Where's The Love? Part 1

I have one of those Uncles, a great-Uncle actually, that passed along photos of himself as a sweet boy awkwardly perched in a door way with (gasp!) a young squirrel perched on his shoulder. I heard my Uncle regale us many a time about finding that baby squirrel and raising it to adulthood. Tales of exploring empty fields, forays to the sandlot for ad hoc games of baseball and all the other various and sundry things young boys in the late 1920’s would have been up to. All with that darn squirrel in attendance. Of course this is the same man that, as an adult, nailed less than attractive imitation owls to his rooftop in an effort to keep those same said squirrels from terrorizing his well tended yard.

Doesn’t that sort of encapsulate the whole hate/love affair with squirrels?

While living in a second story apartment in Washington I made a great effort to fulfill my genetic predisposition to garden. Think about it for a minute. A garden. An apartment. Second story. Never mind that it also faced full south and was perched precariously in long containers along the length of the balcony handrails. I was going to grow something. And it was going to be beautiful. (The Interior Designer in me sings out!) After all I was lucky, so many people in Washington had to deal with voracious deer, sneaky raccoons, not to mention predatory herons.

My first big horticultural achievement was with cool white and scorching red geranium (www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pelargonium) and as long as I watered them every morning whilst indulging in a cup of coffee before work they vigorously displayed their love. I had risen above, I was free from the vermin I listened to Jerry Baker (http://www.jerrybaker-amg.blogspot.com/) describe with such great and successful detail how to discourage. And I was going to indulge my obvious knack for nurturing flora. Of course when the rise is not high, the fall is not far.

It all began with ranunculus corms, twenty-four of them to be specific. The printed directions and the verbal instructions from the woman behind the counter assured me they could be successfully planted in and amongst my burgeoning geranium. I spent an entire weekend sweltering on my western Washington balcony (that faced full south – lest you forget) and lovingly nestled those wrinkled little corms into my rich, black soil. Patience is a virtue.

Which I don’t possess.

I looked out over those green plastic baskets filled with life every morning just knowing that my ranunculus were going to prove to be superior, my ranunculus would burgeon with lush life long before the package indicated.   Or not.   And instead of ranunculus I soon became familiar with the grain in every piece of wood surrounding my balcony. Each crease in the fabric of my rectangular umbrella. The lovely smell of the columnar cedar that brushed up the outside of the apartment as it gently swayed in the breeze. Many people dream of such a peaceful start to their day, work or otherwise, and I was not insensible to it either. Really.

And then it happened, upon the most casual of inspection, gliding past my balcony door with a cup of coffee in hand when I spotted “it”. Except “it” was not a generous ranunculus bloom, it was a big, fat, furry squirrel. Snacking on my corm! What blasphemy was this? I had not planted a buffet! I scurried to shoo this vermin from my garden. Except he kept coming back, faithfully, almost religiously. And he hunted those corms down one by one until they were all decimated. I often imagined him sitting in his little squirrel pub, telling his little squirrel friends that he had just found the best little squirrel restaurant in town. Upon conjuring up this little scenario for the third or fourth time I decided to strike back. When I was finished he would have a different tale to tell!

I began by procuring a bottle of Tabasco sauce, carefully strained it through a sieve and poured the unclogged liquid into a newly purchased industrial strength spray bottle and filled it to the top with water (I now liken those moments to Ripley hoisting her futuristic weapon and slinging, bandolier style, all that ammo across her chest and menacingly muttering "leave her alone, you bitch!"). This was war. I surveyed my battle field. I tested my weapon. I could adjust the size of that spray faster than a veteran can field strip a gun. I was ready.