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

Waking up With Boys

When Derek and I got married I had a very rough time getting used to sharing a bed. And it was even harder learning to share a bed with a boy! Boys are BIG, and this particular one had yet to learn to share the blankets. This new boy sharing my bed has yet to learn when it's time to sleep and when it's time to dance...

Well this morning I woke up and there was not ONE boy, but TWO boys in my bed! The first boy sighed, rolled over, and got up to shower. The second boy flailed around, rolled over, and started tapping his foot against my hip. "Whoa!" I said out loud. The first boy looked out from the bathroom at me and said, "what?". I responded, "You left the bed, but there is still a boy in bed with me!"

I breathed deeply to expand my belly and he took advantage of each breath by flailing some more. His feet were at my hips and his hands were just under my ribs. I put my hands over him for a moment and he settled down. I breathed deep again and again he kicked and punched. I think he was doing the celebration dance I learned in high school.

Fear, Tension, Pain

Monday night was Derek and my first childbirth education class in a series of six. I hate to admit it, but I have been, as long as I can remember, petrified of giving birth. Not in general, but for myself. I fear the pain of labor and delivery more than almost anything else I can think of...except maybe dropping and breaking my camera in the middle of a big job. I know it is not rational because I cannot tell you what horrible thing I think is going to happen or why. I can't think beyond the fear to some rational conclusion like, "It's going to hurt because my blood will clot and I will die". I don't have any fears of anything unusual or dangerous happening. No, this fear is more like, "It's going to hurt! I can't do it! I won't do it!"

In our class the teacher talked about the "Fear Cycle", which goes like this: You fear the pain, tense up (which allows less oxygen to your muscles), and makes the pain more painful (and last longer), which leads to higher levels of fear, which leads to more tension, etc. etc.

Noting this cycle, and relating it to past experiences dealing with my needle phobia, helped me feel much more confident about giving birth to a child. In the past I have clenched my fist when the nurse says to, but I have a horrible time trying to relax my fist when they ask me to release it. When I relax my hand, there's usually less bruising. And when I am able to talk (read: breathe) through the needle, I am much more likely to be able to release my fist.

I guess I'm still scared of the pain, but with five more weeks of class, and a husband who is very good at keeping me focused, I am beginning to form more rational expectations about the pain of childbirth. Perhaps I've even begun to drop off the last part of that exclamation and only say, "It's going to hurt!"

Clothes Have Never Been Important

Never have I loved to
Try on one thing after another.
Never have I loved to
Compare which outfit is cheaper than the other.
Never have I loved to
sort through racks and racks of clothes.
Never have I loved to
repeatedly take off my shoes.

My socks stretch out
And my legs are scratched
From the tags that are
Stapled to these pants!

My hair's messed up
And I wore the wrong bra
For this dress I'd like to buy
But I can't!

Because then I'd need
To buy a new bra
And my budget
Won't fit the expense.

Maybe I'll stop
Wearing underwear at all!
Yeah, why wear any clothes?
That makes sense.

I'll wander around
in my white cotton socks
And never go
Shopping again!

Except to pick up
A package of socks
All I look for is
Size eight to ten!

Why can't everything be
one size fits all?
Like skirts!
When they're stretchy and loose

All you do is slip in
Quick and painless, no doubt
It will fit
And be put to good use,

Covering up all the parts
That offend certain people
When exposed to the
naked human eye.

Maybe then I'll like shopping
When the skirt always fits
And my shoes can stay on
all the time.

And my socks won't get stretched
And my hair won't get messed
I'll love shopping
When everything's my size!

A Baby Kick

Please forgive me.
I did not mean to smile
at an inappropriate moment during your story.

I won't attempt to explain it
but how shall I contain it?
I fear you'd merely find my exclamations boring.

So I keep the thrill of my emotion
down to waves of inland oceans
and think on it later when I'll appreciate it fully.

See as I sat there lis'ning
to your confidential questioning
A thing occurred inside me I can only name as holy.

It was not your tone of voice
or your lovely word choice
that made me hold my breath in stunned, still silence.

(Although I find you most intriguing,
and your story filled completely
full of romantic interludes and violence.)

It was something beyond wonder
that made me stop and ponder
What meaning my life has or ever will.

My son, so small and carefree,
in that hidden spot inside me
Leapt and twisted, turned and kicked and had his fill

Of all the spaces I have not seen
that God has shaped inside me
Just for you, my little boy, my unborn child.

So for now it's just between us,
exploring places made to fit us;
When you adventure there, at inappropriate times I smile.