebe's mother is knitting a sweater to help Phoebe get ready for a new sibling.  Although I've not read this, it's become a favorite among knitters for both the sweet story and the knitting patterns included.  The author keeps the Phoebe on the Road blog to celebrate the many things fans love about Phoebe.

The author of the Step into my Thimble blog has a list of children's books that present knitting in some capacity.

The Weaver's Gift by Kathryn Lasky is a lovely photo journal of the process from baby lamb to woven blanket.  It's out of print, but definitely worth finding used or through your local library.

There is another story I would have loved to include, but it's name and author elude me. I believe it is a beginning reader, such as a Step Into Reading book.  I believe it is about an old Scandinavian fisherman who knits all winter.  Can anyone help me out here?

Fat Cat Update

The aforementioned cat is no longer fat.  Yes, well, uh, I wasn't too far off on the 23 kitten guess.  This poor mama cat had ten kittens!

The poor mama:  Deliver ten kittens.  Fight off predatory animal.  Spend first night in a cloud of skunk spray.

So as of now, we have seven living kittens. 

Joe sprayed the mama and brood with his special recipe skunk spray.  After giving it time to do it's thing, he gently tipped the kittens out of the cat house and checked them over.  Removed the deceased ones. He was not able to determine whether the mama cat was skunk bitten. 

So for now the kittens and the mama are off limits to the kids.  Tomorrow Joe can get a better look at the mama.  It would be fairly traumatic if he had to put them all down due to skunk rabies worries.

But for mama cat's sake, I am somewhat relieved that three have died.  My goodness!  Ten babies!

Sorry if that's a cold hearted statement.  My oldest daughter just labeled it so.  I guess I'm glad she's tender hearted rather than cruel.