Farewell to Squeeks

And so, farewell to Squeeks, a deer mouse that I raised from a three-week-old baby. About six years ago I found her and four of her siblings wandering in the hall, squeaking and bumping into the walls. They had been born in a closet in Jim’s shaving kit. The enterprising mother had torn all the cotton off the Q-tips to make her nest, and then abandoned her offspring before their eyes were open. (Or had she been eaten by one of my two cats?)

I fed all five mice on rice milk from an eyedropper, but though I wrapped them in tissue, they were soon marinated in rice milk. Their fur wouldn't fluff up again. They shivered and died one by one. The backyard was littered with small graves. But one seemed determined to live. I put her in a sock and slept with her over my heart and she lived through the night. Jim suggested that I switch to cream cheese, which I fed her on a hairpin. It was a lot easier once she opened her eyes and could see what I was trying to do. (I was always careful to wash my hands both before and after handling the mice. Your germs can make them sick and a certain percent of the deer mouse population carries haunta virus which can be fatal to humans.)

She had to be fed every four hours, so when I was going to be gone a long time, I took her with me inside a small, round basket with a lid that I toted around in the bottom of my flowered bag. And her cream cheese. Sometimes I even carried her in a small pocket in the front of my denim jumper. I took her with me to a concert, to an all-day writing conference, and up in the mountains. I let her wander in the grass, but always collected her again. Someone told me that once mice are used to humans, they lose their instincts and can’t fend for themselves anymore.

A year later, when I was house sitting, I forgot to secure the lid of the top of her cage. It was open for three days. When I discovered what I had done, I was dismayed, sure she was long gone. But no. Now there were two mice! A handsome male had moved in with her. Squeeks was in love. She’d sit beside him in the “tree,” look at him, then look at me, all moony eyed. I laughed and said, “Okay. He seems nice. You can keep him.” I called him Benjamin. They had two litters before he split. After he’d done his duty, he spent a lot of time on top of the water bottle wondering when the lid would open again. I had to let him go. Squeeks didn’t seem to miss him. She had a full nest. When they were old enough, I released the young ones down by the river, but kept her daughter Heidi so Squeeks wouldn’t be alone. For five years Squeeks and Heidi lived in an aquarium on top of my bookcase.

Heidi is shy and rarely comes out in the daytime--I think she prefers to stay close to the nest--but Squeeks was a little escape artist right from the beginning. At first I kept her in a hamster cage with bars a quarter of an inch apart. When I wasn’t looking, she slipped through, but I kept the cage in a dresser drawer, so no harm done. I covered the whole thing with fine-mesh wire, and then watched in amazement as she worked her way through the folds of screen at the corner and got out. Mice have very few bones; they can flatten themselves and squeeze through a crack like Houdini.

Squeeks escaped to the floor twice, but each time I found her. (With the help of the cat.) The first time she was hiding in one of my bags in the closet. The second time I discovered her under the dresser. She had retreated to a corner where there was a hole in the adobe. I stretched out my hand, called her, and she came back to me. Would her life have been better if she had slipped through the crack? Sometimes I felt bad that she had never known the world of plants; when I introduced a plant into the aquarium, she and Heidi ate it.

My goof this time was to open the wire lid at night when I thought Squeeks was in the nest. Mice are nocturnal. She must have been close to the top on the “tree” but I didn't see her. I took out her wheel and oiled the hinges because it was beginning to clatter. Then I opened the lid and dropped the wheel back. Even though she’s a senior senior, Squeeks has always been fierce in the defense of her territory. When she was full grown, she started nipping my finger to let me know she didn’t want to be picked up anymore. Then she would rush at my hand and nip me if I reached into the aquarium. I had to respect that—or wear gloves. Last night I wasn't wearing gloves. Just a moment of carelessness was all it took.

A few minutes later I saw Squeeks disappear behind my desk where I keep art supplies, poster board and watercolor paper. It's impossible to get a mouse out of there. I would have to wait. A couple of hours later--3 a.m.--the cat spotted Squeeks under my bed. Squeeks was running toward me on her toes, her back hunched like an old lady, trotting as fast as she could. Did she slip behind my guitar case and hide, or find a hole between the wall and the floor? I’ll never know. That was the last I saw of her. I hope I don't find her body on the bathroom rug, partly eaten by the cat. It's a dangerous world out there, but she had an adventurous spirit. Long after Heidi had eaten her dinner, run on the wheel and returned to her nest in the corner of the aquarium, Squeeks would still be running, running, running on the wheel. She had so much energy I could have powered the house lights and given some back to the grid. Was she in training for the Great Escape?


When Squeeks disappeared, I moved Heidi into another container and left the aquarium open on the floor at the foot of my bed, hoping my runaway would come back to the nest of her own accord. But in the morning, the nest was still empty.

Maybe Squeeks has been waiting for her chance, saying, "If I ever see a hole in the wall again, I'll go down it.”
I told myself I was protecting her, but really, I was holding her prisoner. For six years! (The normal life span for a deer mouse is a year. She’s probably the oldest mouse on the planet.)

Well, now she's off on her great adventure. In a way, I'm glad for her. The truth is, a wild mouse is always wild. The rest of her life will be short but exciting. I hope she gets outdoors to experience . . . Shucks! It's snowing again. I wish she had escaped in the summer. She'd have a better chance.

However it comes down, at last she’s free. I'm grateful to have known her, and all the mice that have followed in her wake. I’ve learned so much from her—mainly how mice have feelings a lot like ours. Squeeks was afraid of thunder, but that was the only thing. When I forgot to refill her water bottle, she scolded me with a long, searching look. And one evening she listened, transfixed for ten minutes, to the best of Bach. I will miss her, but I'm sure that many of the mice I catch in my live traps are her relations. So in a way, all the mice in the house are mine. God bless that little mouse who was born and lived out her long life here with me. Gratitude and love.

The Evil Owl

I saw the Great Horned Owl again at dusk as I was standing near the river. It swooped in a half circle and landed on a branch at the top of a cottonwood tree. All I saw was the edge of one huge, dark wing in silhouette, but what else could it be? Then it said, “Hoo hoooo ooooo oooo . . .” as if to remind me that I was planning to write about it.
According to "A Field Guide To Western Birds," it’s called the cat owl and is the only owl with ear tufts. It has a resonant series of three to eight hoots. Males hoot four or five times, so maybe it was a male. Females hoot six to eight times in a lower pitch.
These birds of prey like streamsides, deserts, cliffs and canyons, which we have in abundance, and use abandoned nests or make their homes in cliffs, trees, or even on the ground. I found an excellent drawing of the Great Horned Owl in Mother’s old edition of "Birds of America," a large, illustrated volume that Dad gave her for her 26th birthday in June of 1942. I wish I could use this drawing on my blog, but where would I get permission? The artist has taken great care to portray the owl with dignity and grace. Its cat-like yellow eyes are framed on both sides by half circles of russet plumage, and its breast is a cascade of horizontal brown and white bars. (The owl pictured is from Owl TV, with permission of the producer.)

In "Birds of America," George Gladden says this owl was called “Tiger of the Air” because this “big bird is courageous, powerful and bloodthirsty.”
Bloodthirsty? They have to eat, too, don’t they?

“That he is highly destructive must also be conceded, for it has been demonstrated beyond question of a doubt not only that he is bold, persistent and generally successful in his raids upon domestic poultry of all kinds, but that he is highly skillful and deadly in his pursuit of game birds, song birds, rabbits and squirrels,” says George.
He goes on, “The tiger comparison applies well to the Owl’s manner of hunting, for the sweep of his great wings in the silent air is as noiseless as the tread of the big cat’s padded feet upon the soft earth. Through the woods and over the meadows he glides silently as a shadow . . . To the poultry-farmer this Owl is a veritable terror . . . one instance is recorded of the loss by a farmer of fifty-nine young Guinea-fowl, taken in a single autumn by the same Owl.”
George also mentions the “oot-too-hoo, hoo-hoo” and compares the rhythm of it to a locomotive whistle at a crossing. “Usually the cry, like that of most Owls and of the night-birds generally, has an uncanny and weird significance, in which are blended distinct suggestions of threat, defiance, and scorn, as befits the fearless and savage nature of this veritable ‘tiger of the air.’”
Oh come on, George. Significance? Like a Rorschach test? I doubt that the owl has much feeling for human beings beyond a healthy fear of being shot. Though it doesn’t sound as if the farmer was able to pull that one off. Dare I suggest a pen topped with wire? As for the owl’s “savage nature,” I suspect that the Guinea-fowls the owl didn’t nail were beheaded, plucked and roasted and ended up on the plate of some bloodthirsty savage. I’ll bet they were tasty, too.

Nowadays, when so few of us keep chickens, the owl’s distinctive cry is a novelty. Or it can be chilling. When I was losing ground with a strange illness a few years ago, I shuddered when I heard the owl outside my window. But my daughter said, “Nonsense! Tell it to go hoot hoo somewhere else.”
I have probable cause to bear the owl a grudge. Molly, my tortoise shell cat, used to slip outside at dusk to hunt. I let her go because she’s smart and watchful and usually stays close to the house. We have coyotes around, so I keep a ladder leaning up against the wall and sometimes find Molly up on the roof. The flapping wings of the Great Horned Owl make no sound; it might have swooped down and caught her unaware. The deep, infected puncture wound in the side of her neck cost me $123 in vet bills. I don’t resent the owl, but now I keep Molly in at night.

In “Birds . . .” Doctor A.K. Fisher reports: “The large handsome Great Horned Owl is found throughout the United States everywhere suitable timber exists for its habitation. It is a voracious bird, and its capacity for good or evil is very great.”
Time out! We need a second opinion here. Evil is a human concept, not one that exists in nature. All of nature is innocent. But wait a minute! Aren’t we part of nature, too?
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!” said a once popular radio show. A relative once remarked that volcanoes are evil. And some of my friends consider jet trails evil. And many might justifiably argue that Hitler was evil.

Webster’s dictionary defines evil as “immorally wrong or bad.” But nature knows no morals. Nature is all and only about balance. Another Webster definition of evil is: “The force in nature that governs and gives rise to wickedness and sin.” On many a volcanic island, the God’s were invoked for protection every time the volcano began to shoot fire. The naives thought it was because they had been bad. Prayers were an understandable attempt to gain control over wild nature.
Back to “Birds . . .” Doctor Fisher concedes that, “If the more thickly settled districts where poultry is extensively raised could be passed by and the bird considered only as it appears in the great West, it would earn a secure place among the beneficial species, for it is an important ally of the ranchman infighting the hordes of ground squirrels and other rodents which infest his fields and ranges . . . Undoubtedly rabbits are its favorite food.” (Note: the “ground squirrels” – i.e. prairie dogs—and rodents don’t just inhabit the field—they “infest” it.)
He examines the stomach content of a Great Horned Owls and finds “three species of rabbits, cotton rat, two species of pouched gophers, two species of wood rats, chipmunk, two species of grasshopper mice, Harris ground squirrel, musk rats, fox squirrels, five species of meadow mice, one short-tailed shrew, the house mouse, common rat, black bat, red-backed mouse, flying squirrel, shrew and kangaroo rat.” (Not all one meal, I assume.) It also eats scorpions, crawfish, grasshoppers, beetles and fish. He rightly concludes that, “The Great Horned Owl does a vast amount of good, and, if farmers would shut up their chickens at night instead of allowing them to roost in trees and other exposed places, the principal damage done by the bird would be prevented.”

In other words, if the Great Horned Owl ceased his evil ways and became “beneficial”, i.e. man’s ally, it would be considered a force for good. But if it competes with us for resources or gets in our way, it’s evil.
Although the Great Horned Owl’s evening “Hoooo hooooo” sometimes gives me chills, I’m glad I live in the “great West” where many diverse forms of life strive to keep each other in balance. By watching how they do it, maybe one day I can borrow a page from the book of nature and learn how to keep my own life in balance.

After Copenhagen

"Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly , now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it."

The Talmud

The Perfect Tree

The Perfect Tree

In our family, for over thirty years, we have upheld a proud tradition of heading out into the national forest to cut our own Christmas tree. I was always the fussy one. No, this one isn’t full enough; this one isn’t symmetrical. The family learned over the years to be patient. After about half an hour of trudging through the snow, rejecting this one and that one, I would finally say, “This is it. What do you think?” The others would gather around and we’d talk about it. If everyone agreed this was the perfect tree, I’d ask the tree’s permission to take it. (They never said, “No! Go away, you savage.”) We’d lay a blessing on it, the men would cut it and we’d drag our prize back to the car. At home it would fill the corner of the living room with its dark pine fragrance. I decorated it with the same kind of lights and ornaments my parents had used and did my best to recreate some of the wonder and excitement I had felt when I was a child in Canada.

But this year, as Christmas came barreling down the road, the lyrics of an old Joni Mitchell song haunted me: “It’s coming on Christmas/they’re cutting down the trees . . . I wish I had a river/I could skate away on . . .” I thought about global warming and wondered how many trees were being chopped down all over the world. (I didn’t feel the same about turkeys—I’m not sure why.) I discovered that I wasn’t the only member of the family who was beginning to feel squeamish about cutting down a live tree. On one of our many dog walks in the forest we had talked about buying a potted tree. But it would probably be too expensive. How about digging up one and potting it? But by December the ground would be frozen. What about cutting a sage bush? Plenty of them around.

On the way back to the car we came across a piñon that had been run over by a truck. It was smashed into the ground, the bark scraped off the trunk, the bottom branches dead. “Let’s take this one—it’s going to die anyway.” “What? Are you crazy?” “It’s about the right height. I wouldn’t feel so bad about cutting this one.”
Three days before Christmas, we were out there with the saw and there was that tree that had been run over by a truck, still dying a slow, painful death. “Shall we take it?” One of us thought this was a joke and was taken aback when the other two marched right up to it and began sawing. To my surprise, when we stood the tree up, it was actually a good height and fullness. But it looked muddy, droopy and abused. And the branches were not symmetrical. I would never have chosen it last year when I was looking for the perfect tree.

We cut some extra branches, tied the tree on top of the car and took it home. We stood it up outside in the stand, gave it a cold drink of water, sprayed the branches and lopped off all the dead ones. Then we weighted down the ones that had been on the bottom so they would gently open again. It took a couple of days, a song and blessing, but as soon as we brought the tree in the house, it began to perk up. By the time we had tied the extra branches on it, twirled the lights around it and hung the ornaments, it looked just as beautiful as any Christmas tree we had ever had. A much better fate for the poor tree than dying smashed into the ground on the side of a muddy road.

Looking at the tree, I thought, I’m not normally a fussy person. What has driven me all these years to insist that the tree and the Christmas meal must be perfect? Like the bride who insists that every detail of her wedding is perfect. As if a perfect wedding would guarantee a happy ending. I know it’s not just me—I know that all over the world striving humans are frozen on the staircase in a struggle for perfection that can only be achieved by grace.
Though we had to chop it down to do it, we brought this “rescue tree” back to life. We honored it and gave it back its dignity. Which made us feel good. So for us, this is the perfect tree.

When I told my sister this story, she told me one. She lives in California and misses the snow but not the cold. She said it rained and rained there and she and her husband were both sick with the flu and got behind on their Christmas doings. The day before Christmas, they went to the hardware store to buy a tree, but found only one left. It was a big tree in a pot and the price tag was $124. My brother-in-law said they couldn’t afford it, but my sister said to the clerk, “How about letting us have it for half price because it’s the day before Christmas?” The clerk called her boss and he said okay, so they bought the tree for $60. It was so big it took three people to maneuver it into the car, and when they got home, she and her husband could hardly get it out.
Turns out it is a redwood tree. Their back yard is small and they’re not sure where to plant it after Christmas. My sister said, “We have to be careful. They grow really big.”
I laughed, but envied her the privilege of planting a redwood tree in her back yard. “It’s probably not going to grow that much in your lifetime.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “The next door neighbor planted one five years ago and now it’s higher than his house!”

So here’s to the millions of trees that are being cut down all over the planet, not only at Christmas, but all year round. The green forests that absorb carbon dioxide and give off the oxygen that we breathe. Thanks for the apple wood of my old dresser; the pine planks of the walls and ceiling; for the sturdy oak of my desk and the kitchen floor; for the cottonwood and piñon I burn in my woodstove every night. Gratitude and love to the mighty cottonwoods that shaded the parking lot behind the courthouse in Taos for over fifty years. A shower of blessings on the old growth forests everywhere and the community of plants and animals and insects and crawly things that make their homes in and around them. An OM for every sacred redwood and sequoia in California, and hosannas for the red maples of the north country with their spiky leaves, and the quaking aspens of the high country, and the live oaks of the South. For the spreading chestnut trees that are all gone forever, and the graceful, arching elms that survived Dutch elm disease. In Elmhurst, where I was born, the muscular branches of the elms above my mother’s curly head are my first memories.

No matter what shape or size or species, I know every tree is perfect beyond anything I can measure. In the web of life, they all have a purpose, though it's not always obvious to me. I may try to describe and pay tribute to them, but as Joyce Kilmer said, “Only God can make a tree.”

Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo

Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo has been part of our family tradition for many years. This ancient drama of fire and ice, the procession of the Madonna, is a heady combination of Hispanic Catholic and pagan ritual. It might be the only place you’ll ever see a rifle in church. I’ve heard that the presence of four riflemen at the head of the procession symbolizes how the Conquistadors forced the Indians to build a church and attend services at the point of a rifle. But gradually, the Indians incorporated the strange new religion into their own world. They are true to their original beliefs that revolve around secret teachings in the underground kivas, but many of them are also Catholic.
We follow a winding back road into the Pueblo and park in a snowy field beside dozens of other cars, hoping we’ll be able to get out again. This year the roads to the Pueblo are clear, but last year, stepping out of the car, we were up to our calves in snow. The sun drops out of sight as we head for the Pueblo. Above the trees we see a plume of dark smoke and then the dancing tips of orange flames. One of the bonfires is already burning. Ahead of us strides a man in a black top hat and black frock coat. I’m wearing my L.L. Bean blanket coat with the silver buttons and bear motif, my neck warmed by a lavender scarf. We cross the Rio Pueblo, which is almost frozen over, and emerge from the trees into a wide dirt plaza already crowded with people. Here we greet old friends with hugs and grins and, “How are the children?” They are also dressed in various costumes, some in fur hats and Pendleton coats, others in plaid capes or more practical down jackets. Beside the bonfire, a man in a black cowboy hat with a dark poncho tossed across his shoulder strikes a pose.
The tallest bonfire is about twenty-five feet. One of the Indians has climbed to the top to light it. The bonfires are made of split piñon wood stacked like Lincoln logs. We stroll to the end of the plaza and look back at the scene, the ground streaked with snow, three bonfires in orange bloom, curling with beige plumes smoke that unfurl all over the Pueblo. At the west end is the white, adobe church, Saint Jerome chapel with stepped walls and three crosses. The steps are illuminated by farolitos—candles set in sand inside paper bags. The north side of the Pueblo on our right rises five stories high, framed by massive Pueblo Peak. On the flat rooftops or leaning against wooden ladders, the Indians are watching the proceedings.
Two young men appear in regular dress bearing fiery torches over eight feet long, strips of piñon lashed together. The four riflemen assemble. The one with the white blanket draped around his shoulders is grinning at the others. The Pueblo police wave us back. A rifle goes off with a sharp report. We startle, clutch each other and laugh low in our throats. It begins.
The church bells Clang! Clang! The big drum goes Boom-Boom Boom-Boom, Boom-boom Boom-boom! Our feet can’t resist the rhythm. Behind the riflemen come the elders in striped blankets, chanting in deep voices, then the young women and little girls who trot back and forth in a line and hurry to keep up. And here’s the Madonna or Corn Mother under her billowing canopy, dressed in her gleaming winter whites. Behind the Madonna come the Priest and the congregation singing a Christian hymn. Then all the members of St. Jerome’s parade past, their heads high. Many visitors join in at the end of the procession. Rifles pop in the distance. A plane winks overhead. Across the frozen river, fireworks flare. I wonder what this looks like to foreign visitors who have never seen it before?
We are all engulfed by smoke that carries the smart scent of pine pitch. I cough and cover my face with my fuzzy scarf, which fogs up my glasses. But in the center of the left lens is a single, round hole the size of my eye. Through it I watch the black silhouettes of visitors gathered around a distant bonfire. They are circled by a rainbow of light, the rest of the setting obscured by smoke. I’m enjoying the novelty of this when the procession returns on a loop back to the church. We join in and follow. Too soon the ceremony is over. People gather around the bonfires, grinning like children, eyes bright with pleasure, mouths open, whooping and shouting when the tower of wood collapses in a shower of sparks. They duck, but no one moves back.
We thread our way down a narrow alley between the dark adobe walls of the Pueblo to visit friends. We step into a small, spare room lit only by lanterns and candles on the mantle. The walls are whitewashed and luminous. It’s like being inside an egg. We are welcomed with hugs and invitations to join them for chilie. Are we coming to the Deer Dance tomorrow?
We sink into an old leather couch in front of the tall, narrow fireplace. The opening is shaped like the door of a church. Three logs are stacked on end. My Indian friend points to an oak log that has been burning for hours. “I used to think, Wood is wood, just burn it! But it all burns differently,” she says. “We used to call oak ‘honeymoon wood’ because it burns all night and leaves hot coals in the morning. Some people started to notice that everything on earth is alive. Maybe the earth itself. We said, ‘Of course the earth is alive. That’s why we dance to it, sing to it.’”
Inside these strong, thick walls that have protected the people for a thousand years, as I sit and watch the oak burn a deep stillness rises from below, up through me. In spite of all the turmoil in the world, I feel safe here, one with the Earth and stars, with fire and ice. Part of something mysterious, ever changing, and always the same.
Blessings on you native people in your struggle to preserve your truth, your way of life. Gratitude and love. And a prosperous New Year.

SOLSTICE

SOLSTICE

NOW WE PLUNGE DOWN INTO DARKNESS
TO KISS THE HEM OF LIGHT
DOWN INTO HOLY STILLNESS
THIS BLUE WINTER NIGHT

TO TOUCH THE FLAME THAT SOARS AND SINGS
TO SOUND THE CHORD THAT SILENCE RINGS
BLESSED BY THE BREATH OF ANGEL WINGS
IN SWIFT, ECSTATIC FLIGHT.

A JOYOUS RETURN TO THE LIGHT!

Solstice

NOW WE PLUNGE DOWN INTO DARKNESS
TO KISS THE HEM OF LIGHT
DOWN INTO HOLY STILLNESS
THIS BLUE WINTER NIGHT

TO TOUCH THE FLAME THAT SOARS AND SINGS
TO SOUND THE CHORD THAT SILENCE RINGS
BLESSED BY THE BREATH OF ANGEL WINGS
IN SWIFT, ECSTATIC FLIGHT.

A JOYOUS RETURN TO THE LIGHT!

Dear President Obama

Dear President Obama,


Tonight you are in Copenhagen where over 100 national leaders and influential members of 193 countries have come together to forge an agreement on what has to be done about accelerating global warming. And what’s fair to whom. I know you didn’t want to go, but there you are, as you were meant to be, in this historic moment in time. And I’m so glad. No matter what happens on Friday, you showed up, and that’s important to the whole world. Not just six billion people, but all the creatures of the ocean, and those that live in the wetlands, the rivers and streams. And all the creatures on land, not just the polar bears. What’s at stake here? Absolutely everything. Our children and grandchildren, their future. The holy aspen trees. The ancient redwoods. The right whale. The wild salmon. The coral reefs. The wolves. The lions and tigers. The panda. The great ape. The food we eat, the air we breathe. Because, as you know, every living form on planet Earth depends on water. And everything is intricately bonded to everything else. Forever.

What’s decided tomorrow, or not decided, which document is signed or not signed does not matter as much as the gathering itself of so many nations, such an outpouring of public concern, so much awareness of a global problem and a hunger to do something about it. As soon as possible! The intentions, the goodwill, even the marches and riots in the streets, the willingness to go to jail or just sit down and talk, to air gripes, to freely differ is what democracy is all about.

My dear President, I know you are tired and there’s so much to be done. But I believe you are up to the task. That’s why I voted for you. I believe in your strength and in the deep wisdom of your heart. Please follow your intuitive wisdom and nothing can lead you astray.

Whatever the outcome, my blessings on your efforts. You give me hope that we can turn this around, that by working together we can change our hearts and minds and honor our connection to all other living things.

Yes we can!

Phaedra in New Mexico