Why I Like Rodents and Here Comes Dad!

Ok, I admit it. I have this thing about rodents. I really, really like rats and mice and gerbils and hamsters and, and, and...and whatever other rodents there are that you can put in a cage. I know this is sick, but it's how I am. (And, yes, I will get to the part of this story that goes with the picture of the plane, but hold on!)

I confess that it started when my youngest, then about five, wanted to get a rat. She convinced me that they are social creatures with a heart of gold (come on!) and that she had to have one. Like any self-respecting mother, I said yes. You can have one, but you have to take care of it.

But everybody knows about Norman, the rat. (I've talked about him in other posts, so you'll have to go read that if you want the gory details.) He's the rat who is buried under the big log with the cross (made of pencils) jammed in the top in my backyard. He received the highest level burial in this family, better even than my own father who insisted that we spread his ashes over his favorite tavern.

Now that's a story. Ok, so my brother, my niece, my sister, and the pilot go up in this little two seater plane, nearly taking out a few trees on their way up, and my other sister and I wait on the shore of the bay, next to my father's favorite tavern, for the arrival of the ceremonial tossing of the ashes. Finally the plane comes along, they open the window, and then dump the ashes out of the plane. I pull up my hood and yell to my sister, "Take cover! Here comes Dad," (you'd have to understand the relationships here to get this) as the ashes land on MY head. Yes, MY head. And my sister's head. Totally missed the tavern. Hardly got any in the bay. Most of them landed on ME and in the parking lot of the restaurant next to the tavern.

I stand there with this gray stuff all over me. "Thanks, Dad," I say. "That was really nice."

Thank God there weren't a lot of ashes or I'd have been the one who was buried that day.

Which is why I say that my rat got a better burial than my dad. But it's how he would have wanted it. No muss, no fuss. He was a basic guy, with a house as austere as just about any vacant house on the block. But that's another story.

Which reminds me. When we got his ashes, they arrived in a cardboard box with a plastic liner. My sister, Charlene, really wanted some of those ashes. She wanted to put them in a glass box and keep them on her mantle. Why? I don't know. She wanted to be close to him?

But the problem was that he was in this box. I could see that it was killing her, so I went to the kitchen, got a big honking spoon and a baggie, and went back to the dining room table. I opened the box of ashes and started shoveling some into the baggie. My brother opens the door and says, "What are you..." and then he just leaves.

And my sister sits there with tears in her eyes as I shovel her some really gray, gritty ashes with a tooth or two mixed in, because she now has a part of my father and he is going to live on her mantle.

I, on the other hand, do not have a bone of sentimentality in me, except when it comes to my own kids, so I didn't need any of the ashes. I did appreciate, however, the idea of dumping them on your favorite tavern. If only they'd hit the mark.

Which is why I love rodents so much. You put them in a cage. No muss, no fuss. When they die, you toss them in the garbage, unless, of course, the rat is someone as good as Norman, in which case, he gets a burial in our family plot out back.