Tales from Shelter in Place: Mice

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Lana Ayers  

Tales from Our Shelter in Place: Mice  

I worry over the squeaking sounds the come from the walls between the kitchen and the laundry room. At nights, our cat Silvia, the former feral one from the hoarder house with fifty-nine cats, stations herself in front of the dishwasher, feet tucked under so that she resembles a roast. And one morning we wake to find a quarter-sized daub of blood on the linoleum. Nearby rests something resembling a four-inch long leather shoelace. My husband tells me it’s a mouse tail and I feel faint. We can’t locate the rest of the mouse and hope it made a quick snack for Silvia.  

I consider myself lucky that I’ve never experienced rodents inside my home before this. Back when I was young and single in New York City I lived among cockroaches like an alien invading their apartments. Despite the diligence of  landlords calling in exterminators, time and time again, to spray deadly poisons, nothing ever truly did them in. Though I wished then it had.  

But here and now in rural Oregon, it feels wrong to interfere with the mice. Their ancestors likely claimed the spot where our house is built long before my husband and I ever arrived. The crawlspace under the house is a place of warmth and dryness away from the constant damp. Who am I to fault the mice for wanting respite?  

The mouse traps my husband ordered arrived weeks ago and remain unopened in boxes on the floor of our mudroom. I have not nagged him to set up the traps. Us killing the mice feels wrong. We are thousands of years past our hunter-gatherer days. Why not just let our cat Silvia follow her instincts as she is closer to her formerly wilder nature?  

Though I can’t put it into words, something about this whole situation nags at me. Maybe a deeper question about the environment and ecosystems and human disruption? Or perhaps, it’s just that this mice issue feels like one of privilege? We humans hold the power of life and death over beings no less worthy of prosperity than ourselves. All species of life are sacred. This was true of those darned cockroaches as well.  

I’m not saying that those squeaks between the walls don’t freak me out a little. They do. They activate some hind brain fear, I suppose. But in this chaotic time in America where racism is finally at the forefront all across the nation, and vital protests are taking place, this is the time for rampant compassion. No doubt the setting right of years of injustice is complicated and will take time. But it must be accomplished beginning now.  

We humans have erected all sorts of us and them boundaries—barriers to empathy—from the small like bugs, to the exceptionally large like entire continents and the peoples who inhabit them. Our little mice dilemma amounts to not much in the scheme of possible problems. There are greater goods I should worry over and find ways to contribute to solutions. And here in my house, surely, my own compassion can extend to the beings between the walls.  

Those traps need to disappear from view so my husband will forget they even exist. His attention span for all things domestic, that I normally curse for being short, can come in handy this time. As summer blooms warmth and dryer days, the mice, too, will take advantage of outdoor beauty. And so will we. Perhaps the mice between the walls will redouble in the fall when the rains return. But as we shelter in place in this beautiful slice of the world, I do my best to focus on and appreciate each day as its own gift of breath and bounty—even if some of that breath and bounty squeaks with joy.   

My lost loved ones are with me ever more now…

Lana 8 Comments

In this chaotic time of battling racism, illegal and immoral government actions, and the coronavirus pandemic, we hope to defeat them once and for all with as few lives harmed or lost as possible. And yet within the daily of strife of these, I feel my lost loved ones still with me somehow. The memory of their love helps get me through the darker days. This short piece below is about my dad, lost to me on this side of breath nearly three decades ago.

~ ~ ~

A Man of Few Words, But Good Ones

Lana Ayers

My father was a man of few words. He never started conversations. He left for work weekdays before I woke. But his absence made a deeper silence in the house than the quiet when he was at home. Back at 5:30 each workday night, he liked to change out of his coveralls uniform with lace-up boots, take a quick shower, and put on casual slacks in black or brown, with a plain tee shirt, his hairy toes wiggling out of the front of his beach-thong slippers.

Then he’d read the newspaper before supper, his cigarette sending untranslatable smoke signals up to the ceiling. Mother told my brother and me not to disturb him. He needed to unwind, but he never seemed like a ball of string to me.

At supper, we kids weren’t allowed to speak except to say pass the ketchup or are there more potatoes? But after our meal was finished, and after I swore I’d gotten all my homework done for the next day, my father was fair game.

Parked in his well-worn striped armchair, the black & white television tuned to a Knicks basketball game or a Cassius Clay boxing bout or to Bonanza, full of big hats and horses, my father sighed heavily and rooted for the good guys. C’mon, you can do it! It was then, without my mother or brother around, I asked him one the thousands of questions that floated around in my head day and night. The kind that drove my kindergarten and early grade teachers to tell me shut up and sit quietly—we’ve had enough out of you. But my father didn’t seem to mind.

“Daddy, why is the grass green?” I’d say.

“Because it sets such a nice backdrop for the yellow dandelions.” He mimed picking a flower and placing it behind his ear.

“Daddy, why do birds sing all the time?”

“Because they want to make Dean Martin jealous,” Daddy said, wiggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx’s.

“Daddy, why do I have to eat peas? They taste like mush.”

“Peas are a secret weapon against sadness,” Daddy said, leaning over to where I sat at his feet to brush my forehead with his calloused hand. Rough as it was, nothing was ever so tender.

“Daddy, what is God?”

Daddy got up and clicked off the television knob. Back in the striped chair, he patted his thighs. I went to him and he pulled me up into his lap with ease, even though I was a chubby thing. I liked being so close to him I could count the hairs growing in each nostril, like dense, secret forests.

“God is the sky,” Daddy said, one arm hugging my back. “When you see the stars at night, that’s god. And in the daytime, the fluffy white clouds, those are god, too.”

“I thought God was like a person, only giant or something,” I said.

“The great thing about God is that each person can see God the way they want to. I look up at the sky and feel peaceful,” Daddy said.

“Even when it’s raining?”

“Even then. Rain makes everything grow. And quenches thirst.”

“Even when the clouds look like elephants or crazy clowns?” I said.

“Especially then,” Daddy said. “God is always up there for me. And for you, too. Like an upside-down ocean of goodness.”

“So why doesn’t god do anything when everything hurts so much?” I said.

“I know that’s hard to understand, Baby” Daddy said. “The universe is good, but some people in it aren’t always so good. You just have to keep believing in the good, that life can be good, even when things hurt.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, Daddy,” I said, hot tears dripping down my face.

He brushed my cheeks. “Well, until you can believe it for yourself, I’ll believe for you. When you look up at the sky, I’ll be a cloud, or fog, or the clearest blue, or the reddest star, radiating my love for you,” Daddy said. “Just remember to look up.”

We Are the Germans, a poem

Lana 3 Comments 
In Portland, Oregon,  a city much criticized by the president, 
protesters were abducted by Federal officers acting without jurisdiction. 
Here's a link to see read more about this: https://tinyurl.com/y2mu85b2
With these men behaving like Hitler's brown shirts of Nazi Germany, 
the poem I wrote after Trump's inauguration feels even more like prophecy. 
I'm re-posting it here. 
 
WE ARE THE GERMANS
       America January 27, 2017 & beyond
  
 Terror, anger, shame.
 I wonder If this is how
 the German people felt—
 the ones who cobbled shoes,
 the ones who rose early
 to bake bread,
 the ones who rocked
 babies in their arms
 and sang guten Morgen—
  
 I wonder if this is how
 the German people felt
 when they saw
 what they had done,
 chosen a monster
 to lead their country.
  
 Instead of yards full of chickens,
 and pockets full of deutsche marks,
 the German people were treated to
 streets swept clean of their unclean
 neighbors, and courtyards
 full of dust and darkness,
 uniformed men with brutal
 hands to patrol the land with pride.
  
 I wonder if those Germans
 who tended their gardens,
 or who kept books
 for the mom and pop markets,
 or who constructed those fine
 Mercedes Benz limousines
 piece by elegant piece—
  
 I wonder if this is how
 those Germans felt,
 the way Americans do now
 only a few days after our
 new leader has assumed office
 and signed the proclamation
 stating Muslims aren’t welcome
 on our American soil.
  
 Terror, anger, shame.
 I wonder if those Germans
 bit their tongues to blood,
 or worried their knuckles raw.
 Did they feel any sorrow at all,
 or did they simply lay
 their heads on pillows
 and wind the alarm clocks
 for another day?

Threads, a pandemic poem

Lana 2 Comments

My emotions have been all over the place in these last couple of weeks. It’s been so difficult to stay optimistic and motivated. I’m trying to focus as much as possible on blessings. Of which there are so many–clean water, fresh food, my pups and kitties, my husband, family, friends, the beauty of the natural world, the beauty of all the arts, that I am still here. Here’s a poem that I hope you’ll find uplifting. 

Lana Hechtman Ayers
  
 Threads
  
 Threads hang loose from
 the ties of my too robustly 
 laundered mask.
  
 Any day could be my last.
 This was true even before
 the coronavirus.
  
 But the sky distracts us
 with its palette of blues,
 its permanent drift.
  
 There’s a Buddhist rift
 in autonomy now,
 how probability
  
 shifts destiny as if
 fate was ever 
 more than poetry.
  
 The stars are themselves
 at last, clearer now
 without excess exhaust.
  
 Despite all human losses,
 summer blooms & blooms, 
 fragrances brighter.
  
 My personal regrets grow lighter,
 float off. Only what I can do 
 this moment matters.
  
 Old misgivings scatter 
 like dust motes in a breeze.
 I remember to breathe deeply,
  
 though breath is the way in
 for this unstoppable death,
 it’s also the only way to live.

Dark Injustice

Lana 4 Comments 
 Lana Hechtman Ayers

 Dark Injustice
  
 There are black men dangling 
 from the trees of California
 and New York 
 like some new species of bird
 that hangs by its neck
 from the high branches,
 a Corvid perhaps
 given the fact the Jim Crow
 has never ended in earnest.
  
 Look, mama, says a small
 white boy walking past 
 a special tree, that birdy’s
 giving me a dirty look.
 Mama drags him along,
 murmuring more's the pity
 in this city. 
  
 Do we know how life
 imitates death
 in the guise of suicide,
 someone’s vile idea of irony?
  
 Here’s the news of yesteryear:
 Lynching.
 Here’s the news of yesterday:
 Lynching.
  
 Some claim a tree is just a tree
 and the noose is a clever device
 for black men to say farewell.
  
 Hell is paved with trees
 like the streets of America.
  
 More protests do not equal 
 more progress.
 The egress from racism is
 no safe passage.
  
 This is not a cause
 but a call for conscience.
  
 This is not about law
 but morality.
  
 This is not a subject
 for neutrality.
  
 Transforming human 
 into humane 
 is no simple addition of ‘e’.
  
 e = energy in physics equations
  
 Hanging is all about 
 force and gravity,
 about tension and torque.
  
 Lynching is hanging
 with a capital ‘H’
 for hate, 
 with the silent, sinister 
 addition of ‘e’
 as in evil.
 
 Injustice is a white man’s noose,
 from the trees of California 
 to the New York island.
  
 Our voices must chant, lifting
 the fog of dark injustice—
 no lives matter 
 until black lives matter.
  
 In this land made for you and me,
 let justice truly stand
 for the end of racism,
 from the Redwood forest
 to the Gulf stream waters, and beyond. 
  

Disappear This White Woman’s Ink, Burn This Poem

Lana 3 Comments 
I feel great trepidation posting this poem. 
It is not my intention to shame or accuse anyone
just because they are white.  
This post is about how ashamed I feel.
Most of the time, I am perceived as white, 
and my birth certificate indicates "Caucasian." 
The truth is much more complicated, 
but that’s a discussion for another time. 
The irony is that this is a poem where 
I state that my white privilege means 
it’s time for me to shut up, listen, 
and let black people speak and lead. 
Yet, here I am posting my white woman poem. 
I am trying to be the best ally I can. 
I’ve found some resources to help me with this. 
Here are a few: 
 https://www.greatbigstory.com/guides/how-to-become-a-better-black-lives-matter-ally 
and
 http://www.scn.org/friends/ally.html 
and
 https://reflections.yale.edu/article/future-race/becoming-trustworthy-white-allies 
 Lana Hechtman

 Disappear This White Woman’s Ink,
 Burn This Poem
  
 A white woman’s pen
 means nothing.
  
 Even when she means 
 to write as ally,
 she betrays otherwise,
 saying stupid shit
 about a best friend
 or a maid who helped raise her.
  
 Too bad her ink isn’t white,
 invisible as her skin 
 is to the police.
  
 Let her ink leak,
 sink a pool of black
 onto the page 
 so that it no longer
 reflects her privileged face.
  
 When she stares 
 into the depths of inequality,
 and says she cares, still,
 all she sees is color.
  
 Let the white woman’s thoughts
 be unknown, 
 let her action show
 her true feelings.
  
 If she’s really an ally,
 racism, injustice, 
 civil unrest will force her
 to do her best,
 attend the protests 
 holding signs inked with
 a black person’s words
 instead of her own.
  
 Let her body be 
 one in a crowd,
 where instead of proud,
 she’s ashamed
 of her skin,
 the violence and sin
 it has always represented 
 in America.
  
 Let her return from the rally 
 and burn her diaries,
 her poems, 
 all her writings.
  
 Let her instead
 be led by voices
 of the disempowered,
 with their history
 of malicious slaughter
 so red it’s black.
  
 Let this white woman’s pen
 no longer be a weapon,
 intentional or inadvertent.
  
 Let my pen become a window
 cleared of my well-meaning ink,
 so that I may look though
 and see the truth 
 as it’s always been—
  
 my voice is nothing 
 but more injustice,
 more drops
 in a pool of black blood 
 so dark, so wide,
 so oft renewed,
 it never dries.

A poem for Louis Armstrong

Lana 10 Comments 
Lana Hechtman Ayers
  
What a Wonderful World  
             for Louis Armstrong
 
 When Satchmo set down the trumpet
 and let his gravelly voice become the music,
 the earth nearly stopped spinning 
 in awe of such angelic praise.
  
 It was a sweltering summer Sunday afternoon
 in my house, Daddy lying on the couch 
 with the fat weekend paper, sat up 
 and set it aside when the song
  
 filtered into the living room from the radio,
 filling it with fluttering Monarch butterflies,
 lilac blossoms heavy with scent, 
 red hibiscus blooms dripping dew
  
 onto the rust shag rug, suddenly transformed
 to a carpet of soft green grass my toes 
 couldn’t resist & a cool breeze rose up from
 palms trees that shimmied in the corners.
  
 My mother, who possessed no silly bone,
 showed up in a hula skirt & matched 
 the swaying rhythms with her ample hips.
 And soon, my brother joined in,
  
 shaking a box of salt, & robins bobbed 
 heads from their perch on the coffee table, 
 & daddy whistled along, while our dog 
 rolled cartwheels & ice cream sundaes 
  
 floated down from the sky that once was
 a ceiling, now only cloudless blue.
 And when the song ended as songs do,
 the room became a room again.
  
 The breeze vanished, along with the trees
 & birds & grass. The staleness of humid
 air asserted itself again and my mother
 complained about the too-bright sun
  
 & my brother blamed me for something
 I hadn’t done & my father didn’t look up
 from the newspaper, ignoring the fuss.
 Me, I closed my eyes & covered my ears.
  
 I could still hear Satchmo’s voice rising 
 from the middle of my chest, a crooning 
 from inside my heart & his raspy, happy
 praise song has lived there ever since.

Random Assignment

Lana Leave a comment 
 Lana Hechtman Ayers
  
 Random Assignment
  
 What in nature could dwarf
 unjust murders 
 by agents of human law?
  
 Not the rain 
 that washes the streets 
 of pollen and petal fall
 spilled blood 
 and the spittle
 of a black man’s dying breath.
  
 Not the sun
 that pretends bright mood
 and warmth penetrating 
 that soul of all who bathe in it—
 full spectrum white light
 composed of rainbow.
  
 Not the breezes
 that blow across continents
 and great waters
 across imaginary divides of greed—
 breezes joining breath to breath
 to breath
 all equal in lightness.
  
 Not the mountains
 that kaleidoscope through
 green, blue, grey, brown, black, 
 golden, pink in changing light—
 each peak 
 all races.
  
 Not the trees
 that bless the air with 
 transformative life—
 trees of every shape, size, description
 drought tolerant
 torrent tolerant
 tolerant.
  
 Not the ground itself
 every shade of brown
 millions of years of heat and upheaval
 cooling and hardening 
 and softening in great rains—
 gouged, relocated, steamrolled, 
 tread upon.
  
 Not the clear not sky
 its firefly stars 
 blinking from vast numbers
 of eons ago
 their code of creation embedded
 in every creature’s DNA
 on planet earth
 every one
 everyone.
  
 And none of it
 nothing of nature
 dwarfs the violation
 the violence
 of one human against another
 rooted in 
 random 
 assignment 
 of pigment.

The Color of Racism

Lana 13 Comments 
Lana Hechtman Ayers
  
The Color of Racism
             for Z.S.
  
 Winters, 
 my nephew drives a snowplow
 in a small Colorado town
 as white as the snow 
 he drives into high
 compressed banks.
  
 His skin is the color 
 of hickory bark 
 with the cinnamon glow 
 of youth his brief 
 twenty-three years affords.
  
 He’s shy but quick 
 to laugh, and when he does
 he tilts his chin down,
 looks up at you
 with his umber pupils
 from a doe-eyed angle.
  
 When I think of him
 so far away, commencing 
 his adult life in this 
 America,
 my heart contracts 
 with ache.
  
 Other seasons, he drives 
 the county pick-up,
 weeds and snips 
 courthouse shrubbery 
 into symmetrical shapes.
 Justice is not so
 manicured.
  
 My nephew’s skin 
 is the color of dew
 in midnight moonlight,
 a jewel on this earth
 living so far from those
 who love him.
  
 My nephew is a member
 of the brotherhood
 of all men,
 as we all are,
 with our varying
 degrees of melanin,
 but the same number
 of cytes to make
 precious brown pigment.
  
 & Some of us excel
 in pigment, my nephew’s
 skin rich, beautiful, 
 mine less so.

 Maybe you stood in line
 behind my nephew
 at Walmart,
 you just buying a gallon 
 of milk, his skin 
 the color of polite,
 said, go on ahead of me. 
  
 My nephew loves
 video games
 and pizza and burritos.
  
 Perhaps you know 
 a young man like him,
 or are the mother of 
 someone much like him, 
 or grandfather of, or teacher.
  
 Maybe my nephew has plowed
 your roadway, 
 or someone like him has,
 so the streets are safe 
 for you to pass.
  
 Maybe he mowed the grass
 in your neighborhood park
 so you could lie out 
 on sunny spring & summer days
 with your picnic and book,
 or play frisbee with friends,
 or toss a ball to your dog.
  
 My nephew loves dogs.
  
 If he’s been working hard,
 his skin glints
 as if lacquered with gold
 and if you’re lucky enough
 to behold it, my nephew’s
 contagious smile 
 will lighten your burdens
 for a while, 
 despite his dark skin.
  
 So when you ask me why
 I’m outraged 
 ask yourself why
 to white policemen 
 & 
 to white supremacists
 & 
 to whites who say they
 don’t see color,
 my nephew’s skin
 is the color of fear,
 the color of hatred,
 the color of oppression,
 the color of lynching
 in broad, bright daylight.

Close, Closer: a quarantine love poem

Lana Leave a comment 
Close, Closer
         a quarantine love poem

  
 breathe me 
         into a heat that flares
                 air tightening between us
  
 i burn within your eyes
         myself aflame & wondrous

 speak my name over & over
                 swirling vibrations around us

                         —antidote to isolation
 
i have loved you
         [inside of time]
                 ) outside of being (
  
         this moment is a trench

 i am the sea
         encompass galaxies of night

 you are moonrise
        & every 
                 gleaming
                         shadow



 © Lana Hechtman Ayers