Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, our family’s mixed Lab.
Booming noises shimmered up on both old clay pits as we crossed the bridge over the neckdown between them. Ice is being made.
The meathead leaped around at each boom and tucked his tail between his legs. What a wuss. He was nearly as bad when the southwest wind drove the trees around the town pond to make all kinds of creaking noises.
That kind of winter morning settled in. Snow flurries had dusted up corners and leeward spots.
And a mouse in the house was on my mind.
We lived in our house about 15 years and never had a mouse until a week or so ago. Then again, we have not had a winter like this since we lived here.
One night during the cold snap, my wife heard rustling in the trash can in our bedroom. Naturally, I had to do the manly thing and get up and look for it.
Didn’t see it, but the next day I noticed a hole in the dog-food bag and it wasn’t from the meathead stealing from it.
So yesterday, I got one of the teens who needed something to do to help me clean up around the dog food, then set traps.
So far, nothing.
A mouse in the house reminded me of one of my favorite children’s books, Laura Numeroff’s “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”
It is a wonderful trail of language to follow.
Unfortunately, even our youngest boy is far too old to read the book to any more. I sort of miss those days.
Some children’s books I had to read to my kids just made me want to poke my eyes out. Some were so bad that for a while I made up my own.
I had an elaborate series, “Purple Peter Paul,” that I improvised on for years to our two oldest boys. My wife finally made me write some of those stories down. I never did anything with it. It’s in a folder somewhere.
And then there was the joy of reading anything Shel Silverstein wrote for kids or Dr. Suess stuff.
Soon enough there will be grandkids to read to again.
Not a thing moving this morning in the wind. I did not even hear any Canada geese raising a racket on the lake to the west.
Another snow flurry spit snow into our faces as we came back toward town out of the trail, formerly a side rail, above the south end of the south pit.
Downtown, the southwest wind whisked ribbons of snow down Station Street, as lonesome a scene as tumbleweed blowing down a dirt road in a ghost town.
