Speaking of Mice and Men and Women...

Ah, Sunday mornings in summer – they follow a pleasing ritual. I rise early, awakened by bird song coming from the pine woods. After slipping into a cool, sleeveless dress, I drive to St. Bernard’s Church. A 12^th-century saint, Bernard of Clairvaux was one of the greatest writers and orators of the Middle Ages. Nine-hundred years later, I attend services at his namesake. As one of the lectors, I sometimes approach the altar and read passages from the Old and New Testaments. I feel that I have been entrusted with a sacred mission as a laywoman to speak the words of the prophets and saints.

Back at home, I change into shorts and sneakers, grab a handful of books off the shelves and the newspaper out of the mailbox and drive to the summer place. My husband and boys are already there, fishing in our boat somewhere on the Sakonnet.

At Tiverton Four Corners, I veer off the road, parking under a tree behind the Provender. A mansard-roofed structure built in 1864, the Provender was once a general store and stagecoach stop on the way to the Fogland ferry. Over the years it also has served as a post office, library and, in more recent times, an interior decorator’s shop. However, for the past 28 years the Provender has earned the reputation as the area’s premier food shop. The original Provender sign, which advertised livestock provisions and food in the 19^th century, greets me as I climb the steps and make my way on the wrap-around porch. I wait in line, then order two cups of coffee for my parents and a cup of tea for me. A handful of their delicious cookies also are tucked into a flimsy white bag. Laden with foodstuffs, I push open the old wooden door with my back and slowly make my way to the car. I take the back road, winding past the reservoir and horse farm, and as I coast down the hill toward Fogland State Beach, I am always surprised by the bay before me, beckoning me to come closer.

Walking into the summer house, I kiss my parents and pass them the steaming cups of coffee. My mother takes hers to the kitchen, sipping as she prepares lunch. My father and I are political junkies, and we watch “Meet the Press” together. Our discussions often lead to a heated debate.

I will always remember one of our political sessions. My father and I were listening intently to the interview when I happened to glance at the floor to the left of the television. Sitting on the floor and facing the TV was a white-footed mouse. I motioned to get my father’s attention, then pointed to the rodent. “He’s watching TV with us,” I whispered. It was an unusual gathering. There we were –an elderly gentleman, his middle-aged daughter and a field mouse – sitting together amicably in a house by the sea.

About seven-inches long and three-inches tall, the white-footed mouse had twitching whiskers, black beady eyes, reddish brown fur and a long tail. Finally, he scampered away with my father in hot pursuit. Hiding under the baseboard, the mouse alluded him; but eventually, it turned up in a mousetrap in the laundry room.

I was surprised by the rodent’s interest in television, but not that there was a mouse in the house. My mother and I were probably responsible for his taking up residence. We had discovered him and his siblings the summer before.

My mother and I often spent summer afternoons under the maple tree in the backyard, sitting comfortably on chaise lounges and reading magazines. One sunny afternoon my mother noticed a mound of straw-like covering on the lawn. Taking a small stick, she carefully lifted the straw, and underneath we spotted the most adorable litter of newborn mice. The tiny pink creatures huddled together in the nest. Immediately, she concealed the babies under the straw, and we returned to our chairs.

A short time later my father started up the riding mower and began cutting the lawn. Throughout the afternoon he worked, mowing in a square pattern that he followed once a week. Suddenly, my mother gasped as my father mowed right over the nest.

Knowing that my father wouldn’t understand, we waited until he drove to the front of the house before checking out the mutilated nest. My mother lifted the remaining straw with the stick, and we were delighted to see that the babies were undisturbed by the attack on their home.

We never mentioned to my father what we had found on the lawn that day, since we knew that he would quickly dispose of the pests. And I never thought about those newborn mice until that Sunday morning when one of the litter showed up, and he was all grown up.

Over the next few weeks, I engaged in more lively political discussions with my father but often my eyes would wander around the floor, just to make sure we were alone. Speaking up about those things I feel passionate about is a divine right, but when it comes to an unwanted infestation of mice, some things are better left unsaid.

ABOUT SEA, SKY & SPIRIT: Drawing from the many seasonal faces of Fogland, Linda Andrade Rodrigues paints vignettes about nature and spirituality.