Baseball: A Squirrel's Memoir

Although spring is one of my favorite seasons of the year, there is one aspect that I hate. Baseball. I can tolerate baseball on television. I can sit next to Cal and embroider, and we have painless husband-wife bonding time. But that’s not what I hate. What I hate is organized baseball teams. Okay, it’s not that exactly. I’m really glad that Jake is playing on a high school team—good exercise, male war bonding rituals, etc. What I hate is bleacher duty. Freezing my butt off in the stands during the early spring. (How can February be considered spring? It was two degrees above freezing this morning.) I hate marinating in my own sweat and serving as mosquito bait by early summer.

I’d hoped when little league was over that we were done with sports. Little league was its own exquisite torture. Besides three boys on three teams playing at three different locations at the same time, Luke also became an umpire at age 12 when he passed the umpiring exam. And because he was big for his age 6’1” and broad and, therefore, more physically intimidating, he was the behind-the-plate umpire, who got screamed at by parents and coaches alike. (This was New England and they scream at umpires. Yeah, that was fun for me, sitting in the stands and having to keep my mouth shut.) Oops, sorry for that digression.

Now before you think that I was one of those women who was never exposed to sports, who never played, I wasn’t. I played women’s softball. I was the catcher. (I think I was assigned the position because it was the spot where I could do the least damage.) And everything was fine, until there was a play at home base. I got on the bag, crouched, and readied my glove. As the ball came towards me, I caught a glimpse of the runner. She was a freight train. I was a skinny, stupid squirrel standing on the tracks, keeping her from softball glory. But I steeled my muscles and my resolve. I would catch that ball, and she would be out. My teammates were counting on me...Freight-train girl plowed right threw me. I ate dirt. And the idea of balls, gloves, and bats as a fun pastime was forever lost.

Yeah, so baseball has started. Jacob is excited. Let the games begin. I’ll be that mom in the stands cheering the team and yelling, “Go, Jacob. Run over the catcher! You can do it.”

Good News

Two blog posts in one day?! That means I have some good news to share. This morning, we caught Walter! (If you've missed the Walter sage, click here and here.) He is even now being released into the wild to carry on his squirrely life.

It's kind of sad now that he's gone--hygienic, but sad. No longer will I hear the patter of his feet in the attic. Unless, of course, Wanda lives there too. I guess we'll find out.

Here are some photos of Walter. Note the intelligent eyes and beautifully bushy tail. Have a good life, Walter!

Squirrel in the Attic

We have a new pet. Okay, not really a “pet” per se. Pets are cute, cuddly, and you actually want them. This creature, who I’ll call Walter (after the uber-bizarre character on Fringe, which I sometimes watch because I love my son though I despise the show.) lives in the attic.

Walter is a squirrel. We know Walter lives up there because we’ve seen his beady eye balls glowing red in the flashlight beams. We would LOVE to get rid of Walter because he’s a danger to our house. Imagine chewing through electrical wire—my hope is the power would short before the cellulose insulation caught fire.

The big problem is we can’t figure out how Walter gets into the attic. We’ve walked the outside of the house looking for gaps. Nothing. The attic vents are secure. (When Cal was in grad school, he worked for a pest control company doing this sort of thing. But Walter is good and sneaky.) So Walter still lives in the attic and presumably gets out to gather food.

One day, we decided to track Walter in the attic. That idea had one great flaw—Walter is nimble as a squirrel and we are not. Other flaws: Our attic is huge so even finding Walter is a chore. Our attic has no lighting so you have to hold a flashlight in your mouth as you grab beams. Our attic has no flooring so would-be squirrel trackers must hop from rafter to rafter, hoping to avoid falling through the ceiling and hitting the wooden flooring after a 12 foot drop. Let’s just say that my college ballet instructor would be pleased at my leaps, balance and pirouettes. And before you get the false impression that I was actually a good squirrel tracker, let me explain that I ended up sitting on a beam while Calvin “danced” around the attic, chasing Walter.

In spite of Cal’s dancing prowess, Walter outsmarted us. And we’ve given up, at least for now. When Cal and I lay in bed at night, we listen to Walter jump around the attic—squirrel partytime. And I feel proud of Walter, which is kind of pathetic. But then I have an odd sense of humor and think that Allstate’s raccoon commercial is the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time, especially because it reminds me of Walter.


Here's the raccoon commercial. Enjoy.