September 4, 2014

Oisin Pivy otherwise known as poison ivy is nasty stuff—nasty enough that you have to find some humor in it somehow or lose your cool completely trying not to scratch. So, slathered in calendula and pretending that my arm isn’t on fire, doesn’t itch a bit, and won’t wake me up at least three times tonight, I carry on.

Where did I get poison ivy, you ask? Have you checked your gardens lately? It’s everywhere. Either there’s an underground tyranny going on, spreading massive root systems, or it’s a conspiracy in The Village of Hare Hollow Woods. Ha! Let’s see how many white berries (thus seeds) we can plant among Mama Hare’s choice perennials.

Yup, that’s a little paranoid, I know, but let me tell you, whatever the means, the results are the same—it’s everywhere!

Ben and Bic brought home a basketful of lovely white berries once, from the ivy plant. Mama Fivelina recognized them immediately and hastily dumped them back into the woods, that is, after a thorough life-lesson for the mouselings. “These are not for eating…” she showed each of them the attractive but toxic white-yellow berries. “You must never pick and eat these… in fact, Bic and Ben, you need to wash your hands very thoroughly now. You may have the oils on you. It can make you very sick if you get it in your mouth.”

Now mouselings don’t get poison ivy skin reactions the way people do because they have fur, not bare skin. But ingesting the berries can be deadly. They are toxic to everyone except the birds whose digestive processes are quite different than ours.

“We thought we were helping you, Mama…” Ben said with a hurt look on his face.

“Yes, dear. I know. And you are helping. You helped us all with an important lesson today. Do not pick poison ivy berries, and don’t ever eat them.”

Wonder if Fivelina has any remedies for the itch?

September 2, 2014

All mixed up! The months, that is. A week ago, end of August, it was 47 degrees out on BackPorch and I, shivering in my summer robe, was thinking it was time to haul out the winter woolies! Here it is September and the thermometer read 72 in the pre-dawn hours with humidity so thick I could’ve spread it on my toast. Hmm—maybe not. Well, thick enough that I didn’t care to linger.

Hey! It’s New England, known for its changeable weather, right? Guess adaptation, aka deal-with-it, is the key to contentment. Hope I can say the same in the middle of January.

Speaking of January, little Bitsy is learning how to knit—scarves and mufflers in particular. Papa Fivel whittled down some tiny knitting needles from some sturdy oak twigs—she’d tried to learn on Mama’s bigger ones, but kept hitting herself in the nose. Well, you see, the best way to learn is from your mistakes, and she made many of them. First it was the issue of dropped stitches, leaving holes big enough to peek through—cute, but not so good at keeping out January winds.

“Rip out your work, back before the hole…” Mama said, “then pick up your stitches and start over.”

Bitsy scowled. “…but Mama! I spent a long time getting this far… can’t I just stitch up the hole?”

Mama smiled sympathetically. “No dear. You must take pride in your work; do it right and you’ll enjoy the results. Cover your mistakes and you’ll always think about them being there.”

Well, that was last week. Now the scarf has taken on a rather misshapen appearance—narrow at the top and getting wider-by-the-row. Not only that, it’s long enough to trip over!

“Ah, dear Bitsy… you certainly have learned how to make the stitches, but now you need to recognize what they look like after you’ve knit them, and where to pick them up on the next row.”

“Huh?” Bitsy heard the inevitable before Mama uttered it. “Don’t tell me I have to rip it out again….!!”

Mama smiled again. “Here… let me have it. I’ll bring it back to where you started increasing and then help you see where you should pick up the next row.” She began unraveling rows and rows of Bitsy’s pretty rose scarf. Bitsy covered her eyes. “I can’t watch… all that hard work… ohhhhh Ma-a-a!”

“I know, dear. But this is how we learn. You’ll see the same to be true for so many things in life. We have to tear out our mistakes over and over, but then we know better when we try again.”

Last night, Bitsy tried the scarf on and they decided it was long enough, maybe a bit too long. “I don’t know how to end it, Mama… how do I stop?”

“Yes, there’s certainly merit in knowing when to end something…” Mama showed her how to bind off the stitches, and there it was… a hard-earned, well-worked pretty rose scarf. “Thank you, Mama. Do you think I could make a hat now to go with it?”

“Of course you can. You can do anything, as long as you are willing to learn.”

Smart lady, that Fivelina.

August 29, 2014

Traffic was heavy coming home from errand-hopping today, patrol cars hiding under every bridge or road-slope. “Wonder what’s going on…” I commented, and then we both seemed to think of it at once: Labor-day Weekend. “Of course…” we exclaimed, verbally head-slapping ourselves, “it’s a holiday weekend.”

The last hurrah of summer… barbeques, picnics, beach treks, camping trips, you-name-it. The highway is full—campers, out-of-state-plates, cars with carriers atop, bikes on the back, and back windows stuffed to the hilt with sleeping bags and overflowing knapsacks. After this weekend, summer is officially over.

Now to me there’s something slightly oxymoronish about that term. Labor day, when in fact what most of us are doing is lolling about, or catching up on the latest dish with friends and family, stuffing our faces with picnic-fare, glugging our lemonades, and playing beach volleyball or reading the final chapters of our summer romance while wriggling bare toes in the sand. Hmmm. Do tell! How is that labor?

Well, I suppose to be fair, it’s good to recognize that there are some who use this last summer holiday weekend to pull weeds in the flower garden, trim shrubbery, or finally do something with the zillion cucumbers and tomatoes covering the kitchen window-sills. And believe you me, canning and pickling are definitely labor!
Or perhaps it’s the weekend to close up the pool, or clean out the garage so we might actually park there come winter. Okay. I suppose then it’s accurate—labor day.

Maybe we should change it to Hurrah Day. After all, whether you choose to frolic at the cottage, or close the cottage up for winter, at the end of the day there’s bound to be some hurrahs at the end of the day.

Happy Labor Day—ah, Hurrah day everyone!

August 27, 2014

It was just a little scrap of lace, evidently dropped while rummaging through quilt fabric yesterday. Then too, maybe not—but I’m getting ahead of myself here. Every fall, I get the urge to start another quilt project—nesting instincts maybe? You know, with winter coming on. So deciding on some throw pillows for my bed, I carefully cut out all the pieces.

While I sewed, I have to admit that now and then I saw a little something, you know, peripherally—that side vision you’re hardly aware of, but that somehow niggles at your awareness. My subconscious blew-it-off as being just a scrap of fabric I’d dropped while cutting, so I ignored it.

I brought my newly sewn square to press at the ironing board and while I waited for the iron to heat, there it was again. That piece of lace. It moved! All by itself! Now I’ve known for awhile that my eyes play tricks on me on occasion, but this was no trick—that lace moved a good six inches across the rug!

And then I saw it. A tiny—and I mean tiny pink tail. The lace had a tail. Hmmm. Really? I watched quietly, waiting to see what would happen. After a long pause, several minutes at least, it happened again. The lace began a slow but steady inch-worm crawl across the carpet, heading in the direction of the kitchen heat register.

“Would you like some help with that, Miss Bitsy?” I asked quietly.
Silence. The lace sat motionless again. After another long pause, a tiny brown face peeked out from under an edge. Tatiana.

“I’m not Bitsy, Ma’am. I’m Tatiana…" squeaked a tiny voice. "...And I was hoping you didn’t need this little piece of lace I found. My mama can sew this on a pretty dress for me… I know she can.” Her eyes were dewy with worried tears, tiny whiskers trembled and as brave as she tried to appear—all two inches of her now standing tall, the lace abandoned, she shivered in fear.

“Tatiana… I am always happy to leave your mama scraps of fabric and lace, and yes, you are most welcome to have this one too, but your mama wouldn’t like it if you took it without asking—that’s not how we do things. I suspect she has already taught you better.”

Her tiny head hung in remorse, a wee tear dripped off her pink nose. “I’m sorry, Mama Hare… I shouldn’t have sneaked into your house and tried to take the lace without asking.”

I picked up the slip of lace and held out my palm to her. “Jump on, wee girl. Let’s go see your mama. You’re forgiven and I’m sure you won’t do it again. If there’s something you need, just ask politely. There’s usually something we can do to help each other.”

Shyly repentant, she climbed up for a ride to MouseHouse. And just as expected, a worried Fivelina was looking out the door as I approached. I gently held the wee girl and her piece of lace up to edge of the eave where she could scramble off and run to her mama.

“Sorry Ma’am… sorry for the mischief and trouble.” Fivelina said softly.
“No trouble, dear Fivelina…” I replied. “Parenting is full of adventures and hiccups—for all of us.”

Now back to my quilting…

August 25, 2014

Winter 2015 prognostication. Sounds ominous, huh? And yes, it really is a word—I can’t take credit for it. Something about this time of year and things like the height of the goldenrod—about four-feet-high and climbing in our area—has me wondering about winter, what to expect.

My grandfather always watched Mother Nature’s signs to predict such things; well, that and frequent consultation of The Old Farmers’ Almanac hanging by a string near the shed door. He was a firm believer, said the Almighty gave us plenty of signs if we just paid attention to ‘em.

Well, now we have Google, thus any number of opinions, scientific or otherwise. And the consensus seems to be that we—here in NE at least—should expect more winter snow and cold than average in Winter 2015. Not sure what average is by now. Remember last winter? Was that average? And the last several? Average?

Until three years ago I’d never heard of a roof-rake, much less how to use one! Then we had four-feet of heavy wet snow weighing down our roof and strange creaking-cracking noises emanated from above my pretty ceilings. Cracks appeared.
Water began dripping. Need I say more?

And snow piles. Let me tell you, pulling out of our driveway was an act of faith, or maybe Russian Roulette! Snow drifts were so high we could only hope no cars were coming.

So what, I ask, is average? Well really, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much, since we are faced with above-average again this year. My memory of average seems to have faded.

Ah well, being the planner-aheader that I am, time to make a stock-list for my winter-pantry, freshen quilts and throws from storage, wash the summer dust from windows, and pull out the heavier lined curtains.

Must be that Mouse Village frenzy is rubbing off on me, huh? We notice the chipmunks and squirrels are into fetch-hide-‘n-store mode—do they seem even a little frantic or is that my imagination?

On the contrary, Fivelina exhibits her usual calm steadiness. She is busy, for sure, gathering, sorting and storing every morsel found. I see her scurrying across the yard with her baskets, the twins trailing behind, struggling up and down Downspout Timber with her finds, and then, not long after, she sails back down again, empty baskets flailing. The twins wee-e-e-e their way down the railing, before thumping to the ground at bottom, then off they go to field and forest for the next harvest.

The other day, I noticed beautiful wee quilts flapping in the breeze out on Bittersweet Vine-line. I suspect the mouselings winter-woolies have been sorted and freshened too, and judging how much the triplets have grown, likely her evenings are busy with sewing new clothes for them as well. I don’t know how she does it! She isn’t one to delay her preparations though, all will be in order long before the first cold blast appears.

The twins are need their own bunks now too, so likely all the pounding and sawing I’ve heard up in the eaves of late, is Papa Fivel and the boys building more sleeping quarters.

Bret and Betina are happy in their little home; both of them working hard at their jobs each day, building credit at Underground Warehouse so they can glean items to furnish their place more comfortably. My guess is it won’t be long until we hear some expanding-family news too, but if there’s any news to tell, Betina is being most discrete just now.

Now, back to my lists…

August 21, 2014

So this is what it feels like to be 65. Yup. Today I woke up with a new number, and well, I’m thinking it’s just that—a number. Sure, I don’t bounce out of bed like I might’ve a few years ago, rather, it’s more of an ease-out now, but other than that, it’s pretty much the same process: Plod to the necessary-room, wash the face and hands, squeeze a length of toothpaste on the toothbrush, and, as I brush, peer into the mirror—now there’s the shocker. The girl I see in my minds-eye doesn’t look a bit like that image in the mirror! There’s still something vaguely familiar, but oh dear—we just won’t go there. Suffice it to say I’m fully awake after that!

On the upside, everything still works—bones, joints, muscles, and brain—I think. Those who know me best may beg to differ, but in all graciousness they keep their doubts to themselves.

Guess I’ve learned a few things along the journey, so maybe I’m a tad bit wiser? I can only hope. There are some things that I know for sure though. I know God loves me and I love Him, and He has blessed me for 65 eventful years—over and over again. I know that life lessons have shown me repeatedly that the most important things are loving others and being grateful for each and every blessing, not just day-by-day, but moment-by-moment.

On a lighter note, I have to tell you about a special little blessing from MouseHouse this early morning—you knew that was coming, right? (Have to give my daughter, Tracey some credit here—and her vision of the MouseHouse gang celebrating my birthday. Amazing how this wee furry family is creeping into so many hearts these days! And it’s rather fun, I might add.)

Well Fivelina brought the twins across the road to the Blueberry Farm last week, to harvest the inevitable dropped berries left behind after all the pickers were done. She brought basket after basketful home, thankful for the now-dry culvert running under the road giving her safe-passage along with two mischievous little ones trailing behind, each carrying a berry or two in their tiny baskets. She washed and sliced, pared and diced, then laid the blueberry pieces out to dry before carefully storing them for winter treats. Trieste and Tatiana helped. Well, sort of. Blue noses and whiskers were testament to the importance of their job—tasters.

Well, this morning, there was a bit of commotion on Downspout Timber as I settled in my chair on BackPorch. Then all of a sudden a parade of mouselings and their dainty mom appeared at Railing Edge, each bearing a tiny plate with one very tiny blueberry tart. Fivelina led the way. With her prompting they all broke out in the sweetest high-pitched rendition of Happy Birthday you ever did hear, Bic and Ben’s voices bringing up the bass notes in impressive harmony.

Fivelina then shyly presented me with a tiny grass-woven basket, not much bigger than a thimble, covered in white eyelet, a pink ribbon on the handle. I lifted the wee cover, and there inside was the sweetest reclaimed rosebud brooch—just the right size to adorn the clasp of a lace collar.

“Oh dear Fivelina! Wherever did you find something so precious! Thank you! I love it.”
She smiled demurely. “I’m glad you like it, M’lady…” she curtsied. I hope you have a wonderful birthday, and please… enjoy these little blueberry tarts. I know blueberry is your favorite.”

Well, as you can imagine, it made my day! Yup, I think I’ll do just fine with this new number… and just think, I can be as imaginative as I wish and folks with raised-eyebrows can merely chock it up to my advancing age!

August 19, 2014

So the garden is finally getting down to business after a remarkably slow start. Lots of green tomatoes, some sizable, others mediocre, oh and squash blossoms galore—it remains to be seen whether Woody Woodchuck will overlook the delicacies so that we might actually have a harvest though. I wasn’t going to plant squash this year, still pouting over past failures in the squash department, but I had a little space, and there was an old packet of seeds—so I thought maybe I’d take the chance some might be viable. Sure enough! Like I said though, Woody may be sending out invitations for a smorgasbord and all we’ll see at the end of the season are gargantuan leaves!

Speaking of which, I cut back some of the wilted yellowing ones that were over-shadowing smaller plants. And you’ll never guess who was hiding underneath one. Yup. It was Bic himself, in all his mischievous glory. He shrunk back behind a prickly vine at first, peeking out warily, his big brown eyes sparkling in the waning sunshine.

“Hi Bic…” I spoke quietly. “It’s just me… you don’t need to be afraid.”
With that, he stepped out bravely, tipping his bright blue cap, and bowing with gentlemanly aplomb. Now who does that remind me of? I smile knowingly.

“So what brings you out to the garden this sunny evening, young man?”

“Just gathering up some seeds here for Mama…” he leans in under the big leaves and pulls out a sizable grass-woven basket, full-to-the-brim of various seeds and nuts.

“That’s quite a find! You’ve been working hard, I see. How will you get that back to MouseHouse before dark, I wonder?”

Now the garden is a fair distance from BackPorch you see, and in mouse-steps even further!

“Aw fiddlesticks, Ma’am… I’m a big strong fella by now you know.” And with that, he flexes an arm to show me. I stifle a grin so as not to offend.

“Well, I’m sure you are quite capable, but seeing as I’m going that way with a bucket of weeds, would you like a lift? It’ll be dark soon remember… the days aren’t nearly as long now. You wouldn’t want to stumble and lose any of your harvest. And we mustn’t forget Mr. Spook Owl…”

He considered for only a moment… his glance darting to the tree tops around us. “Okay…” was all he said, disappearing briefly to retrieve the tiny blue cap that had fallen and rolled under the squash leaves during his display of mightiness. He watched from the edge of GardenBox while I gathered up my tools, and picked up the weed bucket. I held out an open palm and he climbed nimbly up, heaving the little basket along. Off to BackPorch we trudged, the bucket bumping and thumping, and Bic clinging tightly to my thumb with one hand, and his basket with the other.. At Downspout Timber, I paused to let him off.

A bit breathless and quite transparently relieved, he jumped down, careful not to spill the seed basket. Attempting a manly-mouse voice, he squeaked... “Thank you, Ma’am…” and bowed politely yet again. Ah yes! The saying applies here too—the-apple-doesn’t-fall-far-from-the-tree.

“You’re welcome, Bic. Say hello to your parents for me.”
I glanced up and saw Fivelina gathering wee nappies off the BittersweetVine clothesline. She waved a friendly greeting, and I returned the gesture.

Indeed darkness falls quickly these days. I hurried to empty the weed bucket, looking over my shoulder now and then. Not that Mr. Spook Owl worries me so, but there are other larger creatures in the Hare Hollow Woods that I don’t care to encounter face-to-face. Relieved to be back inside, I shut the door firmly, smiling at my own silliness.
Now for a cup of chamomile tea… and yes, maybe I’ll light a candle too.

August 18, 2014

Peeked out onto BackPorch early-early this morning, and you know what they say about it being darkest-just-before-dawn? I haven’t figured out who they is yet, but y’know—I think they’ve got something there. It was nearly five and nary a glimpse of dawn, so I shut the door, put on the kettle and waited.

You know the one about the watched-pot-never-boils? Well, it seems they were right about that one too! So, I began unpacking from my trip, listening with half-an-ear—the other half was still asleep—for the kettle.

Sometime later, bundled up in a cozy robe, extra socks and schlompy slippers, I picked up my mug of tea, and ventured out in the still-dark.
My! It is quiet in the early morning now. No more wake-up-chirps in the treetops, only the sound of shivering crickets in the deep woods, and… well, an occasional rustle of brush as something bigger-than-I-want-to-know heads into deeper undergrowth. Not that screens would do much to protect me should there be a curious beast lurking about, but still I am grateful to be enclosed with at least that much protection.

Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of autumn in that cool morning air? Sigh. I think we both know the answer. Ah well! The seasons plod on. We can plod along with them, or pick up our feet and dance. I think, today anyway, I’ll dance.

MouseHouse was quiet at 5:00 a.m. Sir Fivel was most likely up-and-about, and perhaps his Fivelina too, but their door was tightly shut, not even a glow of light peeking out.

It’s not uncommon to see them side-by-side in their hand-crafted swing—popsicle sticks and twine of course, but then you knew that—swinging gently there on the veranda as dawn peeks over the horizon, and sipping from their mugs of chicory. Most mornings, they try to steal a few quiet moments together before the mouselings rise and another day gets underway. Makes for a good marriage, you know.

This morning, though, being as chilly as it was, more likely it was a cozy wood fire in Walnut Woodstove on their minds, or maybe a few more minutes snuggled under a cozy thistle-down quilt.

So I tarried only long enough to finish my tea before slipping back inside for a refill and… well, warmer climes. [shiver]

August 8, 2014

Thought I’d do a little gardening yesterday morning; the weeds—oh dear, need I say more? So with trowel and bucket in hand and kneeling on cushy pads—don’t laugh, my knees are delicate—I proceeded.

After a time, enough was cleared to plant some long-neglected perennials I’d purchased a couple of weeks back. So off to Potting Shed I went to fetch the bag of garden soil.

Now this bag was already opened—I’d used some earlier in the spring—the top merely rolled shut, and I shouldn’t have been surprised to find that some little creature had investigated its contents. After all, we do live in the country! Still, as I peered inside, I was surprised to find little bits of paper towel mixed into the soil, and further surprised when a plastic cup I’d used to fill earlier pots came tumbling out, spilling more confettied-paper-towel, bits of pink and blue gloves and other things I couldn’t identify.

“What on earth…?” I started to say when out flew Mama Mouse with multiple infants attached to her nether-parts. In her haste to escape, one of the wee ones dropped off onto the ground.

“Ohhhhh!” I exclaimed, my heart aching for the poor little mite. I imagined it’s wee cry, “Mommy, mommy—don’t leave me!” I stepped back, retreated to the shade of Potting Shed and watched awhile, hoping Mama Mouse would come back for her baby. She didn’t. So I scooped up the tumbled contents of the plastic cup, laid it on its side in the shade, and carefully placed said-baby into the ‘nest.’ Time will tell if Mama came back—I’m heading out there again this morning.

So yes, MouseHouse adventures are entertaining, but real-life can be too! And a bit sad at times too.

August 6, 2014

August. Back Porch is no longer the busy, bustling, tweeting-twittering place we knew just a few weeks ago. The birds are quieter, no time for idle chatter now. They frequent the feeders with purpose, some fattening up for the upcoming journey south, others filling their craws before flying off to private storage nooks to stock winter pantries.

Then there’s the critter village… chipmunks, squirrels and yes, you guessed it, the MouseHouse community. They too are intent on gathering, storing and preparing for the long winter ahead.

Fivelina has more mouths to feed this year—seven to be exact, but thankfully Bic, Ben and Bitsy are responsible, effective helpers now, making her job much easier. Of course school will be starting soon, but Miss Winklesnout delays classes until mid-September so that families—including able-bodied children—can dedicate their time to helping prepare for winter.

It’s been a lush growing season this year. There are seeds and pods, berries and nuts galore! Papa Fivel often remarks, “Our Creator provides well; we have much to thank Him for…” and the children are reminded of that as they make endless trips back and forth from field to Downspout Timber stairs, carrying their little grass-woven baskets filled-to-the-brim.

Mama greets them with… “Thank you, my dears…” before emptying the contents onto the kitchen table and sending them off to fill the baskets again. Then she sorts and packs every morsel into the appropriate acorn canisters, covering them carefully as she fills each one. Even the little twins are old enough now to help sort. They sit at the table and carefully pull out any chaff or dirt from the pile. Sometimes there’s more chortling and dust-flying than there is progress being made, but Mama is patient, to a point at least.

“We need to remember that getting ready for the Big Cold is a serious matter though…” she chides gently, “and I do appreciate all your help, m’ladies.”

At the grown-up term, two pairs of beady brown eyes widen. “Ladies?” Tatiana chirps. “We’re ladies, Mama?”

“Yes, m’dears… you are young ladies… and you are doing a good
young-lady job by helping me.”

That quieted the chortling and giggling considerably, at least for awhile. Mama smiled knowingly; often a quiet bit of praise speaks louder than any protest.

My tea grows cold and my to-do list isn’t to-doing itself, so enough Back Porch musings for today. I gather up my breakfast mug and plate, glancing up at MouseHouse under the eaves. Mama Fivelina is hanging wee dresses and overalls on Bittersweet Vine-line. With one hand full of wet cloth, she waves, a tiny clothespin in her mouth, her eyes sparkling with good humor. I smile and wave back before slipping into the house.

August 4, 2014

August already and nearly a four month gap in Back Porch Ramblings from Hare Hollow. Many of you have asked, and of course the writer in me has to oblige, so here, my friends, is the latest from MouseHouse Village.

As you may recall, Sir Fivel and Fivelina had twins back in the spring—Trieste and Tatiana. Mouselings grow quickly you know, so yes, they are already scampering about, zipping up and down Downspout Timber, or more often, sliding down Bittersweet Vine Railing! Fivelina has to keep a keen eye on them as they have yet to learn the dangers of the outdoors.

Speaking of dangers, Papa Fivel’s bedtime story last night included a valuable lesson—this one about a distant relative’s run-in with Cat. (Now some of you will be vaguely familiar with this story, having heard one similar not many hours ago; slight variances are necessary for clarity to a broader audience.)

Papa began. “We knew of a wee mouseling who wandered into a place she shouldn’t have been, taken in by the yummy-smelling delicacies, packaged up for guests, after a large gathering. She found her way into one of the boxes, and, after helping herself to a hearty meal of blueberry pie, tucked herself under the edge of the pie tin and fell fast asleep.

She was rudely awakened sometime later by a jouncing and jostling such as she’d never known and clung-for-life to the edge of that pie tin! What could be happening?!

Trapped now, the box buried deep inside a cooler with other foodstuffs piled atop, it was dark and terribly frightening. A great rumbling began and a rocking motion that added further to her fright, but, after a time, she was lulled back to sleep.
Bright lights awakened her again, and there she was in some lady’s kitchen, looking up at two pairs of startled human eyes.

“Oh look Harold! A tiny mouse has come home with us from our gathering.”
Disgust colored his expression. “Well, goodness me! Take it outside at once and get rid of it!” He exclaimed.

“Oh my no! This is a special mouse… came home with us in the box with specially prepared food for a very special occasion. We can’t just put her out in the cold when she’s travelled all this way, so far from her home. We have to keep her. She’s a special little mouse.”

After some convincing, Harold went to town to get a lovely glass palace complete with the softest mouse bed you ever did see, toys and every imaginable amenity for this privileged wee mouse.

Mouseling wasn’t happy though. Eager to see what else was around, she wanted out of that glass palace—she loved adventure!

Well, Harold and his lady had another creature living in their home. Cat. He was big, well-fed with a large belly attesting to the fact, and he was partial to plump, tasty mouselings.

He sat day-after-day, peering into the glass palace, watching little mouseling run on her exercise wheel, nap in her comfy bed, and nibble away on all the delicacies provided. She grew plump and strong, strong enough to climb the side of glass palace and push on the cover. Cat waited patiently, tirelessly watching.

One day, after Lady finished cleaning the palace, fluffing the bed, and refilling the delicacy bowl, she left glass palace cover slightly ajar. As soon as she left the room, little mouseling snatched the opportunity. Up the side she flew, and squeezing through the slight opening, fled to freedom. Oh, all the things there were to explore! She hardly knew where to begin.

That evening, Harold noticed the empty palace. “Where’s our friend tonight?” he asked. “You holding her on your lap now?

Lady rushed to the glass palace. “Oh dear, dear! She must’ve gotten out. The cover is ajar.”

They searched and searched while Cat napped contentedly nearby, stirring slightly now and then, licking his lips contentedly. The tiny mouseling who found a special family and had the best of provisions, had no concern for the dangers outside. Her curiosity ruled and now she was gone.”

Papa Fivel paused, shaking his head sadly. He combed through his whiskers thoughtfully before adding, “so such was the demise of your great-aunt Mary Grace.”

Ben, Bic & Bitsy smiled knowingly as little Trieste and Tatiana stared in horror. “Papa…” Trieste squeaked, “are there Cats around our house?”

“Yes, my dear… and you need to be very careful to stay safe. Don’t dart about without looking where you’re going, or what’s around you. Danger lurks in dark shadows and even out in the sunshine too. We must be very alert. Always.”

More to come. And by the way, MouseHouse enthusiasts, you can find old editions of MouseHouse Tails by scrolling back on my page. I believe they started in September 2013.

April 30, 2014

Last day of April, a brisk 42 degrees out on BackPorch, and drizzling—not exactly a high-energy, pull-on-your-boots-and-get-the-garden-rake kind of day. More like a stay-in-and-read, or clean-a-junk-drawer kind. On a more positive note though, I noticed, on the way home from work, that yellow is a common color for spring flowers, have you ever thought about that? Daffodils and forsythia, monkey-faced pansies, and tulips—in varying colors, but the yellow ones really seem to pop. The daffies remind me of little kindergarten art-class suns atop green stems this morning… bright, cheerful and astoundingly yellow!

Here, where we live, things are slower to progress at this higher elevation. So a mere ten miles away in neighboring towns, the pinks and fuchsias, purples and whites of flowering trees are already showing. We’re still in the yellow phase, but hey… I’ll take all the sunshine I can get right about now, real or the suns-on-green-stems kind.

At MouseHouse, things have been buzzing—well, maybe squeaking is more apt—with the infant twins, the older triplets, a boarder and a husband to look after, you can bet Fivelina has her hands full.

Tatiana and Trieste are growing nicely, their fine baby-fur has come in, their eyes are fully open, their ears seem to be the biggest part of them at present, and adorableness increases daily. Sir Fivel is totally smitten with his two little princesses, and bounces them on his knees nightly. He’s already begun telling them bedtime stories, and because Bic, Ben and Bitsy remember those stories from their own baby days, they too sit on the floor, near the rocking chair, listening raptly.
Fivelina is adamant about chores being done before story-time though, and as usual, the boys are a bit of a challenge in the cooperation vein, but overall, they are good helpers albeit with an occasional reminder. Any hesitation or complaint and Mama has only to say softly, “Papa…?” When Papa sees the situation, there is again, just that quiet, pointed look. For the most part, that’s all it takes.
Bitsy, still worried for her Mama’s well-being, is still apt to take on too much, exhausting her wee self, and has to be reminded that it’s time to rest now, or time to sit and learn some new needlework stitches. So, when story time begins, she and Mama sit side-by-side on the sofa, working on their latest projects, and listen to Papa’s age-old story telling. Somehow with his intonations and sound effects, the stories never grow boring, and there is laughter, gasps of anticipation and claps of glee. The babies watch and listen too, clapping their little hands and gurgling happily, chortling right along with brothers and sister.

Speaking of yellow flowers… Bic and Ben brought home a whole basket of dandelions for Mama, just yesterday. Now, mind you, they don’t stay bright and sunshiny for long once picked, but after all, it’s the thought that counts. Fivelina will dry the petals and use some of them for tea, the fresher ones, for garnishing stews and rice.

Olaf has a lady-friend now, so he is rarely home in the evenings, slipping in late, after everyone else has turned in for the night, to grab a little sleep before rising early again for work. He is courteous and considerate though, careful to be extra quiet as he lets himself in and settles in his bunk, but Fivel suspects that he is thinking of settling down in his own place soon. Of course the family can use the space, not that they haven’t enjoyed his stay, and appreciated his help with the new addition and all, but you know how it is—a growing family needs a lot of room!
Bret and Betina are doing well in their little nest, both of them working hard each day, Bret at the furniture shop and Betina at the schoolhouse, helping Miss Winklesnout with the children. She has progressed from merely being a helper to having her own small group of first-graders—little ones just getting used to the school routine. She’s had her share of childhood drama what with skinned knees or noses, belly-aches and missing-momma tears, but Miss Winklesnout is always kindly there as back-up when Betina doesn’t know what to do. It’s good preparation for Betina’s own family-to-be one day, Miss Winklesnout decides, and so far, all seems to be working out well.

Ah well… back in here at Hare Hollow, and the sound of rain pattering on the roof. It’s time for another cuppa, and let’s see, maybe some yellow flowers to arrange?

April 15, 2014

How appropriate on this tax deadline day—dark, wet, blustery and well, just plain miserable. I’m glad to be where it’s warm and dry, the tax business behind me, and a fresh hot cuppa beside me. The whole taxation thing has always puzzled me—not sure it is ever understandable, much less fair or just, but it is what it is, so I guess we just have to muddle through the best we can.

There is no taxation in the Village here at Hare Hollow. Each family works hard to provide for themselves, and what they can’t grow or make, they trade and barter for with their neighbors. Perhaps more notable though is the concept of helping others. It’s one that is duly taught and carefully practiced.

Miss Winklesnout’s wages are paid in goods and services by the parents of the children she educates, as are Doc Blinket’s. Even the Underground Channel which employs many Village members, is based on the barter system. Accounts are kept of items brought in for repurposing, hours spent in processing and goods taken in payment. Cash and coin don’t exist and greed is not in their vocabulary—what a refreshing concept.

Speaking of repurposing, Sir Fivel found the dearest miniature pram for the twins. Likely a doll-house castoff, it was remarkably dirty and worn, in need of a good refurbishing for sure, but when he and Olaf finished cleaning and sanding, painting and polishing, it was like new, and just the right size to bundle two tiny mouselings side-by-side for a walk in the sunshine. Betina outfitted it with a plump mattress made from a hand-sewn cover—pink of course, and stuffed with thistle-down. She embroidered tiny hearts all around the edge and made tiny pillows to match.

It’s much too rainy and blustery to take the babies out on this inclement day, and they are too wee just yet anyway. Why, they don’t even have their fur yet—baby mice are born without it, you see, so their mamas must take special care of them at first.

Last evening, Sir Fivel urged his lady-love out for a little evening stroll, eager to show her the surprise he had waiting—the beautiful new pram. While Bitsy and Betina rocked the twins, warm and snug inside MouseHouse, Sir Fivel escorted Fivelina along Eaves Walk to the little alcove under the overhang, where he’d parked the pram, safe from wind and weather.

“Ohhhh….” she exclaimed when she saw it. “Wherever did that come from… is that for the twins?”

His eyes twinkled with humor. “Do you like it?” he asked as her eyes filled with happy tears. (New moms are prone to tears you know, and by now he knew that too.)

“Oh thank you!” She turned to embrace him heartily. “ The babies can nap out here while I’m putting laundry on the lines, or just want to be out in the sunshine awhile.”

“Yes…” he smiled dotingly, gently wiping a tear from her cheek, “…and when they’re older, we can bring them into the Village so you can do your visiting or shopping at Underground Channel.”

“Or come to visit you and Olaf at the shop…” she quipped. They nuzzled noses, stealing a quiet moment, just the two of them, before heading back in to care for their family.

“I’ll be back in the morning, Mama…” Betina met them as they came in the door. She and Bret’s live across the roof at FrontPorch Settlement, of course and she was eager to get home to her own little nest for the night.

“The boys have done the supper dishes already, and Bitsy finished folding the dry nappies from the line. So don’t worry about anything else. I’ll take care of things tomorrow.”

“Thank you, dear…” Fivelina hugged her eldest in appreciation. “I am grateful for all you do…”

Helpful daughters, thoughtful neighbors, kind friends… I, too, am blessed with all of those. So as depressing as Tax Day may be, I am grateful for the things the Tax Man can’t (as yet anyway) take from us.

April 14, 2014

A beautiful spring morning it is! Bird-song sonatas from treetop and limb, leftover leaves scuttle across the yard in the wind, and Sammies (squirrels) are busily retrieving nuts they buried earlier and couldn't find all winter. The clothes on BackPorch lines are whip-snapping in the brisk breezes and I am easily distracted while hanging them by all the activity around Hare Hollow.

During one of these pauses, I happened to look up at MouseHouse. Sure enough, Fivelina has her laundry out on Bittersweet Vine-line too! She's productive this morning--wait! Those are wee nappies strung across that line, a couple dozen of them I'm sure! Oh my... could it be? I step up on the kitchen step-stool, tap gently on MouseHouse door and wait. Betina appears, opening the door just slightly, "Good morning, Mama Hare... it's a lovely one, isn't it?" she greets so politely.

"Good morning, Betina. Indeed it is. Spring is finally here." I glanced over at the clothesline, "I couldn't help but notice the nappies on the line this morning... how is your Mama... has she... ah, do you have news for me?"

"Oh yes,..." she twinkles, "the twins arrived late Friday night. They and Mama are doing just fine. We have two wee girls this time, and Bitsy couldn't be happier. She can hardly leave them alone long enough to let them nap!"

Just then Fivelina, still wrapped in her morning robe, appeared holding the tiniest pink mouselings you ever did see. She stood there, just inside the doorway, so they wouldn't catch a draft, you see, one baby snuggled in each arm, just their wee faces peeking out of swaddling cloths, both fast asleep. I marveled at the miniature perfection--our Creator is an Artist at every level, and I found myself tearing up in awe of these darling babies, so incredibly small, yet so perfect.

"Oh Fivelina... they are just precious. Congratulations to you all. I'm so happy you are all doing well. I know it's more of a challenge as we get older, and I was worried about you..." I paused, searching her expression, hoping I hadn't said too much, perhaps offending her.

"Thank you, Ma'am. I'm feeling very well, thank you, but I will say I'm glad for Betina's help these first days. It's going to be busy around here again, I know."

"Well, I won't keep you standing in the doorway here. Thank you for showing me your sweet babies..." I turned to go, then turned back, remembering... "Have you named them yet?" I asked.

"Yes, Ma'am..." she smiled proudly. "This little one is Tatiana and..." looking now at the other one, "...this is Trieste."

"Welcome to the world Tatiana and Trieste..." I whisper gently, then glancing at Fivelina, "...now I really must go and let you get back to resting. Take care of yourself." She smiled graciously, her beautiful brown eyes sparkling with joy. Betina closed the door softly and I stepped back down onto BackPorch.

A while later, I raided my remnants bin and found several small pieces of pink fabric along with a few printed swatches of flannel, some I'd used long ago for babies of my own. I cut them neatly down to size to make it easier for Fivelina to work with, then folded and wrapped them neatly with a piece of pink ribbon, and left the bundle just outside MouseHouse door... my gift for the new arrivals.

Ah Spring! New life. New beginnings. It's all good.

April 8, 2014

Back to normal--almost, and filled with humble gratitude. Sometimes it takes a nasty bout with something to help us appreciate the simple blessings of everyday--like breathing clearly, swallowing without pain and having enough energy to pick up where we left off.

It's supposed to be warm this week--as in 60-something degrees. Oh happy day! Our little birds have been rejoicing from the treetops for weeks though, singing their wee hearts out, fluffing up their bright new spring feathers for the benefit of interested suitors. The lady-birds are checking out the real estate and vying with other lady-birds for the best nesting sites. And all the while I've been thinking--what's the matter with them; it's freezing out there! Well, obviously they were too busy to notice little annoyances like that. Just going about their business as usual. Good advice for me.

Have to say I'm at least thinking about tearing down curtains, filling the scrub pail, polishing windows and cabinet doors--into the nesting instinct myself, I guess. Well, truth-be-told, ours emptied long ago, but Papa Hare and I still live here, so it's nice to have a clean, fresh nest too! Anyway... somehow the thinking part has yet to be followed by action. Guess I still haven't found all of my get-up-and-go--not sure where it got-up-and-went, but I'll find it one of these days.

Fivelina has been busy the past couple of days, fixing up the new nursery. Sir Fivel and Olaf cut into the main wall of the living room, framed out a small nursery and got it paneled and whitewashed. They finished the hardwood-popsicle stick floor with care, sanding it carefully, sealing it with beeswax so there's nary a splinter to be found. A new bureau waits too along with two tiny cradles hooked together so they can be rocked simultaneously, or, if the need arises, unhooked and located in separate areas. Fivelina lined them in soft down mattresses, flannel sheeting and warm covers. The drawers of the new bureau are filled with nappies and nighties, wee booties and bonnets. All is ready.

She tires easily now, and spends much of the time in her rocker, working on a small crocheted oval rug that will just fit between the cradles and bureau. Betina has been coming over evenings, after work, to help, keeping the laundry and cooking done ahead as much as possible. So now we wait for the happy news. Any day now...

Oh I do look forward to being out on back porch again where I can actually see Hare Hollow birds and creatures in their spring pursuits. Today however, it's pouring-down-rain and hardly warm enough for backporch dreaming.

Now... about that scrub pail. Nah! Another day.

April 6, 2014

Well, I’m grounded this morning by a nasty cough and continued snortles—the leftovers of this thing. It's a beautiful day, and I'm not happy about being housebound, but I’ve been thinking of another kind of grounded, a better kind than this temporary one.

Rooted and grounded in love. (Eph. 3:17) In reading those familiar words, I had the thought, why did the writer choose those two particular words. Well, of course the original writing wasn’t in English, and so often origins are lost in translation, but I have to say, after a bit of study, I believe there was good reason that they were grouped together.

Turns out one word—rooted, is an agricultural term, the other—grounded, comes from architectural jargon. We have many agricultural references in Scripture: the parable of the good ground versus the rocky or thorny places. Then there’s mention of the vineyard and being connected to the Vine, grafted in, lovingly taken in to root at the source. There are others too, I know. These in particular though suggest the importance of being rooted for sure, but I wondered at being grounded as well.

Grounded in the architectural slant would suggest a balanced building on a strong foundation. Of course there’s Scripture to that end as well.

Ah! I give myself a proverbial head-slap! That’s it! To be rooted is first, a vital start, but it doesn’t end there. I need to build carefully on that Sure Foundation. Building speaks of continuance. Balance speaks of keeping a focused eye on the Cornerstone. It’s not enough to just have connection to the Root. I have to grow there… and keep on growing. Build and keep on building.

So maybe it’s not so awful to be grounded this morning. The Spirit blessed me with this encouragement and may it encourage you too.

All is quiet at MouseHouse. I suspect, it being Sunday and all, that they too are busy with their devotions. I haven’t even heard one mouse-sneeze! [smile]

April 5, 2014

So I was lying in bed the other night (actually reclining on several pillows since, with this nasty virus, I couldn’t breathe lying flat) trying to fall asleep. Between swabbing a raw-red drippy nose, catching brain-rattling sneezles in a tissue, and trying to suck on a cough-drop to ease a dry mouth and sore throat, need I say sleep was rather elusive. Mouth-breathing definitely isn’t conducive to peaceful slumber! Nor is a stuffed head, aching body, dripping nose and—well, you get the picture.

As the hours passed, along with several cups of tea, and every other remedy I could think of, this great question popped into my mind: I wonder what it sounds like to hear a mouseling sneeze? (Oh, the marvelous things we ponder in the wee hours of the morning!) Well, it got me to thinking about MouseHouse and how everyone is doing this week. Turns most of The Village has had this miserable flu-bug going around—even the creatures aren’t immune to winter nasties! Bic and Ben started it at MouseHouse, then little Betina, and finally Olaf and Fivel. So far Fivelina has escaped it.

Bic, Ben and Bitsy had milder versions of it, all of them abed for a day or so with the sneezles and snortles, but Bic and Ben were back to school and into their usual shenanigans in no time. Bitsy took a bit longer, but she too was soon back to normal. Olaf however, being the strapping young fellow that he is, didn’t want to give in. He continued to work through the misery as did Sir Fivel. Fivelina urged herb teas and medicinal tinctures on them for several nights, and they obligingly took them before bed, but still the symptoms worsened.

All was quiet one night, everyone tucked snug in their bunks, Fivel snoring his quiet rumbling mouse-snore, Fivelina curled up beside him, covers over her ear. The triplets were all sound asleep; only Olaf was awake, in his bunk, but yes—very much awake. His throat burned, his eyes and nose dripped and the sneezles—well, they seemed to come from his very feet! So great was the force of one that his feet flew up, bumping the underneath of Ben’s bunk, hard enough to fling the unsuspecting boy-mouse right out of his bed onto the floor with a thump. Ben jumped up, shook himself a few times, and, still sleep-sunned, looked at Olaf, “Whad’ya do that fer …?” Bic woke up and peered down from the top bunk. "What's the matter guys...?" The commotion awakened Fivelina and she rushed to investigate. “What’s going on here…” she asked sleepily.

“Ah… my ‘eer danty… I mean my dear auntie… I’m so sorry to wake you and hupset the ‘ousehold, er… upset the household,” he rasped hoarsely. And before he could get any more said, a series of violent sneezes took hold.

“Say no more, Olaf. Come with me. Right now…” She led him to the living room, pointing to the rocking chair. “Sit.”

‘Ben, Bic… back to bed…” she whirled around, pointing them in that direction. “Right this minute.”

By now, Bitsy and Sir Fivel had joined the curious. “What’s all the ruckus out here…?” Fivel asked. Olaf attempted to explain, but was quickly silenced by a look—the look, the one no one dared question.

“This…” she pointed to a shivering, coughing, sneezing mound of misery huddled in the rocker, “…is what happens when you big strong invincible carpenters think you have to go off to work no matter what, even when you're sick and your bodies are screaming at you to rest. And do you? No. You force yourselves to keep going, ignoring your ills until you get so sick it wakes the whole house up! You keep the doctors busy and you lose more work from letting yourselves get so sick before you listen!”

Five pairs of eyes widened at her outburst. Mama never got angry… but when she did. Oh dear. “Now, go back to bed, all of you, and let me see what I can do to fix the damages here. I’m going to boil some water and get some herbs from the pantry. When I come back I want you all in your beds… do I make myself clear?”
Wide-eyed and worried, Bitsy slid quietly behind her curtain-door, and crawled back in her bed. Poor Mama! Bitsy wished she could help, but knew better than to second-guess her Mama. Ben and Bic were in their bunks lickity-split, but both had a terrible case of the giggles thinking about Ben’s bouncing flight out of bed because of Olaf’s sneeze. Fivelina went to their door and merely cleared her throat. The giggling ceased and all was quiet. Sir Fivel quietly got a fire going in Walnut Woodstove, filled the kettle with water, then he too wisely retreated to bed.

Fivelina came from the pantry, arms full of dried herbs and a jar of mustard powder. She filled a basin with the boiling water, adding enough cold to make it comfortable, then stirred a bit of mustard powder into it. “Put your feet right in that basin, young fellow…” she instructed more calmly and gently now. “It’ll pull the cold right out of you, and help the chills stop too.”

“Yes, ma’am… thank you. Again, I’m so sorry…”

“Hush, Olaf. No talking. Your poor throat is so raw and irritated you may not be able to talk for a month! Now just do what I tell you. And let it be known right now, you are not going to work in the morning. Do you understand?” He nodded miserably.
She draped a towel over his feet in the basin to keep the water warm longer, then went to the stove to make a healing tea.

“Drink this…” she brought the steaming cup to him… “every last drop! It’ll bring down your fever and soothe your chest too. And while you’re drinking it, I’ll make up a bed for you here on the couch where you won’t disturb the boys if you need to sneeze or cough.”

He was soon bundled in warm quilts on the couch, pillows under his head and tucked in tightly. Fivelina slipped back into bed quietly so as not to wake Fivel.
As she settled herself, a warm hand reached over and began to stroke her back gently, soothingly. “Go back to sleep, my love…” he whispered. And she did.

So tell me… have you ever heard a mouse sneeze? Can’t say that I have, but as I pondered these deep matters, I did fall asleep for a couple of hours in the recliner.

March 26, 2014

March winds. A classic harbinger of spring, I know, but really—must they howl so? At first awakening this morning I thought, ‘what IS that noise’ and, raising my other ear off the pillow (I hear so much better with both ears at work) it registered. Yup. Sure enough—March wind! The weatherman says it’s all we’ll get, here in CT, of the Nor’easter churning by off the NE coast. My deepest sympathies to our southern and eastern neighbors who are waking up to yet another blanket of wet-whiteness and hurricane-force howling. It’s a workday for me, so I’ll bundle-up-for-January and be on my way, but y’know, I have to ask—do you think Spring 2014 forgot us?

Fivelina is reclining in her rocker this early morning, feet up on an adorable little footstool that her doting hubby whipped up in a few evenings, complete with an etched edging with—yup, you guessed it—tiny hearts and vines. She’s a bit weary yet from a rather exciting day yesterday, but overall she’s feeling a lot better. She was even able to get the triplets ready for school these past few mornings, without much help from Papa Fivel. He means well, you know, but sometimes his patience lags when it comes to coordinating pokey breakfast eaters, lunch box preps, lost homework and missing shoes! Mamas just seem to know what comes next and where the missing shoe or spelling list might be found.

So Fivel is back to the shop most mornings—he and his apprentice, Olaf. Fivelina rests a bit after the family leaves, before tackling the morning chores. It was that way yesterday morning too. Betina had promised to stop by for tea and Fivelina thought she’d nap-for-a-few before baking some fresh sesame scones to serve with their tea. Suddenly she startled. Tap-tap-tap. “Oh my!” She rose from the chair… “Betina dear, is that you?” she peeked out before opening the door. There, gathered behind Betina's mischievious smiling face were several of the Village ladies, eyes sparkling, whiskers glistening daintily, bundled to their pink noses in cozy winter wraps, their arms laden with sweetly wrapped packages of every size and shape. “Surprise!” they squeaked in laughing voices. “May we come in!”

“Oh my! Oh dear… I meant to get up sooner and bake some scones… I had no idea! Oh dear-dear.” She was flustered and delighted all at once.
“Come now, dear Fivelina…” Wandalyn soothes, gently ushering her back to the rocker. “Don’t you worry about refreshments… we’ve brought them too!”

After much scurrying about, chairs brought around, winter-wraps neatly hung on the coat-rack by the door and a delectable spread of dainties laid on the table, the mouse-ladies sipped their rose-hip tea and politely nibbled cheese and cracker bits before urging the celebrant to open her pretty packages. Oh such adorable tiny buntings, packages of soft fluffy nappies tied in ribbons, wee undershirts and soft nighties with drawstring bottoms to keep tiny toes from peeking out, blankets and soft flannel sheets for the cradle… all hand-made of course. Fivelina was positively overwhelmed.

“Oh my dear friends! You shouldn’t have done all this. I’m so grateful for your kindness and all the work evidenced here. Thank you ever so much!”
After some cheerful sloshing and clattering in the kitchen, the ladies not only cleaned up their teacups and snack plates, but the breakfast dishes too! Soon after, they all left, giggling and tittering their way to Downspout Timber and back to their homes in the Village.

Betina helped her mama put away the new baby things, then urged her back to rest in her chair. “I must be going, Mama. You rest now until the boys get home… and then Bitsy will help you with supper. You’ve had an exciting day!” Fivelina smiled, hugging her thoughtful daughter warmly.

"Yes, dear. I will." She closed the door quietly, turning back to the now-quiet room. There was still laundry to do, and sweeping, and dusting, vegetables to chop for dinner, but maybe—just a wee nap on the couch first. She stretched out, propping her feet up on a pillow, stretching her toes out luxuriously. In moments she was fast asleep.

Yes. The recliner looks most inviting this blustery March-wind morning, but alas… I’m off to work.

March 25, 2014

Oh happy day! The storm is going to skirt CT. I sure hope that skirt has a lacy hem and only a few random flakes filter through. A March blizzard—well, it’s not historic for sure, but I say who needs ‘em!

By end-of-week we might see 60 degrees, the weatherman says. Imagine! Do I dare put away the shovel? Wash the winter coats and mittens? Hmm. Maybe not. I’ll leave the coats on the rack a bit longer, leave the shovel where it is. Why tempt ole’ man winter’s humor.

Meanwhile, there’s more news from MouseHouse. You see, right after Bret & Betina’s wedding, Fivelina began feeling terrible fatigue. She was unable to drink her morning cuppas and was just feeling generally unwell, but when she fainted one morning, just as she was about to bring a basket of wet clothes out to the clothesline, Sir Fivel insisted she see Doc Blinket. They did and thankfully the news was good. Sometime in late April there will be two new baby Mouselings in the Fivel Family—a surprise for sure, but a happy one indeed! Doc Blinket prescribed rest and good diet for the mom-to-be, and her doting hubby is making special effort to help.

Now you remember nephew Olaf who’s been boarding with them and apprenticing with Sir Fivel? Well, upon hearing the happy news, he offered to help Sir Fivel add on a small room for a nursery since little Bitsy has moved into Betina’s old room and the boys have the other small bunkroom.
“It’s the ceast I can loo… er… I mean the least I can do, Uncle Fivel!” Olaf said with a blush. “You and Aunt Fivelina are so kind to take me in and board me all these months. It would be my deasure to ploo this for you now. Ah… I mean, my pleasure to do this…”

Now Olaf’s word-twisting has much improved since his private tutoring with Mrs. Winklesnout all these weeks, but he does have to make careful effort to speak slowly or… well, you just never know what might come out. But everyone is used to it by now, and only rarely do Bic and Ben succumb to the giggles as a result of his tip-of-the-slongue… I mean slip-of-the-tongue! Dear, dear—it’s contagious!

So the gentlemen are gradually accumulating wood pieces—popsicle sticks and the like, along with other construction materials from repurposed matter. It’ll be a while before they can open walls and start building. Just now, Fivelina’s delicate condition requires quiet and serenity.

The triplets are helping around the house more. Bic and Ben have grown into strong young mouselings, able to keep Walnut Woodstove well fed and toasty. They even wash the supper dishes and fold laundry. Not without some boyish moaning, mind you, but never in hearing of their dad! Fivelina need only glance sternly at them when she hears any complaint, and mention that dad will soon be home. They are quick to assure her they were only joking, that they are really happy to help. She nods and smiles knowingly to herself.

Bitsy, on the other hand, is still a dainty little miss, and greatly concerned for her Mama. No complaining on her part. She works tirelessly to ease the load so Mama can rest, to the point where Fivelina has to firmly insist sometimes that it’s bedtime now, or it’s time for some Bitsy-chill-time.

Fivelina is teaching Bitsy to sew and knit. They are working on baby-mouseling bonnets, jammies, blankets and booties. So when the chores are done in the evening, the two of them sit there on the couch, by Walnut Woodstove, busily turning out a tiny layette for the twins-to-be.
Of course there’ll be a need for diapers too, so with a length of flannel she found at Underground Channel, Fivelina is cutting and sewing dozens of tiny triangles. As she finishes them, Bitsy stacks them carefully into neat piles in the bottom drawer of Betina’s old dresser.

Can’t you just picture rows of those tiny nappies out on Bittersweet Vine clothesline come a sunny spring morning? My guess is Sir Fivel may need to carve out more clothespins real soon. Or maybe that’ll be included in Olaf’s evening wood-carving lessons, who knows?

Speaking of clotheslines. I’d best be leaving my silly imaginings here and hang out

March 24, 2014

Spring—elusive and yearned for by all. It’s been a seemingly endless winter nation-wide, and the topic of conversation no matter where you go. And I probably don't need to mention that there's yet another storm looming on the horizon. The weatherman says a dusting for some, others will have blizzard-like conditions. Me? Well… stormy days are great for cleaning closets and junk drawers. I’ve a few that need attention. And then of course, there are things to write about, such as the happenings at MouseHouse and Village.

Sir Fivel and his Lady have had a busy winter, and the summer will be busier yet, but I’ll get to that later. First let me tell you, Betina and Bret had a beautiful wedding—a small one mind you, but lovely. They said their vows in the Village Chapel, their two families in attendance along with a few close friends. Betina was resplendent in her simple gown of white silk with lace insets at the bodice and hem. She wore a lace veil held on by a sprig of delicate dried baby’s breath, all lovingly sewn by her mother. Little Bitsy was her sister’s maid-of-honor, also dressed simply and beautifully in blue floral silk—repurposed scarves make beautiful dresses for little Mouselings when a skilled seamstress is involved.

Bic and Ben wore matching knickers and vests—blue of course, Betina’s choice—and spiffy straw top hats with a band of matching blue.
Sir Fivel, dressed-to-the-nines in a navy suit with a new cap tilted jauntily over one ear. His lady tucked a sprig of baby’s breath in his lapel just before he lovingly escorted her to her seat, then returned to walk his beautiful daughter down the aisle.

After the ceremony, the wedding guests filed out of the Village Chapel and all were welcomed at Big Rock School where the reception was held.
Days earlier, Miss Winklesnout, along with a host of volunteers, cleaned the school room until it fairly sparkled. They pushed the desks back against the wall, and then covered them with lovely white tablecloths borrowed from several mothers. The morning of the wedding, those same mothers brought carefully prepared offerings of every kind of mouse-favorite food you can imagine! There was acorn and vegetable casseroles, sunflower custards, dried rosehip cobblers, and oh-so-many-more.

The wedding cake was simple but delish, I heard—another of Fivelina’s creations. She baked the batter in acorn half-shells, assembling the tiny cupcake-like creations into a heart shape before frosting it altogether. In the center, she set a miniature cake-topper of a mouseling bride and groom, hand-carved by a loving dad. Yup. You guessed it—Sir Fivel himself.

So the happy young couple is settling into their new home at Front Porch Eave. Bret worked hard all winter wrapping up the finishing touches, and what with Sir Fivel’s skill at furniture making, and the ladies’ tireless work with thread and needle, along with generous wedding gifts from many friends, the newlyweds are snug and comfortable.

And tomorrow, I will write more MouseHouse happenings and tell you what summer surprises are to come. That is--assuming we have a summer! I know-I know. It'll come. [sigh] Now for that messy junk drawer.