Mouse Trap

A yearly game, when the first cold nights drive the field mice indoors, is to invent a better mouse trap. Usually variations on a theme. It amuses me to out-smart a mouse. I keep a package of shims around, the kind that you buy at a lumber-yard that are, essentially, shingles, 16 inches long, that are only an inch-and-a-half wide. These are used for installing doors and windows, to get them as plumb and level as possible, but they have a thousand other uses; and besides, they're red cedar and smell wonderful. I stick one out from a pantry shelf, weighting down the thicker end with a can of something. My pantry is a collection of oddities, so in this year's version I'm using a can of squid in their ink (from which I make a dish I call Blackened Pasta, not that it matters). On the thin end, cantilevered in space, I put a dollop of peanut butter. Think of it as "walking the plank". Directly beneath, I place a trash can (Big Lots, 99 cents) with a couple of inches of water in the bottom. When I got home this morning (I stayed in town) I had four drowned mice. The fundraising event went smoothly, except for the four broken wine glasses and the chocolate goo ground into the grout joints. We'd didn't sell much premium wine because of the open bar, so TR and I were able to spell each other and mingle a bit. It was fun, actually, ending with single-malt scotch and cigars in the alley. Those of us that stayed got hammered, but there were designated drivers. We all agreed to postpone cleaning-up until Tuesday. Locking up, at the end, TR and I had a last drink, and discussed musical composition, debated various ankles we had noticed, and wondered wether or not we'd bought something we couldn't afford. My crowning achievement of the evening was introducing the owner of the most influential gallery in Columbus to Ron Issacs. I should get a commission. I can navigate these things, I don't know where I learned it, I just introduce people to other people. The circle grows by word of mouth. Advertising is a construct; politics, for that matter. What you see is no longer what you get. The only thing you can trust is the word of the people you trust absolutely. When I fall into doubt, I call Linda or Glenn, or Joel, the Wittgenstein plumber, to pull me back into line. The leaves are almost gone, I can see across the hollow; nothing is changed, but everything is different. Limp sumac leaves and a strange filtered light: everything that's left is yellow. Soon enough things will be black or white; zero or one, life or death. My favorite board member, Julia, pulled me aside, just before the beginning of the event. She and her husband, Ralph, mostly drink Maker's Mark, on ice, with a splash of water, but people give them bottles of wine, and their larder was more than full, so she brought me six bottles of various reds, including a bottle of one of my favorites zinfandels, a Frog's Leap that I know and love, and a Shiraz that I've only read about. TR invites himself over for dinner, says he doesn't care what we have to eat, but that he wants to sample the wine. In a death-defying exhibit of ladder-work, I get the stove-pipe cleaned and start a fire in the cook-stove. Talk about under the wire, Tuesday is supposed to be a high of 38 degrees and a low of 23 with snow showers, and I'm as ready as I can be. Firewood stacked against the coming cold, and I have a day to split out kindling and make do with the small stuff. Not a bad place to be. Beans on toast with an egg on top, the common joys of maidenhood, whatever. I don't expect anything anymore.