My 4-year old, Kessa, asked me today, "Where do the mice play?" I believe it's part of a song she learned in preschool. I told her that at Grandma and Grandpa Lovell's house they like to play in the grain shed, because they like to eat grain. Suddenly a memory flooded over me.
I remember being back in the shed immediately behind the brick shed. I don't remember much else about that shed. I don't remember what was in it. I just remember being out there. I found a nest of baby mice. They appeared abandoned and very sad. It broke my little heart to see them. I tried to convince my mom to let me bring them inside and nurse them back to health. She would have nothing of the sort. (Looking back I can see her perspective. She spent half her life trying to kill mice. Why would she try to save some?) I spent a lot of time out there the next couple of days, holding them, petting them, and speaking encouraging words to them. They ended up dying anyway. I'm sure I was sad about it. But mostly I just remember how cute baby mice were, as opposed to their grown up counterparts. Though, I suppose that's true about most animals, isn't it?
