Space underneath house crawling with unwanted pets

I’ve had some interesting responses to some of my columns pertaining to animals over the years. Not all of them were warm and supportive. A few called me out for my insensitivity and lack of consideration for our family’s deceased pets in the past. Rest assured that losing a pet is a traumatic experience for any family and the Stroupes share sensitivities with those who believe we have been placed here to protect those innocent creatures in our midst. However, this column may get me in trouble again. By sharing the Stroupes’ most recent experiences in the crawl space of our home, I risk irritating some who feel that even the smallest of creatures have basic rights. To provide context, you must first understand that the master bedroom where my wife and I reside is located directly above the opening to the crawl space under our house. Recently my wife began to complain about some interesting odors she detected in our midst. Her nasal sensitivities are well advanced compared to mine so I hadn’t noticed anything unusual. When you live in a house with four other males, a wife should expect odiferous occurrences to be rather commonplace, especially since our bedroom connects to the main bathroom in our home. Slightly offended that our personal hygiene practices had come into question, I defended my three boys and myself by informing my wife that her nose was hypersensitive and often possessed an imagination of its own. I stuck with this theory until three days later, when a strange and unpleasant odor nearly thrust me from my bed one evening. “Okay, I’m ready to listen,” I told the wife. “What could it be?” After much investigation, we surmised that the unpleasantries originated from the crawl space directly beneath us. Sure enough, an empty box of rat poison smiled at us when we opened the crawl space entrance door. A wafting stench also greeted us. As we pulled out strips of insulation one by one, it became obvious that the poison had done its job entirely too efficiently. Decomposed remains and other rodent remnants too horrible to describe lined several strips of insulation. “At least now the honor of my personal hygiene has been redeemed,” I said to lighten the moment. I received no response, not even a glance in my direction. It was decided that next time we would use those insensitive disposable snap traps under the house. And we would check them often. And we would make a stronger effort to train the family how to close the crawl space door when accessing items underneath, all of which survived the onslaught relatively undisturbed. A day or so later, a strong wind carried the strips of insulation up, up, and away, offering them as a gift to the field behind us and the empty lot beside us. It would make for a better column if I told you that this solved our disposal problem, but in reality, the insulation was retrieved and properly disposed of. I received permission to write this column only after its completion. Fortunately I had already added the part where I tell you that everything smells lovely now- as far as crawl spaces are concerned- and our bedroom has returned to its springtime freshness. The bathroom remains an issue.

Dominican Republic Mission Trip

These pictures came from a friend of mine who is the pastor of a small church in Vicente Noble, Dominican Republic. I met Alex Bido on my first mission trip to the Dominican in 2005. We became instant friends despite the language barrier and now we consider ourselves to be brothers. He has requested help in building Sunday school rooms for his little church. Members of my church, Pleasant Ridge Baptist Church in Boiling Springs, NC have answered the call and will travel there July 12-18 to minister to Alex and his local community as much as possible. Please pray for us. We are currently seeking financial assistance and prayer warriors. If you are interested in helping, contact me at rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com.

Column leads to contact with former teacher

I didn’t intend for last week’s column to be a two-parter. But events since its debut have led me to broach the subject of my first grade teacher yet again. Let me start by saying that sometimes my propensity to remember minute details of the past embarrasses me. Often I remember aspects of seemingly insignificant events in massive detail- more than I would ever let on. I worry “ordinary” people will think I’m weird. But fear not if you’ve had encounters with me in the past. I forget a whole lot of stuff, too. Some claim that we remember what’s important to us and choose to forget things we deem irrelevant. I couldn’t disagree more. If that were the case, I would have long since forgotten tons of trivial junk that rolls around inside that dome of mine. However, I’ve recently come to view my memory for past details as a blessing, not a curse. Especially after last week when the memories of my first grade teacher flooded my consciousness while tapping out a column about hope. I had not intended to mention my teacher, but the memory was there and it just kinda took over. (I know kinda is not a word- my first grade teacher taught me better- but she also taught me to be creative.) So when my column appeared and I was contacted by several folks the following day, I was pleased to have produced it. Turns out my referring to my first grade teacher as “Mrs. A” didn’t fool those who know her. She is Mrs. Avery, and based on the details I provided, she was easily recognizable to several of her friends and family members. “You should call her,” one of my callers advised. “She would love to hear from you.” I was told Mrs. Avery is 91 years young now- (sorry if I’m out of line by revealing that)- and is as sharp and lively as ever. I felt like a schoolboy calling the homecoming queen to ask her for a date as my jittery fingers punched the buttons that would make Mrs. Avery’s phone ring. I hadn’t seen her or talked to her in thirty-nine years. “Of course I remember you,” she said with a smile. (I could tell she was smiling). We chatted for a while and she remembered as much about our time together in 1970 as I did, even more. Turns out my class was the last one she ever taught so we remain special to her. She went into the full-time farming business and still maintains a garden even now. “Gardens grow better when you plant them on Good Friday,” she informed me. Always the teacher. When it came time to hang up, I didn’t know exactly how to say goodbye. I thought it would be weird to tell her I loved her after thirty-nine years, so I paused and simply wished her a good evening. But with that elephant memory of mine, I remember this much: I loved her then. And for the seeds my teacher/gardener planted in me, I love her now. And though I choked on the phone, I’m not ashamed to say it now- I love you, Mrs. Avery. And I’ll be calling you back soon so you can hear it straight from the horse’s (or elephant’s) mouth.

Teacher's Hope Inspires Students

I loved my first grade teacher. Even today I can recall lots about her. She smiled all the time and hugged us a lot. She was constantly encouraging us and I can’t remember “Mrs. A” ever showing any irritation, except for the time a girl named Tina wet herself and the wooden chair where she sat instead of going to the bathroom. Even today, I can picture her smile and recall what her hugs felt like. But I also remember the days at our lunch table when I witnessed Mrs. A prop her elbows on the table, place her face in her hands, and sob quietly for what seemed like an eternity. Normally the teacher assistant or a substitute would take over for the rest of the day and we were told Mrs. A had to go home because she wasn’t feeling well. It happened on several occasions, and though we were too young to understand, our fragile little hearts hurt on the inside because we could tell the teacher we loved was sad. Mrs. A had a legitimate reason to be emotional. Looking back, I’m amazed she held up as well as she did under the circumstances. A month or so before Mrs. A began having trouble making it through lunch, the principal had come into our class one morning and explained that our teacher would be taking some time off due to a tragedy in her life. But she promised Mrs. A would return as soon as possible. That tragedy was heartbreaking. Mrs. A lived on a farm and her family worked hard to maintain it. I don’t remember all the details, but one day something awful happened in the silo on the farm when her son had gotten trapped and was in danger for his life. Attempting to save his son, Mr. A immediately risked his own life by going down into the silo. Tragically, the accident claimed both their lives. When you are six years old, you mainly think about how events affect you. It’s hard at that age to understand the pain Mrs. A suffered. Our main concern was when we were going to get our beloved teacher back. When she returned, we assumed all was well and life would return to normal for all of us. But for some reason, lunchtime was the roughest part of the day for Mrs. A. When her head fell into her hands, we automatically lowered our voices to a whisper out of respect. Some of us just sat and stared at our leader, our small minds unable to comprehend the depth of her pain. But alas, there is hope in this story. Mrs. A was hurt, but she wasn’t defeated. Following her lunchtime departures, she would invariably return the next morning wearing her smiles and offering her hugs. She bounced around the room teaching us how to read, write, and go to the rest room instead of peeing in our wooden chairs. Where did that enthusiasm come from? How could she smile and hug in the midst of her heartbreak? The answer is HOPE. The same kind experienced at Easter, where hope triumphs over tragedy. God placed that hope within her and she shared it with us. And in doing so, her influence remains steadfast in my heart nearly forty years later.

Control Issue in my House

I distinctly remember a pastor telling my fiancé and me long ago that there would be control issues in our marriage. He advised, “These issues will define how compatible you become with each other and will, in many ways, define your relationship and eventually your family’s functionality.” (Or something like that.) Anyway, that fiancé is now my wife and with three boys showing up along the way to complete our family unit, the pastor’s words certainly ring prophetic. There is a definite control issue in our home. A remote control issue. A remote control issue was nonexistent in my house growing up. If you wanted to change the channel, you got up and walked over to the TV and flipped the knobs. Not so much anymore. He (or she) who holds within his (or her) hand the remote control, temporarily ascends to the throne of power within our home. It’s not like we watch television all the time. We like to read, play on computers, write columns (okay, that’s just me), and play outside. But to deny the presence of the remote control issue would be naïve. Issues in the past usually involved the misplacement of the remote control units. They mainly prefer to hide under couch cushions. Sometimes they telepathically transport themselves to other rooms. Or they simply vanish from existence like those mobsters in witness protection programs who testify then move to small towns somewhere in the Midwest. We thought we fixed that problem a while back in our house. We purchased one of those remotes that will make a noise if you whistle. It turned out to be ineffective once we figured out it wouldn’t respond if it was underneath another object- like a couch cushion. And we lost the little whistle they included. Plus we were forced to endure the annoying sound it made every time there was any noise in our house higher than a middle C. It had to go. We replaced it with our most recent purchase, which has worked well. It is a giant universal remote roughly equal to a size 11 Nike shoe. (Size 12 in Adidas or Mizuno.) Too big to misplace. And the numbers are easy to read. Unfortunately we only have one and it stays in the living room. Back to the control issue. My wife, kids, and I rarely all agree on the same programs to watch. Thus the battle rages. Mom usually wins because we are gentlemen. But on the inside we are bitter and resentful. Recently my former fiancé (now wife of 22 years) was in bed watching a program she knew I couldn’t stomach. I patiently waited with eager anticipation as her eyes grew heavier. “You’re waiting for me to fall asleep so you can slip the controls out of my hands and change the channel,” she noted. I truly believe she forced herself to stay awake another 45 minutes just to spite me. A few nights later I took charge of my home. Unable to sleep, I got up from the bed around 2 a.m. and proceeded to the living room where the giant size 11 Nike remote beckoned me. Ah, total control at last. I surfed those wretched infomercials for two hours before drifting off to sleep. . . with a smile on my face.