Raccoons I Have Loathed

Like Elly May Clampett, I like critters, otherwise I wouldn't have allowed my sons to bring salamanders, hamsters, hermit crabs, rabbits, dogs, cats, lambs, fish, iguanas, hedge hogs, snakes, and butterflies into the house. However, it's the uninvited critters that I have a problem with. Up until a few years ago, I thought of raccoons as cute, curious creatures that ran along streams and slept in hollow trees.

And in some cases, the little bandits also make interesting pets. One spring a windstorm knocked down a large cottonwood tree in the front yard of the farm and my mother-in-law became the surrogate mother of two raccoons, Roly and Poly. They even sat on her lap and drank from baby bottles. Another raccoon turned up in her care years later when it fell through a trap door in the barn. Rascal also became a fixture in the farmhouse. Now remember, these creatures were guests. Not like the female raccoon who invited herself into our home about five years ago.

This raccoon would sneak into our old farmhouse through a variety of ways. If the kids left the basement door open, this critter would come up the stairs and help herself to the dog's food. One night I was awakened by the sounds of something fooling around with my water glass on the night stand beside my bed. Sitting up suddenly in bed, I saw a shadowy creature run across the bedroom floor and scurry off towards the attic door. The raccoon had gained entry into my bedroom through a broken cupola window. What nerve!

This same raccoon had taken up residence in the attic of our neighbor's garage where she had a litter of four little raccoons. For some reason, my house became her grocery store. We tried everything to catch her or prevent her from getting in: a humane cage with marshmallows and even fish to attract her (no go); locking the doors (she slipped in through the gaps between the gutters and attic of our 140-year-old home. One day while making lunch I heard an odd sound up above me head; the raccoon had gotten into the false ceiling in the kitchen and was scrambling around over my head. Taking a broom, I pounded on the tiled ceiling in attempt to scare her out. I think I achieved my objective of scaring her as a thin stream of urine began trickling through the ceiling! Needless-to-say, I was livid (and wet)!

After the neighbor had successfully rousted the raccoon's brood out of his garage, the strong-minded animal snuck across the street and ensconced herself in the garage of another neighbor. This residential-loving animal was making enemies left and right in our little rural neighborhood. In fact, we had an all points bulletin out on this animal: if you see her on the road, speed up and aim true.

And again, I do love animals, but there should be a line drawn between then and our living accommodations. I am not willing to share my home with a foraging and urinating raccoon. Anyway, the problem was taken care of by the end of the summer when someone speeding down our road happened to strike the raccoon as she was making her way back to the neighbor's garage - probably after robbing the dog dish again!

Just Passing Through? Hmmmmmmmm.

Just the other morning as I was watching TV, trying to catch all the NCAA scores from last night's game, I happened to catch a glance out my window of a motley bunch strolling across my front lawn. There walking in a straight line, was a flock of turkeys - a dozen in all - taking their sweet time skirting around the swing set and trampoline.

While I'm almost positive this is the same bunch that inhabits the Ledge nearby and makes an occasional appearance or two on the railroad tracks, I have to wonder if they have connections to the other gang of turkeys that live in the Ledge near Breakneck Road south of Oakfield.

I've never had problems with the local turkeys, except that they enjoy the corn out of our fields at our expense. At least they've never dropped an A-Bomb on my windshield while taking flight like the dumb Oakfield birds do. However, this local group seemed to be casing our yard, casting furtive glances towards my car and the house.

I wonder about this since I happened to scare the daylights out of one of the Oakfield turkeys on Breakneck Road last week. As I was entering the hairpin turn at the top of the Ledge, I was just as surprised as the turkey to meet this feathered critter on the roadway. This errant bird had three options: take a right and fly into the stone-face of the Niagara Escarpment, outrun the car or take its chances in flying into the trees on the left. So what did the bird do? While looking over its shoulder at me and my car, the crazy bird kept RUNNING down the road.

I'm not a monster that I would try to run down a wild animal (although I admit wondering if my horn would scare the tar out of him). I stepped on the brakes and wondered how long this little race would go on. Eventually he gathered up enough speed and flew through the trees.

So now I'm wondering if the word among the turkey clans has spread and I am on the Turkey Terrorist suspect list. Just the other day my son wondered aloud about the large amount of bird doo-doo on my car. "Wow, that must have been a huge bird to have made this mess!" he exclaimed. Yeah, maybe even a turkey out to make a hit.

But Wait....there's hope!


Remember how I lamented that my illusion of healthful eating at the local Chinese eatery was dashed with the statistics contained in the newly released report from the Center for Science in the Public Interest? Well, Victor Huang of Fremont, Calif., responded online to the Associated Press story. The brouhaha that Chinese food was akin to eating fat-filled American food was overblown and misleading, Huang said. And this is what he had to say.

“Hey, no one in their right mind is going to have a whole dish of General Tso’s chicken or have nothing else to eat with it. To coin Clinton, it is the steamed rice, STUPID! – which is salt-free and fatless. You are supposed to do it the Chinese way: take the dish with lots of steamed rice. Without it, the dish will seem saltier and fattier.

If you redo your arithmetic, that is a balanced meal. The report has to be balanced and intelligent. I have seen a billion more healthy and fit Chinese than the advocacy report seemed to stupidly suggest.

Now that common sense has weighed in, those folks who spoon up as much rice as the other items on the Chinese buffet, you are seemingly in no danger. However, you folks who pick the meat out of the dishes leaving behind the broccoli, bamboo shoots and 50-cent sized mushrooms for the rest of us, you need to apply a little balance. Or don't blame us if your socks won't fit over your swollen ankles!

The Misfortune of Loving Chinese Food

I wish I could say ignorance is bliss. But when you work in the media, you have tons of up-to-date information right at your fingertips all day long. So I cannot say with a clear conscience that I didn’t know Chinese food was bad for me.

At least not until yesterday when the Center for Science in the Public Interest spoiled my day by announcing that Chinese food isn’t all that healthy. What!? My son hates to go there because there are so many vegetables in the food. But culprits like sugary sauces and salty soups and deep-fried fare (goodbye crab Rangoon and egg rolls) aren’t very good for us. In fact, Lemon Chicken, which is battered, deep-fried, and served with a sugary yellow sauce, has 1,400 calories and 13 grams of saturated fat. CSPI says that's like eating three fried McChicken sandwiches plus a 32-oz. Coke at McDonald's.

Knowing just how much salt is in your favorite food is like…pouring salt into your wounds. Chinese restaurant meals can contain an entire day’s worth of sodium and some contain two days’ worth, according to CSPI’s new report. On the bright side, Chinese food is often rich in vegetables and the fat comes mostly from heart-safe, trans-fat-free vegetable oils. And it hasn’t gotten any worse since the last study – unlike some American fast food – double stuffed pizza, Hardees thick burgers.

Putting it all into perspective salt-wise, we aren’t supposed to have anymore than 2,300 mg of sodium in our diet each day. That’s only a teaspoon of salt, folks! I’ve seen them sprinkle more than that on fries while I was waiting at the counter at McDonalds. And think of the salt we sprinkle (er, pour) on our popcorn at the movie theatre. Salt equals more soda at the concession stand which spells big profits for the theatre owner.

I should have known this was coming, especially after I have sworn off other unhealthy foods and have began adding more fruits and vegetables (broccoli, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts) to my diet. Didn’t my fortune at the last Chinese restaurant say big changes were in store? I guess that’s the way the fortune cookie crumbles. But then again, that’s probably bad for you too.

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Throughout the winter I always keep in mind the above quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Knowing that spring is around the corner makes the reality of below zero temperatures more endurable. While the calendar officially proclaims the beginning of spring, I often find myself thinking when the snowflakes are still flying "If the flowers are covered with snow in May, is Mother Nature playing a joke on us?"

This was evident one year as large snowflakes began to fall in May, weighing down the newly emerged leaves on our oak trees and covering the flowers on my bleeding heart plant. While there was little we could do about the trees, we spent the morning trying to dust the snow off of the tender plants. I remember with a sinking feeling hearing the sound of splitting wood in the backyard as the large branches of our silver maple split off from the trunk.

And three hours later the sun melted the snow and branches littered our yard. As much as I hated to see the damage to our trees, owners of strawberry farms and apple orchards had bigger problems than I did. While we enjoy the beauty of blossoms on apple trees and strawberry plants, those tender blossoms hold the success or failure of that year's crops.

Here's hoping that Mother Nature doesn't pull a fast one on us again this year.

God forgive me, I am jealous of my cat!

Is it a sin to covet the life of your cat? If so, I am probably going to hell. It's so hard Monday mornings to look at her, sitting smugly on the foot of my bed, watching me as a fumble towards my closet looking for something that isn't wrinkled and matches. As a journalist and a mom, my life is filled with deadlines: get child up and vertical, make sure he brushes teeth and has clothes on right-side out, feed him and the pets, shove child gently into car - making sure all of his homework is done and signed and then head off to school without getting a speeding ticket.

From there it's a matter of hitting deadlines for both the print product and the web site. In the meantime I have to remember deadlines for special projects, columns, blogs and more. After I make it across the finish line for the day (if there isn't a night meeting) then I race home to pick up son at farm, get supper on the table, do homework, attend other meetings for organizations other than Gannett and fall into bed.

My cat's daily agenda is a little more sedentary: wake up, visit litter box, whine for food, eat, visit litter box again, climb stairs, pick out bed for morning nap, wake up, visit litter box and food bowl again, find room where afternoon sun is pouring in, take nap in sunshine, sit at door and wait arrival of humans and begin whining and casting baleful looks at them until food bowl is replenished, visit litter box again, take nap on young child's backpack, visit litter box and food bowl again for a nightcap, find most comfortable bed in house and wait for lights to be turned out.

How can you not envy this lifestyle. My idea of a perfect, stress-free day? Let's see - husband takes child to school while I sleep in until 7 a.m., read the newspaper while leisurely enjoying the quietness of an empty house, watch a movie without interruption, eat a light lunch, head outside to the hammock or a breezy beach with a good book and blanket. And for supper? Why, it will be lovingly prepared and served by my husband, of course. And then I wake up and realize it's all just a dream and the cat is still waiting for her breakfast. But I can dream can't I?

One Mean Bird

In one of my previous blogs, I related how my son, Jacob, loved his little flock of chickens. This was a great project for a 4-year-old and taught him a world of responsibility and compassion for animals. It also taught me a few valuable lessons too: never turn your back on a feisty rooster!

We've had roosters before - leghorns, bantams and cochins. But nothing like the gallo de diablo (Spanish for devil rooster) named Bucca Bucca. This stately bird, a barred Plymouth Rock, stood nearly 2 1/2 feet tall and had spiky one-inch spurs jutting out of his golden legs. No one got near his little harem without his noticing it and challenging his presence.

While Jacob had a uncanny rapport with his chickens - holding them and getting them to follow him around the yard - he had great respect and fear of the rooster. And why not? That devil was the fastest, feathered thing on two legs that I ever encountered! Before Bucca Bucca joined the chicken coop, I used to laugh at my sister-in-law who was mercilessly chased by a rooster on the farm. How could anyone be afraid of a little chicken, I thought to myself.

When you get attacked by a rooster, you don't soon forget. And if you're lucky enough to catch him off guard, he won't forget the encounter either. After a whack on the tail feathers with a long stick, we both kept a wary distance from each other. But he was always waiting for his chance. And one day he got it. I was in collecting eggs and had forgotten to close the entrance to the outside yard.

Thinking he was busy scrapping with the hens over some cherry tomatoes, I took my time gathering the freshly laid brown eggs, still warm in the nesting boxes. Holding at least a dozen eggs in my arms (I had forgotten the container in my haste) I was surprised by a rear ambush. Bucca Bucca had stealthily entered the coop and moved in for a blindsided attack. With his spurs flashing, the feathered demon got in a few good licks on my bare legs.

What eggs were left unbroken were hurled (along with expletives) at that bird who was scrambling to exit the coop. I remember muttering under my breath all the way to the house about how we were going to have fried chicken for supper some day soon. But even if I didn't love that rooster, my son did. I remember minutes later Jacob running into the house to report a tragedy in the chicken coop. As I drew nearer, I could hardly contain my laughter. There was Bucca Bucca standing in the middle of the hens, trying to look dignified while covered with egg yolks.

"There's something wrong with him!" Jacob said. I assured him that Bucca Bucca was just fine (compared to me). All he got was a little egg on his face after I got in the last word.

The Time Has Come!

I know most folks can't wait until Daylight Savings Time begins in spring. Sure you lose an hour of sleep but the daylight after suppertime more than makes up for it. But for me, Daylight Savings Time means that I can start thinking in regular time. Huh? Let me explain. Three years ago I was looking for a bedside alarm clock that would play CDs, give me the weather on a 24-hour basis, deliver the news plus wake me up on time.

I thought my problems were solved when I found an alarm clock at Best Buy on the discontinued shelf. While the box looked like it had been opened, I decided that the combination of features that I wanted, along with the discounted price were overriding factors. I was so wrong! There was a good reason that model was being discontinued. In fact, I think the overwhelming cries from the customer service department being forced to handle an overload of complaints from disgruntled customers may have had something to do with its demise.

The directions for setting the time and alarms on the clock came in eight different languages - none of which made any sense. While I figured out how to set the three alarm buttons - no easy feat (press the third button four times while dancing a jig) setting the actual time was another thing. After 20 minutes, I managed to set the clock using combination of button-pushing and cuss words. To switch the clock back or ahead one hour for daylight savings time? Just press the little button with the picture of the sun. When I tried this the first time, all my settings were lost. So I had to dig out the directions and cuss words again.

Did it get any easier? No. I just learned to adapt. So for the last six months my clock is an hour ahead. But come next Sunday morning I will be back in the groove again. And then I can turn off the 7 a.m. alarm button (that really rang at 6 a.m.) and set the 6:30 a.m. alarm button that would have awakened me at 5:30 a.m. prior to Daylight Savings Time. Confusing? You get the picture.

So much for technology making life easier. This alarm clock makes me yearn for my analog clock that I had to wind up every other day. But the loud ticking interfered with sleep - hence the quieter digital clock with CD capability (on the nights when sleep won't come and you need the droning voice of Garrison Keillor to push you over the edge. That guy is the best sleep aid!). Unfortunately this radio does not have a headphone jack, so my soothing nighttime music and monologues keeps my husband awake resulting in a grouchy farmer in the morning.

I guess now is not the time to tell him I bought a digital photo frame that doubles as an alarm clock and MP3 player.

In case you haven't heard, the producers of shows like American Idol and The Price is Right have decided that we need another reality show. Instead of in a mansion somewhere in the Hollywood hills or a tropical island, this show will be set in rural America with a farmer looking for love. The premise of the show The Farmer Wants a Wife is to make a match between young farmers with no time to date and women who dream of living a traditional, small-town lifestyle.

Already young farmers between the ages of 25-35 who live and work on a farm or ranch have responded to casting calls across the heartland. You can bet one of the farmers chosen will be Kurt Bartling, one of the three famed Nebraska hog farmers who resemble Fabio and have appeared on covers of romance books. While they run a 20,000 head hog operation, how much credibility do you have among fellow farmers at the Coop when your farm's web site features you and your brothers standing shirtless in a wheat field with your long blond tresses blowing in the wind?? But I digress.

Granted that long hours aren't conducive for wife-hunting - I mean socializing. This show aims to solve that problem by bringing several female candidates to the farmer's doorstep. And please, if a young, gold-digger resembling Paris Hilton shows up squealing that she can't lift a 5-gallon pail or the scent of manure makes her nauseous, I will throw a brick at the TV. Sure, farmers like eye candy as much as the next guy, but they do appreciate someone with brains, self-motivation and a work ethic. These pretty young things better like hard work, long hours and taking a back seat to an ailing cow or a broken tractor. Let's face it folks, many of these people featured in reality shows - especially those looking for a romantic connection - are just there for the publicity.

What worries me most (and some of the male applicants) is the real possibility of the show producers portraying them as hicks or rednecks. Sure farmers don't freak out over a little manure on the linoleum, but they are a civilized lot that deal with cutting edge technology and millions of dollars in investments every day. Caricatures of hayseed-like farmers embodied in TV characters like Fred Ziffel (Arnold the pig's owner in Green Acres) or Junior Samples of Hee Haw are pervasive in today's media. How about doing something really unique like promoting the agricultural lifestyle and that of the American farmer in an intelligent, thoughtful manner. That way the farmer can find a wife and folks back home will get an education to boot.