and then came the Thanksgiving shoot-out

Ah, Thanksgiving. Such a beautiful day, the air was crisp and clear. The last embers of fall color highlighted the trees. The waters were calm. The sky was a far away soft pale blue. We drove at a leisurely pace to the Inn for our Thanksgiving feast. Scott admired the Inn, so charming; just the right vestige of casual elegance overlaid the  formality of the room and the occasion. Scott thought this place was so perfect; it looked more like a movie set than anything he'd ever seen on the Fox lot. I pointed out that this place was a location site during the shooting of The Wedding Crashers, a movie we had just recently watched on TV. . . that explained it.

In any event, as I said, peace and serenity abounded, cheerful smiles all around, the staff was gracious, all was rosy but for -- the occasional rifle fire that cracked through the air. Since the first whiff of morning sky, and throughout the day 'bang bang bang' shattered the peace. Yes, yes, I understand that it's hunting season but I'm a stranger in this foreign land. No one else blinked, all was normal, pass the Brussel sprouts, while silently I screamed 'run, Bambi, run'. Eager hunters, in their quest for venison, tucked a flyer into our entry way asking about renting some of our property during the hunting season. Jeez. Apparently it's not uncommon and since we do have three acres of forest land, it appeared to be a reasonable request, albeit one that we turned down. Again, we learned something new about this foreign land in which we were living (at least we spoke the language). So there we were, dining on turkey, while Rudolph, Donner, Blitzen, et al. were madly heading for the trees, hoping their pelts matched the forest colors, otherwise they were dead meat, literally.

In addition to deer season, it's also duck season. Oh Donald, we hardly knew ye. Crisp, Peking, a la orange, duck, Huey, Dewey and Louie duck. I tried not to think about the poor animals running, swimming or diving for their lives in the great outdoors. Scott reminded me that earlier in the week the turkey we were eating was likewise enjoying its peaceful life, so I should shut up and enjoy the meal. He did have a point.

While we were dining, a question came up about the length of our marriage. I allowed that we had been married for many years. Scott thought we were married for several years. We've been married for 6.5 years. How many years have we been married, several or many.

That question hung in the air until we returned home to find the place strewn with dead animals (I'm not exaggerating). While we had no answer to the several/many conundrum, at least the mystery of the last black mouse was solved. It had succumbed to the lure of peanut butter and found itself pretty much beheaded. There was another dead 'thing' in one of the traps. We have two kinds of traps in the house: one is the old fashioned kind, like at grandmother's country house, or at least at my grandmother's country house, that has a spring-snap  that chokes a poor mouse to death, quick and efficient, while the second, newer kind, is made up of a bed of glue. The poor animal is stuck in it, remember the La Brea tar pits, until it finally croaks. I think the former older model is more humane, plus it makes a nice whack sound when something has been caught. The latter type only informs when the pitiful screams of the little mouse reach human ears. 'You poor thing, I feel sorry for you, but you really ought not to have broken into our home.' It doesn't stop with mice though. The glue catches everything that crawls over the trap. We've observed some horrifyingly creepy critters, always with the same question 'what the hell is it', and the same answer 'I don't know, but I'm glad it's dead'. Anyway, back to the mouse. This last one, before it was guillotined, ate a good chunk of Scott's chocolate bar; ergo, no pity on his part. He was angry, he got screwed out of a perfectly good almond toffee with nuts bar. Personally, I think he could have eaten around it. After all, the bubonic plague isn't really the scourge that it was in the 16th century. There are antibiotics for the plague today, but Scott wasn't showing any mercy. He had his mouth all set to devour that chocolate bar and now he was ticked off; no redemption for Mickey, or Minnie, as the case may be.

A little later in the evening, while still rubbing our Buddha bellies from the former feast and enjoying something silly on TV, we heard another thwack. Once again the angel of death had visited our home. Scott suggested I hop into the kitchen and take a look. 'No way. You go, you're the man.' I repeated my brother Fred's admonition about being a man. No matter how equal the sexes, when there's a noise downstairs in the middle of the night, you don't send your wife down to check it out. So Scott manned up, while I followed three paces behind, and lo there it was, another dead mouse. We were excited, appalled, apprehensive -- and finally, accepting, this is  our new life: Mickey, Bambi, Donald, life is precarious, sometimes violent, and always short if the prey is not fast. As for us -- it's good to be at the top of the food chain. So ends our Thanksgiving weekend.

Mickey and Minnie

While viewing the great outdoors beyond our windows, I realized that the outdoors needed a manicure, so a few days later a gardener and his guys arrived. They worked furiously, cutting back, mulching, pulling weeds, etc. I ventured out on occasion to advise, offer water, and generally to annoy them. After three days, the place looked great. Bon mots all around, then Scott and I were once again masters of our domain, or so we thought. . . .

Early in the evening, I found myself in the kitchen (speaking of new realities) when I spied something scurrying across the floor. Denial is one of the first tenets of law and I heartily recommend it. 'It was just a spider.' A little noise a few minutes later and I caught another movement. It could no longer be denied. There was a mouse in the house. I did what any rational human being would do, I ran to Scott, screaming, hoisted myself on his back and refused to touch down until the offending critter could be removed. Scott, stoic as usual, stared back at me, undoubtedly pondering the wisdom of his marriage vows, but finally remarked 'oh, for christ freakin' sake, it's probably just a field mouse'. Easy for him to say, he's a Nebraska farm boy. Me, not so much (as Lisa said 'give me Park Avenue'). Nothing would do until he hightailed it to the hardware store for a mouse trap. I just did not shut up. There would be no peace in the kingdom, so off he went.

Mickey must have found his way into the house when we razed the nearby outdoors. Scott thought it was a field mouse; that all the pruning and gardening may have destroyed the former Disney estate. Homeless, yet another sad tale of government usurping the individual's rights, the mouse was looking for a home. While Scott was off, I discovered that my little calculator had died so I hied myself to the garage for replacement batteries. Turning back to walk up the steps to the house, I noticed a long black snake nestled along the stair riser. My reaction? Betti Davis eyes. Snake?  It looked like a boa constrictor.  Another victim of the assault on private property? Yikes.  However, my current location left me in a subordinate position. The only way back into the house was up the steps and that wasn't going to happen. Noticing the telephone on the wall, I called Scott on his cell phone, which I then heard ringing inside the house. Dear God, I was in the middle of a Russian novel. Oh the irony, to have lived a virtuous life, only to be rewarded with the company of a snake;  the meaning of life, the poignancy, all swam before me. What would Tolstoy do? While I pondered, the damn snake moved. That took the color out of my freshly dyed hair.  It slithered into the newly purchased plywood and disappeared.  Oh goodie, I couldn't wait for the right moment to tell Scott. I scurried back into the house, hopped on the bed and stayed there until Scott returned.

And return he did; after a long talk with a few men (Larry, Darryl and his other brother Darryl) at the hardware store.  No purchases at the hardware store, large or small, are made without a lively conversation, complete strangers interject their opinions, all comments are heard and weighed, until a consensus is reached. Scott returned with the learned insight of experienced mouse trappers.  He calmly placed a few traps around the pantry, smugly patted me on the head and moseyed back to the garage to continue working. That was when I told him about the snake. That fixed him. He tried not to show it, but I knew this turn of events brought him down to my level of cold unmitigated fear. His laconic questioning 'oh yeah, what color was it, did it have a ring around its neck' didn't fool me.  He was terrified. Suddenly it was too cold and too late to go back out to the garage to do any more work that night.

We parked ourselves in the TV room to converse about the day's events. A walk back to the kitchen, and there was a little mouse, trapped.  I was very excited to report the news to Scott when I realized that this little mouse was not the same color as the mouse that I saw earlier. Yikes, not only Mickey, but Minnie, Morty and Ferdie had arrived. Now I had Scott's attention. Soon, traps lined the kitchen and pantry floorboards, peanut butter abounded and, in no time, another snap was heard. There was another dead mouse, but wait, this one was grey too, not black.  Scott later walked to the bedroom and there was a little black thing scurrying across the carpet. He announced that he would sleep in the TV room. What? while leaving me alone in the bedroom? No way. I'd seen the movie Ben. I knew what could happen and I wasn't going to sleep there without him.  The bonds of marriage are strong, that, and if he ever wanted to get laid again he'd better join me in the bedroom. So we searched every nook and cranny, looked under the bed, opened the fireplace glass windows, generally turned the room upside down. Finally, satisfied that we were alone, we hit the pillows and rested.

This morning he removed the two dead mice and replaced a few traps. I don't know what he's going to do about the snake in the garage; I have my own problems.

Sam the Stink Bug

A major difference between California and Maryland, aside from the weather, is the lack of bugs in California. Yes, there is the occasional bee or fly, once in a while a spider might be found crawling across the window, but on the whole, California is not inundated with bugs, arachnoids or other crawlers. Seeing a bug of some sort has become a curiosity for me and Scott. If I find 'something' in the kitchen, where I've been unpacking for the last 10 days, I cover it with a clear plastic bowl, point it out to Scott, who identifies it, taps the bowl, and the next day tosses the dead carcass into the trash, with no worry that its story will appear on Cold Case or Without A Trace. The next 'something' gets the same treatment.

However, last Monday, I found Sam the stink bug crawling along the countertop. As usual, I covered Sam with a little bowl and waited for him to die. Yes, leaving his family to wonder what ever became of him, but this is Mutual of Omaha time; survival of the fittest, Roman gladiators, him or us, Leningrad and the stink bugs, you get the idea.  But, and a big but this is, he was still alive on Tuesday evening. We opined that he must be a young bug since he's lasted longer than the predecessors who found their way to our door. Wednesday he was still crawling along the top of the bowl. I began to wonder, did I not sage the house properly when we moved in? Is the spirit of some previous owner alive in Sam?  Did I not leave the white purity candle burning long enough? I woke up on Thursday and there he was, doing the back stroke on the counter, but he righted himself and continued with his exercises. Well, now I was intrigued, but not yet ready to join PETA (there is fur in the closet). How was this damn thing still alive? Scott suggested shooting it with Raid, but that seemed rather mean spirited. Friday, same story. How could this be? Even humans can't survive without food and water for more than five days. Yesterday, there he was, chipper as ever.  Finally, I named him Sam.  Scott and I discussed calling a vet, having it declawed, giving it shots and adopting it.  Today I'm seriously considering shoving a piece of white bread under the bowl. If that doesn't kill it, nothing will.

We've arrived. . . in Maryland

Here we are, in Maryland; hum the theme song from Green Acres while you read this and remember that, like Lisa, I have an inventory of over 100 pair of shoes, neatly boxed. Oh Oliver. . . . We've traded the Pacific for the Chesapeake, Bloomingdales for L.L. Bean, gazpacho for chowder, celebrities for politicians, no seasons for four seasons, and earthquakes for earthquakes.

The move held a few surprises. We learned that “perishable”  (as in “perishable products will not be packed or transported by the mover”) is a fungible adjective. I found a bag of potatoes packed with the water glasses, followed by another bag of onions and garlic. Sadly, the perishables had perished.

While every day is Saturday for us, it appears that time is fluid for the locals as well; the Verizon guy ought to have arrived on Thursday but was in the neighborhood on Tuesday so he stopped in and completed the work two days early. Then again, the painter finished the base coat, and was to return the next day to finish the topcoat, but we have yet to see him.  Scott doesn't see the sense in driving all the way to Lowe's (6 country miles = 5 minutes) to pick up hardware items when he can have them shipped free via amazon. Terry, the fed ex guy, has become such a regular visitor to the house that I now have coffee waiting for him in the morning.

Since our home is surrounded by trees on three sides and the Chesapeake on the fourth side, peeping Toms are not high on my worry list, so I was somewhat taken aback by the peeping deer staring at me while I brushed my teeth.  While I yelled “yikes”, Scott yelled “dinner”.

This past weekend found us attending the 51st annual waterfowl festival. We watched the dog retrieving contest, moseyed over to the Armory to take a look at the rifles, both old and new, and followed that with a viewing of hand carved birds and other fowl. Actually, some of that stuff was absolutely exquisite (if you like that sort of thing).  Crab cakes and oyster fritters abounded.  When asked, my girlfriend  remarked that while the L.L. Bean barn coat allowed me to blend in with the locals, the white cashmere accessories (gloves, scarf, beret) were over the top, so off they came. In her defense, it was 68 degrees, and I did ask.

It turns out that real men wear brown Sperry Top-Siders all year round; the summer version has a white sole whereas the post-Labor Day shoe has a brown sole.

Lest you think there is no more, fear not, we have the muskrat skinning contest in February to look forward to, “followed by a dinner of traditionally cooked muskrat, while the food lasts”. 

Oliver! Oliver?

Kidding aside, it is beautiful here. It took me about 18 minutes to let go of the legal world and enter this one. Each morning I sit at the breakfast nook with coffee and, beyond the white fenced patio, I can see the walkway that meanders to the dock.  The water changes from silver to blue and back again throughout the day. On the other side of the cove, the forest holds the last traces of fall color: copper, gold, rust and evergreen.