The Squirrels Almost Burned My House Down

A story from Rachel Regier, dramatically retold by Laura Thiessen

I don't know how I made any friends in college. I had anti-squirrel propaganda up all over my walls. And if anyone was brave enough to take my personality for a test-run, the first thing they found out was...there was a story behind the anti-squirrel propaganda.

One day when I was eight years old, I came home from school to an empty house. I hadn't been home for long when I started to hear noises coming from the ceiling. There was scurrying and scuffling, and every now and then, a thud. I wasn't brave enough to open the door to the attic, which was in my bedroom. In fact, I wasn't even brave enough to stay upright. I hid under the bed and called my Mom. Within a few short hours the culprits were caught. Two rather large and menacing squirrels were removed from our attic and their entrance was sealed.

Now whether he found a new hole, or had been hiding out in the attic while his family members were "removed" is still a question. But within a few days, the scuffling returned. Help was called in and the attic door in my bedroom ceiling was once again opened. But when the door was opened, there was not a passive sweet little squirrel waiting. A huge, hissing squirrel stood with teeth bared and talons stretched, ready to launch itself at the executors of his dear ones.

You can imagine what kind of impression this left on me.

And the story doesn't end there.

Seven years later I innocently ran back and forth on the tennis courts in the heat of summer, enjoying one of my favorite activities. When the fire engines raced past I didn't think anything of it. Lots of grass fires start in the hot Kansas summer. Before long a car sped into the parking lot and darted between parked cars, pulling short in front of the tennis courts and a breathless man said, "You'd better get home, girl!" I tossed my racquet in the bag and took off for home. I could not at that moment guess what awaited me.

The front lawn was black and the side of the house, scorched. Firefighters stood wrapping up their hoses and surveying the wall for smoke and heat. My Mom ran down the front steps with tears on her cheeks and said, "Oh honey it's okay. It's not as bad as it looks. The squirrels almost burned down our house!" And so they had. A firefighter explained to me later that squirrels had been jumping on the wires from the power poles and had jumped and chewed so much that the wires fell into the dry grass and started a fire. I could just imagine the nasty little critters fiendishly eyeing my house and taking turns jumping up and down on the wires, waiting for them to snap...knowing that when they did, the house would be downwind of the sparking, snaking wires.

For years afterward I noticed headlines stating, "Squirrels Cause Power Failure" and "Wire Damage Caused by Squirrels" and was certain that when we removed those first two squirrels from our attic, we had declared war. Now, if I wanted friends badly enough I'd say I know they didn't do it intentionally...how could they? Those fuzzy, sweet, little hopping rodents.

Easter and Incubation

Easter is this weekend! My Easter memory-bank is brimming with tales of egg-hunts in gramma's backyard, crisp clean dresses with matching hats, colored eggs, chocolates and drooping branches of the banks rose. Other more recent memories seem less vibrant, dimmer and subdued. But this year I have a new Easter experience that parallels one from my childhood.

One year I decided to incubate eggs and my Mom was a patient enough woman to allow an incubator to sit on her counter for three weeks! She was also incredibly confident in my ability to oversee this venture with very little supervision. Every day I would check the temperature of the incubator. Every six hours I would turn the eggs, just like a mother hen. Every moment I was away from the incubator's tiny viewing window I was wondering how my eggs were.

I had done my homework, but not done the math. 21 days after those eggs were put in the incubator they hatched, and it was purely by coincidence that day 21 fell on Easter. I remember sharing the joy of birth with my grammy. I ran into the kitchen shouting that my eggs were hatching and Plain 'ol Grammy came back to the porch and watched with me as the tiny wet-looking birds flopped and flounced around their broken shells. Within a few hours, all the eggshells had been conquered and ten very unique chicks fluffed and dried and huddled together.

This year I am incubating again. Once again I did not do the math. This tiny life will not be ready for his debut on Easter, as were the chicks, but he's bravely launching into the last trimester of his incubation on Easter weekend. Every day I stop and remember how blessed I am. Every few hours I feel him kick. And every moment I am busy with other things I am wondering how my little one is doing. This year I will share the joy of birth with my husband Derek. And it will be a gorgeous day when we see him fluffed and dried and hugged against my chest.

Doctrine

I love the church
of the osprey, simple
adoration, no haggling
over the body, the blood,
whether water sprinkled
from talons or immersed
in the river saves us,
whether ascension
is metaphor or literal,
because, of course,
it’s both: wings crooked,
all the angels crying out,
rising up from nests
made of sticks
and sunlight.
- Todd Davis