Tripping down memory lane

No brain cells were altered by the contents of this blog.

A blog is like a scrapbook of musing and memory. For over a year old family photos and cards have collected on a table downstairs like a pile of cold volcanic ash. Finally I began the onerous task of sorting through several generations of family history. I’m tossing duplicates, faded images and photos of people I can’t identify.  

   

I found some treasures  buried in this debris. I promised not to post the “when we were young and foolish” photos of the shaggy- headed two of us with matching seventies era permed ‘fros. With some trepidation I am posting a Mother’s Day card I sent my mother when I was a student at Berkeley—my attempt to share the culture with her.

 Looking at this some decades later I think I’ve finally figured out why she chose not to attend my graduation ceremony.

Then there were:

 the cards to celebrate hallmark holidays 

the child development charts I crafted

the verses I penned

To quote Dorothy of Oz, "Oh my!" I think Berkeley was my Land of Oz. Where is your Oz?

Bonnie and Clyde

photo courtesy Alena Ozerova 

If you are a soft hearted animal lover who gives bed space to furry beasts you may want to skip this blog.

 I am a reformed cat coddler. My last cat, Mellow Yellow, was my undoing. After I adopted him we discovered he had been tossed out in the cold for a reason. He was psycho. His mellow personality disguised an inner turmoil that required medication—a cocktail of Prozac and Prednisone. He was needy and he peed everywhere. But we loved him until he died and then we said, “No more!”

Ding, dong the cat is dead! The word went out and the mice moved in. Nothing we have tried has worked so we are cat-pitulating.

Mice

While digging through my kitchen towel drawer I turned up a dead mouse.  I don’t find them foraging in my pantry; they seem to be nesting in drawers crammed full of cozy fabric—sewing drawers, towel drawers—ugh!  Note to self: Time to do some serious drawer cleaning.

I hate to admit it, but the mice have moved in. They pay no rent and give no notice to any of my eviction strategies. I stomp around upstairs. I plug devices into my electrical outlets that buzz to discourage them.  I’m using old-fashioned mousetraps. Occasionally they sacrifice one of their own in a trap, but it’s a ruse.  For every crunched critter there are litters of critters line dancing behind the sofa.

 I stopped putting out poison, intending to pound a sign into my lawn: Perimeter Patrol Wanted—Feral Cats Only Need Apply.  This problem started when the last cat in the neighborhood died, but none of my neighbors will own up to seeing a spike in the mouse population. This is discouraging. It seems that my house is the party house. It’s demoralizing. I’m outwitted by a piece of fuzz at the end of a stringy tail. It’s disturbing. I lay awake at night while they slide through cracks in window casings, skirt under doors, slither along baseboards and fall into my drawers to slumber in pillow-top luxury.

Too bad Gila Monsters prefer the desert.  It would make my day to hear some lizard lip smacking a mouse kabob.