"Love Means Never Having To See Your Mousey" or "Things That Go Gnaw In The Night"

An Introductory Comment From Nick Nash:While I'm away, Ms Lisa Glynne has agreed to step out of the shadows of the Wasatch Mountains into the glare of the blogosphere, and with my great appreciation for her efforts, here she is with her first-ever blog contribution:

Hello, lovely readers....Lisa Glynne here. I have been invited to pinch hit with a screed whilst Dr. Nash is away on another great adventure. Up until the time when I discovered his wonderful website, I thought that a "screed" was a tool that one would use to level freshly poured cement. Chances are, I've been watching too much "This Old House!" Anyway, I felt it was quite an honor to be asked, especially since he has set the screeding bar quite high with his thought provoking insight and wit. But, as I mentioned to him in a recent conversation, I think I can limbo under that bar.

This will be my first screed (or blog) ever, and the idea of it being read as such, the notion of exposing one's thoughts, seems not unlike throwing open the curtains at night in your brightly lit hotel room, only to discover an apartment building full of people right across the way, looking back in. So I will consider this a big wave to you all, and hopefully, you won't run screaming out of the building.

I was born and raised in San Francisco, California , and after a bit of living around, finally settled (for now, at least) in Salt Lake City, Utah, where I am based and working as a flight attendant for a recently-out-of-bankruptcy major air carrier. While on a layover in Honolulu, I heard some lovely music that combined the Hawaiian Slack-Key Guitar with a Dobro and some kind of flute. An unlikely combination of instruments I thought, and after asking someone about the flute, was told it was an Hawaiian Nose Flute. Intrigued, upon my return home, I did some "googling" on the internet and found the site for the Nash Company. Dr. Nash was kind enough to send me some information and history about the instrument, which apparently has ancient origins as a means of communication across the islands before the advent of electricity. It is still being played in the islands to this day, and it is beautiful stuff as long as you can get over the visual, shall I say, discomfort of observing exactly HOW it is played.

As I write this in late autumn, we are in the middle of a brilliant Fall here in Utah. The Wasatch Mountains are frosted with snow, the red, gold, orange and greenish leaves are particularly gorgeous against that backdrop, and the air is crisp. So crisp in fact, that mice, those little 4 legged critters, 'Mus Musculus' (according to Wikipedia) are looking for warmer places to snuggle into. I myself have heard some scampering in the attic, which is fine with me as long as the scampering STAYS in the attic. Little miceys have to live too, after all. I came by this attitude of rodentia tolerance during my formative years when my brother and I, after the passing of our beloved German Shepherd (who acted as a sort of canine Nanny to us) begged our parents for another pet.

The prospect of loving and eventually losing another dog or cat was not high on our folks' "fun things to do" list. They were, however, amenable to the idea of something small and furry and seemingly (to them) devoid of personality, which lived in a cage and to which we would not get awfully attached. Upon our visit to the local pet purveyor, we discovered that there had apparently been a run on gerbils and hamsters, and the only warm-blooded caged mammals left were 3 brown and cream colored Hooded (brown color runs from head down to the end of the spine, with cream color in the balance) Rattus Norvegicus, or, domesticated Norway Rats. We were young enough that there was no stigma attached to owning rats as pets - after all, we were raised on the Mickey Mouse Club, and never realized that rats were critters much maligned (remember Edward G. Robinson's famous "You Dirty Rat" line?); e.g., the under-rat. So we took them home, named them after some silly cartoon characters, and helped them set up Rattus Norvegicus housekeepingus. To our delight, we discovered that a) they were very social creatures, both towards each other and towards us, b) they were smart and trainable, and c) their breath always smelled like celery. We had a lovely albeit short relationship with them, until they went to "Farmer Brown's Ranch," a euphemism our parents used to shield us from the inevitable outcome of their pre-ordained brief lifespan.

Now, my original intention in this screed was not to wax rhapsodic about pet rat ownership, but to demonstrate my familiarity and affection for small tail-bearing mammals who try to coexist with us during the cold, dark winters. But more importantly, I want to tell you about my friend Renee, a strong woman - a golfer, swimmer, runner, and hiker, not to mention a former professional hula dancer who has toured all over the world. Definitely not a wimp. But who, not having had the childhood experience of getting up close and personal with rodents with long tails, justifiably draws the line at sharing her space with them.

One day upon returning home from a trip, a weary Renee entered her lavishly appointed, meticulously kept kitchen. A fabulous cook, she has every implement of culinary creativity a woman could ask for, and she knows how to use them. You won't be surprised when I tell you that she is also a perfectionist when it comes to ingredients; every item of produce, every dairy product, every spice and seasoning is chosen with a trained and artistic eye.

Which is why she was so perplexed to see a bunch of perfectly ripened bananas on the counter, with one tiny hole in the best one. She couldn't imagine having overlooked it when she bought them. She was pondering a possible explanation when her beloved husband Jason entered the room, chatted with her for a bit, then became quite nervous and was very obviously trying to gently shoo her into another room. After a bit more chat, she swore he was trying to get her out of the house entirely, suggesting a few non-urgent (to her) "errands."

But unfortunately she did not leave soon enough, because out of the corner of her eye she saw a grey, definitely non-domesticated blur race across the floor. A MOUSE! Jason sprung into action and, using the most humane of techniques, managed to "escort" the furry four-legged invader back out into the wilds of suburbia.

I think you will agree, dear reader, that is true love. Not only did the uber-thoughtful Jason take on the role of small-game-hunter, he tried his utmost to do it discreetly enough so that Renee would never even have to know that Stuart-Little-In-The-Raw had dropped by for a visit.

Love is love, whether it takes the form of a a kid and her pet rats, or the conquering mouse-hero and his very lucky bride. Unless, of course, you're the uninvited four-footed in the story.

Lisa Glynne