Maggie's Farm

When I was a kid, one winter, while we were away on vacation, mice set up house in one stack of kitchen drawers. The bottom drawer was the nest: piles of hair, dog fur, goose down. The next drawer up was the pantry: piles of dog food, piles of peanut brittle, piles of crackers, piles of wax. The next drawer up may have just been the living room; somewhere to just hang out. Or something. Nothing bizarre or interesting. The top drawer, the silverware drawer, was the outhouse: mice droppings galore. Ick.

Apparently, they liked to picnic among the pleasant greenery of the potted plants my mom had on the sideboard: we found little bits of peanut brittle and dog food scattered in them. (My mom was a school teacher and every year, students have her boxes and boxes of peanut brittle. Our family was not a fan of peanut brittle. When we went on our vacation, there were probably ten or so boxes stacked up around the dining room. The mice went nuts, chewing holes in EVERY. SINGLE. BOX.)

My dad set up a oodles of mouse traps: one in each drawer, a couple under the kitchen sink where we kept the dog food and spare candles, two or three in the pantry where we kept the crackers. And about five on the sideboard, in and around the planters, and the boxes of peanut brittle.