PART II. FURTHER ADO ABOUT MOLES

MOLES
“Under the leaves, under
the first loose
levels of earth
they’re there – quick
as beetles, blind
as bats, shy
as hares but seen
less than those –
traveling
among the pale girders
of appleroot,
rockshelf, nests
of insects and black
pastures of bulbs
peppery and packed full
of the sweetest food:
Spring flowers.
Field after field
you can see the traceries
of their long
lonely walks, then
the rains blur
even this frail hint of them –
so excitable,
so plush,
so willing to continue
generation after generation
accomplishing nothing
but their brief physical lives
as they live and die,
pushing and shoving
with their stubborn muzzles against
the whole earth,
finding it
delicious.”
–Mary Oliver–

Writers of contemporary fiction are more-than-often asked to pen sequels to their work as we live in a world of “readers want sequels” (witness the Harry Potter series). The response of several people to my mole vignette has prompted me to compose a blog “sequel “to “Much Ado About Moles.” For late readers, I’m referring to the small mammals who live in underground burrows (most of them concentrated in my yard here at Sewanee, it seems) and not to those brown spots that pop up on head, neck, and arms and require skin applications to remove them from human bodies.

In the case of this mammal and its removal from my yard, the advice from readers has been plentiful. The first response from a friend at ULL in Lafayette, Louisiana, probably tops most of the typical counsel about mole removal. This friend wrote that she ordered a special concoction of crystallized bobcat urine and asked a good friend to sprinkle it on the lawn while she was on vacation. I know that the friend who applied this concoction still has a strong tie with the owner of the garden even though I have to comment that the assignment of such a yard task would strain the bonds of most friends! She should write me a sequel e-mail because she didn’t tell me if the crystals caused the moles to disappear. The “ridding mole” process evoked a lot of conversation from the biscuit bunch gathered at St. Mary’s Convent yesterday morning, and the major question arising from the conversation : “Who crystallized this potion?”

Following the counsel about crystallized bobcat urine, I received a call from my good friend, Anne Boykin, after she read my blog. “I’m coming over to deliver a mole pill,” she said, and was at my door before I could answer. In her hands were an empty plastic container that had conveyed Eggplant Parmesan to her table on her recent birthday and another plastic container filled with pellets (zinc phosphide) guaranteed to rid the yard of moles. “My mother taught me never to return a container that had been filled with food and brought over as a gift,” she explained, “but these pills are poisonous and I felt I should bring them in a different container.”

At St. Mary’s Convent, I was advised to get a cat as they sometimes corner moles at the entry to their burrows. One of the biscuit bunch advised me to purchase a harpoon trap that has a sharp spike which impales the mole when driven into the soil by a spring. Another adviser suggested a mole repellant that contained castor oil, and yet another advised mothballs that could be poked into the opening of the burrow.

The more remedies I hear for getting rid of moles, the more sympathetic I become toward these creatures I’ve not seen. From research and former readings in Beatrix Potter literature, I have some idea about what they look like and know they have paddled forefeet and long toenails which help them swim through the soil, that they’re brown to grey in color with glints of silver in their fur. Right about now their litters are coming into the world, and I think of all those mole babies I might be sending to mole heaven with mole repellants. I can’t even begin to envision impaling any of those mole infants.

I seem to be getting sentimental about these earth movers who make their tunnels up onto the surface of my yard and cause general soil upheaval. So, I think I’ll relax with the advice: “Moles in the natural environment cause little damage…and are more a nuisance than a financial liability” (Just forget the cost of eight boxes of pansies!! Or maybe the rabbits ate them).

MUCH ADO ABOUT MOLES

When I walk in my backyard at Sewanee, I feel as though I’m promenading on the deck of a ship navigating a rocky sea – the bumpy terrain causes most visitors to exclaim, “You have moles!” Yes indeed, I have many moles, members of the family Talpidae – ugly, fur-bodied critters with beady eyes that live underground and nose through intricate tunnels beneath the surface of my yard, raising molehills and destroying as much lawn as they can.

I watch for them, remembering that during her childhood my oldest daughter, Stephanie, was fascinated with Beatrix Potter’s poem and illustration about Diggory Delvet:

“Diggory, Diggory Delvet,
A little old man in black velvet;
He digs and he delves –
You can see for yourselves
The mounds dug by Diggory Delvet.”

Moles love earthworms, and I’ve read that they often catch mice at the entrance to their lairs, so I endure the unsightly lawn because mice from the nearby woodland constantly attempt to penetrate steel wool barriers we’ve erected at possible entry ways into the house. They often eat the peanut butter spread on a trap and scamper off unscathed. However, Death by Mole is as horrifying for the mice as rodent bait because the mole’s saliva has a toxin that paralyzes its prey, such as the mice, and the moles store the paralyzed victims in underground larders for a sumptuous (?) feast later.

I’ve been told to sprinkle cat litter everywhere or to try watching for the molehill to move and then plunge a knife into it. No way! I’ll just walk unevenly on my humped-up lawn and pray that Diggory Delvet decimates the mice population. If Stephanie were here, she’d be on alert, watching for Diggory and daring me to disturb this burrowing critter’s lifestyle. When she comes to visit in June and gets bored with Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, I’ll station her in my yard and commission her to mole watch.

I’m told that the damage done to lawns by Diggory Delvet is primarily visual, so if I had a mind to, I could spade off the earth of the molehills as they popped up on my terrain, and the moles would simply continue to live in their subterranean tunnels.

Critters aren’t confined to The Mountain at Sewanee, however – a Louisiana invasion of lawns would most likely be from crawfish who build ornate mud huts aboveground. So…much ado about mounding, and the old adage comes to mind: “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill!”

CHENIERS

Petite Marie Melancon (heroine of my young adult novel, THE KAJUN KWEEN) lived on the chenier plains of Louisiana, “places where old beach ridges of live oaks jutted above the landscape,” Petite describes this south Louisiana terrain. Sometimes when I long for my home in Cajun Country, I think about the many explorations I made to chenier country, the first one being a boat trip friends and I made down the Intracoastal Canal south of Abbeville, Louisiana in an attempt to find Cheniere Au Tigre (Tiger Island). After navigating many cuts along the Intracoastal, we docked near a chenier forest and came upon an abandoned cottage in woods that were thick with live oak, hackberry, holly, and honey locust trees. A few of the bird watchers in our party found a plethora of their feathered friends, as numerous birds use the cheniers for a stopover place during migrations.

After my first trip to the cheniers, I learned that Cheniere Au Tigre was a wild place of tangled grape vines during the 1890’s where an expedition of people explored the area near Hell Hole Bayou, leaving an intrepid young boy to guard their boat while they went ashore. When they returned to the landing site, they found the boy, near death, as he had been mauled by a predator. They named the place Chenier Au Tigre after a wildcat or tiger that may have been the boy’s attacker. In further readings, I discovered that Swamp Angels lived on Cheniere Au Tigre during WWII, patrolling the beaches on horseback and occupying a watch tower where they stood, binoculars raised, searching the Gulf for German U-boats.


On the day we made the first boat trip looking for Cheniere Au Tigre, I collected an animal bone (tiger??), and a tooth from some swamp animal to take home as souvenirs, but we never found the exact spot of the famous Tiger Island. I’ve never returned to search for the “island,” but I did travel throughout the countryside around Grand Chenier, Forked Island, Cow Island, and Pecan Island, looking for just the right setting for THE KAJUN KWEEN, finally deciding on the area near Grand Chenier.

Vickie Sullivan snapped the photos above that still provide a scene upon which I can meditate and reminisce when I miss bayou country. An enlarged version of the photo hangs in my study here at Sewanee. Close observation of the picture reveals an alligator, its snout uplifted, close to shore, and the oak tree in the photo is a typical live oak indigenous to cheniers.

The word “cheniere” is actually French for “oak tree,” and you can find these chenier forests in the chenier plain from Iberia Parish (my home parish) west across Vermilion and Cameron parishes of Louisiana. On days when I need a “Louisiana fix,” I ponder the lovely photograph in my study, and the chenier ridges poised above the placid waters of a sluggish bayou “speak to my condition” and lift my spirits.