Jack. Is. Back. View the Damaged Goods Trailer!

As I write this, somewhere, just to my right, he (or she) is sleeping. It’s 5:15 a.m. and he’s been sleeping in lately. Last night he didn’t get home until almost five, after dark at this time of year. I heard the rattle. Then the scratching. Then the pitter patter of little feet. He settled in quickly and in no time as curled up, sound asleep.

I want him gone.

He’s a red squirrel, and he’s taken up residence in the ceiling of my study. The study is in the rear of the ell of our 1820s house and his entrance, I believe, is near the peak of the gable end, just above the hook for a bird feeder. He hasn’t bothered with the feeders; the woods behind the house bore a bumper crop of ash seeds and acorns this fall. He feeds during the day, comes in and sleeps it off. But when he’s not sleeping, he’s chewing beams, sprinting down paths between the ceiling joists, scratching loud enough to wake people sleeping in the bedrooms below.Worst of all, he may be chewing electrical wiring.

Time for him to go.

Plan A: I have a Havahart trap. That will go out by the birdfeeders, in hopes that I catch the right red squirrel. I’ll probably just have to catch them all, transport them to our version of 19th century Australia. Vassalboro.

Plan B. Rat traps kill red squirrels as well. They worked when the squirrels invaded our shed a few years back, but it was messy. This battle isn’t for the faint of heart.

Plan C. The .22 rifle. Trick is to slow them down enough (getting a bag of squirrels for dinner in the olden days wasn’t as easy as it sounds). If I can get him to come to the feeders, there’s a clean shot from my study window. As in most wars, it’s nothing personal, as my fictional soldier friend Clair would say. One of us is just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I continue to get mail for impresario Gerry Boyle, brother of Susan Boyle, the endearing Scottish songstress. Gerry has a record label and he does get some interesting notes, like the one that came from New Zealand earlier this week and began: “Hi Gerry, You must be proud of Susan’s success.”

Well, of course I am. Who isn’t? Living with her cat and singing in the church choir and all of a sudden she’s vaulted to fame and maybe even to fortune. But this letter, unlike most of them, wasn’t pitching a rock band. David was offering a special programme that he said would help Susan overcome her panic attacks. David said it worked for him; he hasn’t had an attack in 21 years. He said he expected nothing whatsoever in return. He also said he respected Susan’s privacy. Nice guy, David. I haven’t had a panic attack myself but it made me almost want to write back and get the CD, just in case.

And I will, write back that is. I’ll explain to David Down Under that I’m Gerry Boyle the crime writer. And I’m from A Place Called Maine, which happens to be the title of a wonderful book that I was lucky enough to stow away in.

I don’t usually plug my work so baldly (well, maybe I do, but not this work). This is an anthology published last year. I tell people it was my one chance to be in the same book with E.B. White so when Wesley McNair called and offered a slot, I grabbed it like a winning lottery ticket. After some mulling, I wrote about a scrappy little place called Bellevue Street in the town of Winslow, where the view pretty much sums up why I live in this part of Maine.

But then the book arrived. I started reading and I didn’t stop. It was one wonderful essay after another, (I skipped mine, having already read it). E.B. White and Henry Beston. Rachel Carson and Carolyn Chute. Elaine Ford and Richard Ford. Richard Russo and Monica Wood. Wesley McNair and Cathie Pelletier. And a bunch of others, a couple of dozen all told. Some are long dead. Some I’ve had lunch with, and will again. All told remarkable stories about what makes Maine special to them. Geoffrey Wolff sailed into a blinding fog. Bill Roorbach was mired with worm diggers. Monica Wood wrote about being a child in Mexico, Maine. One excursion after another, all different, all transporting.

So that’s my plug. Here’s the link to the book. Like David with his anti-panic program, I don’t make a penny from it (I sold my essay outright, and, truth be told, would have written it for free.). But I encourage you to check it out. It’s a remarkable collection that truly is greater than the sum of its parts. I’m almost as proud of it as I am of Susan’s success.