My 89-year-old mother has a single room in her assisted living facility, but she is not living there alone. She has mice in residence with her, lots of them. I discovered this a couple months ago when we took her white wool jacket out of her closet and discovered holes eaten through it. Perusing the closet, I discovered other sweaters and jackets, all natural fibers, that had been snacked on, and mice "dirt" galore. The little pellets were scattered over her shelves amongst the clean towels, scarves, winter hats, and over the floor, decorating her shoes inside and out, and all through the basket where she keeps the extra bottles of wine, her own version of a sleeping medicine. I could hardly blame the administrators since the building backs on woods and, as I began to clean my mother's room (even though housekeeping is part of her service), I discovered my mother was stuffing parts of sandwiches in her pockets, leaving cookies in napkins on her dresser, and leaving pretzel and cheese nip boxes and macaroon containers open for days. The more I thought about it, the more I realized an elderly living facility like this is akin to a mouse cruise ship. A bonanza extravaganza of food buffets and luxury fibers.

With increasing age, I have found it increasingly easy to identify unwelcome traits in myself that I can trace back to my mother. What I learned from Mom. Prioritizing production output over personnel consideration (the personnel generally being family members). Believing that a woman's life cannot be complete without a man. Harboring a subterranean conviction that in any given moment, the world is not a safe place, period.

My mother would prefer the mice weren't eating her clothes, but I don't think she really minds that much that they are there with her. She loves animals, especially birds and squirrels and mice and such, all the critters you can feed by throwing food out the back door or off the deck. She has taken care of these wild creatures for as long as I can remember. When I was young, we used to cut short colorful pieces of yarn to throw in the backyard for the birds to use in their nests. In later years, compost went out in the garden for the plants, animals, insects, anything and everything that could make a meal from those scraps. And crusts and stale crackers and the like always went out the door to be sprinkled on the grass for uniform snacking. Now, when she remembers little and connects less, she still wraps the sandwich she doesn't want in a napkin, and stuffs it in her pocket to feed the birds and animals.

"You don't have a deck anymore," I remind her when I take her out to lunch and she starts collecting the leftovers. "You can probably leave that here."

She nods her head sagely, and continues wrapping. When she's done, she thrusts the treasure into my hand. "Here. For your birds."

Not likely. I don't think I'm going to take her crusts home on the plane to feed my birds. I remember mice showing up in every house we lived in growing up. I don't want critters in mine now and I'm quite aware that throwing food out your door can attract these visitors. So I don't throw food out my door. I do, however, love nature with a passion that vies with religion. Animals and birds and plants, fresh air and sunshine, create my haven, a source of solace, of joy, of relaxation, of rejuvenation, of wonder, of peace. For me, the very fabulousity of life is in the blue flash of a jay's feathers against the winter trees, the gentle quivering of a squirrel's whiskers as he pauses from munching on an acorn, the stillness of a deer before the jubilant white-tailed escape.  What I will take home is that this trait of mine, an awareness that makes life worth living every single day, I also trace back to my mother.