Thirty three years ago my husband and I bought a two-story 1870s brick farmhouse on three acres of land near Saginaw Valley State University, and raised our two children there. For part of each week Joe still stays on to manage his thriving Saginaw cardiology practice.
Deer sometimes graze just outside the front door. Opossums and raccoons wander by the generously sized music room windows. It’s always been a peaceful place.
But recently the house had developed an interesting quirk. Just before falling sleep, Joe would hear faint rustling noises in the bedroom walls. Birds, probably. Occasionally he’d discover a frantic, sooty sparrow whizzing around the library, so that conclusion seemed reasonable. Screens installed over the two chimney tops solved the problem.
In late July, just after twilight, as he read in the library, a faint flapping sound ruffled the air in the adjacent darkened music room. Another bird had gotten in! It was always an exasperating experience to shoo them out. Confused, they often turn away from the open door, and freedom, at the last second.
But wait! It was late! Decent birds would have roosted by now, surely. So, what…?
Another soft flutter. He switched off the lamp and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. One minute later, a curtain stirred. There! A tiny bat lighted briefly, then frantically flew from one side of the room to the other, almost soundlessly.
When the creature lighted again, he dropped a small wastebasket over it, slid an old-fashioned record album over the opening, and released the terrified animal outside. Hmmm. That accounted for those nighttime wall noises! Now, some computer-assisted research would be fun.
His uninvited guest was a little brown bat, Myotis lucifigus: Michigan hosts a huge population. This youngster hadn’t learned yet where to exit; instead, he’d stumbled through a seam somewhere, and ended up in our home.
Joe learned that mother bats have one baby in spring, and that a single animal eats nearly its weight in insects every night. The mosquito population did seem down this year!
These furry mammals, weighing only about 6-10 grams, can, through echolocation, distinguish a moth on tree bark in pitch darkness. Only about 5% may have rabies, and they never get tangled in human hair. So many myths were dispelled!
The next four nights more panicked youngsters were rescued. Finally, weary of snaring and releasing them, he decided to bring a chair outside at dusk and simply wait. It would be easy to determine just where the colony was living. Sure enough, right on time, a respectable cloud of bats rose from the highest part of our two-story home. He dashed around the back to pinpoint where they were emerging.
The next morning the Yellow Pages yielded Batman, who was delighted by the call. “I’m rarely contacted; people just ring their exterminator! I’ll be right out!”
The sixty-something guy clearly loved his job. He scrambled happily up his extra-high extension ladder, found the bricky-breach, and deftly installed a special exit-only door. The bats were snoozing just inside, he called down, but every one would fly away at twilight. When they returned, re-entry wouldn’t be possible. The odd youngster might still appear inside the house, but only once. This slick, inexpensive gadget had prevented many deaths.
Lastly, he installed three bat houses high in our trees to encourage the little creatures to remain. Then this cheerful man, cracking bat jokes, drove off. (A month later he quietly returned, removed his one-way door, and sealed the hole. No bats have entered since.)
A funny thing: Joe reminded him twice to send a bill, but Batman, having saved hundreds of innocents, declined. It seems his clever rescue was reward enough.
Deer sometimes graze just outside the front door. Opossums and raccoons wander by the generously sized music room windows. It’s always been a peaceful place.
But recently the house had developed an interesting quirk. Just before falling sleep, Joe would hear faint rustling noises in the bedroom walls. Birds, probably. Occasionally he’d discover a frantic, sooty sparrow whizzing around the library, so that conclusion seemed reasonable. Screens installed over the two chimney tops solved the problem.
In late July, just after twilight, as he read in the library, a faint flapping sound ruffled the air in the adjacent darkened music room. Another bird had gotten in! It was always an exasperating experience to shoo them out. Confused, they often turn away from the open door, and freedom, at the last second.
But wait! It was late! Decent birds would have roosted by now, surely. So, what…?
Another soft flutter. He switched off the lamp and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. One minute later, a curtain stirred. There! A tiny bat lighted briefly, then frantically flew from one side of the room to the other, almost soundlessly.
When the creature lighted again, he dropped a small wastebasket over it, slid an old-fashioned record album over the opening, and released the terrified animal outside. Hmmm. That accounted for those nighttime wall noises! Now, some computer-assisted research would be fun.
His uninvited guest was a little brown bat, Myotis lucifigus: Michigan hosts a huge population. This youngster hadn’t learned yet where to exit; instead, he’d stumbled through a seam somewhere, and ended up in our home.
Joe learned that mother bats have one baby in spring, and that a single animal eats nearly its weight in insects every night. The mosquito population did seem down this year!
These furry mammals, weighing only about 6-10 grams, can, through echolocation, distinguish a moth on tree bark in pitch darkness. Only about 5% may have rabies, and they never get tangled in human hair. So many myths were dispelled!
The next four nights more panicked youngsters were rescued. Finally, weary of snaring and releasing them, he decided to bring a chair outside at dusk and simply wait. It would be easy to determine just where the colony was living. Sure enough, right on time, a respectable cloud of bats rose from the highest part of our two-story home. He dashed around the back to pinpoint where they were emerging.
The next morning the Yellow Pages yielded Batman, who was delighted by the call. “I’m rarely contacted; people just ring their exterminator! I’ll be right out!”
The sixty-something guy clearly loved his job. He scrambled happily up his extra-high extension ladder, found the bricky-breach, and deftly installed a special exit-only door. The bats were snoozing just inside, he called down, but every one would fly away at twilight. When they returned, re-entry wouldn’t be possible. The odd youngster might still appear inside the house, but only once. This slick, inexpensive gadget had prevented many deaths.
Lastly, he installed three bat houses high in our trees to encourage the little creatures to remain. Then this cheerful man, cracking bat jokes, drove off. (A month later he quietly returned, removed his one-way door, and sealed the hole. No bats have entered since.)
A funny thing: Joe reminded him twice to send a bill, but Batman, having saved hundreds of innocents, declined. It seems his clever rescue was reward enough.