Bookworms Anonymous

It's here!

You can find your copy on Amazon.com.  

The women are gathered again! Bookworms Anonymous is a non-traditional reading group established in 2000, comprised of seven women in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. They meet monthly to share a gourmet vegetarian meal and discuss and swap books. Part memoir, part cookbook and part celebration of words and reading, Bookworms Anonymous Volume II contains many of the same things found in Volume I: reading group meetings, anecdotes, book reviews and recipes. "A love letter to reading, beautifully rendered, and with all the warmth and fun and closeness of your favorite book club on that perfect meeting night." - Robert Kurson, author of Shadow Divers and Crashing Through "A warm celebration of two of life's most vital ingredients--books and friendships." - Ellen Airgood, author of South of Superior and Prairie Evers

Bookworms Anonymous Volume II

Coming Soon:  Bookworms Anonymous Volume Two!

If you enjoyed the first volume, you'll love this one!  

Part memoir, part cook book, part love letter to reading, Bookworms Anonymous Volume Two allows the reader to attend meetings of everyone's favorite book club.  Enjoy more book reviews, more recipes and an updated list of Bookworms Anonymous Stamp of Approval books.

Watch for it on Amazon.com, available on or before February 7, 2014. 

Don't just sit there, read!

Testing the Current

Testing the Current by William McPherson
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is the story of a year in Tommy McAllister's life, beginning when he's 8, then going back to his 7th year and ending just past where it begins.  It takes place in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, which is called Grand Rivere, in the late 1930s.  Tommy's family is wealthy, so they didn't feel much effect from the Depression, but some of his classmates and neighbors did.  He's careful not to show off in front of those who have less than he has.

Tommy is trying to figure out life, and he learns a lot during this year.  He's very curious, always asking questions, and giving out too much information at inappropriate times.  The book effectively illuminates that time in history, and the class levels and traditions of that time.  I imagine this is what my grandmother's life was like then, as she lived in that town during that time and had small children much like Tommy.

It's a subtle tale, a bit wordy, but very enjoyable.


View all my reviews

The Long-Shining Waters

The Long-Shining Waters is a celebration of Lake Superior.  Three story lines, in three different centuries, are tied together by setting.  Lake Superior has been here for eons, and will remain long after we're all gone.  The stories in this book relate Superior's beauty, her strength and her fierce moods.

In 1622, an Indian settlement along Superior's shores survives various accidents and visions.  In 1902, a young married couple homesteads on a remote beach.  In 2000, a bar burns down, forcing the owner to take stock of her own life and propelling her to journey around Lake Superior, viewing her from all sides.  The three stories are interspersed with mysterious poem-like snippets, as if told by Lake Superior herself.

Go ahead: open the cover and fall into the poetic prose. Each story line is related with great attention to detail and in powerful language that compels the reader to visit Mother Superior and pay homage.  If you haven't seen Lake Superior yourself, it's time to make the journey.  She's a true inland-ocean.

Read the book and plan your trip.

FREE Kindle book!

Bookworms Anonymous is available FREE through Christmas Eve!  Click here to get your copy now.

Part memoir, part cookbook, and part informational guide, Bookworms Anonymous is a laudatory examination of reading as a hobby, diversion, obsession, even sport. The book features a Bookworm's eye view of eight meetings as well as menu plans, recipes, and instructions for establishing your own chapter of the fresh, frugal, fun book club known as Bookworms Anonymous.

The book includes lists of the club's favorite reads, Book Handling Commandments, book shuffling and other literary athletic pursuits, strategies for finding reading time every day, anecdotes about life in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, and many book reviews (mostly positive).

A light, fun read, it makes a great gift for any reader in your life.

This is your chance to get a last minute Christmas gift for the readers on your list...especially the tech-savvy readers who enjoy reading on their Kindle devices or apps.

De Tour Village: A Village Christmas

Join us on December 1, 2012 for A Village Christmas!

 

It's a Village-wide event, featuring various artisans and crafters from the Eastern Upper Peninsula.  The Village merchants join in the fun too, offering sales and great deals during this festive day.

 

See the official Facebook Event page for more information, and plan a trip to De Tour Village!  If you haven't been here yet, it's time you came to see what all the excitement is about.

Extreme Writing

As mentioned in Bookworms Anonymous, extreme reading is a little recognized sport performed by reading outside.  I doubt we'll ever see it in the Olympics, or witness a district extreme reading tournament. It's not really a spectator sport; the reader/performer is the team, the audience and the coach. 

Extreme reading exercises the brain and can improve coordination when re-filling lemonade glasses require frequent trips into the house  (setting the book down isn't allowed;  the extreme reader can walk and read at the same time, navigating stairs and thresholds with ease).  After cocktail hour begins and vodka is added to the lemonade, the challenge of extreme reading increases.  Barked shins and bruised books serve as evidence of extreme reading while under the influence. 

This summer, with its sweltering, sweaty heat (yes, even here in the UP, we're stewing daily in 85+ degree weather), has forced me outside to work on my book.  The laptop runs hot, so I set up the extreme nerd outdoor office, consisting of a TV tray table and a shelf with my reference materials stationed at my elbow.  We don't have central air conditioning because we would only use it about once every five years, so we seek shade and air movement outside to survive the threat of heat stroke.  We dream of blizzards and icicles, hoping the mental images will trick our brains into cooling us off.  So far, it isn't working, but at least I'm getting some writing done. 

Country Mice in the City

Tomorrow I embark on a journey to the city. Chicago! Named for a wild onion, it's the city of big shoulders and wind and it's my favorite major US city (I've been to NYC, LA, St Louis and Orlando, so those are the comps). My sister, daughter and I will stay just outside the city itself and take the train in every day as if we're commuting. We'll stroll the Mag Mile and State Street, take in a show at the Briar Street Theatre and eat lunch at Ed Debevic's. It's October so we will enjoy a color tour all the way there and back and we can leave our outer layers at home.

We'll stop at a Borders Books. This alone is worth the 8-hour drive, each way, so we can sit on the second floor drinking coffee in the window and watching people scurry by on the pavement below. We'll shop at Macy's. Macy's! And the fabulous Columbus Day Sale! Oh, to live in a place with stores. I'm also bringing three of my books to leave in various strategic locations for someone to pick up and read.

This, the eve of a trip to the city, makes me wonder what it would be like to live in an urban place. It seems glamorous from here, tucked into the woods where the only culture is the free karaoke performance at the bar. I'm sure I'd take in a play at least once a month and rarely eat dinner at the same place, cook less often than I do now (it's become my  least favorite chore) and buy fresh flowers from the corner stand regularly. I'd probably dress better--a Life Is Good T-shirt would not be considered dressy casual in a city--and I'd know all of the train schedules, which taxis are the fastest, and the shortest routes on the safest streets. I would be just one more anonymous soul trying to get through the day with no one asking me how I like my new job or if I've seen the new hairstyle of the girl at the gas station.

I'd miss the trees. And my routine: a five-minute, five-mile commute to work on a two-lane road canopied by maple trees much of the way, mine frequently the only vehicle on the entire route. I run out the door most mornings, my boots untied and coat half-on, turn up the radio to hear 5% of the news events occurring in the world, none of which impact our lives here, and which  my commute was longer so I could hear the rest of the story. I always see Mrs. Goetz in her window, watching me turn toward work, so she can later report to me what time I arrived every day last week. She's pretty accurate--if any local employers are considering time clocks, they should just hire her. She'd also be a reliable alibi corroborator if one had driven by her house at the time of the murder. She'd remember, down to the minute, what time she spied the vehicle and which direction it was headed.

But I digress. We are traveling to the city, it will be fabulous, then we will travel home and it will be even more fabulous for the brief interlude of urban sophistication. 

UP Living

Some days it's easier to remember why we live here, and today was one of those days. Autumn is just peeking through, painting random leaves and gracing us with bright sunshine and cool, crisp days. The tourists are gone now so there's no traffic, no need to lock anything, and I can leave my purse in the truck without worrying whether it'll still be there when I return. The temperature is perfect for light activities, there's no wind and everything smells of earthy, rotting leaves. I spent the day designing five different electric services, driving from one beautiful hunting camp to the next, from the hardwoods to the rocky beach of Lake Huron.

Then I came home and sat on the porch, reading my book (remember, reading outside is an extreme sport) in the sun with a cup of coffee. Heaven.

Today was the kind of day I want to tuck into my back pocket and retrieve next February when we're buried beneath six feet of snow and the newscasters are advising us to stock up on supplies (every good Yooper is always stocked up on supplies, so this dire announcement usually doesn't inspire any action, just humor).

Superfluous Apostrophes

My  new job entails driving to a lot of remote camps and summer homes on roads with no posted names too narrow to pass another truck unless one backs up to the nearest wide spot or driveway to allow the other one by. I've always had a pet peeve for superfluous apostrophes, but this peeve has blossomed into a full-blown affliction, rapidly approaching syndrome-class. It seems of the obviously-wealthier-than-the-locals summer people, able to afford a second home on the water in the pristine Upper Peninsula and bent on plastering their name on every sign post at ever intersection, at least 95% of them put an apostrophe before the S to pluralize their surnames. For example, the sign might say "Welcome to the Harrison's" or simply "The Mason's". These signs were created with posterity in mind, painted brilliantly or carved, and are very difficult to correct. I'm thinking of carrying an entire palette of paints with me, and a portable router or sander so I can paint over or buff out the glaring apostrophes. My only other option would be to carry a selection of slabs and replace each incorrect sign I find, and see if the owners ever noticed the difference. Or maybe I could make up little laminated notes explaining the apostrophe's purpose and its straightforward rules for use and post them near the offending signs. I suppose I'll go on tolerating the blatant apostrophical abuse and occasionally vent about it here and at Bookworms Anonymous meetings.

Why would you want to advertise your punctuational ineptness to the world? Vexing.

Short Nights

The other night I met a couple high school classmates for a drink at the bar. We've been out of school for 22 years now and as I gazed around the table at my dear old friends' faces I felt every one of those years. We're all sporting fine lines around our eyes and maybe a few gray hairs; a couple of us have gained a few pounds. As a group, we still look good and our recent or upcoming 40th birthdays provided enough conversation fodder to see us through the evening. Our memories of grade school and high school featured vastly disparate recollections--after hearing a couple stories circa 1986 I wondered if we had in fact attended the same school. We agreed we all blocked out certain memories, sometimes to make room for new ones and sometimes to alleviate humiliation.

There was a time when we said we were going out for a beer, we meant ten or eleven beers. Now when we meet for a beer we each have three or four, then leave the bar early to prevent hangovers. What will happen in twenty more years? Will we sip our Milk of Magnesia together? Maybe we will race our walkers to the bathroom.

There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

My husband invited me to lunch today and on the way there (we were each driving our own trucks, following each other) I realized I didn't have my purse with me. The restaurant doesn't take credit cards so I called my date and asked him if he had any cash, as I had no checkbook or any other way to pay for lunch. "I have cash," he assured me.

We ate lunch and he walked up to pay the bill ($22.47), but when he opened his wallet there were only seven dollars inside, lined up and ready to leap out. "Oops," he said. "I forgot I spent some of my cash on beer last night." Famous last words.

Luckily, we live in the UP where everyone knows everyone else, and in our town, everyone knows we pay our bills every time on time. The waitress/owner didn't even shrug. "That's fine," she said, "just stop in and pay later today or sometime this week. Remember we're closed tomorrow." She didn't even glance at the sign on the wall reading "Absolutely No Credit". Those words only apply to people from away.

Aging (Slowly and Bravely)

My 40th birthday was nearly three months ago, and I'm adapting to my image in the mirror. I've also adapted my morning routine to include make-up every day (it's no longer optional, and neither is the under-eye wrinkle eraser) and a flat-iron styling (actually adds some waves to my dull, drab, lifeless hair). I notice a more insistent hunger, distracting and seemingly insatiable, and a nearly constant tired feeling invading my body.

I've also noticed I care a lot less about hurting others' feelings. I don't purposely set out to ruin someone's day, but if I occasionally ignore my diplomatic tendency and speak my mind I no longer lose sleep over it. In fact, sometimes I speak my mind on purpose, and wish I'd started this practice two decades ago.

So, on my birthday I received a new bike from my daughters and my mom: a cruiser-style bike with ten speeds and a wicker basket. I first told my daughter I coveted this model a few years ago when I spied a friend riding one through our Village, mentioning "I want a bike just like that, but I have to wait until I'm 40 to pull it off". My daughter remembered this and orchestrated the purchase of a gorgeous black bicycle with hot pink details, ready to ride to work and help me slough off the 6 pounds haunting me since last fall.

I know, fewer pounds translates to more wrinkles, but at this point I'd rather trade the weight for more energy even if it means staring at the aging woman in the mirror, wondering who she is. I'm not afraid of aging, as long as I can maintain my pace: slowly and bravely, slowly and bravely.

My Baby's Driving!

My youngest child just received her driver's license. She passed the driving test with flying colors despite her inherent anxiety (yes, she takes after me) and she's piloting our old Toyota Tundra around the Village, displaying the company name and hopefully drawing some business. Who wouldn't want to hire a construction company with such a cute advertiser?

There are a few other benefits to leaving the company name plastered on our daughter's truck: she can never say "it wasn't me" when someone spies her truck at a party or friend's house; the police or any other concerned citizen can easily dial her mom to report her driving habits, since the phone number is prominently displayed on three sides; and the truck is noticeable even to those half-asleep, allowing ease in tracking her progress around town. In a town this size people will call me to report my children's driving transgressions anyway, but with our blatantly labeled truck, my youngest daughter can't drive around the block without someone calling to let me know who she's with, which way they were headed, and if she used her turn signals (she always does). Just another way living in a small town provides peace of mind for parents of teenagers (this position is preferable, by the way, to being a teenaged parent), ensuring we don't go insane too quickly.

Reading Groups & Public Speaking

A semi-local (25 miles away) reading group asked me to speak at one of their upcoming meetings. Does this constitute public speaking? Because public speaking is one of my irrational fears, along with mice, small spaces with only one exit and flying, all of which produce enough anxiety to cause a quavery voice, shaking hands and a sweaty upper lip.

I experience the cliche author anxiety directly linked to defending my writing to those who either disagree with it or don't understand it, and I fear sounding foolish. Always able to imagine what I should have said in a given situation hours after it ends, I'm never able to produce a suitable response during a debate or confrontation. Oh, the frustration! If only I could 'speak' via hand written or typed letters, mailed back and forth, so each response would allow at least a day's rumination.

So, my fear of public speaking must be analyzed, addressed and hopefully dismissed. What is the worst case scenario? Has anyone ever died of public speaking (assuming they weren't shot)? No. The internal angst alone has yet to kill anyone. I can safely enter any public speaking situation with the knowledge that it will not kill me. (This is how I survived childbirth--I told myself people don't die from it in this day and age. I knew this was false, but I managed to convince myself it was true.)

With death removed as a possible outcome, appearing foolish or unprepared are the only remaining possibilities and they are much less dire.

So, I will dress the part and practice a five-minute speech (like high school Speech class--remember that? Five minutes was an eternity back then) and I'll field the questions. Maybe I'd better practice stall tactics to give myself time to ruminate and increase the odds of producing an intelligent answer...

Thanklessly Thankful

Sometimes it's difficult to remember how grateful I am to live in a small town, geographically sequestered as we are from civilization, culture and shopping malls. It's easy to take certain things for granted here, such as the crime rate (zero) and the way we leave our keys in our trucks and never lock our houses (I think I have a key...somewhere). When Mother Nature is burying us in snow or breathing her icy breath down our backs, when I drive to work on unplowed roads without passing another soul, when the latest rumor only needs fifteen minutes to be twisted and communicated to everyone from the mayor to the one homeless person, it's hard to remember why I like living here.

I don't recall living anywhere else, which makes it difficult to imagine moving away and actually joining the daily commuters on a city train or wearing a suit to an office on the twenty-seventh floor (our tallest building here is three stories, but it's a B&B; we have no office buildings and I wear jeans to work!). City life looks and sounds glamorous until I consider the hordes of tourists, summer people and weekenders who drive for hours or days to enjoy a tiny slice of the good life, breathing our sweet, fresh air and walking down the middle of the street in celebration of our lack of traffic.

As for the weather, testing our strength of character today with icy winds straight off the water, at least it provides conversational fodder every day of the year. I've often wondered what people from temperate climates discuss when they meet on the street--do they comment on the temperature? ("Nice day again--70 degrees. I thought it was going to dip below 68 last night, but it held steady") Or do they even notice the weather at all? Maybe the weather fades right into the background until the one rainy day, every blue moon or so, when it's back in the spotlight until the sun emerges and life returns to normal. Our forecasters work hard here--the Great Lakes provide not only scenic beauty, shipping channels and water recreation venues, they also flummox weathermen with unpredictable wind patterns and temperature changes. The forecasters, then, are rarely correct in their predictions but they are followed by a loyal cadre of weather-obsessed people who plan their wardrobes and schedules around daily meteorological proclamations.

It seems I've digressed from my original topic, which was something about being thankful I live here in this desolate, beautiful, politically neglected place.

Here are some reasons I'm thankful:

scenery/fresh air
low crime rate
keys/locks unnecessary
low population
knowing everyone in town
no fast food restaurants
no traffic
my job--it's wonderful, an office job in an interesting field--which allows me to dress as I do every day, in jeans and a t-shirt (no kidding!)

Here are some things I'd like, but I know if they were improved the very character of the UP would be compromised and I might as well just live elsewhere because pretty soon everything will be the same anyway, so the following list should be given no weight whatsoever:

cheaper, fresher groceries
cheaper gas
more jobs (with higher pay)
more restaurants (but no fast food! Yuck)
more hotels
mall/shopping center
warmer climate (but still, no deadly snakes, bugs or spiders, and no life-threatening natural disasters such as floods, earthquakes or tornadoes)

Hhmmm. The more I think about it, the less attractive living elsewhere appears. I think I'll continue to live here, work two or three jobs (depends how you count them) and take vacations to civilization, staying just long enough to prove to myself once again that I would rather be here.

So, come on UP! On your next vacation hop in the car and drive north until you find us...sit in the bar, talk to some locals, stay a few days.

What's For Dinner?

I stopped eating store-bought meat nearly four years ago, and have since lost the will to cook (is it really worth all the trouble to feed one or two?). The only time I enjoy cooking is when I'm preparing for an event such as a Bookworms Anonymous meeting, when I can make enough gourmet vegetarian fare to feed at least 7 and hopefully have some leftovers for lunch the next day. Choosing and preparing one meal for seven people once every six or eight months is so much easier than doing it for one or two people every night!

Tonight, though, we are having a family dinner together at home like 'regular people'. The menu? Venison, fried with onions, potatoes (also fried with onions), baked beans, and cherry crisp (I have fresh-frozen pitted cherries from last summer waiting in my freezer, each bag containing the proper amount for one cherry crisp recipe). We even have strawberry sorbet in case anyone wants their crisp served ala mode.

Just knowing what to prepare, and knowing we will sit down together and eat, motivates me to run home and start marinating the meat. A normal evening at our house finds me preparing a crazy pasta-vegetable-shrimp/soy meat dish while my husband cooks steak and potatoes for himself. My daughter then has her choice of menu, sometimes sampling both, but we rarely sit down together because nothing is ready at the same time.

If I believed in New Year's Resolutions, I suppose I could resolve to prepare a family meal every night, plan menus and shop accordingly for a month or so, then revert to the way I do it now. Luckily, I don't believe in NY Resolutions, so tonight's perfectly normal dinner will be viewed as a special occasion in our house. Maybe I'll even light a candle.

Venison Marinade:

1/2 cup soy sauce
1/2 cup Worcestershire sauce
2 TBLS ketchup
1/2 tsp pepper
1/2 tsp garlic powder (I'll use freshly minced garlic)
1/2 tsp onion salt (I'll use shallot salt)

Put marinade ingredients in a plastic zipper bag; mix well and add meat. Let sit out on counter for twenty to thirty minutes, then cook meat in skillet at med-high heat. Serve with fried onions and potatoes.

Cherry Crisp Recipe:

4 cups pitted cherries
3/4 c sugar
4 TBLS flour

Topping:
1-1/2 cups flour
1 cup old-fashioned oats
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup to 3/4 cup butter

Combing cherries, white sugar and 4 TBLS flour. Pour into 9"x13" baking dish. In bowl, combine topping ingredients, cutting in slightly softened butter until crumbly. Sprinkle over cherries.

Bake in preheated oven at 375 degrees F for 45 - 50 minutes. Topping should be golden brown.

Blackbelt in Shopping

We live so far from civilization, we approach Christmas shopping with a fierce strategy and unrelenting energy. Even with the internet, it's difficult to purchase everything without physically entering a store and seeing every piece of merchandise presented for sale. Besides, half the fun of shopping is the shopping itself: the browsing, considering, imagining. Even the other shoppers, sharing small talk, shopping tips or even coupons. Grandma had taught us how to shop; we invoked her guidance on this longest shopping day of the year, fondly remembering the way she dealt with indecision: "If you can't decide between the two, just buy both."

I picked up my sister at 6:30 am. We each had our travel mugs of coffee, and we each brought snack bars, bottled water and tote bags. For interest's sake, I had my pedometer on my cell phone activated. Oh, and I had two extra pairs of shoes stashed in the truck in case my feet started to hurt. During the three-hour drive to Traverse City we discussed our itinerary, our shopping lists and restaurant choices. The plan was to finish our Christmas shopping in one day, then drive back home.

We started at a couple box stores, stretching our legs and finding our shopping groove. It's important to accelerate slowly--if one enters the first store at full speed, one's energy will lag early on and ultimately peter out. A definitive sign of a rookie shopper is one who bursts into the store and jogs from department to department, maniacally shoving hangers around until she finds the prize. Maintaining a steady rhythm throughout the day will ensure energy for the long haul as well as preserve personal dignity (always a consideration).

After trundling our first purchases to the truck, we proceeded to the mall where we parked in a strategic location outside the store where we planned to purchase the most. We carried our tote bags in to reduce the number of plastic store shopping bags; our first stop was at the pretzel vendor for a hot pretzel. A professional shopper always plans time for refueling, as shopping is miserable when one is hungry and progresses to nearly impossible when one is fainting from lack of nutrition. Shopping is an endurance sport forcing participants to focus on hydrating and eating light meals to maintain the pace.

We pushed our heaping cart out to the truck after covering half the mall; it was time for lunch. We emptied the cart, carefully stacking our purchases on separate sides of the truck to simplify the unpacking, which would occur after dark. Still feeling fairly energetic, we re-entered the mall and found a comfortable eat-in restaurant. Once we placed our orders our lists reappeared for revision and additions, and we planned the remainder of our afternoon and evening: the rest of the mall, then a few more box stores (including a book store), a cruise through a furniture store just for fun, and the long ride home.

Christmas shopping finished, we headed north and arrived home just before midnight. The pedometer read 6.3 miles; the Christmas budget was reduced to $1.15; the list was fulfilled. Grandma would be proud.

Facing My Fears

It's painful and shameful to divulge, but at the risk of reducing my reputation to that of a cowering idiot, I must concede: I'm afraid of mice.

The word 'afraid' doesn't communicate the full force of my affliction. Mice terrify me; they repulse me. I know and understand the reality of their minuscule proportions, and yet, when I witness one scurrying through the garage or (horrors! I'm trapped!) the basement, it appears gargantuan. The smallest mouse I've observed was the size of a football and the largest, a small dog. Yes, I realize my mental images are obscuring reality and the mice are actually smaller than my fist (eww! Imagine one touching my hand!) but my stomach retains its contents only because of my superior vomit prevention mechanism, often exercised this time of year when the mouse population is high and they are all seeking shelter.

When I was a child I read books about mice. The Mouse and the Motorcycle was one of my favorites, and of course I read Stuart Little and a collection of others. Unfortunately, real mice do not don Victorian waistcoats and tiny spectacles; they don't converse about erudite topics; they don't travel under one's hat or drive little cars. They certainly don't know how to prepare gourmet meals (or was that a rat, in the movie 'Ratatouille'? Must have been a rat. Shivers--even larger than a mouse!)

So the fear has become debillitating: the other night as I pulled into the garage at home, I noticed a mouse streaking across the floor. My reaction never varies, so I endured the entire anxiety/panic attack as my stomach clenched, I heard a rushing sound in my ears, I broke out in goosebumps, my hands gripped the steering wheel, my bladder threatened to release its contents, and I may have forgotten to breathe for a minute or two. The mouse was unaffected, frolicking happily, seeking a dark tunnel (of course I checked my pant legs: firmly pulled down around my shoes, no gaping invitation there). In light of this debillitation, I decided to face my fear and set traps for these dirty rodents. My husband normally sets the traps, but he's tired of my irrational fear and tired of emptying traps.

My method will be twofold: (1) a line of traps, which will be treated as disposables so I will never have to touch the cadavers and (2) a Polish mouse trap made with a bucket, a beer can and some peanut butter, which I can empty at arms' length while frantically inhaling fresh air over my other shoulder. The annihilation of the mouse population at Honeymoon Acres will commence this Sunday (Nov 29) after I gather my supplies. The result should also be twofold: (1) there will be no more mice on the premises, at least until next year's batch moves in and (2) I will no longer be handicapped by the mere sight of a tiny rodent smaller than my (gulp) fist.