of mosquitoes, mice and milkweed

in which beryl and sarah take a jaunt to montana and learn a thing or two (again)

It was, perhaps, not the wisest of moments to leave home.

Several delicious days with friends and family had left me in need of a nap. Or at least a few quiet days to spin and think. But did I give myself either of those things? Of course not.

Amped up on affection and blearily fueled by caffeine and daydreams,¹ a trip seemed like a fine idea. I made lists even as I packed: an invitation, a window of time, an exquisite (familiar) destination² — what else would I need beyond dog food, a sleeping bag, and a cooler full of vegetables and leftovers?

And summer is supposed to be the time for such things, isn’t it? Though I’m not naturally of a traveling temperament, my mother very much was, and though she died over a year ago I can still hear her voice in my head: “How exciting! A change of scene will do you so much good,” along with the unspoken tag line “thank goodness she’s getting out and doing something interesting at last.”³

Not, I have to say, the reaction I got when I told her of plans to spend days twisting coffee filters.⁴

But though I really do know I’m best off without a lot of external stimulation, I’m apparently still susceptible to the opinions of my mother’s ghost, as well as the enthusiasms of my dear flesh-and-blood friends who often burst with ideas for things I could do. So off we went.

Happily, Beryl is brilliant in the car — settling down comfortably for hours, willing to pee (eventually) at rest stops, happy both to get out and back into the vehicle wherever we are.

It was still a long drive though, and I’m not in shape for such things so was not at my best when I stepped out of the car and was instantly surrounded by a buzzing hoard of insects. I’d remembered boots for rattlesnakes and a warm jacket for early mornings, but was sartorially unprepared for mosquitoes.⁵

“How gorgeous it is. I’m going to be eaten alive.”

But Alan and I had much to catch up on and it was safely insect free inside, so I figured all would be well with a good night’s sleep in the sweet little guest cabin, my body replete with supper and friendship.

Alas— that’s not quite how it turned out.

I mean, I tried to be cool when I spied the mouse nosing around under the chair. When I saw the wee thing on the bedside table I closed my bags and hung my snacks and knitting high on the wall out of rodent reach. I even told it to “shoo” and put in earplugs so as not to be unnerved by untoward rustling.

But though there are plenty of poetic ways to poke fun at my princess problems with mosquitoes, I won’t pretend that I was the soul of generosity or good manners when the mouse, cute as ki was, climbed on the bed to share my pillow.⁶ Reader —I shrieked.

Weirdly, I could also see the humor in all of it.

Well I could see the humor once I’d transferred the snacks, knitting, sleeping bag, Beryl and my-by-then-mosquito-bitten-carcass to the car. In fact I spent the rest of the night conjuring comics in my head. For though it was remarkably comfortable with the back seats down (I could just fit diagonally across the space with a generous triangle for Beryl and another for bags), and I felt both safe and clever (draping a towel over and through the slightly open window meant we neither suffocated nor were eaten alive), I still lay awake till dawn thinking all the thoughts one thinks in the middle of the night when frightened from bed by a tiny field mouse.

Happily it was close enough to the Solstice that the sun rose early. Peeing outside was still not the easiest, mosquito wise, but I was able to pretend to function for a few hours—time enough for a walk up the steep rocky hills where the morning sun kept the insects briefly at bay and I could admire the view, the blooming prickly pear, and learn about needle and thread grasses which had a grand time hitchhiking on Beryl’s fur.

But back by the cabin exhaustion settled in, as did the clouds of insects. A brief nap helped (Alan went to set mouse traps), but I remained unsettled—itchy— even where there were no mosquito bites: longing to be home, longing to be at work, longing for something—I knew not what.

Then Alan brought in a bundle of sticks—winter retted goodness he had gathered and saved, wondering if I’d like them—and all was well. Oh, the bliss of friends.

Plucking a few strands from the bundle, I flaked off the bits of bark and gratefully began twisting—my ill humor fading with every inch of cordage.

And as my mind grew still, a storm blew in across the valley— complete with dramatic clouds and a stiff breeze that set the cottonwood leaves a-flutter. It even thinned out the the mosquito swarms enough that Beryl and I could live out our our daydreams and stroll down the road amidst the scattered raindrops.

Naturally I’d stuffed my pocket with milkweed so I could keep twisting as we walked but, fetchingly enveloped in Dan’s old shirt and a giant bandana, I did manage to pause long enough to take a video. Ah, the romance of a sage scented afternoon.

Honestly, how fortunate am I to have a friend who lives in a place like this?

And so it was with a light heart and steady head that I started home the next day —sooner than I had planned and also at the perfect moment—grateful once again to be reminded that nothing is as efficacious to my general well being as having fiber in my hands.⁷

Or the back of the car as the case may be.

And as though to make sure I was truly paying attention, the day after I returned my running comrade handed me a few more stalks of fresh milkweed she needed to thin from her garden.

I do not have any plans for this fiber, as yet.

But apparently, ki has plans for me.

Remember—best to leave a comment with the button below rather than hit “reply” to an email as I am unlikely to see the latter for quite some time. Thanks!

1. You know — daydreams of meandering off leash through the sagebrush with spindle in hand, of cooking supper on the wood cookstove I first got to know in 1979, of watching the sun rise over the Tobacco Root Mountains, of drawing and knitting on the porch of the tiny guest cabin—that kind of daydream. The kind that includes “put all your energy into the travel then rest when you get to your glorious destination” kind.

2. I’ve been visiting here since my friends first built their house in the early 1980s.

3. And it’s not just my mother. There is massive cultural approval for travel— it is, apparently good for your soul — which somehow implies that staying put to do what you love can lead to soul stagnation? Apparently all my walking about town leads to vehicular stagnation at any rate, for I have been taken to task by many a mechanic for not driving my car enough. “Look at that rust on your brake pads…”

4. Well, except for you, dear fiber-cenetric Gusset friend!

5. It’s been a thunder and rain kind of spring and summer in that part of Montana, so I gather that though they are not uncommon, there are more mosquitoes than usual this year.

6. It’s not that I’m completely mouse-phobic. I’ve dealt with them in different places most of my life, and now that Dan is no longer here to gallantly take care of them, even have to empty the odd mouse trap in the basement of my old house. I just, you know, really really don’t like them in my living space—or my bed.

7. Caroline Ross, in her wondrous post this week Grasp The Nettle, says this about this: The beautiful difficulty of processing nettles is full of haptic richness and provides a broad gateway to what I call land-joy (it needs a better name, but one has not arrived yet…).

I highly recommend the entire piece.