NestingThere are dead spaces in houses, bits and pieces of wastage that cannot or could not be used for reasonable habitation or storage: under eaves, gapes filled in between pipe chases, that sort of thing. They are sealed away, out of sight and mind from both within and without, most often not giving cause to think of them, except perhaps to fantasize about lost casks of Amontillado, up there forgotten on joists. There is one such space in this house, in back behind a kicker wall, a prism of eave far above the ground. There is a squirrel in it.
This is somewhat unnerving. The only possible way I can see in from the outside is a tiny hole in the soffit of the eave, a good ways high above the grim pavement of the patio. The only route the thing could take is to clamber up the drain pipe (I have heard them do this) and then leap through a foot or so of clear air to the hole, managing to clamber in. At least, I think that's what it did. Squirrels can be clever.
I am not entirely sure what its doing up there, expect to play merry hell with the plaster and the whatnot. This, too, is unnerving - the lack of lights in the evening and the hollows of the house enlarge the noises, the scrapes and thunks, and I find I must take a candle upstairs and give good judicious thump to the walls so that it will quit kicking up a racket and I can get some sleep. I do not wish to dwell yet on what siege it might manage to lay to the house, yet. I will find out in time, I'm sure.
And, at least, I think it's a squirrel. At night, it sometimes seems that Cerberus has lost his way, and is living in the walls. I somewhat hope Cerberus doesn't have a penchant for wiring.
Solace in Labor, WaterIt must be said: having a dishwasher makes a difference. I am still feeling out the corners of that convenient box by the sink; some things do well in it, and others do not (one mug took upon itself a toothsome jaunt one evening) but I am mostly to grips with that. That the pots and pans can disappear after a simple rinse, leaving clear counters and an empty sink, nearly makes me want to take a second look a serious French cookery again. The cheerful, heavy heat and the industrial strength sudsing that goes on in there to make the dishes so very clean is welcomed. It is convenient on some work nights, welcome to its task. It isn't even that loud, as they go.
And yet, I find I don't run it that much. If I have the time, I encounter myself at the sink after dinner, sleeves to elbows, chasing away the marks of the meal with a scrubber sponge and hot, hot water. Lately, I've been making the time. It is good work: the water heats the hands, and it is a pleasure to inspect the effort under the bright counter lights. It is a moment to relish when the drain board becomes a happy stack, right before the lights are shut on the way out of the kitchen, out through the house onto other things.
That, and I still get good ideas doing the dishes. I rarely get good ideas from the dishwasher.
Ave, SquirrelApart from being loud (and the unknown damages occurring nightly in between the marching lines of lathe) the squirrel is presenting a singular problem. Do not get me wrong: the squirrel is loud. The hidden inner spaces of houses are excellent amplifiers. "Have they started bowling yet?" I am asked by those who know. There is thunder in the ceilings. The real problem, though, is that the squirrel is interstitial.
The insides of walls are not places oft thought about in houses. As an internal projection, they are two dimensional: on this side is the reassuring security of the interior wall, hung with tasteful art or perhaps tucked behind furniture The outside is the connected part that shields from wind and rain, and keeps the critters out. Well, sometimes. For the is a squirrel in the walls, you see, and it has invaded one level of what was once a simple thing, wounding the house and imbuing it with a siege mentality. Worse: there is an unfinished closet on the second floor, and the beast has fallen through the sheeting walls, and is battering the door for egress. It has made it into the house, if only to a closet. I am keeping the basement door shut tight. I hope the pocket doors on the first floor will not be a problem.
Things have been put in motion to fully fix all of this. And: I know what squirrels are worth.
Something of an UpgradeDid I say squirrel?
Ha ha.
It's a raccoon.
Small StepsI just left a phone message entirely in Italian. This is useful: there was no stuttering, and one small pause for composure. I did not say much, to be true: the forever bane of our our modern age of telephony. It remains that I am pleased about managing it.
This is also less useful, as the person I left it for doesn't speak any Italian. I should get a dog.
Among Other ThingsPorches are good for thunderstorms.
I am not perfectly situated for such stuff. I am below the nape of the hill, here. Others on this little hilltop face west, down the river, and I can only imagine the view as the angry air comes prowling up that wide cleft in the hills. Instead, with the big sky to the east and south I can watch the strikes that have already slipped by, and the little valley bowl made murky with rain. The wind slips around and above, and does not drive too much rain onto the porch, most times.
I am still on a hill, though, and there are two venerable stumps by the driveway to prove it. They used to be tall oaks until the sky reached down to touch them; they are memory now, and not even my own. I spoke with a gentleman about cutting back the Norway maple to relieve its embrace of the house. I asked about fruit trees: pears, perhaps. We shall see.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.