Trapped in the big memory box

My memory box mysteriously opened up today with the image of my grandmother running hysterically around the house, armed with a sweeper and screaming to the mice populating her kitchen: "son of a b...bastards go to hell". Grandma was bad to the Royal Spanish Dictionary and the Spanish mannerism, she often invented words and she used lots, but lots of funny insults, nasty words of those that make you laugh. At least they make us, Spaniards, laugh. The squeaky kitchen mice got beaten, many times to death.


My grandmother was so not special that that make her unique and special. Every time she drank water would make a noise with her lips, like a kiss to the air, and rumored "how delicious". She would also hide the last piece of bread, that one that always seems to be left over the table, in her pocket. This behavior was probably normal for somebody who lived through a civil war: she highly appreciated water and bread till the end of her days. Mice were enemies, robbers of scarce resources.

So today when I saw a couple of Mickeys running through my micro living room I immediately improvised a sweeper and shouted some other my childhood's mice vocabulary.

With the new visitors out of sight I decided to put their lives on hold and consult:

- my mother: she recommended to use grandma's techniques straight away
- my sister: she thought I should put superglue and some cheese to trap them
- boyfriend husband: his idea was to put cheese in a bucket, wait until they were inside and them free then in the park
- an American friend: she advocated buying a humane trap in the drugstore.

All these choices. Why. I learned that mice were robbers, not unofficial and unsolicited pets.

Perhaps because I am scared, maybe because beating them with my improvised sweeper is cruel or maybe because I want to keep this particular memory some more days I decided to play Bob Marley and The Wailers slightly louder and intimidate them singing Buffalo soldier. Old and new memories for my box.