Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

Archives for June 2009

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I had too much to say this week and so I didn’t say anything.

Last Sunday was Father’s Day and Monday was the sixth anniversary of my father’s death. The week before Paul and I attended the funeral of a nineteen year old boy from church who was killed in a car accident. It was the most beautiful and holy funeral I have ever attended and I have been to many in my relatively short life.

I recently picked up a book of essays called The Undertaking – Life Studies From a Dismal Trade by Thomas Lynch, an undertaker and poet who lives in Milford, Michigan. He is such a good writer and writes so wisely and well about death, the dead and those who survive them. This book would have been good company any time, but especially this week.

“In even the best of caskets, it never all fits-all that we’d like to bury in them: the hurt and forgiveness, the anger and pain, the praise and thanksgiving, the emptiness and exaltations, the untidy feelings when someone dies. So I conduct this business carefully…”
(from the essay Jessica, the Hound and the Casket Trade, page 191)

https://alisonhodgson.com/2009/06/284/

Paul don’t read this until Sunday!

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“Mom, I’m writing a book and I’m stuck; I don’t know what to write.”  Eden said.

Oh baby I understand.
“It’s about my life and it’s for Dad for Father’s Day.”
“How about something about Kindergarten?” I suggested.
“First day of Kindergarten?  I got it.”
“Mmmmm…what’s something that you and Daddy have done together?”  I asked.
“MOM, this is a book about ME for Dad, not a book about things me and Dad do together!”
I wasn’t able to help her.
Dang writer’s block.

A Mouse Named Winkie

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Although Lydia and I were the ones who spotted the mouse, hobbling around the pool area, it was Eden and then Christopher who rushed to his aid. Lydia and I were both seized by a mixture of empathy and fear. It was clear from the way he was moving that there was something not right with the little thing – that he was practically newborn didn’t occur to me. When I see something or someone hurt, my stomach hurts.

This sort of empathy is great, to a point. If you’re having a medical emergency and you need prayer; I’m you’re girl. And I will certainly be Johnny on the spot if you want a moving description of your pain. If it’s first aid you’re looking for then – sorry – I can’t help unless you’re one of my children and I’ll probably be gagging while I administer it.

Lydia seems to be cut out of a similar cloth.

When Eden found out about the mouse she rushed to his side, assessed the situation, got Christopher to help and then came to stir me into action. Armed with my kitchen gloves she was a pint-sized Florence Nightingale. Lydia eventually warmed up and helped try to feed him. Later she even held him a while. But it was Eden who set the therapy ball in motion.

At dinner when she suggested naming him Sparkie or Scout Lydia rolled her eyes. I told Eden she could name him whatever she wanted. Scout was one of the names I had proposed when naming Jack and Eden was my only ally. Since then it has been her go to for stuffed animals, toads and frogs.

Later she, Lydia and I were all on my bed and she called the naming committee to order.

“We’ll go around and each make a suggestion, then we’ll vote on it. You first Mama.”

“I vote for Sparkie.” I was researching something and maybe wasn’t totally investing in naming the mouse.

“No, you have to come up with your own name.”

“Oh. OK.” I had been reading the Economist earlier and trying to think of a male (we all sensed the mouse was a boy) name, Milton Friedman popped into my head.

“Milton.”

Eden wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like that.”

Lydia sat up, “Milton, I kind of like that. He was a poet…who was blind. I like it.”

American economist, English metaphysical poet; it’s all good.

“Lydia, you need to make your own suggestion,” The Enforcer reminded.

“I don’t have one. I vote for Milton.”

“You can’t until we all make suggestions!”

“Eden, what do you want to name him.” I stepped in.

She thought for a minute, “I’m thinking about Winkie…”

“Ooooh, I like it.” I said.

Lydia snorted. “Winkie! You want to name him Winkie!”

“Is it time to vote, Eden?”

“Yes. If you want Milton say ‘aye'”.

Lydia raised her hand.

“Say ‘aye'”. Eden prompted.

“Aye!” Lydia obeyed and then noticed that I was silent. “You’re going to vote for Winkie!”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“If you want Winkie say ‘aye'”.

Eden and I both raised our hands and said aye.

There was a protracted argument, but we finally settled (after some diversions: another round of forced suggestions and subsequent vote) on Winkie Milton H_______.

We think it has a certain ring.

To Do:

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Remove rocks, ivy and leaves from pool area

Spray deck cleaner on the deck

Clear deck to do above

Seal deck

Haul out tables and chairs

Paint a several (5) chairs, one settee and a table

Lay pea gravel in driveway

Haul necessary pea gravel

Haul and lay mulch in the beds: by the road, in the front, in the south side garden, in the shade garden, in front of the gazebo and the paths

Haul some manure

Deal with the mess on the hill ( spread out leaves, plant vinca? lay mulch)

Lay soaker hoses

BUY attachments so I can just pop hoses on and off

BUY some top soil to get the vegetable pots going

Plant the rest of the seeds

Paint the house

To be continued…

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Eden is nursing a baby mouse back to health, at least that’s what she thinks. In truth she’s probably keeping vigil over, even hastening, its death, but do you have to be so judgey?

Per her direction I called our local nature center. I subtlely made it clear that the Young Naturalist was at my elbow and that I was merely her mouthpiece. She had been gunning for giving the mouse a bath because it had rolled into its urine. I discouraged this, but she was concerned about hygeine. I mentioned this to the woman at the nature center who confirmed that it was better off staying as dry as possible.

“What can we do?” I asked. “We REALLY want to do SOMETHING.”

The woman laughed, “I was the same way when I was a kid.”

And then she said we could try to give it a little food and water and place it in a sheltered spot to protect from predators.

Christopher had picked it up off the pavement and put it in one of gardens. He came inside to wash his hands.

“Poor little thing, it’s probably going to die.” His voice broke at the last and tears sprung into his eyes. “Nature can be so cruel.”

The three kids gathered around it and tried to feed it a bit of warmed milk. Earlier it had opened its little mouth, but now the milk just dripped down its face. When I came out to check on them they had given up.

“We decided to stop because we were concerned that the milk would block its nasal passages.” Lydia informed me.

Eden has tucked the mouse into the nest they made with some clean rags in a box. The box is safely closed in her playhouse.

Earlier today I was in the poolshed and took note of the liberal covering of mouse poop over the shelves I purchased and organized last summer. My thoughts were murderous and there is always a mousetrap set with peanut butter under our sink and yet I find myself wanting to dash out to the playhouse to check on our little patient, hoping to find its tiny heart still beating.

https://alisonhodgson.com/2009/06/290/