Looking out my Backdoor: Bats in my belfry

I was sitting on my front patio talking with my gardener, Leo, when a velvety brown bat fluttered between us and landed in a hollow metal rafter supporting the patio roof.

Ah, I had wondered if bats might be moving in. This morning there were figs on the floor below the bat perch. (Figs in full, figs in processed form, but identifiable by seeds.)

Several neighbors have false fig trees which drop a nasty fruit, not a true fig. Bats haul these fruits to their perches but drop some along the way. Operative word, drop. The tree is majestic. The fruit is messy, squishy and leaves a nasty stain.

That is not the worst thing, of course. Bat guano in any form is stinky. None of us want to provide a home for a colony of bats, who love nothing more than to perch beneath our patio roofs, dropping messes below.

Fortunately there is an easy solution. We leave a night light burning. Some of my neighbors have designated bat lights which are never turned off. I have discovered that three or four nights of light will deter the critters homesteading urge.

On the other side of my house, my mango tree is loaded with fruit ready to harvest.

Previously, I have bought mangoes from roadside stands, even venturing as far as Tequila for the best fruits. I like the smaller yellow fruits, sweeter and juicier, original local fruits whose genetic structure has not been altered for size and shipping.

Four summers ago, I planted a small mango tree in my yard. This year, the first year to bear fruit, the branches bow almost to the ground, so heavily laden that Leo made teepee poles, like crutches, to support the weight. Every morning I fondle the fruit, urging it to ripen.

Time for me to sterilize jelly jars and stir pots of chopped mango and sugar until the simmering soup jells into glistening golden marmelada.

Cousin Nancie is here for two weeks respite from drizzling Washington gloom. Pat stayed home to tinker with his prize-winning vintage auto. Unlike ever-present drizzle in Washington, our rain falls mostly at night, leaving hours of glorious sunshine, a wonderful plan in my opinion.

Nancie said one reason she planned this trip is so she and I may spend time together. Though she and Pat are here for several months of winter, everyone else is also here. Consequently, it seems we seldom get to have privacy, just us.

Conversation is different when it is shared among several; it simply is different. So we have been making the most of these few days, often heading into town for intimate chats over breakfast. Communion.

Tonight I’ll leave my patio light off. I hope the bats have moved on, have found a place more to their liking, somewhere with a welcome mat.

Remember Jimmy Durante? He ended his programs shrugging into his topcoat, hat on his head, throwing a kiss, wishing all a good night with a special, “Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”

While I am not talented as Jimmy Durante, own neither the topcoat nor the hat, nor the schnozz, thank you, I wish to express “A special good night to Mrs. C. She knows where and who she is.” Inka dinka dinka dinka do.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].