Animal Control, or How to Remove A Squirrel Trapped in Your Fireplace

My brother and sister-in-law recently welcomed their third child into the family. In the same week, they acquired an uninvited guest. Below are the steps Bubba employed to remove said guest.


How to remove a squirrel trapped in your fireplace in 12 easy steps:

Step 1: Call pest removal service and get a quote.
Step 2: Have your spouse resuscitate you after you hear price quote.
Step 3: Repeat steps 1 and 2 until every pest removal service in the phone book has been contacted or until you understand that the lowest price quote is still going to be over $100.
Step 4: Contemplate purchasing commercially available trap.
Step 5: Decide $25 is still too much to pay and retrieve cage of your late hamster.
Step 6: Place cracked corn inside of cage, attach wire to door for remote closure, place cage (quickly) into fireplace.
Step 7: After about 12 hours of waiting, realize that the squirrel is NOT falling for it.
Step 8: Add seeds to cage and cover the cage with old tee-shirts to make it dark and cozy.
Step 9: Accept the fact that the squirrel will NEVER enter your trap.
Step 10: Lose patience with squirrel, get out flashlight, lantern, digital camera, and canned air.
Step 11: Harass squirrel mercilessly. This part is fun.
Step 12: Fear is good motivator. The squirrel exits back up the chimney the way he came in.


7  Things I learned while trying to evict a squirrel:

1. A squirrel can growl.
2. Squirrels do not like flash photography.
3. Squirrels will stare you down.
4. Squirrels jump when sprayed with canned air. 
5. Angry/scared squirrels in confined spaces can be quite entertaining.
6. Trapped squirrels are not fond of yelling, running children.
7. With enough motivation a squirrel can clear obstacles that were previously insurmountable.

"I made the mistake of leaving the shirt in the fireplace," said Bubba, "because he (the squirrel) just wallered it around until he made a cozy nest and went to sleep. He stopped trying to escape."

Here's a Sunday sermon: Even if your captivity is comfortable, you're still not free.

In addition to the above observation about no longer trying to escape, my wise younger brother said this several months ago: "When you get to the point that this is unacceptable, you take steps to change it. But you don't change until your dissatisfaction with where you are outweighs the risk of stepping out on faith." (Context can be read here.)

Amen, brother. Amen.

Imaginary Jesus - Day 3

This is the briefest entry yet for a CSFF Blog Tour entry by me, but here goes!

I really enjoyed Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos. Andrea expresses some of the more critical thoughts I had while reading the book -- and by critical, I don't necessarily mean negative.

Normally, I would dive off into a critique of the book, but it's late on the last day of the tour, and life has intervened to suck away all the hours, along with not a few brain cells. (More details about some of those life events in a later post.)

Therefore, below is the list of other stops on the tour, hopefully written by folks with all brain matter intact:
Brandon Barr
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Valerie Comer
R. L. Copple
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
  Leighton
Rebecca LuElla Miller
John W. Otte
Donita K. Paul
Crista Richey
Chawna Schroeder
Rachel Starr Thomson
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler
KM Wilsher

Imaginary Jesus - Day 2

 Welcome to Day 2 of the June CSFF Blog Tour, featuring the humorous and challenging Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos. [Click here to read Day 1.] Yesterday, for reasons unknown, I said the story was set in Seattle. Don't know where that came from. Blame it on a low blood-caffeine level. The error has been corrected: story is actually set in Portland, Oregon, a city I knew well in the 1970s and 80s, when I visited my great-grandmother who lived in a neat old house on or near Killingsworth.

But enough about my family history. Back to the book.

In the middle of Matt the protagonist's search for the real Jesus, he once again crosses paths with the eponymous Imaginary Jesus of the book's title.

Imaginary Jesus -- hereafter known as "IJ" -- has invited a couple of other "imaginaries" to help provide Matt a possible answer to a recent tragedy in his life: one imaginary will portray Meticulous Providence Jesus, IJ will be Free Will Jesus, and the third will play the part of Can't-See-the-Future-Because-It's-Unknowable Jesus. They and Matt are all going to get on inner tubes and sled down a snow-covered slope. Whichever imaginary reaches the bottom with Matt will be declared the answer to his questions about God's providence.

I shall not reveal the results of this very serious debate. Ahem. Race. It's laugh-out-loud funny, and I appreciated the Calvin and Hobbes reference. (One of the best comic strips ever.) The scene is vivid, and I can see it being played out on a movie screen, which is pretty much how my imagination works most of the time. However, inside the humor lies a somber, legitimate, and perennial question: Why, when He is all-powerful, does God let tragedy happen?

I wondered why none of their answers satisfied me.


"Those are the choices you've come up with," Pete answered. "Some of them are more theologically sound than others, but the only person who can answer this definitively is God himself. Why are you wasting your time like this? Why don't you ask the real Jesus?"

But Matt turns once more to IJ:

"I don't know how to stop calling you up," I said. "I don't want to stop calling you."


"The problem is that you honestly like me. You can compare me to the Jesus in the Bible and see that I'm not real. You can compare me to your own experience of the real Jesus and see that I'm a fake. Your own friends point out my inconsistencies. Logic pokes holes in my reality. But time after time, you keep returning to me because deep down you prefer me to the real thing."


I nodded. It actually made sense. The real Jesus was frightening sometimes, and he said things I didn't like. He required sacrifice. He scared me by doing things I didn't believe he could. He was a better person than me. I preferred my fake Jesus.

Note: Isn't that why there are so many versions of Christianity? So many various sects, cults, and religions? Why it's "tolerant" and ecumenical to say that all roads lead to God? It's a difficult thing to accept that there is only one mediator between God and man -- Jesus Christ -- because doing so requires humility. After all, only the very unsophisticated and illiterate still believe there's a sovereign God, right? It's so much more comfortable and convenient to come up with a "God" that we can lower to our own level, that we can mold and control.

Upon reading through the end of the chapter, I fell asleep -- not, thankfully, with the book splayed across my face, as often happens -- and experienced a bizarre and very real dream: several imaginaries not even listed in the novel (Frontiersman Jesus, for instance, complete with fringed buckskins and coonskin cap) gathered in the bailey of a medieval English castle to compete in a "Jesus-Off" to see who among them was the best.

The first test of skill was an axe-throwing contest, but each time a "Jesus" stepped up to the line, his time was up. This went on until the contestants were almost all eliminated from the first round without ever having actually thrown an axe. As a spectator, I was becoming really annoyed with the judges and their impatience.

And then my fuzzy consciousness realized that the time buzzer was really my alarm clock, beeping just as each imaginary's foot touched the line.

If a story can so absorb me that it invades my dreams, well, now, I call that a good book!

------------------------------

Totally off-topic: as I was about to post this entry, at 1:42 a.m., my brother called to inform me that I have a new niece. He sounded wiped, but three-year-old Niece #2 was going like crazy in the background, talking and laughing. Heaven help Bubba!

Imaginary Jesus - Day 1

Jesus and I sometimes grab lunch at the Red and Black Cafe....

So begins Imaginary Jesus by Matt Mikalatos, "a not-quite-true story" and this month's entry in the CSFF Blog Tour.

Set in Portland -- aside from a time-warping jaunt to ancient Judea -- and mixing the absurd with the sacred, this well-written and fast-moving novel explores the many and various versions of not-quite-Biblical Jesus that Matt can concoct:

1) the original Imaginary Jesus, the one who joins Matt for those lunches at the cafe and whom Matt treats a bit like a vending machine -- insert prayer request, get desired response -- by expecting "Jesus" to fix a parking ticket for him, and whose flight after a confrontation with a large fisherman named Pete is the catalyst for Matt's quest to find the real Jesus;

2) the Society for Imaginary Jesuses, which includes many "imaginaries", including Bargain Jesus, Liberal Social Services Jesus (has no mouth but likes to do good deeds), Conservative Truth-Telling Jesus (no arms but definitely has a mouth), Christian Nation Jesus, Televangelist Jesus (faith-healing, speaking in tongues, requests for cash offerings), and Hippie/Peacenik Jesus (flowers in his hair);

3) Magic 8 Ball Jesus, who, along with the first Imaginary Jesus, reminds me of The Pressure's Off by Larry Crabb, in which the author discusses how believers tend to treat God like a machine -- again, prayer in, desired answer out -- rather than simply having a true relationship with Him. (There's a lot more to that book, and I highly recommend it.)

Matt Mikalatos, by the way, is both author and main character, and it works. The writing is good, alternately breezy and somber, absurd and profound, taking the reader on a wild quest for Y'shua, the real Jesus. And when Matt does encounter Him, well, I'll let you read that for yourself.

Over the next couple of days, I'll discuss different aspects of the book, and describe an odd dream I had -- falling asleep in the middle of reading a wacked-out book can have crazy consequences!

Meantime, check out what others are saying about Imaginary Jesus:
Brandon Barr
Keanan Brand
Grace Bridges
Beckie Burnham
Valerie Comer
R. L. Copple
Amy Cruson
CSFF Blog Tour
Stacey Dale
D. G. D. Davidson
Jeff Draper
April Erwin
Andrea Graham
Tori Greene
Becky Jesse
Cris Jesse
Jason Joyner
Julie
Carol Keen
Krystine Kercher
Dawn King
  Leighton
Rebecca LuElla Miller
John W. Otte
Donita K. Paul
Crista Richey
Chawna Schroeder
Rachel Starr Thomson
Steve Trower
Fred Warren
Phyllis Wheeler
KM Wilsher

Risk = Life

For the past year, I've been thinking about risk and what that means:

1) June 26, 2009 -- a discussion of two movies in which men risk everything to save their families; both based on actual events
2) June 30, 2009 -- a contemplation on whether or not risk is the responsible thing
3) July 15, 2009 -- scratch the itch of wanderlust? or stay and put down roots?
4) August 16, 2009 -- taking the small risk of a new form of writing; outlining possible life changes
5) September 7, 2009 -- deciding to serve fear or God

I'm still contemplating risk, specifically moving away from my family and friends to a new state. This is not a new state, however (pardon the pun!): my childhood can be mapped in treks across the country. I used to revel in the excitement of new places. But I have become settled, and I've grown up, and there is no safety net. Soon, I will know once more Bilbo's advice to Frodo in JRR Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings:

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Speaking of being swept off, Abby Sunderland, the recently rescued 16-year-old sailor attempting to sail solo around the world, said this in a blog post: (emphasis mine)

There are plenty of things people can think of to blame for my situation; my age, the time of year and many more. The truth is, I was in a storm and you don't sail through the Indian Ocean without getting in at least one storm. It wasn't the time of year it was just a Southern Ocean storm. Storms are part of the deal when you set out to sail around the world.

As for age, since when does age create gigantic waves and storms?

How many of us complain and wring our hands and cast blame for the unexpected, unpleasant, or tragic things that happen to us in our daily lives? To paraphrase Abby, tragedy is part of the deal when you set out to live this life.

As for the criticism her family received for allowing her to circumnavigate the globe alone and so young,

"Sailing and life in general is dangerous," said her father, Laurence. "Teenagers drive cars. Does that mean teenagers shouldn't drive a car? I think people who hold that opinion have lost their zeal for life. They're living in a cotton-wool tunnel to make everything safe." (read more of the SFGate article)

Ouch.

Abby Sunderland challenges me. She faced a vast and unforgiving ocean alone. Prepared, but alone. No guarantee of success or survival.

Compared to that, what's a move across the country?

And why all this foot-dragging? I want to be sure that I am taking the risk for the right reasons and that I'm prepared (mentally and in other ways) should I fail. And, to be honest, I'm still trying to convince myself to take that first step.

Back before the internet was such an integral part of our lives, before MapQuest and Google and GPS helped us navigate our way, we relied on actual maps to guide us. I also listened to my parents fight over who was reading the map correctly -- Mom, hands down -- and learned to plot my own routes by watching how they did it, and by listening to their reasons for taking one road over another.

So, in honor of "the good ol' days" of Rand-McNally road atlases, and as a reminder to myself that I have been more adventurous than I am now, here's a poem from several years ago:

Vagabond

My map is crossed
with thin blue highways
and squiggled yellow highlighter
and fat red interstates.

Do I take the easy ways,
the broad, straight roads
with bright green signs
and regular mile markers
that tick off the time
and make me feel safe?

How can I get lost
with so many things to guide me?

But what if I don’t want to be safe?
What if something tugs me
toward the dust
and the rolling curves
and the green isolation
of the backroads,
toward the towns travelers never see
except when they take the wrong exits

and are lost?

KB, June 2003

Time Travel

This weekend, I visited the Ozark Medieval Fortress in Lead Hill, Arkansas -- an awesome site, great folks, interesting stuff to learn and explore. Since the structure and environs will resemble a 13th-century castle that could reside quite well in the French countryside, there were times I seemed to have stepped onto the set of Timeline (the not great, not bad movie made from Michael Crichton's entertaining novel of the same name, in which archeologists and other scientists travel back in time to a French fortress under attack by the English).

James was the tour guide for my group Saturday afternoon; he is knowledgeable, funny, and makes history seem far from dusty. Here he's demonstrating how a rope with 13 knots is used by craftsmen to measure lengths (it's also handy for right angles, roof pitches, and more):



The trebuchet and the "Greek crane" (human hamster wheel) are fully operational, and the crane is used by the craftsmen building the castle.

trebuchet from the back

front of trebuchet, through an arrow port in the lower level of a tower

Greek (and Roman) crane

Despite sunburn, heat, my bottle running dry 'cause I kept swigging, and a touch of heat exhaustion after a few hours of exploration, I can't wait to go back -- maybe in the fall when the temperature's closer to 70 than 100, and the humidity feels more like a damp windbreaker than a thick wet coat. I may just bring a van-load of kids from the Boys & Girls Club, too.

Highly recommended for anyone interested in history or various crafts, anything from basket weaving to blacksmithing, quarrying to stone dressing, pottery to rope-making, and all manner of other skills necessary to the construction and operation of a medieval fortress.

------------------------------

Note: The bellows in use by a blacksmith on the site is the same as the one I described in Dragon's Rook, first manuscript in a fantasy cycle I am still writing. It was encouraging to see that I described it correctly, and even cooler to see it in action. Here's a shot of the bellows just after the smith released the rope (on the right), which was still swinging when I snapped the photo:



all photos c. Keanan Brand

Unsaid Things

Recently, my dad was over at my house, and he started reading a document that was open on my computer desktop: an early draft of Episode 12 of Thieves' Honor (which, by the way, is undergoing yet another draft after pre-readers weighed in with their critiques).

As long-time readers of this blog may know, my family, while supportive of my writing since I was a kid, hasn't always been enthusiastic about the stories I tell. Until now. I don't know what it is about this particular endeavor, but my parents are actually reading and enjoying it.

So, Dad paused on his way out the door and read this simple, rough scene:

A shoulder gouging him in the belly was about as pleasant as a fist to the gut; his head flopping around as if his neck was a noodle—sickening. Kristoff was dizzy inside of four steps, and he almost vomited, but clamped his mouth shut and cursed his body for disobedience. Wounded and exhausted, it still had no right to mutiny.

"Where—do—we—go?" panted Sahir.

"West, I think," replied Corrigan.

"No. Where?"

"Do I look like a soothsayer?"

"You look like captain hit you when you set him down."

"Nah. He's wounded."

"You have broken hand."

"Well, I'm taller."

Sahir wheezed a laugh. "He is—crazier."

Yeah, yeah. Kristoff's chin bumped Corrigan's back. Keep talkin'.

Dad chuckled and said, "I really like your sense of humor."

Seven words, yet they carry almost four decades of unsaid things.

For writers, they're also a reminder of how a simple sentence can carry the weight and reveal the depth of an entire story.