About a Bat, Episode I

We bought our house shortly after my son was born; in fact, he was this tiny, one-month-old package that everyone enjoyed passing around during the closing, his ‘big sister’ keeping her protective, two-year old eye on him at all times. The house we were buying was the original home built in our town, the oldest part having been constructed in the late 1860s. Multiple additions later, it had taken on a somewhat quirky, very charming architectural ethos—an open and bright floor plan with something of a bygone feel. It was simple, with a lot of possibility: a project, but not an overwhelming one. Just about right for our little family.

It also had a great history: it had been owned by the same family since the ‘40s, and several generations had grown up in the house. Though sentimental, I liked the idea that happy family memories had been made there—I’m also quite confident that the previous owners’ children, as executors of the property on behalf of their late father, were pleased that they were selling to a young family: the promise of a new era of memories clearly delighted them.

Their father was a strong Wisconsin farmer, and he kept this house as his ‘house in town’ and, later, his retirement property; his farm, a considerably larger property, was just north of Madison. We learned that he was beloved in the community and that he always had impressive gardens in the expansive backyard—expansive, considering the house is smack in the middle of town, just a block off Main Street. When we entered our house for the first time—as its owners—their family had left for ours a note and a picture of their Dad, the farmer. It was a simple and kind gesture, the handing-off of the baton, that really captures the character of our home. But I digress . . .

As we were unpacking, my husband, Kurt, came up from the basement and announced, with some excitement, that he had been surprised by a bat. He reasoned that the house had been empty for two years, so it wasn’t entirely unreasonable to find a bat in the basement. I was not, however, cheered. So after digging through a few boxes and outfitting himself in heavy gloves, his Carhartt jacket, and a baseball cap—and armed with two large fishing nets—the mighty humane hunter headed downstairs. After much searching, he never again saw that bat and concluded that it must have left the way it came in. After all, there was no evidence that the little guy had taken up permanent residence (and by that I mean there was no guano that we could see). Fair enough.