So... I declined to post during the holidays. I've been a busy girl. Worked some, dragged the snowmobile out of storage, spent more money than I wanted to on calamine lotion (both kids got the pox), and bought some property.
Yessir.
I got a cottage for Christmas/My Birthday.
Not just ANY cottage. MY OWN cottage. The cottage beside my OLD cottage.
I digress...
Back in the Summer of '08 I was deep in the throes of negotiating for a third (fourth?) house. Another rental, two blocks from my own place. I kept hitting a snag. The title wasn't exactly what you'd call free. The property inspection wasn't up to snuff.
The insulation was made of asbestos. Mesothelioma, anyone?
And then...a breakthrough.
The fine young gentleman who owned the cottage next to my Mom's cottage was willing to sell at a fair price. To me only. On the condition that I'd pay cash.
Now, you have to know something about Sam (not his real name). Sam built his own place on the shores of Eagle Lake before it was known as Eagle Lake. In around the time Sam set up his own shack it was called "That MudHole Over There". Sam had been a hockey player, played for a big team once. Earned a good living as an electrician. Ironic.
The very way Sam contacted me with his intentions is a story in itself. Some time last year Sam decided he could no longer manage our lovely Canadian winters. With no surviving kids of his own he was hesitant to leave his beloved shack to his estate. He wanted to sell it, but not to just anyone. Sam wanted someone to appreciate it the way he'd appreciated it. And he figured he knew just the person who would do just that.
But Sam, who must be close to ninety if he's a day, couldn't remember my name.
So he called my Mom. "Does your daughter want to buy my cottage?" he asked. Mom said she was sure her daughter would want it, but which daughter was he speaking of? There are two of us. "Oh," said Sam "The one with the little girl". Well, we both have little girls, but one of our girls is littler than the other's. So Mom, thinking she knew what he meant, chose a number.
She chose wrong.
Sam called my sister in October and pitched his grand plan. You can have the cottage, he said. Cheap. He needed cash so he could secure a condo in Miami.
(Miami? Do people still retire in Miami? I thought that was an eighties thing...)
"I chose you over your sister because I knew you'd be handy enough to fix it up proper," Sam said "And your sister married that good for nothing louse. I don't want him to have any part of my place. That boy, he's the laziest piece of work I've ever seen, I'm telling you.....".
Instantly my sister realized the error. Sam had intended for me to have the cottage, not her. Sam has never liked my sister's husband...for reasons entirely unknown to us. Ken's a good guy as far as I'm concerned. But, you see, I'm no longer married. And Sam knows that.
"All right, Sam," said my sister (who was trying not to laugh) "I'll have a word with my...erm...bank...and I'll get back to you.". Good, said Sam. And don't tell your sister, he said. Don't want her to be jealous and all that jazz.
As soon as Sam hung up my sister called me. She was hysterical. It was the best laugh we'd had in ages. AGES. Poor Sam, if only he knew.
(Of course my sister told her husband Sam thought he was a good for nothing louse the first chance she got)
So that's how I came to purchase Sam's shack. Growing up I'd always thought it was the greatest place. There was a tire swing that went out over the water, the beach was sandy and the property was always well kept. Sam's wife (who passed away several years ago) always kept a freezer full of popsicles on the covered porch and every kid in a five mile radius knew about it. It was truly ALWAYS full of every flavour you could ever want, including fudgesicles, and we were free to raid it whenever we pleased. The most we ever heard was a faint "Don't ruin your supper!" from the kitchen window. Sam and his wife loved kids. They'd had two, I heard, but both died when they were very young. I guess we were a sort of surrogate bunch.
Anyways, any memory I'd ever had of Sam's place was good so I jumped at the chance to buy it. In recent years it's gone a bit wild as Sam hasn't been there to tend to it as he once did. But I figured it couldn't be that bad. And the title was clear. I passed on the inspection. As far as the bank knew I was just purchasing the land with the intention of demolishing the existing structure. I kept my fingers crossed behind my back as I said it. Demolish Sam's? No way!
The deal sailed through. In December I took a trip up there to have a look at my present to myself. It was covered in snow and the driveway was impenetrable, so I parked at my Mom's and walked over. Soon, I thought...Soon it will be mine! As I was admiring the silence a flicker of movement caught my attention. One of the windows in the main floor was open a crack. The drapes were moving in the breeze. Odd, I thought. Intruders? Squatters? There were no tracks in the snow around the place so I decided to go have a look-see. Sure enough the window was open. Not only that it was good and stuck. Looking through into the place I didn't see anything that appeared to be out of order but I figured I'd better get the window closed, just in case.
I got a hammer and a pry bar from Mom's and set to work. The window took a little convincing but it finally conceded to my brute strength (har har)and slammed shut. The noise was ear splitting in the silence. Nobody seemed to take notice. Of course no body's around in the winter time TO take notice. I was about to trudge back to Mom's when I had a thought: Why not go inside of a bit of a look around? It's going to be mine, after all. Not like I'm breaking in....
The window opened quite easily and I was in seconds later. That window had been open for a long time from the looks of it. The curtains were shredded, the sill was warped from where it had been wet and the floor was stained with water marks. Not good, I thought. But fixable. Armed with the hammer and pry bar I crept around the place giving it the once over. Even though most of the windows didn't have any curtains on them it was still pretty dark. The electrical panel was visible in the kitchen (odd, I thought, just like it is at Mom's) and the main was turned off. I went over and turned it back on, never thinking I'd find it connected. But it was.
Lights went on all over the place. The old fridge ticked and hummed. And in a dark corner there was the old freezer. It was chugging and trying to come to life. I pulled the plug on it to put it out of it's misery. Wonder if it's still full of popsicles? I tried it, it was locked. No frozen treats that day.
I quickly breezed through the place. Two bedrooms, check. One bathroom, check. No sign that anyone had been in the place in a coon's age. No one but the mice, that is. There were mouse turds everywhere. Gross. Figuring I had better leave everything as was I locked the window and shoved open the front door. It clicked behind me. Cottage was now secure...with Mom's hammer still inside. Damn.
Two weeks later the deal closed. It was now, really, officially my own cottage. I did a ten minute happy dance after the keys came by courier. This was the best present I'd ever gotten myself. Nay, it was the best present I'd ever gotten. Period. I immediately set out plans for the shack's resurrection. New windows, new doors, new locks, new cabinets, screen in the porch overlooking the lake...Sam's was going to be filled with life again.
Little did I know it was already filled with life.
I made plans to go up there the second week in January. Armed with mouse traps and enough bleach to sanitize half the county, I intended to stay the weekend. The kids would have to come with me but the dog was staying home. I wasn't sure how many dead things I'd find, and if there were dead things what kinds of toxic things had caused their death. Knowing my dog's penchant for mouse jerky I thought it best to err on the side of caution. Eddie offered to stay at my place with the dog. I packed the kids into the car on top of sleeping bags, cleaning supplies, new locks, coolers of food, a hotplate and a birthday cake. And beer. Of course.
I'd arranged with the man who snowblows my Mom's driveway to have my driveway done to the best of his ability. The best of his ability wasn't much. There had been a thaw in December and whatever snow was left had turned into solid ice. The driveway was still impassable, but there was a path to the door. I parked at Mom's, let the kids in to her cottage and told them to stay put while I went over to inspect and unlock our new place. I walked around it once, didn't see any tracks, no open windows, tried all the doors (locked), assumed it was relatively safe to check out on the inside and unlocked the front door. It was exactly as I'd left it a few weeks before. The hammer was still in the same spot on the kitchen counter. The only difference was that it seemed much colder in there than it had previously.
Wood. Sam had said there was wood for the woodstove. I checked it out but didn't see any "wood". There were "logs" of the prefabricated kind, but there was no "wood". Three prefab logs. Great. I gave the woodstove a once-over, there was some long dead ash in it but it seemed to be in good shape otherwise. Eager to get some sort of warmth in the place I threw in a log and lit it. I'd get some real wood from Mom's, which is exactly what I did.
Bringing the kids over was an exercise in futility. I'd told them of the mouse poo, I'd told them they'd have to listen and not touch anything, I'd told them to stay with me so I could monitor what they were doing (in case they were touching something they shouldn't be touching). Did they listen? Why would they? They ran all over the place screaming "THIS IS MINE!" and "WHAT SMELLS???". I dropped the load of wood I pilfered from Mom's and grabbed them both by the scruffs of their necks. If they weren't going to listen then they were going to wear dust masks. "And if I catch you not wearing them you'll sleep in the car" I said. Cool, they said. I began to wish I'd left the kids with Eddie.
First things first, I had to get the power on. It went on as easily as it had the last time. Lights made the place feel warmer, but I threw a couple of pieces of birch on top of the prefab log anyways. It was bloody cold. Then I started unloading the car. Beer first. Then cleaning supplies.
I knew the taps would be dry so I'd brought water with me for cleaning. There was no point in even trying to turn any water on until the place was warm enough that you couldn't see your breath anymore. I put the hotplate on the counter, put a pot of water on it, plugged it in and turned it on.
PFFT. Out went the lights.
"What in the Hell?"
The kids cheered. One of them was in the bathroom when the lights went out. I didn't really want to know why he was in there but I felt sure now that the lights were out I'd find a puddle later.
I went over and checked the panel. Fuses. I haven't had much experience with actual household fuses. My home panel is breakers. Luckily Sam had had the forethought to label each circuit. I opened the cupboard next to the panel. Sam had also had the forethought to buy his fuses in bulk. Good man. I found the circuit labelled "Kitchen", turned off the panel, replaced the fuse and turned the panel back on. And then there was light. But the hotplate was dead. Shit. I transferred the pot of water to the top of the woodstove and threw another log on the fire.
"Mom? What's that key for?"
The piddler had emerged from the bathroom, dust mask on upside down. I reigned in the urge to scold him and looked where he was pointing. On the back of the cupboard door there was a key dangling from a hook. I took it down and looked at it. Padlock key....Freezer! An overwhelming sense of nostalgia hit me when I looked at that freezer. It was a treasure chest from my childhood. Surely there wouldn't be any popsicles in it now, but it was locked. I wondered what was in it? Only one way to find out....
I unlocked it and threw open the lid. An overwhelming sense of rot hit my nostrils. Mold covered the inside like a green, fuzzy blanket. I slammed down the lid and nearly took my kids' fingers off. My eyes watered and I gagged uncontrollably. The kids, by virtue of their dust masks, were probably spared the worst of the smell. But they remarked on it all the same. It had been full of food. Rotted, green, food. The smell was nauseating. It hung in the air like a bad dream. I opened the front door and threw open the windows. I put the padlock back on the freezer, walked out the front door and had some face time with a snowbank.
As I was gingerly lifting myself out of the snow I heard the sound of tires on the driveway next door. The honk of a horn and shouts of "GRANDMA!!!!" confirmed my worst fears.
Oh great. Mom's here.
I had taken great pains in NOT telling my Mom where I'd be. It's not that I don't like my Mom, it's that she drives me absolutely crazy. My Mom is a saboteur. She takes my kids, fills them full of sugar, then gives them back to me. She knows I'm good with a set of tools, so she invites me to her house and puts me to work.
She had brought me an ice cream cake. She knows I hate ice cream.
"At least it won't go runny and melt in here" she said as she entered the cottage. Oh har-dee-har-har. "What smells?" she said as she walked over to the freezer (presumably to put the ice cream cake inside). The freezer, I said, it's full of rancid food. Mom laughed. That's Sam for you, she said. After Linda died he wasn't much of a housekeeper. Judging by all the mouse shit that was one Hell of an understatement.
"You can't have the kids in here" Mom declared "Peter...PETER!!!".
Peter is Mom's unfortunate husband. He doesn't say much, if anything at all. He's a gopher, a Honey-Do, and he was about to become a babysitter. He was about three feet away when Mom screamed for him, and even though the kids and I jumped he didn't flinch. Although I could have sworn he winced.
"Kids, Grampy's going to take you over to Grandma's cottage where it's warm. Grandma stopped at the store on the way up here and got you some treats!"
Hooray. Here comes the sugar rush.
With the kids gone Mom and I set about trying to get the place properly cleaned. She tried the taps and declared there was no water. I held my breath and waited to hear creaking and was quite relieved when none came. Water is in the jug, I said. Hot water on the woodstove. Once we got sorted things went along quite well. We discovered mummified cereal in the cupboards, boxes full of mouse holes. But no mice...yet. One box of Lucky Charms was positively ancient, the coupon on the outside of the box expired December 31st, 1992. There was no way I had brought enough garbage bags to cover this task. At one point I didn't think there were enough garbage bags in all of Ontario to bag all the mouse shit. And mouse carcasses. Sam had been fond of glue traps, looks like. Glue traps are disgusting. Especially when they had dead mice stuck to them. Dead mice who had been fed upon by other things. Gross.
I much prefer regular traps. Poison is out because of the dog and the kids. Not because I think the kids will eat it, but I have no doubt they'd try to feed it to the dog just to see what would happen. Not that they're cruel little bastards, it's just that I'm absolutely sure they don't believe a word that comes out of my mouth. If I say it will kill something, they'll have to see it with their own eyes. That kind of thing.
I wanted live traps but figured I couldn't live with the thought that something was trapped in a cage without food until the next time I made it up there. If something's gotta go, it's gotta go quick. Hopefully.
So, with cupboards cleaned and traps set Mom and I drifted to other areas of disgust. In the bathroom Mom declared that there must be water, or at least melted snow, as there was something liquid all over the floor. I pretended not to hear her (as I was at this point upstairs) until I was sure she had her hands in it, then I told her that her Grandson had used the facilities in the dark. There was silence, then a short "EW!". Take that, Sugar Lady.
Upstairs was actually worse than I first thought on secondary inspection. There were beds, mice had nested in them. Stuffing from old ticked mattresses was all over the floor. There were holes in the sides of the mattresses as I tipped them up against the wall. For a second I thought to myself...wouldn't it be great if those mattresses were stuffed with money? I mean, God knows they were OLD mattresses. What if Sam had stashed some cash in them? I got a flashlight and peered in. No money, just mouse shit. And lots of it. You could hear it rolling around when I tipped the mattress on it's side. If there was money in there I no longer wanted it.
While I was chasing ticking around the floor of the bedroom I thought I heard something in the attic. Maybe it was the shack warming up? Maybe it was me moving around? It was a definite creak. Thoughts of Black Christmas drifted through my head and I snickered. If there is anyone up there, I thought, they'd better get out now before my Mom put them to work.
The second bedroom was the same as the first. Mouse shit, ticking, dust, dead flies on the windowsills...disgusting. I noticed that this room had a closet. I shouldn't have opened the closet, but I did. It was a mess of old clothes, more mouse shit, and a dead squirrel stuck to a glue trap. Charming, I said to myself. Looking up I noticed that the attic access is located in that closet. Or, should I say, the great big gaping hole that leads to the attic is located in that closet. There's no door, no cover, nothing. Cold air was dropping from above by the truckload. And, as I discovered by pointing my trusty flashlight up into the gaping yonder, there wasn't a stitch of insulation in sight.
Lovely.
No wonder the place is so damned cold, I thought. Well, seeing as the mattresses were puke-worthy there was no reason to keep up the fight to make the rooms upstairs habitable. I abandoned the battle and returned downstairs to find my Mom nowhere in sight. She hadn't even told me she was leaving (typical). And she hadn't cleaned the bathroom, either. Served me right for letting her soak her paws in piddle and laughing about it, I guess.
The fire was going out so I tossed another couple of logs on and trudged over to Mom's (deftly avoiding the spot where I'd made friends with the snowbank). The light outside was growing dim and dusk was setting in. I was looking forward to a good meal and a shower. Alas, I was to get neither.
When I got into Mom's I was told to go get wood before it got dark, and I was turned back outside. Thinking Mom was actually being conscious of my needs for once I grabbed a load of wood and took it to my place, then returned to Mom's. Where's the wood? We can't start a fire without wood! Realizing she wanted wood for her place (and not mine) I was turned back out into the cold to get ANOTHER armful of wood. I hate going into the wood shed to begin with. It's dark and full of spiders. And bats, but you don't get to see them until you've brought the logs inside and they've had a chance to warm up. Nothing's more fun than a game of indoor bat-minton in the winter when you're reluctant to open the doors and let the cold back in.
So on my second return to the warm cottage I took the opportunity to inspect the logs in the doorway before taking them near the fire. I could smell food. Hunger washed over me. I was starving.
"What's for dinner?" I asked as I turned each log over and inspected it.
"You mean what WAS for dinner? Spaghetti. But I don't think there's any left."
Now, if for any reason you may be thinking that my mother was kidding about there not being any dinner left, you'd be dead wrong, my friend. My Mom lives to torture her children in this manner. Barely four p.m and dinner is all gone? Just another day in Mom's house. Oh, but there's a box of Lucky Charms in a garbage bag at my place...
My sister and I have a theory as to why she does this to us. Mom put our father through the wringer when they were together. He withstood this kind of treatment day in and day out for fifteen years, and during that time things for my sister and I were pretty good. Then one day Dad flipped Mom the bird and left. And suddenly my sister and I were thrust into the limelight. We figure that she figures we're each half of our father. If she picks on us equally then it's like picking on Dad by proxy. But picking on us equally is inefficient, one of us has more contact with her than the other does. So one of us bears the brunt of it. That would be me. And when I'm not around, Peter gets it.
The silver lining is that she stops short of tormenting her grandchildren. All four of 'em are spoiled bloody rotten by Grandma. Not because she likes her grandchildren better...at least I don't think she does...but because spoiled grandchildren are weapons in Grandma's arsenal. It works like this:
Kid sees a toy in the store, kid wants the toy. I say no, it's too expensive. Kid broods for a little bit, waits until he/she gets home and calls Grandma. The next day Grandma shows up with the toy (and a shopping bag full of candy) and says to me "I know (insert kid's name here) REALLY wanted this toy, and I know you probably were going to get it for him/her sometime...but I wanted him/her to have it now. And I've got the money, so why not?". Yeah, why not? Why not give the kids extravagant things? It's not like they have enough to begin with. I mean, the contents of their rooms are only equivalent to the net worth of a small country, why not dump more shit in there until they can score a trade deal with Mexico?
My mother bought my kids electric guitars for Christmas. Fully loaded. 'Nuff said.
Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, no dinner on my birthday.
So I'm standing in the doorway of Mom's cottage contemplating my empty belly and I figure...screw it. I'll get a shower and go eat a bag of potato chips or something. So I offer to grab more wood out of the dingy, disgusting wood shed on my way back with my clothes from my car.
"Why are you getting your bag?" Mom wanted to know.
"Because I'm going to get a shower." I said.
"You can't have a shower here! You're not coming in, you're covered in mouse shit. Go have a shower at your place."
"There's no water at my place."
"That's not my fault. There's water in the jug you brought, heat that up and use that."
"I can't use that, I need it for drinking water. I need to have a shower here."
"You're not going to be able to use that for drinking water, I put bleach in it so you can use it for cleaning."
"YOU PUT BLEACH IN MY WATER??? What the Hell did you do that for? Now what am I going to use for drinking water?"
"You said you were going to use it for cleaning. So I put bleach in it. And some soap, I think, I can't remember."
"And you were going to tell me about it WHEN?"
"Don't be such a baby. It won't kill you to bathe in that. Now hurry up and get back outside, I don't want any mouse shit tracked into my kitchen."
That was the gist of it, but it went on from there. Me trying to wrangle my way into getting the hantavirus out of my hair, Mom coming up with reasons I should go jump in the lake. The bickering would have gone on had we not all stopped to see what my youngest was pointing at.
"Grandma! Grandma! That fire looks like a fountain!"
Since I was relegated to standing by the door I couldn't get a good look at what she was talking about. It was actually Peter who explained it to me best.
"I think your house is on fire."
I don't remember leaving Mom's place. I don't remember if I said anything, or how I got back into my driveway. I do remember hearing someone say "SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT!!!!!" and thinking "Wait, is that me saying that?". The fire coming from the top of the chimney did indeed look like a fountain. It looked like a ROMAN FUCKING CANDLE. Flames were shooting out of the top and little bits of hot ash were raining down all over the place. Now, I'm not a panicky person by nature but I can tell you in that place...at that time...I didn't have a fucking clue what to do.
And I'm pretty sure that what I did do was exactly what you're not supposed to do in situations like that.
I ran for the door. I threw it open and a billow of black acrid smoke blew out. Not being able to see too well I began fumbling for switches and turning on lights, I managed to get about three sets of lights on before the panel kicked out. By this time I was half standing-half crouching in between the kitchen and the living room. Just before the lights went out I caught a glimpse of the chimney pipe on the woodstove belching out smoke from it's seams. When the lights went out I experienced an eerie sort of disorientation: there was a light coming from the area of the woodstove but I couldn't make it out right away. Then it came into focus. It was the chimney pipe glowing bright red.
"Get the fuck out of there!" came the shout from the doorway. Peter held the door open and I fell out into the snow. I couldn't get my breath, it was like I was sucking air through a straw. It took me a long time to be able to say something and when I did it was raspy and barely intelligible. What do we do? I grabbed Peter and pointed at the flaming pipe. "Wha...??? What do we...???". There's nothing you can do, he said. So we stood there watching. Well, he stood. I sat on the driveway. We were soon joined by my Mom and the kids. I inquired, raspily, if Mom had called the fire department. "Why?" she said "They're not going to come out here for a chimney fire. And besides, it'll probably burn itself out in a few minutes".
And she was right. It did burn itself out. Within a couple of minutes the flames died down and there was only smoke. Peter and I opened up the front door and let as much of the smoke out as we could before we attempted to go in.
Point is I broke the first cardinal rule of house fires. If you're on the outside DON'T ATTEMPT TO GO BACK INSIDE. Not rocket science, right? I have no idea why I did it. Not like there's anything I could have done, there was nobody inside, nothing of value that couldn't be replaced...I just panicked and lost my head. And my kids nearly watched their Mom become a crispy critter.
Well, not really. Because by the time we got the smoke aired out there wasn't that much in the way of damage. Smoke damage, yes, but no actual fire damage thanks to the fact that the chimney is encased in stone from the point it goes through the wall and almost all the way to the top. I got very, very lucky there. I think I know what caused the fire too, and that's another testament to my stupidity. I should have known by looking at Sam's version of "wood" that he must have been burning those craptastic pre-fabbed logs for God knows how long. And the chimney, Pete and I decided, probably hadn't been cleaned in twenty years. The creosote was probably two inches thick on the inside of that chimney pipe. It was an accident waiting to happen and I should have known better.
Pete helped me get the lights back on. The pot that I had been using to boil water on top of the woodstove was totalled. The plastic handle was non-existent and the whole thing was warped like a piece of modern art. I could barely breathe for the smoke that still hung thick in the air. The place had warmed up considerably due to the near-molten temperatures of the chimney fire but we were losing heat by the bucketload due to the fact that we had to keep all the windows and doors open. My Mom sent the kids back to her cottage where it was warm and free of toxic fumes. After sniffing and snorting over how much of "her" wood that I'd wasted heating the outdoors she threw me a bone. I could shower and stay at her place.
(Staying at Mom's had been my original plan as I knew my place was going to be uninhabitable, but I wasn't about to tell her that)
After she left I apologized to Peter and thanked him for helping me air the place out. And then I apologized again for "wasting" their wood.
"Meh," he said "I wouldn't say you WASTED it. You managed to get your chimney cleaned with it, anyways. That's at least one thing you can cross off your list".
A man of few words, Pete always manages to look on the bright side of things. Maybe it was because I was so tired, maybe it was because I was freaked out...but what he said struck me as hysterical. I laughed so hard I began to black out. Peter looked at me, dumbfounded, and left. Fumes made you crazy, he said, I'm gettin' outta here.
I laughed and laughed. What else could I do? The place was a disaster. The electrical didn't work, it was colder than a witch's left tit and I'd almost burned the place down (not to mention that I could very well have gone down with it). I laughed so hard I had to sit, then lie on the floor. I stayed there by myself for ages laughing and listening to the chimney pipe tick as it cooled. "This is my birthday" I thought. Is this how normal adults have birthdays? Lying on cold floors by themselves listening to the wind rush through the trees? Or was it just me?
Remembering I was hungry, and remembering I'd brought up my own birthday cake, I worked my way off the floor and over to the kitchen counter. The polystyrene shell that encased my two layered birthday cake had a thin skim of smoke residue on it, but the cake itself looked all right. I got a fork out of one of my coolers, cracked open the cake and dug in. Seconds later I was over the sink, spitting it out. Despite the fact that the cake was seemingly "sealed" it still tasted like smoke and saran wrap. Fuck, I thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Happy fucking birthday to me.
When my Mom came to get me about an hour later I was sitting on the floor next to my cooler of beer. The beer, at least, had not tasted like smoke. I'd tried about seven and they all passed the taste test. I parlayed my intention to taste the whole case to my Mom but she wasn't having it. Get your ass out of here, she said. It stinks and you're going to get brain damage. Too late, I said. TOO LATE! The stench of smoky mouse shit has gone straight to my cerebellum!
She dragged me out of there to the promise of a hot shower and a warm bed. And for the first time in I don't know how long I slept like the dead the whole night through.
The next day I woke up with a massive headache. Not a hangover, not exactly. I think it had more to do with the amount of smoky crap I ingested during my sit-in. When I got up the scent of bacon hung in the air. Breakfast was long over, and of course there was nothing left. My brats were watching Wall-E with Peter. My Mom was having a nap. I looked out the window and over to my place. It was still standing. And the windows were still open. For one fleeting instant I worried about my car as I'd left my keys on the counter and the door unlocked (and every available window wide open) but it was still in the driveway. Good, I thought. Maybe today will be my day.
I told Peter I was going over to my place to close the windows. He grunted. My kids didn't even acknowledge me. When Grampy's around I don't exist. Then again, I don't let them have ice cream at eleven o'clock in the morning...why would I exist?
Over at my cottage things didn't look so bad. I started gathering things up and moving them back out to the car. Everything smelled like smoke. Just about every solid surface had a greyish brown film on it. My lungs felt like they had a greyish brown film on them and my throat felt like it was on fire. I was in the midst of wishing I hadn't sat so long on the floor having my own little pity-party when I saw a mouse.
He was inside the cake container. He'd obviously been enjoying himself until I came along. I'd snapped the lid closed as I was gathering things up and I accidentally trapped him inside. And there he was, looking out at me as if to say "What in the Hell did you do that for?". I don't mind mice much. He was cute. A little deer mouse, I think. My problem with them is that they do so much damage. And they carry so many diseases. He almost looked like he was thinking the same of me. I was trying to figure out what to do with him when my son came in. We both stood there pondering the mouse. And the mouse was pondering us.
"What should we do with him?" I asked. We should name him, my son said. Of course. A pet mouse in a cake container. Humouring him, I asked what we should name him. Desperaux! Well, of course Desperaux. Desperaux the Deer Mouse. Let him eat cake, I thought, at least until I can figure out what to do with him.
I went back to cleaning up. Desperaux went back to boring a hole into the side of the birthday cake, seeming nonplussed that my son was flicking the side of the container. Pretty soon we were joined by my daughter who informed us that Wall-E was over and Grampy was snoring too loud for her to watch TV. I thought about telling my little one that I had brought her makeup set and Grampy looked like he could use a makeover, but that would have been cruel. I was about to suggest that perhaps Grandma needed some blush when my son called me.
"Mom? There's a cat on the stairs."
He said it matter-of-factly. Like oh, hey...look there's a cat. So I didn't think much of it at first. I almost hoped there was a cat just for the fact that where there's one Desperaux there's probably a dozen. But it wasn't a cat. It was a porcupine. And it was coming down the stairs very, very slowly.
I'd never seen one so close that wasn't roadkill. He wasn't very big, about the size of your common house cat. He had beady little eyes and he looked very dozy. I told the kids to back up as he was still coming down the stairs. When he got to the second last step he stopped and looked at us.
"I want to call him Fluffy!" my daughter yelled. Great, Desperaux and Fluffy.
And then I found myself at a loss again. What do I do? Where did the porcupine come from? What do I do with it? Do I shoo it outside? It's cold out, where would he go? What do I do? What do I do?
"MEEEEEPPPPP!" went the porcupine. It was a sound like a cross between a cry and a whine. But not like a dog's whine. Meep, meep, meep, meep MEEEP meeeeepppp. The kids laughed. Silly porcupine! And then from upstairs we heard a similar noise. Meep. Fuck meep, I thought, there's two of 'em.
"Go and wake up Grampy and tell him to come over here" I told the kids. Then I armed myself with a broom and went after the one on the stairs. He didn't move. He just sort of bristled and went Meep. I was actually sort of startled by the look of intelligence in his eyes. Screw you lady, the look said. I'm not moving.
"Well, screw you too, Fluffy!" I said. My boy bolted back in the front door. Grampy wasn't coming (whoa, there's a shocker). Leave the front door open and the porcupine will leave. I looked at Fluffy...Fat fucking chance, I thought. I ordered the kids to stay at Mom's while I dealt with Fluffy and his buddy upstairs. The kids happily obliged as Grandma was making lunch. Have a good lunch, I said as kid number one ran down the driveway. Not like I was going to get any of it. I wondered how much meat Fluffy was packing under his/her quills.
With the front door open light beamed into the living room/kitchen area. What a mess, I thought. The floor was a disgusting slushy mess from all the snow that had been tracked in on our boots. The windows had a thin film of smoke on them (and I didn't have any ammonia on me). There was still no water. What could I do? I posed the question to Fluffy, who was now off the stairs and heading into the living room. Meep, said Fluffy. Thanks for the help, I said.
With Fluffy off the stairs I took the opportunity to go see where his/her buddy was hiding. I looked all over the damned place, behind the mattresses, in the mattresses, there was no sign of another porcupine. Maybe I imagined the other meep? I was prepared to accept that I had until I heard a small scuffle come from the closet in the second bedroom. There was nothing on the floor, but looking up I could see two beady little eyes and a bunch of quills peering down at me.
"How in the Hell did you get up there?" I asked. Porcupines in my attic. Whoduh thunk it. Fluffy's buddy was eager to show me how he'd gotten up there. As soon as I backed off he came down. The closet walls are made out of old clapboarding, virtually a porcupine ladder. He climbed down about two feet and then dropped onto the pile of clothes below. Meep. Pleased to meet you.
At this point I began to wonder if porcupines carried rabies. Fluffy's buddy moved a lot faster than Fluffy did. Thinking I'd better not take a chance (knowing my luck) I retreated back downstairs. I wasn't scared of the porcupine, per se. To tell you the truth it was awful damned cute the way it came trotting towards me. It's just that I find quills and rabies to be somewhat...umm...unpalatable.
Downstairs I couldn't see Fluffy anywhere. Good, I thought. Fluffy has gone back to nature. Maybe his/her buddy will follow me down and do the same. I waited, no sound came from the stairs. I had a peek at Desperaux, either he'd passed out from sugar overload and died or he was sleeping. I flicked the side of the cake tray and one eye lazily opened. Good...not dead. Just in the midst of a diabetic coma.
Still no sound on the stairs. I went over and looked up. Fluffy's buddy was sitting at the top looking down. I swear to God if that porcupine could have grinned it would have.
"Come on, then" I said. It took one tentative step down, then backed up. It wanted to come down but was unsure of the stairs. So I began coaxing it, much like you would do with a dog. Come on! Come on, buddy! That's it! Come on! There's a good little bugger! It worked somewhat. Fluffy's buddy came down two steps and my exuberance increased, then I must have scared it off because it gave me a weird look and went back up to the top. "MEEP!" it said.
Then from my right came another MEEP, but it didn't sound like it came from outside. I looked over but didn't see Fluffy anywhere. The one at the top of the stairs let out a meek "Meep" and made some guttural whiny noises. There was a short shuffling by the woodstove and a "Meep" in return. Oh, good Fluffy, I thought, there you are. I'd thought you'd left without saying goodbye. Fluffy was indeed there behind the pile of wood I'd brought in for the previous night's almost-bonfire. I wasn't exactly sure what he was doing at first but after a few seconds it became clear that he was busily eating my firewood. Nice.
I went around to get the broom that I'd left next to the stairs and jumped out of my skin. Fluffy's buddy was now at the bottom of the stairs and since we'd startled each other all his quills raised up. Fluffy's buddy wasn't very big but I didn't fancy digging quills out of my leg so I backed off. I didn't know what to do, so I went over and sat on the kitchen counter. One porcupine I could dodge. Two? I wasn't so sure.
After a couple of minutes of peace Fluffy was joined by his buddy. Only he wasn't as happy about it as you might expect. The little one got within three feet of the small pile of wood I'd brought in and the bickering started. It was interesting to watch, actually. The little one did just as any other animal would do when presented with the opportunity to steal food from someone else. He circled the entire pile, trying to get at it from every angle, and was thwarted by Fluffy each step of the way. As I watched I thought about what to call the little guy. Each of my kids got to name a wild animal that day, I figured it was my turn. What would it be? Mr. Prickles? Flash? Tiny?
Then there was an epiphany. The little one made a grab for a piece of wood and Fluffy lunged at him. The little one, backing well away, began to make whiny guttural noises.
"Meep...mnuh, mnuh, mnuh, nuhhh....nyuk, nyuk, nyuk"
Curly.
"Thou shalt be named Curly," I said "And thou shalt not go hungry. I don't let my kids hoard food and I'll be damned if your buddy there does that in my house!". I went over and got the broom. Fluffy was on the pile of wood so I poked him. He didn't move, so I pushed him off. He just sort of let me push him, then he laid there and gave me a nasty look. I seperated one log from the pile with the broom and rolled it over to Curly. Curly sniffed it, looked at me, then attempted to go back to the pile. Apparently he didn't want that piece.
"Well, frig. What do you want?"
I looked over at Fluffy who seemed to be peeling the bark off some birch. There was only one piece of birch in the pile so I theorized that since Fluffy was eating it Curly must want to do the same. I had to get more birch. So I did.
Why not? I fed a mouse an entire cake, feeding birch to a porcupine was the only fair thing to do.
On the way out of Mom's wood shed she called to me from the porch. Was I finished what I was doing? Only they wanted to get going...and the kids were getting bored. I just shrugged my shoulders.
"They're eating all my food" she said, "Don't you have any food over there?".
I looked at her dead in the face and shook my head. Looks like Grandma was running low on patience. The best response to her queries was no response at all, so I turned and walked back to my place.
"IF YOU START ANOTHER FIRE IN THAT STOVE YOU'RE AN IDIOT!" she called after me. I shrugged and kept walking. I could hear her muttering about how she wasn't going to call the fire department for my stupidity and about how she always had to watch my kids for me, how they're not even her kids, blah blah blah. It made me smile. Especially since having the kids stay at her place was her idea. Especially since I knew that she only came up to the cottage in the first place to rain on my parade. She loaded them up with sugar, she spoiled them rotten, and now she was tired and wanted to offload them onto me? Nuh uh, not happening. Suck it, Grandma!
Back in my place I dropped three pieces of birch onto the floor. Curly came running (waddling) right away. Fluffy just eyed me from the woodstove and kept chewing on what he already had. Looking around I realized Mom did have a point. It was Sunday and it was getting on, the sun was moving around to the west, and here I was feeding the wildlife. And I was beginning to feel hungry myself. More than hungry, ravenous. McDonalds was starting to sound awfully damned good. And I usually avoid the stuff like the plague. Watching Curly peel birch bark off and suck it up like spaghetti only made my hunger pangs that much more apparent. It was time to go.
"Wake up, Despearaux. You're being evicted." I opened up the cake tray and let the mouse slide out. He wearily righted himself on the counter, shook a bit, looked at me and began straightening his fur. I felt bad about all the traps I'd set while I watched him clean his whiskers. I looked over at Curly and Fluffy. It was obvious they weren't leaving. I supposed I could wait until the weather was better to catch the mice. I gingerly nipped around Curly and got the broom, then went around snapping mouse traps. I think I got them all.
While I was out of the room Fluffy took a liking to Curly's wood and a battle erupted. The posturing and snarling was vaguely familiar, and I realized it was just like having my kids around. I took the broom and seperated them. Break it up, I said. There's enough birch for everyone. Fluffy gave me a dirty look.
"Shouldn't you be hibernating or something?" I said. Shouldn't you? That's what Fluffy's look said. He didn't make much of me seperating him from his booty and went back at Curly. I blocked him with the broom and he sort of swatted at it. Any more sass like that mister, I said, and I'll push your ass right out the door. I took the broom and flung two pieces of birch towards the kitchen. Curly turned and followed them. Fluffy made a sort of growling noise. I wished I had a hockey stick. I smacked the broom down on the floor in front of him to show him who was boss and he retreated to the woodstove. Yeah, I thought, waddle...BITCH.
After I got what I figured needed to go in the car I went around and gave Sam's place one last once-over. Two porcupines, check. One mouse...somewhere...check. I piled all the garbage bags into Mom's outdoor garbage bin (the guy who snowblows the driveway also takes our garbage to the dump) and went back in to turn the power off. I had to climb onto the counter and over Curly, who was licking the side of the cupboards. He looked up at me and I imagined he looked just like a cat. Intelligence was in those eyes. And he looked like he was smiling. Weird.
"Be nice and share with your brother" I said to Fluffy as I left. I hoped they managed to make their way back up into the attic. They must have had a nest up there. I wondered if I had a Moe and Larry up there as well? There could have been a whole porcupine colony up there, I never checked. But I figured I'd at least let them stay until Spring. Then I'd come back and evict them with my Sherwood. Fluffy first.
Moments later I had the kids in the car and I was heading down the road. I thought about all that had happened and was surprised I'd survived it. I thought about the look that had been on Gerry's face when I told him I was buying the place without having a home inspection done. About how he had said I shouldn't base the integrity of a structure on a childhood memory, and about how he was right (although I'm never going to tell him that). And he IS right. Buying on emotion is never a good idea and in the case of houses (or dwellings, I should say) you should ALWAYS get a home inspection done. I mean, what does it cost? A couple hundred bucks? If I had've got one done I'd at least know that Sam's electrical is shot, and that I had several prickly tenants in my attic. I'd at least know where the Hell the water pump is located, I never did see it anywhere. And if the pipes are lead soldered (though I'm sure I'm not going to be able to drink the water anyways). There's all these things I don't know about the place because I didn't get an inspection done.
(I probably wouldn't have found out about the freezer either way, though)
Bottom line is you should do what's right. Get an inspection done and attend to some of the problems beforehand. And if you find out there's a problem with the place and you still think you can't live without it then by all means buy it (within reason), but at least you'll know most of what you're going to have to deal with.
The closer I got to home the more I thought about summers at the cottage when I was a kid. Childhood memories can be powerful things and it sucks as you get older and you see things as they actually are, not as how you remembered them. I glanced back at my kids in the rearview mirror. Both of them had crashed out and they were sleeping off a massive sugar binge. I wondered if they'd ever get to meet my mother in all her vindictive glory. My sister and I have thought about it, what would happen if Mom ever decided to turn on the kids and treat them like she treats us? Which is not to say we're treated BADLY, just differently. Colder. I've always said I hope it never happens, but on that ride home I thought about it. How would I handle that? Confronted with a brokenhearted kid holding a shattered childhood illusion, what would I say?
"Welcome to adulthood, sweetheart. I'm sorry that you're here."
