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Three tiny cries for help

carriesuepepper • Jul 10, 2013

The sound awoke me from a sound sleep—first the pounce in dry grass, then the tiny squeal—eeeeek! My eyes sprung open, feeling the fear of the tiny thing held captive by my little tomcat Rocky. Still so sleepy, I closed my eyes and hoped I wouldn’t hear anymore. Hours later, I heard another tiny shriek. This time, Kevin closed the window and once again I slept, not too restfully. When I awoke, there was no sign of a cat or a mouse; all was quiet in the early morning backyard. Then, Rocky appeared, very engaged with something in the grass. I heard another tiny cry. Across the yard I went, and there it was, a tiny mouse still very much alive, frozen in fear. I know it was just a mouse (actually a tiny rat, but I like the sound of mouse better). Rats carry disease; cats kill them; we detest a rat in the house—or out. But, I’d heard it shriek and cry out, not once, not twice, but three times. I couldn’t let him kill it right there in the yard. I laid my red bucket on its side and tapped him with my little shovel and in he scampered, frightened beyond measure and very much alert and alive—even after hours of “play.” I set the bucket in the garage, remembering what my father did to a little mouse when I was a child. He caught it in a trap, just barely by the tip of its tail. I was elated that he hadn’t gotten his neck broken and thought we would free it. But my father set the bucket under the exhaust pipe of our Nash. I remember it trying to climb up the side of the slippery metal bucket and can still hear those little pattering feet, but pretty soon the little creature was lying upside down, pink feet curled in the air. I will never forget that as long as I live. It’s just a baby rat. People hate rats.

I looked in the bucket once more, he was sitting up, grateful to be alive, waiting. I drove him down to the river and laid the bucket on the riverbank. He remained frozen, afraid to venture forth—the cat would be close by. I tipped the bucket up and he slid toward the edge, where he sat momentarily until he leaped into the brown grass and down the bank. He paused halfway and seemed to look at me—then he was gone. I looked across the road at the most glorious field of sunflowers, brilliant yellow, waving in the early morning breeze, knowing it was my reward for hearing the cries of a tiny creature that most would have ignored. Perhaps he’ll get snatched up by a hawk down there by the river, but that seems more natural somehow.

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By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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