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Posts Tagged ‘life’

I read once (a long time ago) that in the event of a nuclear event, three creatures will still be standing: the coyote, the rat, and the cockroach.

Rats. We all hate them. Well, not Willard. Or the owners of cute pet rats purchased from a pet store. Or Michael Jackson, who sang that hit song, “Ben”, back in 1972. If you are unfamiliar with either the song or the names, you need go no further back in time than to 1971 when the movie, “Willard” was released. It’s a cult classic. The rats are not cute, and Ben is certainly not a loveable pet as the song implies. Ben did not come from a pet store. I have never quite understood what pet rat owners see in the buggers, but…”to each his own”.

There are a lot of species of rats in the world, the most notorious of which is the very large Norway rat. The common brown rat. The rat that has long been blamed for the spread of the Black (Bubonic) Plague. The rats that stow away on merchant ships, chew into the stores, poop and pee on all the foods, and then jump ship in the harbor. The first creatures to leave a sinking ship according to the old idiom.

Rats.

I am not a fan of rats. I’ve had them die inside the walls of my home and bloat, host bot flies, and stink to high heaven until their bodies finally deflate and the maggots have nothing else to feed on. I have listened to them rustle inside the walls and I have heard them set off the instant kill traps that rarely work as advertised (the rats flop around awhile before they finally die. It’s disturbing). I have observed them hiding In gutters in NE Portland, sneak across drive-in parking lots, and dash through the aisles in major grocery stores. I have watched them climb trees to get to bird seed.

But here’s the thing: I’m not fond of rattlesnakes, either. Or scorpions. Earwigs. Little deer mice that carry Hanta Virus. Spiders crawling on my face. We all get the “heebie jeebies” over something. That doesn’t mean we’re always right or the thing bothering us is really something to be unreasonably frightened of. They exist, and so do we.

This past week I have discovered a dead squirrel in my yard. A neighbor discovered one in its dying throes. Tonight, someone else posted that the found two dying or dead squirrels. Everyone loves squirrels, right?

They’re cute, they eat peanuts, they pose, they tease our dogs and cats. They’re photogenic. They also carry fleas, raid bird nests, poop on everything, and – in the case of at least two of those squirrel deaths – are not native. The ones in my immediate neighborhood were Eastern grey squirrels that have been pushing out the Eastern Fox squirrels which, in turn, pushed out our native Douglas squirrels. Still, they are adorable, cute, beloved, and generally loved whereas rats are the opposite. And the poison which killed the squirrels in all of the above cases was poison meant to kill rats.

The problem with poison is this: it is non-species-specific. It doesn’t discriminate, it doesn’t break down, and it induces an agonizing death in the creature unfortunate to have eaten it.

And once that creature has died (usually not in the same yard where the poison was administered, but in a neighbor’s yard), the poison remains as potent as before it was administered.

In two of the cases listed above, the property owner discovered the dead/dying squirrels BEFORE the beloved cat or dog did.

Read that last line again. Say it out loud for those in the back of the room. The poison someone sets out to kill the rats they think are living in their yard is the poison that kills the neighbor’s dog or cat. It is the poison that kills the vulture, the mouse, the coyote, the raccoon, or the skunk that feeds on the carrion. Then it kills whatever dines on those carcasses. Birds, rodents, bears, pets.

Sticky traps are not a whole lot better, often trapping songbirds and sentencing them to an agonizing death.

I could go on, but I won’t. You get the picture.

“But…But…My neighbor feeds the birds and the bird seed attracts the rats and…”

In my neighborhood, we are often blamed for the rats that wander through “Just looking for a home”. We feed the birds. We also have a vegetable garden, fruit trees, a grapevine, berry bushes, and a compost heap. Two doors down (to the north and to the south), we have neighbors that raise chickens for the eggs. A quarter mile away as the crow flies, there is a major waterway that flows into a major port. We are surrounded by little wild parks where deer, coyotes, skunks, raccoons, and the occasional mountain lion dwell.

We have rats. Rats live where there is water, shipping lanes, grocery stores, backyard gardens, fruit trees, chicken coops. They live where skunks and raccoons live. Rats feed coyotes and foxes.

I’m not a fan of rats. Willard (the movie) cemented a deep-seated human loathing of the creature. We have mitigated entries into buildings on our property to repel rats (except the garage. There’s always still one building where the buggers might consider building a nest). What we have NOT done is take down our bird feeders, eliminated our wildlife watering spots, planted lawn where the vegetables grow, or lopped down the fruit trees. We have accepted that rats live among us, like it or not.

I read once (a long time ago) that in the event of a nuclear event, three creatures will still be standing: the coyote, the rat, and the cockroach.

Our neighbors still have a long way to go to understand they live in a world where the creature is the undisputed king of survival.

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I blogged last year about how I created a couple water features. This one with the rusty yard sale fountain has had to undergo some changes. The rusty fountain rusted more in the water and filled the pump and hose with sediment. We decided that was not suitable for mosquito fish or cost effective for my time (cleaning the pump and draining the pond frequently).

The fountain came out and I was left with “how to deal with rust”. A friend in the UK sent me a short video on getting rid of rust using catsup. Well, catsup and a copper scrubber, to be exact. I wasn’t certain it would work, but we had an extra bottle of catsup (ketchup, I just like the spelling ‘catsup’ better). No copper scrubber, but there was a spare wire brush from a barbecue long ago that I borrowed from my husband’s work bench. (I told him later).

By golly! It worked!

I wasn’t going for full rust removal as we purchased a product that car mechanics know well: a kind of paint that covers rust and prevents more from forming, something called “POR”. This little can cost nearly $50 (!!) and the stuff is super runny. It is a mess to work with! I wore rubber gloves, used a drop cloth, and still dripped it everywhere!

The final touch was to add some color using some outdoor latex paint I already had in possession: claret wine and yellow. I sponged that on and let it dry.

Now I am waiting for Clackamas County Vector Control to deliver some gambusia (mosquito fish). I want to get a few native water plants as well. I already have a couple native water lilies in planters, but something floating on the top of the water would be nice.

I do have to change the filters once a week in the pump, and a lot of earthworms and slugs manage to drown in the pond along with sundry insects. Not sure how to avoid that.

Post Script: May 6, 2026 – My fish have arrived! About the size of guppies, five to a pool. And just in time: hundreds, if not thousands, of little blood suckers are swimming in those waters waiting to hatch into flying blood suckers.

Post Script Script: 6/5/2026 – I know I have two survivors. The mosquito larvae are gone. Whether or not I have more survivors (gambusia) is up for debate. But we don’t have mosquitoes breeding.

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I then went to work on my “defeat the neighbor’s lawn maintenance guy” project. This is a three-foot wide strip of lawn that abuts their property and is hidden from sight to us by virtues of an ancient garage. Per city code, the garage is set back from our property line but that three feet of set-back is still our property. The war began not because the lawn guy mows the lawn back there (we don’t really care) but because the first year he started mowing their lawn he also mowed down all my sword ferns on that side of the garage. MY ferns that I planted specifically so no one would have to mow there.

I’m a little bit possessive of plants I work hard to put into the ground and nurture to life, even if they are sword ferns in full shade where I never water. Or look, really.

I put out a sign on the side of the garage to PLEASE DON’T MOW THE FERNS. I decided to plant some flowers along that side of the driveway for color. The setback runs parallel to the driveway (which you can see from the house and street) down to my big yucca plant and our water meter. I don’t water there, but someone had to mow the grass there. Twenty years ago, the old woman who originally owned the property asked me to plant flowers there since we routinely forgot to mow that area. Now that I have mostly exhausted new garden beds elsewhere in the yard, why not follow up on that request and plant drought-tolerant but pretty flowers there? Day lilies immediately spring to mind.

I did that. And lawn mower man still manages to clip my plants with his lawn mower. Not the ferns anymore, but the day lilies and the daffodils that were already present there. He runs one wheel of his mower down the strip and steps in the flowers. But the last thing he did was to dead-head MY yucca last year. What the actual…? That yucca is kind of my baby: I picked it up for free over 20 years ago and it has been so happy in that little spot, blooming up a storm every year. I usually cut the expired flower spikes down late in the summer or early in the fall, but last year?! Lawn mower man did it for me.

Lawn mower man has been advised, but he really just doesn’t “get” it. He’s not the brightest bulb on the tree (a saying that I suppose means a Christmas tree’s string of lights). So, yes, I could just talk to him but this area needed flowers and plants anyway. Rather than confront a poor man just doing what he thinks is his job, I did mine and took care of the space like Selma asked me to so many years ago.

Trimmed the ferns and added edging beside the garage.
Trimmed the ferns and added edging beside the garage.
The view to the yucca. I'll add more drought tolerant flowers.
The view to the yucca. I’ll add more drought tolerant flowers.

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It is raining today, a light rain that will knock the pollen out of the air, but which keeps me inside the house. This is all right with me. We just came out of a weeklong dry spell during which I was able to get a lot of yard work done but at the price of my health. My face feels like it is swollen out to the end of my nose, my eyes feel (and look) like they have been sandblasted, and my nose is dripping. Allergies have come on early and brutally this season.

I was able to fix a leak in (under) one of my water features. This involved a trip to Lowe’s for some lawn edging and a surprise purchase of a 3×4’ plastic for under a sink. We looked at pond lining (too expensive and way too much lining for my purpose) before we found the under-the-sink lining. Honestly, if you need this stuff under your kitchen sink, you need a plumber. For my little purpose, the size and thickness were perfect, as was the very low price. (We also found the lawn edging I wanted and a bonus shelving unit for the shed we had installed last year, the shelving being on sale and reasonable priced.)

Both water features need work, but the second one isn’t a leak: it is the rusty “fountain” I bought at a yard sale. We need to do something about the rust. But I didn’t tackle that this past week. That job will be a future blog post.

Using a crowbar and moving a number of rocks around, I was finally able to stop the leak in the pond. The large rock forms a natural water course, but the water tends to drip under the lip and into the earth below. I tipped that rock at a slightly steeper angle, then played with the rocks and dish it drips into. The plastic lining went up under all of that (some feat considering the rock probably weighs 70+ pounds). But the result was that I managed to get the right angle and the pond now stays full. I will need to get some mosquito fish next, but I’ll fix the other pond first.

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Today’s post is about unlabeled photographs. Please label your photos so people in the future will know who the heck is in the photo.

I think these are from the Wilcox side of family, but they could be on the Melrose. I have no clue. And I’ve held onto these photos most of my adult life. I should have asked my parents while they were still alive. That would have been too simple. I know they are family, but how I know that is now lost to me through the haze of decades.

I probably snagged them when the Wilcox family heirs were busy tossing all the old family photo albums and my sister, my cousin, and I sat and saved photos, mostly of ourselves but also of some ancestors. My cousin, Reisa, my age, kept all the embarrassing photos of me and I, likewise, kept all the embarrassing ones of her. My sister got whatever we two didn’t want being younger than the pair of us older bullies.

The family was a disaster: my father and his sister’s daughter, Dad’s half-brother, and two step siblings all vying over the paltry belongings of Gramps and Granny. It was chaos and sometimes it was downright ugly. Dad’s sister died young and her sole heir was her daughter. One step sibling never made it to the chaos, but the other two brought their spouses. They even argued over the sheets. THE SHEETS.

But they threw away the old photo albums.

Luckily, we three teenage girls were on the scene to filter through the albums and rescue some of the history. And, for the most part, the photos I walked away with were labeled with names and dates.

Then, there are these two. If they are Wilcox family at all, and not on the Melrose side of things.

A battered sepia-tone of girls, apparently twins(?).

And this beauty in a stylish hat.

The embossed seal in the lower right corner is all I have to go on.

The Wilcox side of my story spent a lot of time in Chicago. The Melrose side stayed in Wisconsin, for the most part.

For now, I will set these two aside and hope that I will find clues or an outright answer later on in my research of my ancestry.

Heck, I might even discover the Hiram Walker land deed is from the Wilcox side of things as well.

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Here we are, less than 24 hours from a massive rain storm and I am writing about sprinklers. It’s not like we’ll need them for the next eight to ten months as all the water will be coming from the skies. Well, tomorrow they say it might be coming in sideways with gusts up to 60MPH (that’s 96+ KPH for my friends who use the metric system, or 52+ knots per hour if you speak nautical). It’s going to be gusty and very, very, very wet.

We collect vintage sprinklers. One of those is homemade – can you identify it?

They aren’t worth a lot according to Google Lens, but some of them (and they aren’t all shown here) are worth a little bit of money. I doubt we paid more than $5 for any one of these and some were outright freebies. As to whether or not they work… Well, some better than others.

Those are the ones that don’t work well. Bad design, just old, or they don’t work in the space I have. The one on the top row that is heart shaped can be found on eBay or Etsy selling for around $65.

Nope, doesn’t work. Homemade, just didn’t make the cut.

These are some of the best sprinklers we have. The green one (top left) sells for around $30, center top row for about $20, the older yellow (top right) for around $10 (and it work so-so). The yellow one on the bottom row is one of my favorites and I found it selling for $20. The owl-eye sprinkler works in small spaces and I found it for around $30. The pot metal with brass center works quite well but it pretty much worthless as a resale item, plus I broke one of the points.

These are the last three. I never use them. Modern technology has given us better hand sprinklers although modern technology has given us spray wands that break easily and dies after a couple years of use. The two on the outside of this trio still work and will work for years to come. The red one might be worth $10 – $15.

The middle item is the most interesting to me. You may have already noticed it is not a sprinkler, but is a siphon. A heavy duty brass siphon that sells for around $30. I think I paid $0.50.

There you have it: our sprinkler collection (sans the all metal yellow oscillating sprinkler which was probably in use when I was busy taking these photos).

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I went to visit an old friend today. She lives at a senior “assisted living” place on the west side of the Portland Metro area. My oncologist’s office is less than five miles from where my friend now resides, so when I make a trip to see one of the doctors there, I try to drop in on my friend.

Our visits never last an hour. She gets tired. I can’t stand nursing homes. Today, we didn’t make it past twenty minutes because she was falling asleep on me. She doesn’t look good. Do any old people resigned to living in such a space look good?

I’ve been to a number of these places over the years, and they always leave me depressed. Seeing a dear friend in the early winter of her life… That’s more depressing.

This friend was once my superior at my job. She was brilliant. Dedicated. A mathematical wizard and an innovator. Faithful to the company and the men who ran that company. She worked for a little over minimum wage, lived in a single-wide trailer, and raised three children on very little income. There was no pension plan for us at the company, only what we earned over the years that was socked away into Social Security.

She mentored me over several years. I discovered I had a small gift at mathematics under her tutelage. She had a sense of humor, a lot of dreams, and a keen mind. We went from paper files, paper storage, to digital files and even a program that could do the math for us. My friend stayed current with all those changes in her senior years. She was a legacy.

But change is inevitable, and the company sold out to a corporation that didn’t value the small people. One by one, friends and coworkers faced the axe, not the least of which was my friend. My entire department went under the axe, except for me. I left voluntarily before they could figure out a replacement for my job.

For a while there, all of us got together and had lunch or dinner together. Even that got old as we moved on to new jobs or our retirement plans.

I think it was about five years ago that my friend lost her youngest child to brain cancer. That was the beginning of the end: it is difficult to recover from the loss of a child. My friend was already faltering physically: a broken hip that set her back several weeks, an income that didn’t support her anymore, a mind that no longer fired on all eight cylinders (if my friend had been a car, she would have been a V-8: luxury, speed, and staying power. I’d be a V-6).

We talked on the phone. We called on our birthdays. We no longer had restaurant dates together. My child died. My friend found herself in a walker and in a nursing home. Pardon, an “assisted living” home. The first time I visited her there was in 2020. I have been sporadic ever since, but more regular since the cancer scare of last year. After all, my oncologist’s office is nearby.

My friend was frail and tiny in 2020. She looked much older than her 80+ years. Much tinier than I had ever known her. Her mind was still sharp, however. She was angry that she had “lost everything” in the move from her trailer to assisted living. All her collectibles. The comfort of her own home. Most of her wardrobe. Her car. Her independence. But not her memory.

Her birthday is next week. I took her a birthday card today. She no longer walks, even with a walker. Today was the first time in three years that there was no sign about Covid being “in the building” somewhere, but I masked up anyway. She hates it when I wear a mask because I don’t look like me. She doesn’t look like herself.

We talked about our coworkers and who still visits her in the home: three of us coworkers and the one son who lives nearby. Her great grands haven’t been by in a while. She’s angry. She’s resigned. She’s not ready to die. But we both know Death is hovering on the horizon, closer than she wants to admit. She struggled to stay awake during my visit.

I will be back over there in March. I’m not certain that my friend will still be there. I do know that her son will remember to notify me when she goes. I hope she will be there.

I hate going there. I hate the idea of ending up like my friend: unable to walk, tied to a bed, only a TV to entertain me with old reruns, and a small handful of people who remember to call or visit. I know she isn’t ready to die, but I also know if I was in her position, I’d be thinking of ways to end my life already. I’m too selfish to want to waste away by millimeters in a building with other dying people, and in a room with some stranger.

I understand why my mother-in-law fought so hard to get out of assisted living and back in her home with a nurse coming by daily. I understand even more why my father quit taking his medications three months before the effects caught up with him and he died in his own home, still independent. I understand why my mother, at the age of 63, chose to stop breathing rather than be tied to an oxygen machine for the rest of her life. There is nothing gratifying about lingering death. There is nothing enticing about waiting while the Grim Reaper bides its time.

Death either comes in like a freight train or it slimes in as slow as a slug. So – tonight – lift a glass of whatever it is you drink and toast my Lola. I said good-bye today and kissed her forehead. I don’t know if I will get another chance. And for those of you who have a loved one in a nursing home, assisted living space, or hospital: go visit. I don’t care how uncomfortable it makes you feel. Hold their hand. Feel the papery skin. Remember for them. Remember them.

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