Pest Perspectives

Wildlife Viewing. This weathered sign greets mainlanders who arrive on the island where I live. Wellesley Island offers woodlands, grasslands, marshes, and shoreline. Deer, turkey, fox and porcupine frequent the open land along the roads. Beavers, muskrat, osprey, and herons inhabit the bays and canals. Birdwatchers come to spot songbirds. Campers at the state parks hear the mystical calls of loons and owls in the night. 

The novelty of wildlife fades when visitors become residents. The black squirrel is scorned for severing tree branches and the chipmunk for burrowing in the perennials. Coyotes are disparaged for their predatory nature and the geese for their prolific waste. Another sign, newer and five times larger, offers pest control. There’s never just one. Eaves are sprayed for spiders, foundations for ants. Our neighbors trap and relocate a woodchuck and a raccoon.  

This is an old story. We believe our needs and habits take precedent over those whose land we have usurped.  

I hang wasp decoys on all sides of the house. Like Chinese lanterns, they are orb-shaped to resemble paper wasp nests. I read that wasps will not infringe upon other wasp territory. A tin owl suspends below our porch light, to discourage birds’ nests, only because our comings and goings would prevent parents from caring for the eggs and hatchlings. Goldie does her best to chase the squirrels off the orioles’ oranges. But the savvy squirrels feast on the oranges when Goldie and I take our walk. 

Despite discouragement, the so-called pests persist. The bats spend their days tucked into the folds of our patio umbrella. Rogue black ants scuttle across the counter after a heavy rain. Spider webs glisten outside the kitchen window. The ticks find their way into our house on Goldie. We give plenty of leeway to the snapping turtle who annually buries her eggs by our lamppost. 

When wildlife crosses our arbitrary boundaries, we lose sight of Mother Nature’s complex system. Yet, because of her scheme we can marvel at the gobbler’s fan, admire the delicate leap of a deer, and wonder at the engineering of a beaver dam. All creatures have a gift or a purpose in a design much bigger than the one we comprehend.  

As is often the case, a change in perspective fosters deeper understanding. I vow to be more benevolent toward all living things, animals and people alike. 

No Better Friend

Think of the charismatic friend that you haven’t heard from in almost a year. She’s the impulsive one known for her mood swings. She arrives unannounced, scolding you for moping around the house in your wool socks. She insists you drag the chairs out of the garage and light the grill. You mix boat drinks. A flock of robins stops by. Birdsong and flights of honking geese play as a soundtrack. A warm south wind carries off the winter dust and the sun glows. You haven’t felt this giddy since sometime in December.  

She calls herself Spring but refuses to be a stereotype. She’s temperamental. She throws stormy tantrums that can rip shingles off a house. She gets weepy for days on end sending all the creeks over their banks. A day after your reunion, she gives you the cold shoulder. Snow falls on your tulips and you scramble to protect your bleeding hearts from a hard freeze. An arctic front chases you back into the house. The furnace growls. You knew Spring was unpredictable, but she dazzled you…as always. 

A week later contrite Spring returns to your door in emerald-green velvet holding bunches of daffodils prepared to paint your sky cerulean blue. You forgive. She’s invited a few others, the ground hog, the chipmunks, and the redwing black birds. The temperature trends upward. Fresh-cut grass perfumes the air. Unlike Winter, Spring never overstays. Before she leaves, she makes sure the goslings hatch, the trillium blooms, and the orioles build their nests. She loathes goodbyes, so she’ll leave without warning, heading to regions north. 

Suddenly, you’re under the stifling glare of Summer, complaining about the heat, missing Spring’s cool nights. Within six months a cold-hearted Winter will move in for an extended residency. By then you will have forgotten Spring’s faults. You will long for the scent of lilacs and the sight of swans drifting on the water. In your memory every Spring day shimmered lush, green and brilliant blue. 

You will find no better friend than Spring. She dispels the gloom, enlivens the days, and draws you into the sunshine.  

The Nature of Dirt

Winter’s dirt is getting ahead of me. Birdseed and sunflower-seed shells migrate into the house from the deck on the soles of our shoes, scattering across the carpet like confetti after a celebration. Fine ash drifts out of the wood burner settling on all horizontal surfaces. Sand from the road drops out of boots and paws. Pieces of gravel resist the suction of the vacuum and after a few spins in the roller ricochet free. Golden dog fur weaves into carpets or mingles with dust to form roving tumble weeds. I call myself the Queen of Clean. Dirt is an easy fix. 

Doubt is a lot like dirt. It settles under the skin like grit settles under the carpet edges, grinding away, undermining conviction. Doubt clouds the vision. It distorts the view like the nose prints on our sliding glass door. Goals that once appeared crystal clear dull under a dusty haze. Doubt can take an aspiration and soil it so that one is tempted to discard the idea altogether. Whatever a person hopes to achieve can be ruined by doubt’s dirty habits.  

My surefire solution for dirt includes hot water, Murphy’s Oil Soap, and a can of Liquid Gold. If absence of dirt defines clean, then absence of doubt defines confidence. I’m not the queen of confidence. I don’t have a solution for doubt in my cupboard. It spreads like mildew through my writing goals. My granddaughter concocted a confidence-spell, a little vial of blended herbs and select crystals sealed with yellow wax. I place it nearby when I write. As a last resort I rely on positive affirmations from the Truvia sweetener packets. If only I could see the Wizard. 

Success builds confidence. There’s the dilemma. How does one succeed with doubt spawning avoidance and fear of failure? I’m going to try spot cleaning. Select one small area and saturate it, like a coffee stain on the sofa. In bits and pieces, I will eliminate doubt and grime from corners. Maybe then confidence will shine.  

I have no doubt about one thing. The house will soon be spic-and-span, because I understand the nature of dirt. 

If you had no doubt about success, what would you attempt? 

Ice Trax for Life

Icy winters on Wellesley Island require traction. Last year I never set foot on ice. If I needed to go anywhere, I headed through the connected garage straight to the all-wheel drive Subaru. Needs change. Our new family member, a three-year-old golden Aussie mix, requires daily walks. Her enthusiasm for sprints jeopardizes the biggest safety objective in my life: DON’T FALL. 

With the first dusting of snow, I pulled on vinyl-soled boots. When the muddy trails froze, I skidded trying to keep pace with Goldie. I ordered heavy duty snow boots that arrived just in time for the December blizzard. The new calf high boots cinch tight with Velcro and have soles like winter tires. Because Goldie’s furry feet gather ice balls like glass marbles, I purchased a set of boots for her as well. We were all set. 

Then a slight warm-up compacted the snow. Freezing rain sealed everything in a glossy coat of varnish. Recurring layers of ice and snow transformed into the slickest substance on the earth. I didn’t dare step out the front door. 

I now have Ice Trax, flexible straps that stretch over boots with nine metal spikes to puncture the ice. I’m as sure-footed as a mountain goat. 

Winter days indoors are just as slippery in their own way.  I wake up early, get Goldie out, complete the morning tasks, and sit down with a cup of coffee. That’s when I lose traction. I spend the next hour on the crossword, scroll through Pinterest boards, or watch the birds devour seeds. I need to get a grip on the day.  

I added a day planner, sort of like boots with heavy treads. It’s not just another calendar, but a place to make to-do lists. All my desired accomplishments can be recorded and checked off as completed. It works on days when items are Empty the dishwasher or Call to schedule an eye exam. If I’m expected to show up someplace, I can navigate that. But as soon as the list includes something like Organize the closet or Paint the ceiling, I skid. 

Honestly, how important is a clean closet or fresh paint? After all, my decades are numbered…with very low digits. The to-do list works more like dis-traction. Forget tiresome chores. The decade of 70 demands fulfillment. 

I’ve been wrong about life’s traction. Now is the time to get off the navigable trails and get out on the ice. Forget safety, danger lurks within every day. This is not about fall prevention, it’s about standing up for final chances. I have a manuscript to polish, a website to launch, and an author’s platform to build. That’s the worst ice storm I can imagine.  

I’m reviving PowerAgers as my Ice Trax for life. I hope you join me.

The Three-Marker Challenge

My PowerAger friends demonstrate that learning never stops. When they retired from their careers, they took up new hobbies, part-time jobs, and community service.  From kayaking to golfing to biking, directing charities and food banks, working locally and travelling far, they continue to flourish.

I have not strayed from my familiar pursuits. But the gift of extended time with the granddaughters broadened my experience. I learned to do the Floss and I can perform the Cup Song from Pitch Perfect. Give me white glue, activator, shaving cream and I can concoct a cloud slime. I know how to play Wii bowling and the live version of Among Us. The Norris Nuts feel like extended family. Once, I had a brief cameo on TikTok.

More aligned to my inclinations is the Three-Marker Challenge.  Each participant gets a coloring page. Ideally, my son has printed three versions of the same picture from his computer. But any three coloring-book pages can work. The bin of markers is placed within reach. One at a time, we each close our eyes and select three markers. We must color the picture using only those three markers.

Coloring proceeds. Mickey Mouse might have purple ears, an LOL girl could end up with a green complexion, and a nature scene might look like vegetation from another planet. I appreciate how the limited palette requires experimentation in contrast and complement. Best of all, we can let go of what is the “right” color for sky, for animals, or even for skin. Artistry rules.

When I first engaged in this challenge, the girls made it a competition. Of course, the person using beige, brown, and gray had a slim chance to win. Peeking accusations sometimes erupted. On occasion I spotted one of the girls planting a particular color on top of the marker pile in advance. Lately, we simply present our results and relish our originality.

If life is like the Three-Marker Challenge, I do not qualify. I have been gifted a full set of broad-tip and fine-tip Crayola markers arranged in rainbow order. I have the colors to create any life I want. In actual life those who got beige, brown, and gray through the luck-of-the-draw face the coloring bias. How can anyone make an appealing life mural without access to the primary colors? We need all the colors to illustrate life’s nuance. No wonder some resort to cheating.

A few rule changes might establish more equity. Allow returns, exchanges, or trades. Or individuals choose three desirable colors. Maybe four. Even more radical, participants might share their markers. Surely, we can find a way for everyone to start with a basic set of eight.

Thanks to my granddaughters I now have a better understanding of Social Marker Justice.

Move Something

My mom could decorate on a dime. She antiqued tables, sewed throw pillows, and framed her own art for the walls.  I remember kitchen curtains from natural muslin which she decorated with bold red and black Xs and Os. She rearranged furniture regularly. Chairs waltzed in and out of rooms. The sofa would give us a view of our wooded back yard, and the next month offer us a seat across from the paneled wall featuring my aunt’s original paintings. The dining room might be converted into a T.V. room, the dining table repurposed as a lamp stand.  Without excess funds to buy new furniture, rearranging gave our house a facelift. A fresh look at no cost.

My husband, Paul, and I have lived in our home nearly five years, and the furniture has remained in place. With excess time spent viewing the same walls this past year, I am ready for change.  I need a fresh look.

When the pandemic began, I retrieved a worn dusty drop-leaf table from the garage. That table became my desk. I used it for Zooming. I held Facetime calls with the grand girls. I wrote letters and blogs on its maple surface. A table that was one truckload away from the thrift store became an asset for stay-at-home life. Regrettably, a cherished antique plate rack that no longer fit behind the newfangled desk went into storage.

My wall upgrade would start by resurrecting the plate rack. I carried it into every room in the house hoping that like a divining rod, it would lead me to its rightful place. It kept drawing me to a wall near our kitchen that was already utilized with four black and white photos of the grand girls. From my tour of rooms, I realized that the girls’ pictures would enhance the family photo gallery in our bedroom. Pictures down, holes filled and painted, I anchored the rack into place.

Rather than plates, I previously used the piece to display children’s books, Pinkalicious, Purplicious, Goldilicious, and Silverlicious. With the grand girls confined in Canada, the display was ineffectual.  I cast around for an idea. In a basket on the floor, I spotted my collection of Thousand Islands publications. They slid willingly into place, boasting history and geography.

The momentum continued. We gathered Paul’s colorful New York hunting licenses from the nineties, arranged them on black matting, and hung the collection. Paul reevaluated his hoard of mounted deer antlers. Some cherished trophies we already have on display. Others from annual hunting trips in Pennsylvania and New York still await their fate. I selected mounted horns from Townsend Hollow, New York. They found a home in our laundry room. Next, we dismantled half a dozen family picture collages from the 80s and 90s. We sorted the photographs into picture boxes, discarded the wooden frames, glass, and faded mats.

Every room in our house enjoyed an upgrade. We made insignificant changes at no cost with little effort. But the results satisfied. My attitude improved and my outlook shifted. My mom clearly understood the principle of physics behind furniture rearrangement:

“Nothing happens until something moves. When something vibrates, the electrons of the entire universe resonate with it. Everything is connected.” -Albert Einstein

Need a pick-me-up? Ready for an attitude adjustment? Yearn for a fresh perspective, but lack the enthusiasm to make big changes? Move something.  

The Subplot

A Canadian Immigration Officer, my antagonist, questioned me today at my place of quarantine. If this is the crisis in the story, as the protagonist I have three choices: resist the existing restrictions (unlawful), return to a Covid-free world (impossible), or prevail and redefine a way forward.

The universal story underlies every aspect of our lives.  A look back reveals all the chapters we have lived. As in a story, obstacles test us. Characters help or hinder us. Hopefully, like protagonists, we grow and transform, using personal strengths to meet the ultimate crisis of each stage.  With extreme difficulties, we might even become heroes.

Every story fits the framework of the universal plot: initiating incident, first energetic marker, second energetic marker, third energetic marker, crisis, climax, and resolution. A subplot can emerge in the middle of a larger story. It follows an ascending line to its own crisis. Once the subplot resolves, attention reverts to the feature story.

When I turned sixty-five, I intended to document the storyline of my senior-hood. For the first two years, I narrated the predictable plot: relocation, grandparenting, and eldercare. Human interest themes dominated with a bit of action from animals and birds. I hoped fellow seniors might relate.

In the middle of my light senior narrative a subplot developed: the pandemic. Just as expected, it follows the universal plot.


 March 11, 2020: Covid-19 is declared a pandemic.


March 18, 2020: The U.S.-Canadian Border closes. I leave my son’s Canadian home and return to the United States just before border security halts travel.


June 24, 2020: My husband and I obtain a compassionate exemption to enter Canada with proper documentation and a mandatory self-isolation.  


January 4, 2021: We reach the 180-day limit as foreign nationals and must return to the U.S.


March 3, 2021: We are needed in Canada.

11:30 a.m.: We arrive at the border to enter, but restrictions have intensified.  Officials reject our documents. We return home in defeat.

2:30 p.m.: After regrouping, I obtain the proper documentation and return to the border alone. I fudge some details. I receive instructions on the Quarantine Act. The Immigration Officer allows me to enter.


A crisis causes the protagonist to see that external events are not the obstacle. The power to control life has always been through choice.


March 9, 2021 10:30 a.m.: An Immigration Officer arrives to confirm my compliance. I answer questions to the best of my ability and the officer appears satisfied. I have done all I can to keep Canadians safe. Most of all, I made an incredible effort as a parent and grandparent during the pandemic year.


March 9, 2021 3:30 p.m.:  My pharmacy sends notice that I can schedule my first dose of vaccine. Reunions might be as close as six weeks. I will return to the United States with a new resolve to invest more effort in my own life.

What is your pandemic story?

New Year Solutions

In keeping with the new normal, I am adapting the New Year’s resolution.  I drop the re- and go with solution. I do not want to re-anything right now. I would like all new. In 2021 I will find solutions…to problems. There is never a shortage. They come disguised as puzzles, riddles, quandaries, conundrums, mysteries, equations, pickles, challenges, and dilemmas.

Unsolved dilemmas from 2020 persist. Some problems go way back. Dreaded conundrums rise even after we have weighted them down with cement blocks and dumped them into the deepest strip mine lake. Unforeseen challenges lie in wait. This time last year, we were still oblivious of the pickles yet to come.

I cannot solve massive problems. The new president and his cabinet must tend to those. I will not tackle philosophical riddles such as the meaning of life. I have difficulty finding meaning in each day sometimes. The headaches we have with our appliances are not worthy of a solution, just a quick fix. Currently, our stove’s touch pad is on the blink and our washer is permanently out of balance. I want to find satisfying solutions to the obstacles thrown my way.

To help me prepare for 2021 I looked for examples from 2020. I discovered that last year I solved a challenge, a puzzle, and a mystery. Let me explain.

The Challenge: Empty my dad’s apartment after he moved into a long-term care facility.

In record time, my sister, Tami, and I packed, moved, or stored every antique chest, cupboard, table and chair until it found a choice spot in our children’s homes. We bequeathed vintage crocks, coffee grinders, and framed prints.  Mom’s Christmas collections were ample enough to bedeck five houses this holiday. What great fortune that the antique appraiser took the most valuable items to his auction before the pandemic. In the years since my mom’s death, I had dreaded the overwhelming and emotional task of disseminating the treasures. Now I am joyful to see our children cherish the prized objects.

The Puzzle: Navigate the border closing between the U.S. and Canada in order to reunite with our son, Reed, and his daughters.

After the first 100 days of the pandemic pause, the Canadian government permitted immediate family members to reunite in Canada. My husband, Paul, and I obtained the required documents, followed the strict quarantine protocols, and mastered the subtle communication skills required for admission. Over the past six months, we have made brief visits to our house and returned to Canada under the same constraints. When so many grandparents long for reunion with quarantined family, we assemble a multigenerational puzzle.

The Mystery: Uncover the story of my birth.

I have known since I was about ten that my mom married my dad when I was three. Dad adopted me when they married. Learning this never changed my contented life or my loving bond with my dad. When I became an adult and my birth father initiated a relationship, I declined. For reasons I have not yet analyzed, I never sought details regarding my early years. The many photographs of me with my mom and extended family filled the gap.  My mom would gladly have provided the narrative, but I never asked before she died.

One person who experienced those years with my mom and me still lives in my hometown. Last March I arranged to meet Mary Ann and hear the story. My mom’s best friend from 1953 answered all my questions. She had good reason to remember every detail. She was with us on the day Mom brought me home from the hospital as a newborn. That is when she received a call that her mother had died. Mary Ann and I have been linked by motherhood all these sixty-seven years and I never realized it.

Twenty-twenty showed us that we never know what difficulties will materialize. I read that inside every problem lies an opportunity. Bring on the predicaments, the jams, and the fixes. I am ready for this year’s possibilities.


Grateful Ranking 2020

My third annual Thanksgiving post comes late. The way time has contorted itself this year maybe any time works. In 2018 I identified ten insignificant things that made a significant difference to my comfortable life. My husband inspired that list with his comment, “It doesn’t take much to make me happy.”

I revisited that list a year later and found many items to be irrelevant. A new list of ten evolved from 2019. This year’s events have rendered both previous lists inconsequential. Note the ironies from last year’s ranking.

My reliable Subaru Outback (10), with 188,000 miles of travel, now sits in Reed’s driveway for weeks on end while I quarantine 14 days of every month. Like me, the tires deflate from lack of use.

My visits to the local Macsherry Library (7) and the Price Chopper Market (8) have ceased now that I reside in Canada. No worries, I still read on my Kindle and enjoy food from Canadian markets.

Last year I treasured the open border between the U. S. and Canada (4), our access to family. That border has now been closed for nine months with no sign of opening. Canada’s compassionate exemption has permitted us to enter.

2020 Trivial Five

In 2020 life compressed. In my small daily circle five essential pandemic items came to mind keeping with the theme it doesn’t take much to make me happy. On any designated day, the rankings shift.

toilet paper

disinfectant wipes




2020 Vital Five

Even though I don’t venture far, my basic wants are met. Unfortunately, multitudes find themselves in dire need. The contrast between my circumstances and theirs prompted me to recognize five basic requirements of a comfortable life. I find it impossible to prioritize these.

clean air

safe water

food security

economic stability


 I greet every day having access to the trivial and the vital benefits for which I am grateful.


Picture Day

My granddaughters are already psyched for this week’s school picture day. Ensembles are selected. Alarms will go off early. Hair will be styled. This baffles me. Photos are not a novelty anymore. With special events in short supply these days, perhaps picture day itself inspires them to look their best. In today’s world this is the photo op, a chance to shine in the spotlight. Just in time for the holidays, the final prints will be ready for frames or sent to the relatives. Picture day endures despite the pandemic.

As an elementary teacher it was my experience that school went awry on picture day. If you are a non-educator, I do not expect you to understand how school pictures disrupted the educational process. Let me explain.


The photography company sent posters to hype the event. They hung above every drinking fountain, outside the office, and in the multipurpose room. A color brochure of immaculate smiling young models showed the purchase options, combinations of wallet-size, 3×5, 5×7, 8×10, photo key chains and similar trinkets. A subtle psychology worked to influence choices. Did your child deserve the Basic, the Standard, or the Deluxe package?


Classroom teachers distributed packets to students who carried them home to the parents and guardians. The children were relied upon to return the envelopes, selections clearly marked, with cash or check by the scheduled day for pictures. Balancing the books must have been crazy. The cash did not always match the package price. Checks were made out to the company, to the school, the PTO, and even to me. This process had more pitfalls than mail-in voting ever could.

Every morning, from the time the order-forms were sent home, I would request the returned envelopes be handed to me for safe-keeping in our classroom vault, a locked drawer. On picture day I put the packets into the hands of the children only when they formed a line and proceeded to the photographer. At least one student would have to make an emergency call home requesting the picture order be rushed to the school.


My students, grade three, were always scheduled late in the day. The impossible aim to keep dress clothes tidy through physical education, art class, and lunch turned the day on its head. I postponed outdoor recess despite noisy objections. Anxiety increased. At last from the intercom, “Mrs. Findlan, please bring your class to the library. Be sure all students have order forms and money.” Cheers would erupt.


We proceeded down the hallway envelopes in hand. One or two boys wore a tie and several girls sparkled in gowns suited for the red carpet. Fortunately, even students without envelopes had a photo taken. Their disappointment would come later when the developed prints arrived for only those who purchased.


We arrived at the library, and the photographer’s assistant requested I arrange the children by height, either tallest to shortest, or vice versa. The ends of the line fell into place easily.  The others put themselves shoulder to shoulder or back to back. Arguments erupted. Plus, dress shoes changed proportions we had previously known.

 I attempted to tuck, tie, and smooth the shirts and dresses. I did my best to tame the boys’ hair using the little black combs every student is supplied.  When they learned the combs were theirs to keep, they beamed as if they held five-dollar bills.


One by one the children perched on the stool, tilted their heads and gave toothy smiles.  Teachers had a photo taken as well. The children took full advantage to become unruly when I was behind the velvet curtain, so I seldom wore a natural smile in my picture.

We marched back to the classroom, dropped off combs and bolted to the playground. Unfettered joy abounded as they mounted the play structures and raced around the grass, oblivious to smudges and stains. I suppressed thoughts of November retakes.


Mayhem would soon resume with Halloween and continue for two months as each holiday flowed into the next.  The stretch of increased excitement and erratic schedules began on picture day and lasted until the new year.

 I cannot fathom how picture day and the months that follow will be orchestrated during this pandemic, whether in person or virtual. Teachers, resourceful troopers and classroom warriors, will do what it takes…and smile.