Oops, Sorry Cheryl, My Pet Hedgehog is Loose in Your House

Haha just kidding. I mean, he did escape and roam at large (I'm not sure how long because I was asleep at the time) but I apprehended him before any damage could be done.

It's like this. I was walking down the gravel road near Cheryl's place last night after Home Group at Yacob's cafe, enjoying the thick flowery scent hanging in the air and the sliver of mellow gold moon hanging in the sky, when I heard a rustle beside the road. There was still some dim light left, and I could see a dark shape about the size of my shoe (I wear 8's) shuffling around. I've never seen a hedgehog in real life, but I immediately recognize the "thing" as one because the kids had mentioned seeing one by the road not long ago.

As I bent down and got a better view of the creature (or rather, of its quills) it abrubtly stopped rooting around and pretended not to exist. Smart. But since I DID know it existed, I wasn't about to just walk away. The animal absolutely fascinated me. I thought hedgehogs were things of myth and legend (I have Brian Jacques and Beatrix Potter to thank for any previous exposure.) In fact, I read today that we don't have any indigenous species of hedgehogs in the States. Apparently people do keep them as pets.

I wanted to take it home. The Crowe kids needed to see this. I wanted to share my wonder with someone. Plus, my camera was at the Crowes, and it was well worth a picture. Wondering vaguely what the spines were really like and if they were poisonous (no, I didn't think they were) I reached down and gingerly tried to pick up the hedgehog. It immediately flinched and curled tighter, jabbing me with its needles. But I carefully worked with the thing until I could pick it up without too much discomfort.

Poor little guy. He wasn't aggressive, just shy and scared silly. I had a dawning sense of kindredness with this creature...not the hippy one-with-the-universe kindredness, but the kind of kindredness that comes of recognizing your own personality traits. Kind of funny, really.

So, I trotted down the road, Rumplestiltskin in tow. I settled on that name as we went along, feeling it was a stickery sort of name and therefore (ouch!) fitting. I went at a much quicker pace than before, goaded by pricks. Every time I moved too much, my thorny friend jerked this way and that, driving his vicious little spines into my hands.

When we got home, and I dropped him uncerimoniously on the doorstep and fished my key out to unlock the door. Lady was looking with interest by this time, and probably some jealousy as I plopped the Rumple (as I immediatly nicknamed him) in the entryway and closed the door. Right away I got the cardboard milk box-gone-potato bin and put him in it, adding a jar lid full of water and some big leaves I thought he might burrow in.

Then I inspected the little beast. He was adorable. The quills, brown with white flecks, nearly covered the visible part of his body. His face was long and pointy, with round black eyes and a soft wet nose. Even his eyebrows were clumps of spikes, and they scrunched up when I touched him. Surprisingly, the coarse-looking fur on his underside was soft and there seemed to be extra folds of skin so he could move around easily.

Since he didn't seem to be enjoying the bright light very much, I turned out the light and left Rumple by himself. He rustled around for a while, but eventually quieted down.

Eventually I went to bed, but was awakened very early in the morning by a scuffling, scratching, tapping commotion. I'd gotten used to the sound of Rumple's rumplings before I went to bed, but this noise seemed much nearer than the entry way. Much nearer. I jumped out of bed and looked at the clock: 5 am. And there was a dark sort of oblong shape on the linoleum just outside my bedroom doorway. Good grief!

I flipped the light on and returned the errant hedgehog to his box. Then I went into the other room, trying to think of something to put on top of the box to prevent further escape attemps. I didn't want anything too heavy because I was afraid he might tip it over on himself and get smooshed to death. I lit on the idea of two 8-packs of toilet paper on the shelf (Ukrainian toilet paper is more heavy-duty than ours). It would work.

I turned back just in time to see the thorny rump of Rumple disappear over the edge of the cardboard box once again! Minding my fingers, I extracted the disgruntled captive from under a shelf, made secure his prison, and returned to bed.

The added security worked, for lo, in the morning, there was Rumple still in his box, having drunk (or possibly spilled) all of his water. I didn't know what he would like to eat, but I figured he would be fine till this afternoon. I just wanted to have some show and tell. His nocturnal adventures had worn him out, and he lay curl in a ball, a sight of angelic repose.

After photo shoots and sufficient gawking at the Crowe house, we left Rumple in a corner to sleep. Clarky peeped in the box and then announced excitedly,

"The eggnog is sleeping!"

After reading up on hedgehogs via internet, we tried feeding him some boiled egg, but he was disinterested. Apparently hedgehogs are "diurnal" like cats-- they are awake mostly at night and only stay up a little in the day. They eat roots, insects, worms, and even snakes when they live in the wild, but domesticated hedgehogs can be fed cooked meat and eggs, as well as cat food and a little treat of fruits and veggies now and then. They're lactose intolerant.

He is asleep now, and I'm going to take him back to his spot and release him. I'm sure he'll be relieved. I was stricken with the thought that maybe Rumplestiltskin was a girl, and might possibly have babies that would starve to death in their captive mother's absence...but I'm not too worried. Rumple doesn't show any signs of being a mama hedgehog.

He's awfully cute and I'll be sorry to see him go...but then, he wouldn't have made the most affectionate pet with all those quills sticking out of him. It would be like hugging a pincushion in reverse!

Life for Real

I'm thinking about fairytales again. And something much more real than a fairytale. I told you I was listening to The Voyage of the Dawn Treader on audio cd...well, now I've finished that and started The Silver Chair.

This morning I was in the kitchen washing up. It was Home Group last night, and there was Deb's lauded soup, so there were bowls...and bowls...and more bowls smeared with the leftovers of something cream based and spinachy and probably delicious in its hour. I didn't mind the dishes.

Some people talk about having "laundry days." Sometimes we have "dish days." Thursdays especially, after Home Group. But there's something about a kitchen drowning in dirty dishes that throws out its taunt, its challenge, its ultimatum, and I step forward into the fray and deal it a look that silently roars, "Gimme what ya got!!"

This morning though, my mind was elsewhere, and the battle was going at a slower rate, more scattered, and you'd never have guessed I was "taking anything on." Nope.

I moved around the kitchen feeling dazed. For one thing, making too many turns in such a short time resulted in a queer carsick-y sensation in the aftermath of the stomach bug. The sun was dazzling me through the open window, shining in the warm water as it flowed from the tap into greasy pot and soup-encrusted bowl.

What was I just doing? Oh yeah, those clean dishes in drying rack. Put dishes away. Teal collander. Stainless steel spatula. Saucepans. The counter is covered in crumbs. Whose toast is smoking in the toaster? I'll wipe the counter. Water is running on my cloth.

"'I tell you the water's sweet,' said the Mouse. 'Sweet, fresh. It isn't salt...'

'Where sky and water meet,
Where the waves grow sweet,
Doubt not Reepicheep,
To find all you seek,
There is the utter East.'"

"Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life." John 4:14

Jesus, I want you.

Pot is full of greasy water. I'll clean it right now. But the drying rack is still full. Let's empty that first. Teal collander. Stainless steel spatula. Saucepans. The counter is covered in...where is that dishcloth? What, you need toast too? Sure. Here you go.

"'Come and have breakfast,' the Lamb said...Then they noticed for the first time that there was a fire lit on the grass and fish roasting on it. They sat down and ate the fish, hungry now for the first time for many days. And it was the most delicious food they had ever tasted."

"Jesus said to them, 'Come and have breakfast"...Jesus came and took the bread, and gave them, and the fish likewise." John 21:12a-13

Jesus, what would it be like for you to invite me for breakfast?

There are some more plastic bowls from last night. Green, blue, orange. No more room in the dishwasher? I'll just wash them in the sink. Warm water running in the sun. I really should put those dishes away. Teal collander. Stainless steel spatula. Saucepans. But look at the counter! Can't put the jam away yet. Who still needs jam on their toast? It's all over the counter. Where's the knife that was in the jam? Ok. I'll wash one. Sun in the water.

"'Lucy, do not look so sad. We shall meet soon again.' 'Please, Aslan,' said Lucy, 'What do you call soon?"

"I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and recieve you to myself, that where I am, there you may be also."
John 14:2a-3

Jesus, I long for you.

Wait, is there a knife in the drying...what? Teal collander? Stainless steel spatula? Saucepans? This counter sure is covered in...

Down for a Day

Back from the dead. Yesterday I woke up around 4 am with the certainty of impending doom, that is, puke...the tummy bug had infected me, too. I laid in agony till 4:30, when I got up and did the inevitable, went to bed for an hour or so, got up and puked again, and repeated the process. I hope Deb's world famous curry (which I had the night before) is not forever ruined for my taste buds.

The day seemed to slide by quickly, though I spent it languishing in bed in a mass of blankets until about 2 or 3. The sunlight came in around the edges of the curtains, and I guess I slept a good bit.

In a bold effort I rallied and set up camp on the couch in the lounge room, picked like a bird at a handful of cheerios, and tried to read. Massive headache. Then wobbled through a dizzy haze to the stereo and put in the first audio cd of the Chronicles of Narnia book The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

That was beautiful. For the next few hours I was whisked away on the Narnian breeze with Edmund and Lucy and noble Prince Caspian, and the incorrigible, nuisance- turned-nice Eustace. In spite of myself, I giggled aloud over the Dufflepuds and the kind old grandfatherly magician and Lucy's accent.

The hours pulled on. Tried to eat soup. Too puny to take a shower. Attempted another book, against my better judgement. Finally lay listening to music, letting it soak into my helplessness. All day, in the intervals between books and Narnia, scenes from the past couple years of my life played themselves over in my mind like a movie. They were jumbled, and I wanted them to come out clear so I could see what really happened. It was odd. Narnia was better.

Finally I went to bed, thinking I might not sleep well after being in bed all day. But with some painkillers I went to sleep and slept almost normally, and woke this morning still a bit unsteady, but much, much better. Deb picked me up this morning, because she and Bruce had an important visit to make with their good friends at the OVIR office for registration (oh joy!) So we're taking it slow around here today. Tuck is the only one who has been sick at the Crowes, which I'm glad of. In his words,

"It was sweating all over me like lava, and that's what made me sick!"

A Scoop of Brain Soup

I've had a lot of disjointed goobledegop going around my brain the past week and haven't wanted to blog because of it. But the less I blog, the more disjointed the jumble grows, so I may as well force something out and hope the writers block melts away on its own.

I'm rocking Noah on my hip and hoping his cookie is taking effect and will quiet the wailing. His mom just went to the store and he feels a bit bereaved.

I'm tired of writing about spring. Spring this and spring that. Spring comes to mind first because it's all around me, but it makes for boring writing after a while. Case in point.

Today Deb played a song in the house from Slumdog Millionare, a new favorite movie of mine. It's called Jai Ho, and it's sort of Indian, and wild, and beautiful, and roused my blood. I felt freaked out and wanted to know why in the world God gave us crazy emotions our brains and bodies don't have the capacity to hold or express. I have no idea why music creates such powerful emotions in me, but maybe eventually I'll start dancing and get some relief. Maybe music gives us glimpses of heaven that we crave and can't get enough of. There was something in India like that. Something in the drums, I think.

There is a little old man who lives down the street; his house is on the corner of the Crowes' street and another one. He seems to always be outside, puttering around or working on what I assume to be a chicken coop. And he has a huge grin that I look forward to every time I walk by. I've started saying "Dobry Dyen" a little more often to people I meet when walking througth the neighborhood, and I enjoy the results. Most people here are really friendly.

My brain is still mush and the writers block isn't subsiding. Maybe it's the headache I've had all day...so I'll say goodbye...

The Aroma of Spring...

Spring. Freshly plowed earth and cow dung. Shy green buds and sunshine. Short sleeves and concerned looks from Ukrainians...

I guess I always thought if you lived in a cold climate, you'd strip down to shorts and shortsleeves as soon as the sun showed its face and the temperature was the least bit tolerable. I know that my aunt, after a particularly vicious cold snap in Upstate New York, reportedly donned her shorts when it reached a cozy 14 degrees Farenheit.

But that's not the way it is in Ukraine. Here I am, shedding my jacket at the first possibility of sun on my deathly white arms, and I get these looks. I've been told that the wind is different here, blasting out of the wilds of some Artic Waste, I think...but it feels great to me.

The aromatic pungence of cow poo if wafting into my nostrils from the great outdoors, where someone is preparing that rich black Ukrainian earth for planting.

Yesterday, Bruce had a guy with a tractor out here disking up the back yard. I stood at the kitchen window in the full morning sun scrubbing the dishes, listening to the familiar drone of the tractor that, to me, signifies spring. It was so much like home that I kept looking up from the dishes, half expecting to see Dad on the tractor with one hand guiding the steering wheel and one arm around Ethan's waist. But I was disappointed. There was only an old guy with a wooly beard.

Bruce and Deb made their trip to Poland to have a few days together and get their visas renewed. The kids stayed here, with me. We stayed up here some and at the Gollans some, and managed to come through it fairly intact :) The two youngest missed mom, I think, but I got a lot of cuddles out of the deal.

One night the four older kids stayed at the Gollans and took Clark and Noah home after supper. The sun was almost down, and wind was tossing the trees. I pushed Noah up the hill in the stroller and he sat dociley, bundled in his coat, without making a peep. Clark, however, was scared of the trees and his face crumpled up to cry. He ran to my side and grabbed my hand, glancing fearfully around him at the waving branches overhead and the lights twinkling in the dusk.

"Wanna hold your hand, Cass, wanna hold your hand!"

"Ok, you can hold my hand. Help me push the stroller," I said. "Listen to the birds, Clarky," I told him. "They're singing themselves to sleep." He listened, alert, with big eyes.

"Yeah, I hear them. They're singing to sleep?"

"Mmhmm."

And then we tried singing the English equivalent of the lullabies the birds were singing, one about the sheep in the pasture and the moon being a shepherdess. But I couldn't remember all the words properly.

I've been homesick this week for no apparent reason, missing family and friends, old familiar sounds and smells and places and memories that I try not to dwell on too much. But it's ok.

"Why are you downcast, oh my soul? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God."

Well, I'll be off...time for Lady to walk me. We'll see how that new leash I found at the center works :)

In Which Lady and I Walk Each Other and Enjoy the View

Folks have been asking me how I like my new house these days, and I stare at them blankly for a few seconds before answering. The fact is, I don't know, because I've hardly been there at all the past week and a half. I've become a sort of nomad, wandering from place to place.

For two weeks Masha and I camped out at our house, and got the heating system working a week or so into it (Thanks, Tom!). I slept in Masha's room because it was much warmer than my room. When my room had stopped producing icycles and become comfortable, I slept there one night (or part of one night) and then we were off to Zhovti Vodi for the weekend. I then visited my room once more before heading to Cheryl's to housesit while she is away. Today I'm moving in with the Crowe kids for a few days while Bruce and Deb go to Poland. We'll be spending some time with the Gollans, as well.

I like it. Several months ago I was in some sort of phsycological terror of moving. It just upended me every time I even went somewhere even for a night or two. All part of culture shock, I suppose. Now, maybe somewhat due to Spring-in-the-Air, I feel carefree and happy to be a gypsy, chucking my stuff in a backpack and strolling up the road to the next house. It's not like I'm actually camping. Cheryl's place is like a little haven to me. The Crowes' house smacks of home. And Zhovti Vodi was a pleasant, mild type of adventure.

I told Masha as threw my clothes, etc. into a borrowed backpack the day I went to Cheryl's, that I felt like a runaway. But then, my Mom doesn't mind. I already ran away from home, and mostly she's fine with that.

I feel like that commercial slogan (for what, I can't remember) "You are now free to move about the country." Free to just go and love Jesus wherever, and I hope I'll learn to truly serve.

I'm learning how to walk a dog. A large, energetic dog that could knock me over and lick me to death if the whim took it. Since I'm staying at Cheryl's house it's also my privelege to walk Lady, her huge furry beast that looks sort of husky-german shepherd-I'm not sure what else-ish.

She needed a walk desperately yesterday, so I decided to brave it. Cheryl said that maybe I'd need to get Masha (who is used to dogs) to walk Lady because I might not be able to, ah, control her. But I felt I must at least attempt to overcome my cowardice and distaste.


So Lady and I went for a walk. I'm not sure who walked who exactly, or if it was really a walk or a run or a sort of trotting treasure hunt for tasty garbage. We started off on a run with me gripping the short, rather fragile looking leash with both hands. I was laughing and my hair was flying around and the neighbors were looking up from their garden plots, a little startled.

When my heart rate was sufficiently stimulated, my charge slowed to a gentle trot. But she didn't want to stay on the road. Every dog, cat, shrub, and scrap of rubbish in the neighborhood captured her interest. However, since this gave me an opportunity to stop and breath, I didn't mind so much.

The day was gorgeous. I think spring took April seriously, because since April 1 the sun has been shining, a fresh wind blowing, and the new green trying very hard to come out. It has to work harder here than in East Texas. We walked, ran, trotted, tugged, sniffed, pulled, and cavorted all over the neighborhood, enjoying the grand view of the windswept Dneiper from the hill.

Everyone in the countryside seems to be burning their fields to be rid of the dead winter stalks, and green grass bristles up everywhere throught the blackened earth like so much fresh beard on a very large face. The sun was so warm and good and the view so intriguing that I let Lady roam at will.

The twenty minute walk turned into an hour and more as we wandered. I tugged Lady down a dirt and stone track that led past a tiny cemetery. Following it down a steep hill, we came to the river. Moss covered rocks and patches of shy purple snowdrops lay under the trees. And at a lonely place near the water a giant hunk of what used to be a barge sat sagging and rusting in the weeds. It gave me an eery feeling, especially when I got up close and peeked in the portholes at the stagnant water and ruined insides. Then I caught a glimpse of the shining wide water ahead and ran towards it, with Lady bounding along at my side. The water rolled up on the sand with a rythmic sound that may as well have been the ocean for me. I felt like I was in another world, maybe Narnia, maybe better.

The sound of water brought up some deep emotion in me, like the attachment sailors have to the sea. I just wanted to fall down on the shore and worship God. Since it's a little hard to do that when holding onto a dog leash for dear life, I just darted delightedly after Lady, who sniffed and sputtered at the water, jumping and running up and down the sand strip with great vigor and trying to drag me under dead tree branches I couldn't fit through.

Finally we started home. I'll never understand dogs. Their goal in life appears to be to get as gross as possible and be admired for it.

Lady stopped on the path, sniffing at something with ears pricked up, and then flopped herself on the ground, clearly communicating even to my untrained cerebrum, "Hey look, I found some poo! Let's roll in it!" Which she did. I let her. I watched. (Sorry Cheryl, but this canine of yours hasn't had a good poo-roll in far too long- it was for her mental health, I assure you. What do you think she does when she is off her leash?) Seriously, though, there was hardly anything there. But of course if there was even an iota of grossness, Lady was going to find it.

Ah, dogs. Ah, spring. Ah, life.