Here I am at the lake, and feeling too lazy to come up with a new post. Too much lovely water and trees and our precious loons flying over, talking to each other. Perfect time to write, you might think. But, oddly, those words often stop me in my tracks. So I thought for a few posts I would give you bits of the essays coming out in Mortality, with Friends in September. Here is part of a short one—
Mildred decides to have babies upstairs in our cottage crawl space. John, the carpenter building our kitchen, says he hears scuttling and scuffling above his head. Our other neighbor, Lou, says we should set a trap to catch “Mildred” and drown her. There are too many “Mildreds” getting into trash buckets, he says. John says we should get poison or something. Or shoot her. I think maybe my sensitivity is too precious for their older world. I think of my father and his brother, out with their shotguns killing crows, squirrels, anything that came along, as if the world would last forever.
I call the SPCA. The young woman tells me they can’t come get a raccoon. She tells me to soak a rag in ammonia and to play loud music near the crawl space to drive her out.
I forgot to say Mildred got into the cottage by crawling down the chimney. And then up the stairs. I think I will drive her out, then crawl in and get her babies, put them in a box, and take them to a place where she can move them elsewhere. I soak the rag and set it just inside the crawl space. I can see nothing in there, in the dark. I get my little red radio and tune in the loudest music, which turns out to be Christian rock. All night in my sleep or semi-sleep, the Christians are letting me know they are here, and up to date.
The morning mist is rising and there is Mildred pacing the roof of the cottage. She sees me. I imagine she sees me although raccoons have very poor distance vision. Maybe she senses me. We look in each other’s direction for a long minute, two mothers. We know each other. We know nothing of each other. I continue with my plan. I block the opening to the fireplace. I get a cardboard box. I go upstairs and open the crawl space. It is dark in there. There is loud scuffling and hissing and miniature growling beyond the range of my flashlight. I don’t know how old the babies are. They may be almost ready to leave the nest. They may have grown very sharp claws and teeth. I back out of the crawlspace. I take the ammonia-soaked rag with me. I have already turned off the music, which was still blasting in Jesus’ name.
This is all for today.
(You can pre-order the book from the press or from your favorite independent bookstore, if your town is lucky enough to have one. If not, you can order from mine. )