Haven’t been strolling down First so much in the past few weeks as have been consumed by a mouse infestation in my condo. Had been noticing tiny black cylinders in my bathroom drawers, a hole in a tomato in the kitchen, and my favorite gluten free, dairy free, mostly fat free, and sugar free cake with a bite out of it with crumbles of tin foil surrounding the scene of the accident. About a week ago I heard scratching in my bedroom walls, and when I walked into the kitchen I saw a giant brown mouse scurrying across the counter. Granted I didn’t have my glasses on, but I swear he was enormous. Could it be a rat? I let out an expletive as the poor mouse scurried behind the stove. Ran into my bedroom, slammed the door and jammed a towel beneath it in case the wily creature decided he wanted a change of scenery. Today, as I write, the mouse buster folks from Attic Pros are here demousing my premises.
Hold the phone. One of the mouse pros in the kitchen just yelled as he pulled out the refrigerator and now I hear stomping. “Es Muerto,” I ask? “Nooooo,” Roy replies vaguely. Then I hear banging on the stove. “What’s going on?” I ask. “It ran into the stove,” he replied as the banging continued. “It’s a big one. Thought at first it was a rat but I think it’s a “mama,” he shared. “Ay Caramba!” I shriek. I walk briskly back to my safe spot on the couch and pull my feet up. They can’t get him out of the stove. “How will I cook dinner tonight and my oatmeal in the morning?” “No problem,” he answers, whatever that means.
They leave after sealing all obvious holes with fine wire mesh leaving three peanut butter bated live traps on my kitchen floor. My assignment, should I choose to accept it, will be to carry the traps across the street to the wetlands and release the mouses. Yuck. Needless to say, I’m squeamish. No, make that terrified. It’s probably worse for the pregnant mouse. Film at eleven.
A few months ago I reported on an incident at Elisa’s Cottage where Elisa was going through a bag of
miscellaneous jewelry that was donated when she pulled out a locket, opened it, and saw photos of her now mid-thirty something niece and nephew as children. How was this possible? Yet, there it was in Elisa’s Cottage. If that locket could talk. She called her sister who had lost it 35 years ago. Where had it been, who had worn it? And now it was back in the family. Am still waiting for all of those umbrellas I’ve lost over the years to show up — and the sunglasses. Will check with Elisa.
Sitting in dermatology at Kaiser listening two men laughing beside me. “You two sure are having a good time,” I said. “We’ve known each other since grade school,” one of them said. Turns out both are long-time Benicians who went to St. Dominics together. “My Mom was a born in a house on West J St. which is still there.” For some reason I asked them if they knew Marty Duvall. “Do we know Marty Duvall?!” he said, scrolling through his phone and pulling up a photo of Marty, catching some Z’s in a hot tub.
A woman across from us was listening to the conversation and asked if they knew her brother who also went to St. Dom’s. “Yes, he was in our class!” The three of them laughed as they shared stories. We were all in the waiting room at the Audio, Head, Neck, Nose, and Dermatology department. Was a trying to figure out what audio, head and neck and nose had to do with dermatology. Okay, audio and nose are in the head and the head bone is connected to the neck bone but where does skin come in? Skin heads? I’m flummoxed. Otolaryngology, dermatology, audiology — let’s call the whole thing off.
Understand that Avant Garden has use of their space on First and D St. for another year.It’s not clear if the City Council’s unanimous passage of the ordinance allowing for four story buildings on First would result in a hotel on that spot. Evidently, there is no applicant yet in the picture, thus flowers and veggies for the foreseeable future.
Have a happy 4th of July. As my old pappy used to say when asked what his plans were for the holiday — “I’m going to shoot my mouth off,” — a Hoosier through and through.
Letters From Benicia 