Rats! (Literally!)

(With a nod to Craig here, for the reminder to only say literally when we mean it.)

I don't really "do" rodents - especially not those of the larger variety. When Jill and I moved into the parsonage, it was overrun by mice (and the occasional rat). Brave mice, bold mice, friendly mice - but now, thank God and thank our cats, dead mice.

Recently, though, I have had two very memorable rodent run-in's. About a week ago I was working in a finished basement, removing ceiling tiles as I installed a new circuit for a microwave. Something fell in front of my face, off of one of the tiles. As I brushed aside the debris, I suddenly realized I was brushing aside a Fossilized Rat. No kidding, the thing was in one piece, even as it hit the floor. Probably eight inches long, plus a tail, it was a remarkably complete skeleton. The homeowner, a Bedford dentist, seemed appalled that I almost took it home to get a picture to post on my blog - sorry friends, I decided I didn't want it in my van all day! I, of course, called home to tell Jill of my adventures. Chloe, our three-year old daughter, was asking for the rest of the day whether Daddy still had a rat on his head - she was quite concerned, bless her heart.

And then today I was working at a customer's house, right by their floor to ceiling window, when I saw the biggest rat-looking-thing I'd ever seen scurry across the walkway about eight feet away. I thought maybe it was a ferret, but it turns out it was a fisher. They had heard it scream the other day, so were not surprised. I've been a little jumpy all day long, afraid it might be tracking me. I told Jill we were locking the doors tonight. My lovely wife assured me that fisher cats don't open doors, but then again she didn't see this guy. He wanted to eat me for lunch.

I definitely should've been an accountant or something safe like that. No rats, no fisher cats - just numbers. If anybody needs me, I'll be under my bed behind locked doors brushing up on my accounting skills.

Of communists and cheerleaders

Jed has been on my mind a lot recently. He's quite the guy.

Wednesday evening he was accompanying me to go look at an upcoming job. On the way into Manchester, we had a scintillating discussion on the location of Cuba, what a communist is, who Gorbachev was, and how President Reagan told him in no unclear terms to "tear down this wall."

A week ago Saturday, Lindsay and I and the kids were going through a Dunkin Donuts drive-thru. Much to my annoyance, a group of junior high cheerleaders were on both sides of the entrance collecting money for who-knows-what. I cleverly avoided eye contact by wildly pointing at a spectacular nothing in the opposite direction while we sped by the first cheerleader. All of a sudden Jed pipes up from the back seat in a scornful voice: "Why is that cheerleader pointing at everyone and doing her stupid gymnastics thing?" Lindsay and I were laughing too hard to bother reprimanding him for saying 'stupid.'

Well, now Jed understands communists and cheerleaders. Not bad for a six-year-old, I'd say.

And that, I might add, is all he had to say about that!