Hey mice, supper's up!

We rarely spy field mice in the barn, thanks to our crack team of cats. When a rodent creeps out from the shadows to snarf down some spilled grain, that little beady-eyed vermin is toast. We find it's head or entrails proudly displayed on our door step. 

Except when winter's frigid temperatures set in.

Then our ruthless rodent-dispatching A-Team retires to the mudroom to bask in the warmth of the space heater. Mel and Frog meld themselves into an orange-gray orb and doze away the nights. Get up for breakfast? A can of cat food? Ug, that means leaving the God-of-heat all on its lonesome! Might as well stay put. Those stupid humans will dish out more food in the evening. Or the next day.

So, have at it, mice. Hang the disco ball, throw yourselves a kegger in the barn. Dive into the horse treats, gorge yourselves. You'll make a tasty meal when the temperature warms up.

Round Two

At my parent's house last night (Tuesday), Mom and I prepared for Operation Nursing Facility, round two. Once Dad was asleep, we barricaded ourselves in my mom's study. Armed with Shapies, we wrote Dad's name on countless pairs of pants, underwear, shirts and sweaters. Then Mom wedged the towering stack of clothes into duffel bags and stashed them in the trunk of the car.

It felt a lot like we were sending a kid to camp -- labeling clothes, packing toothpaste, checking the orientation packet -- except that Dad was unaware of the relocation plans.

And when we'd drop him, there'd be no explanation, no goodbyes. The staff would busy him with activities while we hastily unpacked his bags and then slipped away. By the time he'd discovered the little room with family photos and his bed spread conspicuously on display, we'd be long gone.

As we folded and packed the clothes, Mom and I speculated about Dad's reaction -- how angry he'd be and whether he'd act out. Whether meds would quell his mood. The director of the facility had said that they rarely bounce residents from the program, except in a few extreme cases. Like when one guy busted through the wooden stockade fence around the building's perimeter in an attempt to leave. We doubted that Dad would behave this way. Still, we hoped that his temper wouldn't get the best of him.

Despite my dread, the move Wednesday morning went smoothly. A nurse whisked Dad away so quickly, he had no time to wonder where he was going or what we were doing. Mom and I filled his closet and dresser drawers, made his bed and left. An element of guilt lurked in my mind -- duping Dad and leaving with no words of reassurance or a promise to return. But after the fiasco last week, this approach seemed best.

So far, all quiet on the front lines. I'm crossing my fingers that Dad settles in and that we'll be able to see him in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, no more blogs about dementia and parents lost. Back to frigid weather, mud, manure and all the other joys of winter.

Rocky times

I wish that I could say that buying sheets has been the biggest stress in recent days, but it's merely a convenient diversion. Behind it lurks the angst of moving my father to a facility to handle his dementia.

Really, I've been the assistant in this exercise. Mom's the ring leader saddled with Dad's difficult behavior. She's dealt with the leg work -- the interviews, the paperwork and the looming financial bite. I'm the support staff to help with logistics and shoulder some of the guilt and trepidation.

We thought that we'd found the right place for him last week. It was nearby and homey and non-institutional. But non-institutional means less secure and less structured. Not the best environment for someone who's mobile and without memory, judgment or sensibility.

Though the place was nice and clean, it was still a shock -- depositing Dad who's strikingly younger than everyone else. The facility was populated by 90-year-old grandmothers corralled by walkers.

But in many ways those grannies surpassed Dad. They smiled at visitors, they chatted to one another, they communed in the living room to watch Jeopardy. Dad, on the other hand, was belligerent or withdrawn.

The first night I sat with Dad in the evening to derail any attempts to escape while the doors were unlocked. Every three minutes Dad asked why he had to stay there. When could he go home? I stuck to the script: Mom's traveling and there's no one to watch you at home this week.

While the other residents gazed at Alex Trebek, I quizzed Dad from a sheet of history trivia. It was basic stuff: who was the first president? Which ship's sinking ushered the US into WWI? Which country is associated with the the Bay of Pigs? Even with multiple choice answers, Dad couldn't answer one.

Dad never settled in, he just got worse. At night he startled other patients by wandering into their rooms, he dismantled a smoke detector, he threatened to run away. By day three, he was out.

At home Mom and I were discouraged while Dad was angry and frustrated when he learned that his return would be temporary. There would be another place, we just had to find it. For his safety and our sanity.

We visited another assisted-living facility today, better equipped for advanced dementia patients. The staff took care of Dad while we took a tour. My initial reaction was dismay -- we first stopped at a room full of patients, seated in orderly rows, demurely listening to music and awaiting their dishes of applesauce. Among them was Dad -- a single dark-haired head in a sea of white. A hospital aroma wafted from the room. It felt wrong.

But then we saw the sitting rooms, the kitchen, and the common areas that encouraged patients to move about, rather than stay cocooned in their rooms. The halls and walkways would allow Dad to wander to his heart's content. Other patients acted like Dad -- mildly aggitated, confused and disorderly -- but no one seemed to mind. The staff were friendly and understanding.

I wish that I could say that I feel great about this. Or relieved. But there's still a rocky road ahead. Once he realizes what's going on, Dad will surely resist. There will be a new round of angst and guilt and tears. But this evening, I feel a little better.

Sheet search

After last weekend's painful bed assembly, I never thought that sheet shopping would pose a bigger challenge. But alas, I'm a duvet girl living in a bed spread country.

Sure, I grew up like every other red-blooded American, with a quilted bedspread. Mine? Reversible... neon yellow on one side, and lime green on the other.

But in Australia I discovered the doona -- better known in Europe as the duvet.

The duvet serves the same purpose as the bed spread but it invites messiness. There are no corners to fit, no wrinkles to smooth out. A puffy, lumpy, rumpled duvet is completely acceptable. Which is why I wanted duvets for the kids' beds.

But Americans are wedding to the quilt, the comforter, the bed-in-a-bag. And as I visited store after store, I found only a few duvets in the sea of bed spreads.

And what I found was too hotel-like:
too busy and floral:

or too... hideous:

or nauseatingly juvenile:

I couldn't believe the number of lunch breaks I wasted traipsing through stores and the evenings spent trolling the internet. For kids' bedding, of all things! Nearly a week sapped on sheets! In desperation I nearly fell into the Pottery Barn pit, but I couldn't stand paying that much for bedding that the kids would snot on, drool on, and god-knows-what-else-on. Hell, Martin and I don't pee in our bed and we don't have expensive bed linens.

Finally when all hope was lost, I discovered normal sheets in basic blue and pink with duvet covers. And at a snot-worthy price. They don't match the rest of the room, but what does?

Assembly required

Here's today's lesson: when a manufacturer offers to charge $200 to send out a crew to assemble the furniture you've just purchased, pay the $200. Otherwise, your new bed might arrive looking like this:


I wish I could say that we spent some serious cash on a new table, maybe a mahogany wardrobe or an antique dresser that blends in with our country farm house. But no, we slapped our credit card down for furniture neither stylish or timeless. Think, Ikea-styled bunk bed.

It was a matter of necessity. In Baby Huey fashion, Hadley outgrew her crib -- about 6 months ago -- and recently relocated slumber activity to Cayden's bed....which is my old bed, acquired by my parents in a land called 1974.

The problem with this sleeping arrangement is that Cayden's bed is intended to sleep one individual at a time. And while they've successfully sardined themselves in there, on a couple of occasions the Barbarian has ejected her brother from his own bed.

Because we wanted to keep the kids in one room, the only solution was to start stacking bodies in bunk-bed fashion. And that's why I swallowed my antique-only pride and agreed to buy a modern, boxy bed better suited to a college dorm room.

Even after the family of flat boxes arrived and Martin had spread the guts of the beds out on the carpet, he remained optimistic. "I think this will take me an hour or so to build."

Suuure it will.

Assembly took two days -- about 8 hours, plus a trip to the store to exchange ill-fitting parts, and unknown number of curse words.

The full bed was relatively easy to assemble and the twin wasn't too bothersome. But stacking them proved tricky.



But Sunday evening, the project begun Saturday afternoon was complete. The finished product isn't very inspiring -- it looks like something that cats or hamsters climb to amuse themselves in a pet store. But our two hamsters love it.

And wouldn't you know it? After Martin painstakingly screwed that sucker together and we wedged it in their room, those rotten kids are sleeping together on the top bunk.

Ungrateful little hamsters.

Porch Dreams

"Remember that day in August? At the sheep herding clinic when we were so hot and sweaty that we wouldn't leave the shade? Remember what I said? We should think back to this day when we're freezing in the winter."

We're walking the dog on the drive and Martin is trying to coax me back to sweaty, humid, sun-soaked days. But I can't imagine simpering August temperatures when I'm being scalded by the frigid wind. When my fingers are cracked and split and the cold soaks into my bones. I'm too busy cursing the dog who needs to be walked, and the horses who need to be fed. Too busy wallowing in misery to conjure up thoughts of oppressive humidity and whirling air conditioners.

But eventually we'll get to that day. And when it comes we'll have a new porch to escape the heat. The porch project, which I blogged about a few months ago, was finished in the fall. But it's impossible to celebrate its completion when I'm hovering over a space heater.

This summer we'll appreciate it.

Before:

And After:

Bring on the wicker furniture and lemonade...

Critters

I was changing in the gym locker room the other day, when I overheard some woman blathering on about her vacation to her beach house and how her perfect holiday was ruined because they heard some critter in the wall. And they couldn't possibly think of setting one foot in the house... with some vile creature lurking in their blessed abode....

And I thought to myself: snob. Vacation-home owning princess. Chicken.

Scared off by a little skittering in the wall. Please. Get over yourself.

But the next day I traipsed up to our attic to straighten up and spied a long-deceased, severely decomposed rat.

The largest rat I'd ever seen in my life.

Immediately, I retreated and ordered Martin to do his husbandly duties -- get that thing out of the house instantly! Even though the mangled vermin was long dead -- likely a victim of the February's pest control call -- I couldn't bring myself to venture back into the attic. The image of the super-sized rat was burned into my mind.

Apparently it had the same effect on Martin who immediately called pest control for a follow up visit. And he was downright giddy when he phoned today to say that the pest control guy inspected our petrified rat carcass and announced that it wasn't a rat. It was a squirrel.

What a relief! Just a cute, fuzzy, acorn-stashing squirrel that lost its way.

Some say that squirrels are nothing but rats with bushy tails. But I disagree. Rats are dirty, sinister, disease ridden vermin. Squirrels are cute and fuzzy! So what if it's all about the tail?

The second nugget of news: not only is the house rodent-free but Martin's office -- the original "Mouse House" -- is not infested either. The source of recent scratching and scrabbling that we heard is none other than the barn cats, commuting through a roof breezeway that connects the hay loft to the milk parlor.

So for those keeping track in 2010, it's Martin and Jo: 1. Nature: 0.

Arctic chill

10 pm Saturday:

Martin and I just watched some tv show about the North Pole. And I feel like we're living there.

Or, in North Dakota or Minnesota or some other god-forsaken place.

It's a whopping 16 degrees plus 35-mile an hour winds and there's a frigid draft cutting through the family room, rattling the window panes in their sashes. We may be indoors but we're the feeling the weather.

In our home's defense, there's no stand of trees, no woodlands or neighborhood to slow the north wind as it crests a distant ridge and rushes toward us. The house is a sitting duck.

Cranking up our expatriate thermostat -- which only measures Celsius -- does little to combat the chill seeping through the house's pores. But our oil-fed radiators are not utter failures. Nudge the thermostat to the low 20s and it's like beach week upstairs.

So, I just need to muster the courage to abandon my blanket shelter on the couch and dash around the room to off the lights. Then I can bolt up the stairs, two at a time, to where summer awaits.