February 4, 2014

Word is the ground-hog saw his shadow, then zipped back into his cozy nest to avoid this next six weeks of winter. I don’t blame him a bit! Sounds like a wonderful idea. What I’d like to know is how he wasn’t fooled by the 50-degree temps on Groundhog Day! Sure messed with me—I thought spring was tapping at the door.

Yup, the groundhog was right! The next morning there was fresh snow on the ground and it snowed all day. Another storm is coming, 6-10” expected tonight into tomorrow, and if that isn’t depressing enough, yet another storm trails it, expected to hit Sunday night into Monday.

Now there’s no doubt its pretty and all—that pure white fluff on every twig and tree limb, pines boughs laden, rock walls white-washed, and a billowy, down-like covering on every surface as far as the eye can see, but—you knew there was a but coming, didn’t you—it’s cold! Let me repeat that. It’s cold!

Guess it’s no surprise that I’m yearning for spring… open windows, fresh breezes, laundry flapping on the clothesline, bees buzzing, birds chirping, sunshine warming my shoulders while I play-in-the-garden-dirt. [sigh]

Ah well. We won’t argue with the groundhog. Not sure how he does it, but I’ll take his word for it.

There’s wood for the stove, hot tea brewing and some good books to get lost in. Again, I am grateful and oh, by the way—thanks for the warning Punxsutawney Phil.

January 30, 2014

We’ve gained some daylight and quite noticeably so! Tonight, when I was scrubbing the sweet potatoes, that springish looking sun was right at blinding eye-level, coming through the kitchen window right over the kitchen sink. Now that’s the first time since—oh, I can’t remember when, that it was exactly at that level. Probably last year on January 30th!
Now, I thought about lowering the blind so I could actually see what I was doing, but the thrill of it being 4:30 on a January afternoon, and the sun still shining… well, it had me so enthralled, I scrubbed without looking. At the potatoes, that is.

Now dinner won’t be ready for nearly an hour, and by then it’ll surely be dark, but in a few more weeks, oh yeah—we’ll really know spring is on the horizon when we can actually eat dinner by daylight! And when temperatures are balmy enough to carry our plates out on BackPorch? Oh what luxury that will be!
Reports say the weather will be favorable for the Super Bowl this weekend. It’ll be played on the planned day, the sponsors hope seats will be filled to capacity, and we are assured that security measures will be stellar.

Now I’m not a football gal—don’t understand a thing about it, but it must be pretty amazing stuff to warrant coughing up a couple-grand for a ticket, all to sit in freezing temperatures, on a cold hard seat, crammed in with thousands of other screaming fans, and wondering if security is really as secure as is claimed! Whew! Nope. I sure can think of better ways to spend that money and warmer, more comfortable places to be.
There are Super Bowl Parties. It’s like Christmas again in the grocery stores, everyone getting the goods for their celebrations. Now that sounds like a little more fun, but likely I’d be in the kitchen, nibbling the nibblers and washing the pots, all-the-while wondering to myself what all the cheering and groaning is about around the screen.

Nope. Give me my quiet spot by the woodstove, quilt snuggly tucked, a hot cuppa by my side, a warm fluff-ball on my lap, and a good story to get lost in. Come bedtime, I’ll toddle off to dreamland, content as the proverbial Cheshire-cat

January 29, 2014

Polar Vortex. Even the words sound shivery. Can’t seem to recall hearing much about it before, so what I want to know is did the media make this one up to scare us? Nope. They didn’t make it up. As to whether they’re trying to scare us—that’s another question.

Google says the polar vortex is, in short, a polar cyclone that usually stays up north where it belongs and this year, for some unknown reason, is dipping south—way south! Maybe looking for a Florida vacation? Alas, in it’s whirling-twirling frenzy, it brings frigid air such as hasn’t been seen in awhile, chilling everyone and everything in its path. To the bone. Yup—all the way to Florida!

To quote our weatherman on WFSB, “It’s so cold the turtles are wearing people-necks!” And I say mufflers, parkas, and double mittens too.

So it’s all we talk about, hear in the news, and frankly, when we have to be out in it—all we can think about! Seems like there just aren’t enough layers to layer!

With long-johns and woolies on the underside and two pairs of pants over that, an undershirt and turtleneck, two sweaters, and a four-layer parka; a beanie, a face-mask, two scarves, double gloves, three pairs of socks and fleece-lined clod-hoppers, I ask you this—how is a person supposed to walk, much less fit behind the steering wheel of a car? It gives moon-walking a whole new perspective!

Ah well. Take heart, dear friends. Spring is only 53 days away.

January 25, 2014

Time to change out the décor at Hare Hollow, tuck away the holiday ribbons and poinsettia arrangements—after all, it’s nearly February.

No, not the winter-greens draped along cabinet tops, and here and there on a shelf, or the top of the piano; I’ll leave them until the beginning of March. I crave greenery in the winter!

So it was, earlier this week that I ventured out on Back Porch where there was a large basket arrangement of greens and everlasting-poinsettias perched prettily on an old baker’s rack that I keep out there.

Now you see, Back Porch is only screened in, so depending on the direction of the wind, the elements blow right through and cover surfaces willy-nilly, a dusting here and small drift there.

A large holiday arrangement was perched on the work-surface of said- bakers’ rack where it not only decorated Back Porch nicely, but could be seen as well from inside the big glass doors. As I began to dissemble it, I noticed the tiniest footprints on the snow covered work-surface, that you-ever-did-see, winding from the edge of the rack right up to the basket. Hmm! I wonder!

Yup, sure enough! As I plucked greens and floral picks out of the basket, out came sunflower seed-shells by the dozen. I didn’t investigate further, but I had to smile as I thought of that wee creature gathering sunflower seeds from the feeders outside, finding his way inside Back Porch, up the side of Bakers’ Rack and zip—into the cozy floral-foam lined basket full of greenery and ribbons, protected from elements and enemies alike! Can’t you just see him lolling about, gazing in at us sitting in our recliners by the woodstove?

Not wanting to spoil his winter retreat, I left most of the greens in the basket, and, with a chuckle, brought the holiday decorations in to store away.

Ahhh Bic. I think you’re up to shenanigans again!

January 24, 2014

Aren’t furnaces wonderful? I just realized last night, as I was trying to fall asleep, that I am, at present, quite infatuated with ours. Well, after all, it keeps chugging away, night and day, no matter what the rest of us are doing—working, sleeping, eating or playing the piano, there it is, alone in a dark corner of the basement, doing it’s job, keeping the house toasty warm—well, maybe not toasty since the thermostat is at the lowest bearable setting to save on oil, but compared to outdoors? Deliciously warm!

Oh there’ve been times when it was ailing, and let us down—typically on a weekend when it costs a week’s groceries just to have the service man step inside the door! But thankfully, those occasions are rare. Mostly, it chugs along faithfully, warming pipes and registers, toes and noses too.

It was minus-two out on Back Porch this morning, and that was after the sun came up! Our birds were fluffed up twice-their-usual, taking turns at the feeders with little of the usual morning bickering. Funny how that works. Birds that are seemingly arch-enemies in the warmer months, sit side-by-side on the porch railing now, peacefully dining at the same table, some even hopping aside in deference as if to say, ‘Oh! Here… you take this one, I’ll just move over here a bit.’ Funny how dire circumstances can bring out the best in us. What wonderful lessons we could take from nature, huh?

Sammie Squirrel sits in prayer-pose, huddled under a fluffy tail-blanket laid snuggly atop his back, right up to his ears! You know its cold when he does that! He’s breaking open sunflower seeds as fast as his little paws can manage and in this weather, that kind of dexterity can only be admirable!

A thin white spiral of smoke winds its way out of MouseHouse chimney. They, like all their Village friends, are in huddle-mode with temps like this. These are the days they planned so carefully for back in August when they worked on preparing their winter homes, carefully stocking them with warm quilts and cushy bedding, and pantries with ample supplies of winter goodies. And now they are enjoying the fruit of their labors, snuggling together, making the most of family time while the cold winds blow.

So in keeping with those lessons we can learn from nature, I too need to do less moaning about the cold and snow, snuggle into a cushy recliner, wrapped in a cozy quilt, and nurse a steaming bowl of chowder. Yum. Good idea. I'll get right on that.

Now did I mention how in love I am with our furnace? Oh, and the woodstove too.

January 1, 2014

Happy New Year - January 1, 2014

“Expect the coldest temperatures in 20 years,” the weatherman said tonight in dire tones...” going on to warn of the dangers of frostbite, leaving pets outdoors and frozen pipes.

Well, there won’t be any danger of frostbite for this ole’ girl. The extra quilt is already on the bed, the fleeces and snugglies are laid out for my long winter nap, and yes, I’ll be house-hibernating for the next couple of days thank-you-very-much! (And feeling blessed that I can!)

The kitties—Sir Mattie and MaisyMae are already snug in their self-appointed snooze spots, only coming out of snore-mode long enough for a snack or other important matters that can’t be taken care of on the couch!

As for frozen pipes, I think we’ve already insulated all the questionable ones 20 years ago. Hopefully, no little four-legged creatures have borrowed any of it to pad their own nests in the attic! Guess we’ll soon find out.

There was lots of scurrying around MouseHouse and Village today. Their weather-station also predicted the winter blast, and wouldn’t-you-know, just in time for school to start up after the holidays. Of course there won’t be any until after the storm—Miss Winklesnout sent the message by courier this afternoon. I heard Bic and Ben cheering!

There was lots of last-minute rushing around though, pulling extra quilts and paw-snugglies out of storage, fluffing mattresses and cushions, getting them ready to snuggle into and Fivelina had a savory vegetable stew simmering on Walnut Woodstove. My guess is such was the case in many of the woodland homes.

Sir Fivel brought an ample pile from the wood closet, stacking it near the stove, then he and Betina went over to help Bret finish the last of the insulating around their new home-to-be. It’s nearing completion, but is hardly storm-worthy yet, so he will weather-the-storm with the Fivel-family, batching on their couch for a couple of nights—much more pleasant than sitting home snowbound by himself! Betina is more than a little thrilled of course.

Olaf is doing well in his apprenticing. Though work is scarce at this time of year, Fivel keeps him busy with finish-work—carving knobs and trim pieces for the furniture, something they can both do by the fire, staying warm and productive at the same time.

Sounds like a plan. Well, maybe tomorrow anyway. After a good long cozy sleep, and a lazy cuppa by the woodstove in the morning, maybe then I’ll find something to do, by the fire, where I can also stay warm, and be productive? Nah! Maybe another nap.

December 31, 2013

New Year’s Eve Day - December 31, 2013
So what is it about throwing several tons of tiny bits of paper out of high-rise windows that so traditionally marks the beginning of the New Year—year after year? And dropping a crystal ball from way up there while a squealing crowd cheers loudly as they watch it plummet? Turns out it’s strictly an American tradition—who knew? Other countries use fireworks on this momentous night. (Oh, what would we do without Google?) 
It seems, back in the day, maritime time-balls were used to help passing ships needing to adjust their chronometers (time-pieces). Using telescopes, they’d peer into the harbor and watch for the time ball to fall at a particular time, usually noon. Hmmm. So maybe they hung around out there waiting, close enough to see—maybe fished a little, soaked up some sun on deck until the ball dropped? Oh right! We were talking about New Year’s Eve traditions.
So after a particularly disastrous fireworks display in 1904, that spilled hot ashes onto the spectators, the NYPD banned fireworks. The then-owner and publisher of New York Times, Adolph Ochs commissioned a sign company to create the first 700-lb. ball made of wood and iron. It had 100 light-bulbs on it and at midnight, that New Year’s Eve in 1908, the ball was eased down by pulleys on the mast of the USS New Mexico. The time-ball has since been redesigned a number of times, and the drop locations changed as well, but it seems there is actually some logic in the tradition—it really does mark the time, the changeover from one year to the next. 
Now the confetti? It never seemed very logical to me to dump a ton of tiny bits of paper onto streets teeming with gazillions of spectators, but that’s what is done, every year. Wonder who sweeps it all up? Yikes? Need a job?
Anyway, turns out that there’s actually some logic in that tradition too. There’s actually a place in NYC where you can write little messages (hopefully well-wishes) on tiny pieces of paper that are collected all year long. Then on New Year’s Eve, those tiny bits of paper are dumped on the heads of all those waiting spectators. 
I wonder… do folks grab as many as they can, stuff them in their pockets to read at leisure when they get home? What happens if it’s raining, does the paper disintegrate into sticky lumps of goo that land in people’s hair, or slither down coldly down their necks? [shiver]
Well, then there are the millions who sit at home, watching the events on their computers or TV’s. They are dressed to the hilt in their schlumpadink jammies and two pairs of mismatched wooly-socks. They sit snug in their recliners, a fresh mug of hot chocolate in hand, and a marshmallow mustache to show for it. Now that’s my kind of spectator! 
MouseHouse will be celebrating too. The triplets will nap this afternoon so they can stay awake till midnight. Mama Fivelina will bake dried-apple fritters and make popped corn on Walnut Woodstove. Betina’s fiancé, Bret, and his parents are invited for an evening of games and revelry. And when the time-piece—someone’s cast off watch that Sir Fivel cleverly refurbished—clicks to 12:00 a.m., they will all hug and dance around, clanging spoons and spatulas, or Fivelina’s cooking lids, singing Auld Lang Sang in squeak-mode.
And then it will be 2014. Happy New Year a few hours early, dear friends. May the confetti of yesteryear be swept away, and only happy memories tucked into your keepsake box.

December 29, 2013

Year’s end is upon us, our focus—rightfully so, on the new one ahead. New beginnings, fresh starts, there’s always something hopeful about that. And yet, for me at least, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed with all that I’d like to accomplish, like to change, especially within myself. 
What wonderful rest there is in the hard-earned knowledge that God will supply the needed strength one day at a time. He can and will work the needed changes and alterations, it’s only up to me to ask—daily, sometimes ‘momently.’
Growth in gratitude is on my resolution list this year. Right there near the top. Number one is to make Him number one, every day, every hour, and in every circumstance. Success in that would be success in everything.
After recent experiences, I am grateful for the blessing of health and, I am profoundly thankful for the Great Physician, the One who heals from within that which doctors and medical sages cannot even identify much less remedy.
Another resolution is to get back to writing again. There’s lots of catching up to do in the Tails of MouseHouse, and thank you, dear readers, for your past interest and much-appreciated encouragement in that endeavor. I am seriously pondering how to go about putting them in book format.
Meanwhile, a peek out on back-porch this chill morning, reveals, as expected a tiny wisp of smoke spiraling up from MouseHouse chimney. Sir Fivel is up, very likely stoking the fire at Walnut Woodstove, and perhaps even brewing some fresh chicory for him and his lady-love.
It’s another quiet Sunday, and their morning devotions to their Creator are, as always, part of the routine. Today is special because no one goes off to work or school—quietness reigns, as it should on God’s day.

November 21, 2013

Snowstorms. There’s something about the forecast that fosters excitement—at least early in the season, and even if you’re not a winter enthusiast—and I’m not—I have to admit that the first predicted storm makes my pulse race a little.

Word is, we may get a Coastal Storm the day before Thanksgiving, “…on the busiest-travel-day of the season,” the dire-faced weatherman purports. “It may be rain, or, depending on the temperatures, we may get, you know, the white stuff.”

How delightfully frightening! He can’t even say the word!

And so, on top of the long-list of groceries needed for the holiday table, we’ll need to add, let’s see… seven loaves of bread, several gallons of milk and water, candles, batteries and don’t forget the snow-shovels! Stock up. Clear the shelves. After all—it’s going to SNOW!

Still, there’s tummy-tickling anticipation when the first real snowstorm arrives. “Oh look! Snow flakes…!” We run to the windows every little while, checking accumulations, and like little children, we’re amazed afresh at the transformation of a formerly dull-brown landscape.

Again, I am deeply grateful for a warm, safe home, a supply of firewood carefully stacked and covered on the front porch, a pantry full of soup-makings, and a cozy chair to curl up in and do my ‘spectatoring.’ I know-I know… that’s not a word, but I’ll bet you knew exactly what I meant!

Speaking of words, we have a new member of MouseHouse, Olaf, a nephew on Fivelina’s side—her sister’s boy. He’s been looking for work since he finished school in the summer and Uncle Fivel kindly offered to apprentice him in the carpentry business. He will board with them until he can get-on-his-feet and find a place of his own.

Olaf has a speech impediment though; he wists-his-twords! It’s rather startling at first. Fivelina, even though she was pre-warned, nearly choked on her bonnet strings when he greeted her with, “It’s a seasure to plea you again! Thank you for your kindness in making me tin… er, taking me in…” And the more nervous he is, the worse it gets. Where-may-I-put-my-things came out, “Mere way I thut my pings?”

In seconds, Bic and Ben were rolling on the floor, giggling, and little Bitsy hid behind her mama’s skirts, a little horrified by the sounds coming out of this stranger’s mouth. Olaf’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment, his head hung in shame. “Morry, sa’am… er, sorry, ma’am…” he whispered plaintively.

“Now children…” she scolded gently. “This is not a laughing matter. Olaf needs your help, not your ridicule. He can’t help twisting the words like that, and we’ll need to help him feel at ease here so he won’t be as nervous—it’s then that it happens, you see. Now please apologize to him for laughing.”

Ben straightened himself immediately, extending his hand to shake Olaf’s. “I’m sorry for laughing, Olaf. It just sounded funny and we thought you were doing it on purpose.”

“S’okay…” Olaf replied. “I knew you didn’t hean any marm, er, mean any harm…”

At that, Bic’s attempt at sobriety dissolved. He held his breath, clenched his teeth, his face getting redder with the effort, but despite his efforts the giggles erupted anyway. Doubled over, clutching his fat little belly, the chortles rendered him helpless. And pretty soon, Ben was sniggering at his brother, and before long, little Bitsy let a little squeak-giggle slip too.

Olaf soon joined them, slapping his leg in an all-out guffaw session, and soon Sir Fivel and Fivelina joined in. They hugged and patted each other’s backs, all the while laughing helplessly.

When they all calmed down, and were able to welcome Olaf properly, they showed him where to put his things. He will bunk in with the boys, while Bitsy and Betina room together until the upcoming wedding. Then Bitsy will have the room to herself.

So members of MouseHouse are settling in, comfy and cozy, unaffected by impending snowstorms or dire predictions. They have prepared well. They too enjoy a safe home, an ample wood supply and bulging pantry. We are all blessed.

November 20, 2013

There was something unusual about Sir Mattie’s behavior this morning, especially since it’s a cold November one and typically he is snuggled near the woodstove when the temperatures dip. Not today. Nope. As I made my morning cuppa, he peeked around the corner, a wide-eyed you-can’t-catch-me expression on his face.

“What’s up with you?” I ask sleepily and he took off running as though I’d said something not only profound, but markedly frightening. He raced from room to room, kicking up his heels in rare form, darting beneath the draft-curtains hung between living and music rooms, and then back to the other end of the kitchen where he hid behind the plants, again peeking out at me with that up-to-something look.

I commented to Papa Hare as I settled in my chair by the fire. “What’s with our boy this morning… he’s just full-of-it.”

“Oh… yes… he has a mouse somewhere…” He tells of Mattie’s nighttime adventures, and a poor hapless mouse being tossed about, running for it’s life only to be captured and tossed some more. My heart sank. Bic. Or Ben!

Now you see we have a no-kill policy in this house… if it’s possible to capture and release, we do. Sir Mattie on the other hand has little discretion in this area. If it smells like mouse, well then it’s fair game… and I mean that in both senses of the word. The game is on till the mouse is dead, and then, it becomes... well, you get the picture.

On went the lights in the music room. I was in rescue-mode for cowering mouselings. Sadly, all I found were remnants and a tell-tale stain. Sir Mattie watched from the doorway, blinking innocently, licking his whiskers and washing his paws fastidiously.

Despite the cold dark hour, I fled out to BackPorch and looked up at MouseHouse's front door. It was tightly closed, but a glimmer of light shone from underneath. I tapped ever gently with one finger, and immediately Sir Fivel appeared.

“Yes, Ma’am…” he saw my stricken expression. “Is everything alright…?”

“Sir Fivel, I’m sorry to intrude so early in the morning… but please tell me if all your family is accounted for this morning.”

“Yes, Ma’am… they’re all abed yet except the missus and I. Why do you ask?”

Not wanting to alarm him, I shook my head sadly. “I’m relieved to hear that, Sir Fivel… but you must warn the children again not to ever come inside Big House… they would be in great danger. One little mouse wasn’t so lucky this morning. I hope all your close relatives are safe.”

He nodded gravely. “Thank you, Ma’am. I’ll tell the children. Good day to you now.” He bowed low, punctuating the gesture with a tip-of-his-cap. Of course gentlemen don’t wear their caps in the house, so it was just that—a gesture, but I got the message.

Smiling and not-just-some relieved, I hurried back inside to warm up and pour that cup of tea. And yup… you guessed it, Sir Mattie was curled snugly by the wood fire, belly full, and lots of adventures to dream about.

November 18, 2013

So my dear friend and neighbor called this morning, wanted to know if she could come right over. Said she had been looking for Christmas wrapping paper, and found… actually rescued… something of mine from under her bed. Under her bed? Now let me tell you, she sure had my attention on that one! How did anything of mine get down the road a piece, into her house, and—most puzzling of all—under her bed!? And it was quite apparent she didn’t want to tell me over the phone. Dear-dear… this was bamboozling, and yes, I’ll admit it, my curiosity was thoroughly piqued!

“Sure… come on over...” I invite, and as soon as we hang up, I scramble to clean things up a bit—this is Monday morning after-all, laundry day, clean-up-from-the-weekend day… and I’m hardly in lace-and-ruffles mode, you see. But, she and I are friends-from-way-back; we’ve seen each other at our best and worst, and been through thick-n-thin together, so I pat my hair in the mirror, put on the kettle, and assume that, because she knows me well, she’ll overlook the piles of clothes waiting at the washer, and the breakfast dishes all over the counter!

At the door, she wears a mischievously worried expression. She is holding a very small bag, carefully closed at the top, and as I accept it, she warns, “Be careful… she might get out.”

I peek inside, and there, dressed in her finery, is none other than Fivelina.
“Sorry, Mama Hare… I never meant to be such trouble…” she whispers worriedly. “I was at the Underground Warehouse yesterday, and found this lovely wreath I wanted to bring, just for you. You’ll note it even has a sweet little hare on the front… and well, I didn’t get on my way soon enough last night, and I’m afraid I lost my way in the dark. Dear me. My heart’s been all aflutter, and my family must be worried sick…” she sank back down in the bag looking utterly miserable.

“Now-now, dear Fivelina,” I comforted. “Not to fret. I’ll bring you right home to MouseHouse and all will be well.” I lifted her gently out of the bag, careful not to muss her beautiful bonnet, and carried her to BackPorch where she perched on Papa Hare’s chair for a minute while I took her picture.

“Oh Ma’am… I must look a fright…” she tittered as I readied the camera. “But thank you for your kindness, and please… this little wreath is just for you.”

I thanked her kindly, then lifted her up to MouseHouse where, sure enough, Sir Fivel stood waiting worriedly at the door. She ran to him with a little cry of joy, and they embraced heartily. I looked away politely, and with a smile of thanks to my friend, we settled on BackPorch for freshly brewed cuppas and a long overdue chat.

Ah! We never know what a day will bring, do we?

November 14, 2013

Ever notice the parade of catalogs stuffed in your mailbox, day after day, at this time of year? The idea of being force-fed the exact same merchandise, under guise of a different cover, week after week from mid-September to the day before Christmas somehow repulses me. Why, pray tell, if I wasn’t interested in buying it last week, or last month, would I want to now?

It rankles that this deluge of junk mail also forces us into more recycling chores. It keeps us fit, of course, running out to empty the kitchen container every couple of days. It’s just plain awful! These things aren’t even fire-start-worthy! They’re full of toxic ink!

Oh I know… there are web-sites where you can post your preferences, at least for some of them. And I have done that, but then made the mistake of purchasing something last July. Evidently, not only does that remove our name from the Do-Not-Send list, it also sends hey-guess-who-bought-something feelers out to sixteen other merchants of similar ilk! Argh! Is there no mercy?

Well, MouseHouse doesn’t have to worry about such things. No postal service there; no junk mail; and for that matter no cell phones or computers either. Papa Hare said he believes the birds have BeakBook though… so who knows, maybe there’s an underground network for the wee-creatures too. MouseBook perhaps?

November 13, 2013

Oh, the things we take for granted, snug in our warm houses as we are! Like a drink at the sink, for instance—just turn on the faucet, fill up the glass and enjoy. Glug-glug-glug.

The watering bowl, where not only our birds, but all the little creatures at Hare Hollow come to drink, was frozen solid this morning. As I stood at the kitchen window daze-gazing--that rather slack-jawed pre-second-cuppa mode--out at the crisp-frozen lawn and woods, at least a dozen little birds came swooping in under the overhang to drink, only to land on solid ice. They pecked a few times, just to be sure, but nope… there wasn’t a drop.

Papa Hare soon went out, knocked the ice out of the watering bowl, and filled it with fresh warm water, and in no time there were eager takers lined up for a morning drink.

Makes me wonder how Fivelina will get her wash done these cold months ahead. Likely Fivel has some inventive way to keep their tiny cistern from freezing, and she merely draws the water, heating it on Walnut Woodstove for the washtub. Still, for a family of five, I don’t envy the work involved. She is a cheerful little homemaker though, and I expect nary a squeak of complaint is heard.

Then there’s the drying part. Can you imagine tiny bloomers and overalls, pillowslips and wisps of towels hanging out on Bittersweet Clothesline these frigid mornings? Why they’d be frozen beads of color merely clackity-clacking against each other in the wind. And goodness! If one popped off the line and beaned an unsuspecting passerby below—well, we can only imagine!

Very likely though, Sir Fivel had such a dilemma well-covered long ago. Drying the triplets' diapers, when they were tiny, would’ve been impossible had she only outside lines to use. My guess is that there are hand-crafted stick-and-vine folding clothes-racks for just such a purpose, and doting as he is, likely there are tiny hearts carved here and there in the support pieces.

Yesterday, the aroma of Fivelina’s dried crab-apple pie wafted down onto BackPorch. I smiled as I swept, picturing the two of them enjoying their hearty noon meal, sharing some sweet alone-time conversation before the chaos of after-school began.

Now what was I saying about taking things for granted? The dryer just buzzed, and how blessed I am to fold well-dried fluffy towels fresh out of this marvelous invention, here in my warm snug home.

November 12, 2013

First snow of the season here in Southern New England—what a beautiful sight! I opened the blinds this morning to see our brown-gray landscape transformed to sugar-coated wonder. Funny how quickly that eiderdown-fluff insulates our little piece of earth here, even muffling the sound of the morning traffic.

Our little birds are happy to come in under the back-porch overhang this morning where breakfast is being served on the side-rail—small handfuls of sunflower seed plopped here and there, and tucked under the lower rail for the shy ground-feeders who won’t compete with the others.

Bic, Ben and Bitsy are muffed and mittened too, although theirs is of the warm fabric kind, lovingly sewn into cozy hooded parkas, bright colored scarves and mittens to match. They, along with their school-mates, scurried along to Big Rock School this morning, squealing and laughing in pure delight. Miss Winklesnout will have difficulty getting them to settle down, I suspect.

Sir Fivel will spend the day near Walnut Woodstove today, the weather is much too inclement to be heading out to the furniture shop, so he plans to work on some small pieces right here at home.
Fivelina is always happy to have him near, and he doesn’t know it yet, but she has plans to make good use of her store of dried crab-apple slices, along with the ample stash of sunflower seeds. It’s a savory nut-meat pie that will be baking soon for the noon meal.

Betina left for school even before the triplets. She is always there early to help Miss Winklesnout get ready for the children—this morning especially, so there would be a good toasty fire going in the stove before the little ones came in, cold and yes, very likely with wet clothes and feet again.
The discussion this morning? Snow-tunneling. It’s never too soon, you know, to learn how to make safe and effective tunnels from the various places they need to go. So they will hear the how-to’s first, Betina will draws diagram on the slate-slab board, while Miss Winklesnout lectures, and then at recess, there’ll be a real-time demonstration outdoors—that is, if the sun doesn’t come out before then and melt all this pretty snow!

Ah well… enough imagining. Time to settle by my own fire and get busy on some of these sewing projects waiting! Time’s a wasting!

November 8, 2013

Self-image—that mental picture we carry of ourselves, it’s an interesting phenomena. Why? Because it often differs radically from reality. This, at least, is my truth.

What do you mean, can I run downstairs and get a can of soup—of course I can! Not. On the contrary, now I trudge carefully, hanging on to the railing, puffing a little too breathlessly on the trip back.

That flirty little plaid kilt I wore years ago, and hung onto because I was sure it’d come back in style again! Sure enough, plaid skirts are back! Oh yes, here it is! Now I’ll just slip it on and see how adorable it—oh dear… it must’ve shrunk. Now you wouldn’t think that would happen here in the storage bin, would you?

Some friends showed us photos of a gathering we attended recently; lovely shots of so many dear faces, but there was one woman who looked vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t place her. A rear view showed her wearing the exact same outfit I had on that day! Amazing. How did I miss her in the crowd? I would’ve jokingly complimented her on our mutual good taste in clothing.

She looked to be a mature lady, and what lovely champagne and silver hair she had; I wondered how I'd missed meeting her. Must've been a friend-of-a-friend visiting from afar.

The next photo shocked me silent (and that is a feat!) as I realized the mystery woman was… me. “That’s what I look like…??” my mental voice squeaked in alarm. I stared at the picture, stunned. White hair, wrinkles? Really? And what happened to the trim little figure I used to be?

Yes, the young girl living inside me still exists, and worse—insists, at least when not faced with reality, that she looks just the same, can do just as much, and be all that she was those many years ago. [sigh]

Our Mattie had another birthday recently. He’s eleven years old now, a mature kitty already, and quite visibly affected by that truth. However, based on his habit of landing on my lap in a leaping four-footed thwump, particularly when I’m not expecting it, he still thinks he is a feather-weight. I have the bruises to prove it.

He no longer bounds up the stairs either, rather, there are feline-footprints in the carpet where he too trudges up and down, closest to the wall, where he can lean in for support.

He chases-the-string, during morning play, for mere seconds now before plopping down in a heap, wearing an expression of boredom. He watches me with a pitying look of you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-mom, and I am soon shamed into hanging up the toy. Makes me wonder sometimes if he’s the one indulging me instead of the other way around. Oh joy, she wants me to play with that string again? Poor thing. Suppose she’ll ever get the idea how silly she looks winging that thing around the room?

When he was little, he used to play with the kitty-in-the-mirror… darting behind it repeatedly to catch the other kitty before it got away. He stared, made faces and batted endlessly, never seeming to tire of the game. It went on for years, morning after morning, but I notice he just walks right by that mirror now, never looks sideways. I suppose that’s one way to deal with it, just avoid mirrors.

Still, there’s a part of me that wants to get to know that mysterious lady I saw in those photos, the one I admired for the lovely hair and good taste in clothing. Looked like she was laughing pretty hard in one, and there were twinkles-in-her-wrinkles, not just in her eyes. Could be she is worth striking up a friendship with... after all, an old lady that can laugh like that, well, she just might be kind of fun to have around.

So, you know…maybe there’s merit in just embracing our truth, accepting who we are today, and in leaving the younger, still inexperienced version of us behind—in the past.

November 7, 2013

Dust-bunnies and wooly-webs—where do they come from anyway? All I can say is that I’ve been chasing, swiping and banishing them since forever. Then tomorrow—there they are again! 
The great thing about aging though, is that you need the help of eyeglasses to see anything further away than the reach of your hand. And believe-you-me, I stretched and reached as long as I could before giving into the inevitable. Thought I’d best see the eye-doctor though, before my hands started dragging on the ground.
So most of the time, the dust doesn’t bother me like it used to; only when I settle down with my cuppa and a good read, put on my glasses and happen to glance over at the lamp table next to me—oh the shock and dismay! 
Thankfully, there are all kinds of innovative (and pricey) tools for dedicated dust-chasers these days, implements with lofty promises demonstrated by impeccably dressed ladies, coiffed and air-brushed to perfection, conquering their dust-bunnies effortlessly with said miracle-tool. On tippy-toe they reach with ballerina-grace, swiffing the tops of book-shelves or ceiling fans, instantaneously transforming their homes to sparkle and shine. It’s almost convincing, and even though my head knows better, my heart yearns for such a miracle. All I need to do is buy this coveted tool and I will magically turn into a smiling, radiant beauty, gliding through my home, banishing dust and dirt with the greatest of ease! Right.
In the grocery store, I ponder over the choices—brand name or generic, the less-expensive model. I choose the brand name, pricey though it is, substitutes might not achieve the miracle.
At home, I can’t wait to open the box, envisioning the miracle tool that will, at last, conquer the dust-bunny colony. Out comes three pieces of flimsy plastic that must be fitted and snapped together. At the end of one is a double-prong that looks too delicate to withstand any kind of battle, much less the war against dust! 
I peer into the box again to find a small plastic bag containing a piece of fluff. The directions say to slide this fluff onto the double-prong. As I do so, my heart is already sinking and I know I’ve been duped. I paid how much for this?
Well, it can’t hurt to try… so with my new miracle dust-busting tool in hand, I attempt the ballerina-glide, swiping and swiffing the tops of surfaces, dipping and bending to swiff the piano keys and pedals. Pirouetting with glee, I pass a mirror and note with disappointment that the image looking back doesn’t even begin to resemble the beautifully dressed and coiffed lady I saw advertising the product. On the contrary, this one was rather frightening to behold! I moved on. 
The fluff-of-fluff at the end of the dust-busting prong was now gray with dust. “Ah-ha! It’s working,” I exclaimed to no one in particular. 
The directions say to discard this dust-laden fluff at the end of each cleaning session, and replace it with a fresh one. Since only one is provided in the kit… well, you know what that means. I’ll need to buy replacement fluffs. 
By now I’m getting the idea: costly plastic pieces worth a fraction of their price, and costlier fluffs that, if we’re to believe the directions, must be added weekly to the grocery list—seriously? Yup. I've been duped.
The old-fashioned dust-cloth-taped-to-the-yardstick is looking pretty good about now. It works for the high-spots, and then an old clean sock-on-a-hand works wonders for the low ones. Gramma had it right from the start! And these tools are washable, even bleachable, and best-of-all reusable!
I wonder what Fivelina uses to clean MouseHouse. She keeps the place sparkling, I know, so she must have a plan. Maybe she’ll share it with me one day. Meanwhile, maybe I’ll just take off my glasses

November 6, 2013

Hump Day… “climbing the proverbial hill to get through a tough week” as one source defines it. So, dear readers, we’ve climbed the hill for this week and made it to the top. Its all clear sailing, or sliding, however you want to look at it, from here to the weekend. Weeeeeeeee!
Funny how we set mini-goals for ourselves, little rewards we hold onto, mini-milestones that help us get through the mundane, or even the downright unpleasant parts of our days. 
So here we are to Wednesday already, can the weekend be far away? Nope. We’ll be breezing into Thursday in no-time, and Friday follows in a blur. And there you are! Problem is the weekend passes in a heartbeat and you’re right back at Monday again. [sigh]
Sobering to consider that maybe we’re wishing our lives away. Wonder if I could learn to relish each day, no matter its title, and despite its hurdles or difficulties. I’m well aware that tomorrow is not a surety, and that today may be all I have. What liberty of spirit to simply rejoice in the present, the time I have today, and leave every tomorrow in the capable hands of the One who has power over it all.
No doubt there is wisdom in preparing for tomorrow, as any wise member of MouseHouse and Village can vouch. They sure know how to enjoy the moment, attested by the nightly revelry going on in the attic! I think I heard Sir Fivel lecturing some of the rabble-rousers last night though, if not him, then some other authority in the mouseling culture. It remains to be seen (or heard) if they will take the wise counsel, or risk being evicted by the landlord!
And now, being the day that it is, I must be off to work!

November 4, 2013

Exuberance. That’s the word that came to mind as I smilingly watched the Honor Society Volunteers rake our yard the other day. High school teens—about 8 of them, arrived in their various teen-mobiles, dressed warmly for the chill day, armed with rakes and tarps, blowers and yes, snacks and drinks to fortify the effort. Soon the sounds of raking and leaf-blowing filled the air, but what was more pronounced was unabashed laughter and enthusiasm. Rakes swung, leaves flew, piles grew and laughter seemed to fuel them. I watched discretely from various windows now and then, and found myself smiling ear-to-ear just listening to them. What joy they exuded! It can’t be a particularly joyful pursuit, raking some old couple’s leaves, but there was nothing half-hearted about them. No. On the contrary, even after two hours of rake-flying action, they were still laughing, racing to the woods with leaf-loaded tarps, dumping the load only to stride back up the hill with purpose—unlike the huff-puff plod that is apt to be my style!

And chatter. I couldn’t hear their conversations of course, but their voices over the scrape of rakes and whir of blowers, a sound bright and alive, sentences punctuated by the swing of the rake or raucous guffaws. It lifted my spirits just observing. Papa Hare noticed too. Mentioned how happy they all seemed and sounded. We asked one another, what happens to us as the years roll by; why do we lose that youthful exuberance? The answer is as varied as our life-experience, I’m sure, but the message was loud and clear: Exuberance brings energy to the task, and cheer to the observer.

“Each must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.” 2 Corinthians 9:7 Sobering. I must find my exuberance again, if for nothing else, to honor the One who so cheerfully, mercifully, faithfully does so much for me.

Young Bret is an exuberant sort too, tirelessly working as apprentice to Sir Fivel in the furniture making business—and mind you, business has been good of late with all of the little woodland creatures preparing their homes for the long winter days ahead. It’ll soon slow down though. Already, the days for gathering and storing are nearly past. The storms haven’t started yet, but the cold has arrived, and many are already gathered, early each evening, around their woodstoves, napping on handcrafted sofas, sipping mulled acorn-cider at beautifully appointed tables.

At the end of the work day, Bret rushes home to work on his own projects, outfitting his and Betina’s home-to-be in fond anticipation of the day when they will be together for always. Sir Fivel has helped too, showing Bret how to frame in a living area with repurposed wood—popsicle sticks being the all-time fave, since, gnawed in half, they are already portable enough to carry without undue effort or reworking. They gnawed and fitted, carefully saving small pieces for other projects, or as fire-starters for the stove, and then carefully sanded and polished all the edges, especially the floors. Nothing worse than splinters on a cold winter morning!

So the living space is all framed and insulated, a small pantry shelved and ready, and a separate sleeping and bath area at one end is in the works. Bret has a bed, a small table with two chairs all done, and he’s currently working feverishly to complete a bureau—those drawers are surely a challenge though!

Meanwhile, Betina, now adept at needlework, thanks to a talented and patient mother, has accrued quite a pile of household items that will surely make their lives more comfortable. She’s already provided her betrothed with a warm quilt, a pillow and bed-puff (mattress) stuffed with milk-thistle-fluff, and flannel sheets—the envy of every mouseling! She got it from the Underground Channel—an innovative group that work together to find and repurpose all kinds of useful things. A stash is brought in daily, down to the underground warehouse, where it’s cleaned and sorted. Things are available there for barter—goods or services, so Betina offered her services as laundress, every other Saturday for three months, in exchange for several large pieces of soft flannel. She made a set of sheets and pillowslips, and has enough left over for tiny diapers someday. Well, a girl has to plan you know!

So now, in my exuberance for all these stories, I’ve neglected the laundry pile. Oh dear! I do hope I can be a cheerful doer today.

November 3, 2013

Blessings—the favor of God, that which is conducive to happiness or welfare. There are, and have been, more natural blessings in my life than I can count, but undoubtedly, along with His favor, comes my responsibility to respond in gratitude. Then there are soul-blessings, His favor and mercy on a whole other level, one which I want to be more aware of (and grateful for) as well. It’s been laid on my heart this week that gratitude goes far beyond saying thank-you. Full heart-felt trust in Him, reverence so deep it guards my words and actions before others, humility of spirit, mercy and kindness that go heart-deep and not just in the smile I offer. Choosing to see the good in others, and the fact that they too are His children, His handiwork—these are just a few tokens of gratitude I want to include in my every day.

It turned much cooler during the night, and sometime in the wee-hours, I was mighty grateful for the blessing of warm covers, a cozy bed, and when I was sure it had to be time to get up—my tummy told me so, I made my way to the kitchen, thankful for the blessings of home, shelter, comfort and yes, the sound of the kettle heating up. The flicker of the candle on the stove, a cozy chair by the woodstove, and the realization that many do not have these blessings strikes my heart with sadness. I am blessed. May I never overlook that.

As always, the Hollow is quiet on Sunday morning. I am also grateful for that. There is some activity going on in the attic, it actually awakened me earlier, and I suspect some little creature had a Saturday night gathering, perhaps a Harvest Party? Many little feet were skittering across the ceiling, and it sounded like they were rolling acorns, even throwing them now and then. A game of acorn-soccer perhaps? All’s quiet now; likely they are partied-out and snuggled in their beds, but from past experience I suspect there will be more commotion for a few nights, and until they get established in their winter-dorms. Hope they settle soon. Like I’ve said before, we don’t mind sharing our bounty with God’s littlest creatures, but we do require respect and consideration in return.

Papa Hare says they are just finding a warm place for winter, and he’s right of course. We’ve also learned that the more activity up there, the more likely that there’s a bitter winter ahead. The Farmers’ Almanac agrees, as does all the nature-signs we’ve watched over the past few months. [shudder]

Like I said, I’m thankful for my blessings.

November 2, 2013

So tonight's the night--the end of Daylight Saving. For the next several months we'll have Eastern Standard time... no saving involved, nothing thrifty about it, just standard mediocrity... and a whole lot of darkness!

Well, for me it's the official beginning of winter, pull-the-drapes and light-the-candles-at-four time, keep a kettle-of-stew-bubbling-on-the-back-burner time, and yes, it's also battle-the-doldrums time.

MouseHouse is without windows, out of necessity I suspect, but not a bad choice either when you think about it. There's not much to look at outside this time of year. When they need a little air, or want to see what's happening beyond the front door, they simply step out onto the veranda. No doubt it's a good way to get fresh air, and just think of all the window-washing, curtain-laundering chores that Fivelina never has to do! One thing's for sure, their home is draft-free and cozy as can be.

I have yet to step out onto Back Porch this morning... this time of year it's simply too dark and spooky at 5:00 a.m. I suspect though, that the mouselings are still fast asleep in their cozy bunks, and Sir Fivel and his Fivelina are sitting at their table, enjoying the quiet, sipping freshly brewed chicory from sturdy wooden mugs, another one of Fivel's carved creations.

Betina is, as well, likely still abed this Saturday morning. She's had a busy week at school where she works now as a teachers' aide for Miss Winklesnout. She and Bret continue to prepare their new home for the upcoming nuptials in the spring. Bret lives in their new place now, but his bride-to-be will stay with her parents until after the wedding.

Another thing--at MouseHouse there are no clocks, no adjustments to time changes, no deadlines or constraints. The woodland creatures live by the rules of nature. No matter the time of year, they rise with the sun and sleep when it's dark. Well, some of them. Then there are those who hunt at night, lurk about in the dark, looking for prey, not unlike some humans I suppose. We won't go there.

Meanwhile, later today, I will go around Hare Hollow House, exclaim over the many clocks we've accumulated over the years, take each one down from its perch, and set the new time--Eastern Standard Time. Not sure what's standard about it except that it's standard every year-- I get hungry an hour earlier, think it's time to sleep before I've finished my dinnertime stew, and have a vague something-is-weird feeling for weeks!

Ah well. Bring-it-on Ole' Man Winter. We're ready for you. Not!

November 1, 2013

Stepped out on the back porch this morning to a blustery 64 degrees... wind chimes dancing merrily, tinkling loudly, my scarecrow collection huddled, braving the gusts together where I gathered them out-of-rain-range in one of the porch chairs. The woods is soddenly naked this morning, silhouetted against a stormy backdrop, dark clouds scuttling across the sky. Skeletal trees sway precariously in the wind, the smaller shrubs and saplings bend in harmony. Remember all those leaves and pine needles? They are no longer where I piled them. Need I say more? [sigh]

The mouselings and all their fellow classmates had great difficulty finding their way to Big Rock School this morning. The wind picked wee Bitsy right up off the ground and flung her smack-dab into a puddle. She was so stunned, she just sat there squeaking in alarm for several seconds before her chivelrous brothers--well, sometimes--came to her aid. Dripping and cold, she shivered her way between them, back to the path, one on each side protecting her from the cold wind. Miss Winklesnout keeps a supply of dry shirts and cast-offs for just such a mishap, and Bitsy was quickly helped into dry clothes. Tiny thing that she is, the shirt she is wearing is big enough to drag on the ground, and the sleeves had to be rolled up numerous times.

"Alright children, settle down now and get in your seats..." she tapped her desk loudly. They were unusually noisy and boisterous with all the excitement--several of them had to have dry clothes, or a compress applied to a bumped head. Such wind is no small matter when you are so wee!

All is well now though, and their first assignment of the day is to tell about their Happy Halloween adventures. It's a lesson in patience of course, waiting your turn, and being considerate of others, not taking too long when you talk. Miss Winklesnout is a wise teacher, using life-lessons to teach these important matters: courtesy, patience and consideration. Book-learning is necessary of course, but think of the lessons that can never be taught without the experience to back them.

So it's November. Time to draw the drapes tightly, huddle closer to the woodfire, and begin the chairside projects put off all summer. The yarn is at-the-ready, several quilting projects await, and three comfy-cozies (double fleece blankets) wait to be tied and hemmed. Fivelina is busy as well, sitting by Walnut Woodstove, needle flying as she works on her projects too.

Now that I have the time, I wonder where my ambition went. Ah well... guess it's time for another cuppa.