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It was a tough job, but after reading hundreds of great entries, we finally choose our winner. Thanks for all your great submissions and congratulations to the winners!
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Number 1: Dances with Moles
Written by: Linda Atwell
Early in our marriage we bought a house and were excited about fixing it up. We planted a yard. Soon slender strands of grass sprouted from the ground. The grass grew thicker, and my husband was pleased.
The neighbors called him "Perfect Lawn John," and he was known to get up quite early to admire his smooth, velvety grass. One morning, as he gazed out the bedroom window, he noticed a mound of fresh dirt in the center of his yard. As his eyes swept over the rest of the grass, he saw three more mounds of dirt. "Moles!" he said very loudly. "Moles have moved into my yard!"
I woke from the sound of his voice and then heard the door slam. I watched my husband scurry about, gently covering the holes in his new yard. Taking handfuls of grass seed, he sprinkled them onto the broken earth and patted the dirt down firmly.
When he came back into the house, I knew the moles were in big trouble. "What are you going to do? I asked, not sure I really wanted to know. "I'm going to talk to my "Wilco man" and learn how to get rid of moles," he said. That night, freshly purchased mole poison in hand, he placed spoonfuls of instant death into the holes. "There, that ought to get rid of the critters," my husband said confidently.
The next morning was a different story. Six fresh mounds of dirt penetrated his yard. Again, he rushed around gently covering the holes. Taking handfuls of grass seed, he sprinkled them onto the broken earth and patted the dirt down firmly. "Traps!" he shouted. "Wilco suggested traps if the poison didn't work."
That evening, he placed several newly purchased mole traps strategically around his yard. For several days, no mole dared to enter. My husband was sure he had conquered the mole problem--even though the traps remained empty.
By the weekend, several fresh mounds had developed. Each day, my husband rushed around gently covering new holes. He read books on moles. He talked to friends about moles. One afternoon, upon arriving home, I found my husband in the back yard, hose in hand. "They will not ruin my yard," he said firmly. "Flooding their holes will drive them away." I was skeptical. His actions were beginning to remind me of the movie "Caddyshack," and I wondered just how far my husband would go to mend our mole situation. This man of my dreams--kind, loving, gentle--was turning into an obsessed mole maniac.
More molehills appeared the next morning. My husband was up early, backing his truck into our yard. He attached a hose to the exhaust pipe and turned on the engine. "I'm going to gas the critters," he said a bit too eagerly. I wanted to point out that the heavy truck might cause more damage to his yard than to the defenseless moles, but I remained silent.
Certain that the gas method of extinction had prevailed, my husband jumped out of bed only to find fresh mounds of dirt. Once again, he performed his now regular ritual: covering the holes, sprinkling new grass seed, patting the earth down firm. He had lost the bounce in his step. I tried to console him, but it was of no use.
That night, I was awakened by the closing of our bedroom door. My husband was gone. My first thought was: intruder. I assumed my husband had gone to investigate. Frightened, I walked over to the window and peered out. Alone in our back yard, clad only in his white Jockey shorts, was my very conservative husband. Shaking his fists, he danced about on his damp grass, hopping from one foot to the other. These strange movements--lighted by the moon--seemed to be the final chapter in this man\'s mission to rid himself of those annoying nighttime creatures. When finished, he came back into the house and climbed into bed as if nothing had happened.
I stayed awake for a long time, watching the man I married and wondering who he was. The next morning, no fresh molehills graced our grass. A week, then a month passed with no new mounds. Fifteen years ago, my husband danced with moles. Our yard has been molehill-free ever since.
Number 2: Making a Mountain Out of a Molehill?
Written by: Ron M. Sparks
A mole can be a lovely thing,
Adorning cheek or mouth.
But let me speak of hateful beasts,
Accursed from North to South.
A nuisance? The word's too good for them,
These sub-terranean mice.
They're more a plague sent here from Hell
Like locusts, snakes or lice.
They leave their ugly tunnels ‘neath
My precious, manicured lawn,
And push up endless mounds of dirt
While working dawn to dawn.
"Walk down" the tunnels, smooth the dirt,
Try one more way to kill them;
But poison, flooding, traps and smoke
Seem simply to fulfill them.
So they eat grubs, have silky fur,
And are blind and helpless creatures!
I hate them at my inner core
And all their moley features.
They say "If you've seen one, be sure
There's twenty more just like him!"
Well, take my word, if given the chance,
I'll poison, stomp or spike 'em.
The lines are drawn, the war declared;
I dedicate my whole will.
I've set my mind to climb this mount!
Or.....is it just a molehill?
Number 3: Poetic Justice
Written by: Scott Bantum
Part One: The Mound Builders
I awoke one crisp, early April morn to enjoy a cup of coffee on my deck. It was still really too early to do this comfortably, but after the long deep freeze of a Northeast Ohio winter, you tend to push such things. I gazed fondly on the first pops of daffodils bravely emerging, the crocus and what would soon become tulips. Robins chirped.
This bucolic reverie was abruptly snapped however when my eyes made contact with five mounds of pushed up dirt. Each had a raised, rounded pathway leading up to it. My immediate reaction was one of anger and mild horror! I had followed the four-step lawn care program (all five steps of it) religiously the previous season. I limed; I thatched; I aerated; I watered. In short, I babied each precious green blade. And now...who dared to desecrate my property?!
Part Two: The Stomp
Dropping my coffee cup, I sprang from the deck and into action. If you're old enough, you may remember that golden oldie, "The Bristol Stomp": "the kids in Bristol are sharp as a pistol, when they do the Bristol Stomp..." With primal urgency, I started doing my own version of this classic dance step all over the mounds and ridges. Instead of the original lyrics to the tune, I muttered and sputtered out words and phrases not suitable for this essay. I delighted in the flattening, Godzilla-like reign of terror I was unleashing on whoever or whatever had invaded my turf! I guess, in retrospect, instead of
"The Bristol Stomp", "Stomp The Yard" is probably a better and hipper theme song for my first battle in this all-out war.
Part Three: Moles & Voles - Poetic Justice
When more mounds and ridges began to appear, I realized it was time to call in the big gun: ARNOLD, THE TERMINATOR...well, actually Arnie, the local exterminator.
I told him I had moles,
He said no, those are voles.
Voles, did I hear you say?
That's right, kill them today.
But how came my reply,
With Sweeney's help they'll die.
Who is this Sweeney man?
It's a company with a plan.
With spikes and traps and spray,
Those varmints will go away.
So I took that man's advice,
And now my lawn looks nice.
For the dead I said no mass,
'Cause moles and voles are a pain in my...grass!
Number 4: Five Stages of Grief
Written by: Elana Cohn-Rozansky
A few years back, as new Pacific Northwesterners, we encountered the world of moles for the very first time. It happened like it does for most people: one night you say goodnight to a pristine lawn, the next morning you wake up to a landscape not unlike the surface of the moon, or a scene from a horror film. Understandably, we felt many of the stages of grief--shock, denial, anger, and depression--with my husband, David, feeling the brunt of these emotions and getting painfully stuck on the latter. No matter how much he tended to the mole problem on one day, the unsightly mounds would appear the next. He was literally giving it his all, even consenting to an amateur haircut (by me) together (his) human hair to stick in the tunnels as he had been advised by some animal friendly web site. Once that didn't work, and his hair looked crummy, he went beyond his comfort level and set traps. It was then that his depression about the sad state of his lawn was coupled with, or possibly exceeded by, the fear of actually finding something during his daily trap inspections.
Days of fighting the good fight, turned into weeks. David would stand in front of the house, arms crossed, head slightly cocked to the side, wondering when it would all end? Sometimes he would stand there for 30 or 40 minutes, hoping and wishing for something better. People we didn't know would walk or drive by, catching him at his most despondent moments, and express their sympathies. Neighbors who did not know our names would see us at the grocery store and ask how our "battle" was going. David's responses reflected his exasperation. Several suggested we see "Caddyshack" to lighten the desperation they sensed in his voice.
One summer afternoon as David repeated his ritual of clearing out the holes, redistributing the dirt, checking the traps, and pensively considering what had gone wrong, an older man, sporting a cowboy hat, drove by in a white pick-up truck. "Looks like you've got a mole problem there," he shouted with a drawl that suggested he had endured his years of varmint chasing in a place other than Oregon. "I'll tell you what ya gonna do. Got any of tho' traffic flares in your car? Put ‘em in the tunnels and smoke the dang things out! Works for me ev’ry time."
Then he drove off just as quickly as he appeared, my husband looking at the horizon as if he expected him to melt into the sunset like a heroic character from some Western movie. Not being outside at the time, I half wondered if David, in his mole-chasing stupor, half imagined the whole thing, but his description of the man, the hat, the drawl, and the vehicle suggested the interaction was real.
The next day, David made a stop at GI Joes on the way home from work and loaded up on flares. At first, he was hesitant. He had a fire extinguisher nearby, the hose at the ready, shovels and rocks and buckets "just in case." He cleared out the first tunnel and ignited the flare and placed it inside. Fortunately, there was no explosion; unfortunately, there was no sound of fleeing moles either. Still, with the memory of the man's instructions freshly in his mind, David became methodical in his placing the smoldering flares in the tunnels. When puffs of smoke started coming up out of the multitude of holes like a mini-Yellowstone, neighbors began to come and see. The expanding audience gave David the support he needed as he brazenly found more tunnels and inserted more flares. Young boys from several blocks away showed up on their bikes. People walking their dogs stopped for a peek. Once our two sons and I saw the growing crowd, we joined the throng of onlookers. Flares burn for a while and during that time we introduced ourselves, shook hands, gawked at the smoking lawn, heard others' mole stories, and laughed a lot. And while the flares eventually burned out and the good they did lasted less than a week, that experience with the moles led us closer to the final stage of grief: acceptance and hope...acceptance of the power of nature's creatures and the hope we felt about our new life in Oregon and the people who would grow to be our friends!
Perhaps the moles themselves sensed the good feelings of that fateful flare-filled day as it seems their numbers increase each year as does their path of destruction. I hate moles because they frustrate and irritate my husband to no end; but I loved them one day when they helped welcome our family to the neighborhood!
Number 5: The Very First Molefest
Written by: Brian Cain
It all started back in 1979 when my good friend Joe Czarnik bought his first house on Morgan Street NW in Grand Rapids. The yard was full of mole tunnels, which he attempted to eliminate with various traps, poison, and noise making deterrents to no avail.
Joe\'s roommate Carl Novak and his fiancee Barb asked Joe if they could hold the wedding reception for family and a "few" close friends in the backyard. Of course, Joe had no problem with the request, but warned that the many mole tunnels could be a problem for high-heeled shoes, twisted ankles and folding chair legs suddenly disappearing into the earth.
When the hundreds of close friends and relatives showed up, all means of sod-born chaos broke loose. It was hard to tell who was sober and who was falling down drunk because everyone was tripping and falling.
The next day, Joe who really enjoys the beauty of a luxuriantly green yard assessed the damages. Everything in the yard was completely trampled including the mole tunnels. To his amazement and pleasure, within a few weeks the grass came back better than ever with no sign of the moles. In fact, all of the moles had left the premises for quieter parts of the neighborhood. His mole problem appeared to be history.
Well, at least for a while, the moles disappeared. Within a few years, the moles came back with a vengeance tunneling under his now, thick green lawn. Again, Joe tried traps, poison and deterrents and, again, to no avail.
Then an idea came to him. If Carl and Barb\'s wedding reception scared away the moles, why not do it again? Instead of a wedding reception, Joe decided to throw a party, which he dubbed MOLEFEST! It was a great party and again, the mole tunnels brought many guests sober and otherwise to the ground. Again, the moles disappeared for a few years.
So, Joe made it a tradition and expanded the format to include cooking contests, T-shirt sales and even soundtrack CD\'s featuring such favorites as "Under t e Sidewalk", "At the Stomp" and "I Fought the Moles and the Moles Won". Every year, something new was added. Elvis showed up and sang a few of his hits, the Moleman in full costume often lurked in the shadows and one year, Joe even invited Pete and Tutti to judge a Spam sculpture and cooking contest.
Copies of the "Tunnel Tribune" quickly became a much-anticipated tabloid spreading the word on all things mole. His arsenal of anti-mole paraphernalia and mole horror stories also grew into what is now referred to as the Hall of Molebelia.
The event eventually out grew his small west side backyard. When he and his wife Linda were married a few years ago, they moved to a suburban home with a larger yard where Joe has been busy landscaping his new digs.
There are suspicions that among the army of Molefest partiers some may have actually planted a few moles in the new yard because they\'re baaaaack! Rumor has it that there might be a MOLEFEST XX in the planning stages.
Number 6: Why I hate moles...
Written by: Carole Piechotka
As I step out onto my patio and gaze at my once pristine lawn, I now see mole hills as tall as the Himalayas. I hate moles because those pesky varmints have been Infiltrating my lawn and garden. Oh woe is me. I feel like Wyle E. Coyote on his worst day! There are no more Acme stores.
For you see, moles (Genus Condylura) have taken over, and when you have moles, you have lots and lots of holes. More holes than a Chinese checkerboard, more holes than Tiger Woods plays in a week, more holes than Imelda Marcos has shoes, more holes than a Hilton has rooms -- well, you get the drift.
If I only had my picturesque, golf-course-like, vibrant green grass back, I wouldn't be so frustrated with these persistent critters. The poisoned peanuts have not worked. I tried flooding their tunnels and channels, but now all I have are nightmares of them floating on their little rafts, each with a glass of Mole-Son in their hands, laughing and toasting me. I can't use a shotgun - there are no Elmer Fudd's here.
I even strategically placed mouse traps on their little paths and they sprung 'em every time. Then I tried another concoction of Tabasco Sauce, laced with Chili Powder and garlic (I thought for sure this was it) with water, poured it down the hole and they just made a wider entrance.
It seems they come out every day around the 3:15p.m. That must be the time they get out of mole school, where they learn to outsmart me at every turn. Now I know how Bill Murray felt in the film, Caddy Shack.
Earthworms are beneficial as they aerate the lawns and the moles eat the earthworms. Moles would be more beneficial if they ate grubs, slugs, ticks, Japanese beetles, etc. which are not beneficial. Then, I could understand. Moles are completely useless creatures and are an absolute nuisance. I can at least use earthworms for fishing!
The trails formed by moles are longer than the Appalachian Trail and they know no boundaries. The only way to conquer these varmints is to get the entire neighborhood together and roust them out. One person can't do it alone. I could round up a posse or resort to vigilantism. I even hired a couple of exterminators to place lit smoke bombs down in their tunnels. I had to be careful and place bricks over their escape routes. I could not harm any domestic pets or wildlife. I was even afraid I would fumigate my own house as I have a crawl space underneath a family room. What if they tunneled into that area? What's worse - what if they all ran into my crawl space to get away? I'd be overrun with the sorry creatures.
I read an article that states, "Darwin cites moles as an example of organs being phased out.” Can't be soon enough for me.
Help me Sweeney.
Number 7: Earthquake Upheaval
Written by: John G. Warren
My story begins with a project where I was trying to ATTRACT moles on some property I own in rural Kentucky. I am an inventor and wanted to do research on how moles react to the changes to the upper earth's crust before earthquakes. My research never worked out and I was stuck with a large number of burrowing pests digging up my property.
An engineer friend of mine recommended taking the hose off my clothes dryer and hooking it to the back of my truck's exhaust pipe, while placing the other end in the mole holes. This of course would poison the moles with carbon monoxide. I just couldn't do it, it didn't feel right. I paced back and forth around my truck, obviously agitated, not knowing what to do. Next, a group of concerned individuals approached me, concerned I was about to take my own life, using the tailpipe hose to poison myself inside my truck. How embarrassing. Since this misunderstanding I have given up on trying to use moles to predict earthquakes.
Number 8: Turf War
Written by: John L. Stryker
There was movement on his right. The enemy, fast, strong, and ruthlessly destructive, wasn’t very bright. His muscles twitched, tensed, small beads of sweat on his forehead glistened in the first faint rays of the rising sun. The night had been short and warm, the day would prove to be long and hot. He had been here before. At this level of awareness and readiness. He had, in the past, been asked to come to the defense of others and had not been found wanting then and would not be now. There it was again. A slight change in the landscape. Blades of grass shifting, that was all. He saw and understood. There was no hesitation. The strong black cup of coffee was set aside, forgotten for now. He could come back to it. There would be more. His weapon, a shovel. Old and arthritic, his hands were still strong and capable. His strong back and proud shoulders straighten and squared as he approached. As has been mentioned, the enemy was not very bright, stealth was not required. The grass was still again. Time seemed suspended as he waited. They’re on the left, unmistakable. This time it was his quarry. Do it.
This unseasonably warm day was not the first day in this war but it would be the day he would remember as the turning point. The enemy’s invasion had begun quietly and its numbers had grown quickly over the previous weeks. His frustration and anger had turned to a controlled hate and rage that were as frightening as it was comforting to everyone who saw it.
From amiable and friendly to cold, quiet and determined. The war had only just begun and its duration was in question but not its outcome. He would prevail. This land was his before the war and would be again. Of that there was no doubt. The shovel was raised, ready. He shifted his weight a little to test his footing on the now dew soaked grass and with the confidence of a trained killer he drove it into the ground. There was almost no sound. The savagery of the attack should have shook the nearby house but the shiny, sharpened shovel simply slipped into the ground, instantly breaking the back of the first casualty of this war. This turf’s war. His coffee had cooled but he drank it anyway. He needs to remain on alert. His wife had witnessed the attack and now waited, quietly, patiently, in the spacious kitchen that would become, in the next few hours, command central. She had always been there for him, at his side, and before long, she knew, he would need her again. A fresh pot of coffee, a muffin perhaps. She would see that he was ready for round two.
The shovel had been driven to the depth of its blade from the force of the attack. He removed it easily. Positioning it near the scar he had just made him placed his foot atop the shovel and neatly, expertly, removed the dirt. “Biggest dang mole I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.
The end?
Number 9: Duncton Wood
Written by: Cheryl J. Blodgett
Years ago, I read a wonderful book, entitled, "Duncton Wood." It was a completely anthropomorphized adventure story about a village of moles: their family dramas, philosophical and cultural beliefs and traditions, struggles to survive in their complicated underground habitat. It was filled with complex, diverse and inspiring characters. I have been fascinated by these amazing little creatures ever since.
Living on a hill, with half of our groomed yard abutting the woods, we have our yearly resident moles. They promote their mystery with only their tunnels being in evidence, inspiring my curiosity to long periods of watching for movement along their spongy trails.
One late summer day, I was out mowing when I noticed movement. I started watching in amazement as a tunnel was forming on the surface of the lawn and periodically a furry gray back would emerge. I thought, "This is not a normal mole". I started following along with the little
fellow, to try and catch a closer glimpse. Finally, I couldn't help myself-I had to see more. I reached down, put both my hands around him and pulled. With his front feet, he started digging his claws which had very long dark fingernails, as hard and fast as he could. I held fast and he finally let go and let me get a good look at him. Holding the soft little body and staring at his eyeless little countenance took me right into my mind's eye world created by "Duncton Wood."
Our hilltop, being open to sky and flying predators, did not seem a safe environment for a mole unfamiliar with the usual below-the-surface burrowing practices of its kind. Therefore, I carried
him to a heavily wooded area where he could tunnel and romp as he chose.
This is what I hate about moles: They cause me internal conflict. They burrow from every bordering corner of our yard in search of juicy, crunchy larvae, leaving trails throughout our beautiful green lawn that bisect and trisect themselves and turn yellow and then brown, killing every blade of grass in their paths. My husband takes huge pleasure and pride in a beautiful landscape. The moles are driving him nuts. He spends half his life sowing, fertilizing, weeding, mowing, and trying endless mole treatments. Some of the treatments, he has discovered, to my consternation, are quite effective.
So what's a lover of soft-furry-fascinating-animals to do? I bury my head, right along with the moles, when my husband pokes "peanuts" into their tunnels. I tell myself that the traps are modernistic lawn sculptures. I live in my own anthropomorphized fantasy world, (and I take joy in a glorious lawn), that's what!
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