Mouse Nests in the Oven

Safeway chicken filled the house with a nostalgic bouquet. The buzz of familiar primate energy made irresistible a social smile and witty comment exchanged between glances of friends and family. Standing up, I walked into the kitchen to pop the couscous in the oven from its perch on the top of the stove. Peering inside the depths of its iron gullet, I detected an unfamiliar shape on an old tray. I pulled out the oven rack to find a pile of insulation and anonymous fluff that some nasty little rodent had collected. Ah, a pocket to deposit one’s young. With a plastic spoon I nudged aside some of the debris, to find some old chocolate chip cookies that had long since vanished into the gloomy cavern we call our kitchen. So that’s where they had gone! With a deep and lethargic sigh I returned to the table to relay my awesome discovery.

                “Mouse nest,” I mumbled into my glass of chilled milk, “In the oven.”

                In the silence that followed I batted away one of the copious flies that are prolifically breeding in the center of all our rooms. So impishly they buzz around the assorted, but rarely effective, contraptions of defense we have erected in vain attempts to control their frightful libido.

                “A mouse nest?”

                “Oh yeah,” I said with another geriatric sigh, “They are reclaiming the wilderness we have taken from them. Rumor has it they’re lead by Al Gore.”

                Another silence dominated the room in a tired and fly ridden pall. Then, as was a shibboleth for our family, abruptly the clanking of appreciative forks began again and the same proverbial socialization found its element. What audience could dismiss such a shocking display of yet another brash animal attack on the feeble and vulnerable human species? Perhaps one which is well acquainted with our close friends: peromyscus polionotus. Indeed, the company we had over that night was with us when these adorable little vermin were introduced into our 68° habitat.

                As stated in an earlier blog, each autumn I volunteer at the Kennedy Creek Salmon trail. My friend, Kayta, a hopelessly maternal girl, was with me at the time. With ears unnaturally tuned to hear the small cries of endangered infants, she rapidly noticed an incalculably small noise of a distressed brood of deer mice. Charmed with naturally large, imploring eyes and velvety pelts, this abandoned litter of babies beckoned for the help of some higher power. "Who are we to play God?" I said wisely, but she was dedicated to a personal agenda of altruism. Cupping the eight tiny things in her hands she found our parents who were absorbed in the examination and dissection of a rotting salmon.

                “May we please, Mama?” She asked beseechingly, holding out her mammalian find to her parental guardian.

                The answer, however, was a firm "no". Kayta had raised far too many baby mice and her mother had quite enough, thank you very much. Then, looking to me with eyes a cocktail of  resolution and vehement desperation, she held the delicate and flea bitten creatures out to me. Taking the shivering, pee-stained things in my hands, I cooed pleasurably and correctly about their appearance before stuffing them in my warm coat pocket. As fate would have it, it was these mice (for whom I woke up once every two hours during the night to feed) who now corrode our dwindling supply of ice cream cones. Naturally, they had escaped as soon as they were weaned and now keep us company in the bath with their scuttling and squeaking in the hollow walls. We still see them from time to time: feasting on the contents of our garbage can, or perhaps even cuddling up in our socks. However the surest way to know they are there, ever present shadows of our waste, is to look out for the nests that they compile out of what we have discarded.

My Origins as a Writer

                                            

The process of becoming a writer, by any accomplished definition, entails a long process of experimental dabbling. Writing is a form of art and the expression of oneself, so naturally the germination of a linguistic artist begins at home next to a piece of paper or a computer screen. I have been writing since I was seven years old. Consecrated with a mildly competitive spirit, I was in a benevolent and eternal rivalry with my sister. The title of “biggest tomboy” was coveted (my sister always won), as well as most proficient and gifted writer. Inspired by dramatic and heart-wrenching games of Playmobil, we rapidly gained a firm control over plot lines, word choice and an impressively expansive vocabulary. As we became older, these games evolved into massive projects. These fixations of our amusement would carry us from day to day. Because my sister dominated the stories with her gift for narration, I was often compelled to sit and listen while she domineered the main antagonists and protagonists and often everything in between. The following is a paraphrased quote from one of these soap operas:

“…When she bent to the gallows, she never portrayed an emotion. Even as the executioner walked up from behind her, grazing the nape of her neck with a glinting ax, she only looked determined. When the ax was brought upon her head, not a cry escaped from those stony lips. While the head of most victims wore a grisly mask of terror and pain, hers was still and contained. There was a pall over the crowd…”

However, before you think we were completely morbid, you have to picture this with two pre-pubescent girls crouched over their tiny Playmobil dolls. Full of hushed intensity, one looks grim and the other (usually me) has tears streaming down her face at the grisly end of this much loved protagonist. These stories inspired creativity through words. They allowed us to harness vocabulary and master the art of language. My first stories are also the ones I am most proud of, because they influenced me as a writer. Essays have to come from somewhere, and my place of origin happened to be a series of short stories about a chicken named Ebony. Based on a true chicken who lived at my friend’s house on Johnson Point, this original heroine faced fences, imminent execution and of course the classic and wily fox. From simple pages with continuous sentences and frequent but ignored misspelling, these narratives evolved into complex chronicles of the adventures of a Gallus domesticus. In its final draft the story was narrated by a prudish Canadian goose named Clarence with a fervent dislike at his species stereotype. Apparently, being associated with white birds in bonnets and ribbons was a negative juxtaposition to his actual, accomplished individuality. This story proved my understanding of perspective. By creating a character to narrate the adventures of Ebony, I could follow her without generically narrating from third person omniscient. These stories, however threadbare, provided the foundation of my creative and academic writing for years to come, and have guided me into Honors English and hopefully a brightly linguistic future.

The Count of Monte Cristo

           The Count of Monte Cristo is a novel that incites deep complexity of thought within its audience. It illustrates the layers of human personality, justice and the overall definition of redemption. A classified masterpiece, the novel indicates the vengeful ghost in each of us, waiting for the first opportunity to influence its host into a gratuitous journey towards retribution. Addictive and easy to read, The Count of Monte Cristo is only difficult in its myriad characters. The reader must cut through the superfluous individuals to the ones that are important for complete comprehension of the novel. This introduction of personalities enriches the novel and provides a deeper appreciation for its setting. This enrichment of character turns the novel from a direct story of Edmond Dantes’ path towards redemption, to a study of 18th century society.
            In the beginning of the novel, Edmond is unassuming and simple. His devotion to his father and his fiancé is almost comical in its reverie. Even when he is detained as a Bonapartist, he vacillates in ridiculous fantasies of friendship with those responsible for his arrest. This naivety is soon shattered through his friendship with the wise Abbe Faria, who endows him with knowledge and a more mature perspective of the world. While he is not described as going insane for his imprisonment, the cell soon begins to dangerously alter his mind. By the time Dantes escapes, he is an extreme eccentric who craves revenge. It is arguably this motivation that kept him alive for the duration of his detention, not his friendship with the Abbe Faria, a man who, while instilled so much other useful knowledge into Edmond, failed to inspire him with an appetite for forgiveness. This abrupt contrast illustrates the complexity of human character, and how easily influenced it is by its environment.
            This study of human character reflects the theme of human complexity in To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.