Maybe I Should Keep the Mothballs

Maybe I Should Keep the Mothballs

In my twenties, when I left the nest to rent a tiny flat, my mother, always practical, gave me a box of mothballs.

“Keep them in your drawer to fend off moths. You don’t want holes in your garments.”

Two years later, I moved to a larger apartment. The mothballs came with me, just in case. They remained buried and forgotten at the back of a drawer for over four decades.

Life guarantees challenges. Over the years, stuff accumulated. When basement storage space ran out and overstuffed closets turned into avalanches, I resorted to using my balcony as an extra dumping area. I occasionally watched TV episodes of “Hoarders” so that I could convince myself that I didn’t have a SERIOUS problem like THOSE PEOPLE.

During the Covid lockdown, an enormous raccoon and three offspring claimed access to my balcony, hunkering down under piles of detritus. Mounds of feces at the porch door finally incited me to take up arms against the squatters.

Two devoted friends in my “Covid bubble” arrived to help me clear the rubbish and reclaim my space. The furry family had temporarily ventured out for their daily dumpster dive. Three nasty hours later, after hauling items down to the garbage bins and hosing animal feces off the trash-cleared surface, we masked up and headed out to Home Depot for some outdoor furniture. We decorated the area with two fold-up chairs, a plastic table, an outdoor lamp, an outdoor carpet, some solar-powered blinking lights, and a plush, hanging fern.

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Unfortunately, the raccoon clan returned to defy their eviction. I could hear them lumbering up the fire escape.

Afraid to confront them, I waited until the next day. When I peeked out my door, the three youngsters were wrapped around one another in a cuddly ball, heads buried, sound asleep. Only one of the adorable, masked faces was visible. Mother was nowhere in sight. My heart melted. There they were, snoozing under the hanging plant, enjoying the soft texture of the new carpet. I retreated indoors, careful not to wake them.

Next day, I checked on my pesky tenants. Mommy raccoon was guarding them. She had taken a large dump right outside the porch door and had urinated all over the corner of my carpet. The table and chairs were overturned. She stared me down, not one iota of fear in her rascally face. Once again, I retreated, but my benevolent attitude was withering.

I Googled tips on how to combat raccoons. Moth balls were suggested. They were touted as a guarantee to repel critters due to their noxious aroma.

Ancient synapses fired along old pathways in my brain. Had I thrown out the mothballs my mother had given me so long ago? Of course not. I’d kept them like all the other items I might need someday: old belts, ill-fitting bras, outdated purses, uncomfortable shoes, frayed underwear, dresses I might wear again if I lost forty pounds. I rummaged around in countless drawers and finally found them, long buried under spare combs, extra umbrellas, old socks, and an ancient wool scarf that had belonged to my mother. It was itchy and I never wore it but had saved it for nostalgic reasons. It was riddled with holes, so I finally discarded it. So much for the effectiveness of mothballs.

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However, those smelly white spheres, conveniently available because of my wise decision to keep them, had a chance at redemption.

I strode to the porch door and eased it open. The rotund mother, with a disgusted look on her face, decided to retreat one flight down the fire escape and glare up at me through the railing.

I took aim at the cocoon of sleeping toddlers and tossed the ammunition, one mothball at a time. They stirred and peered at me with curiosity. I hit the annoyed mother on her snout. She sniffed my missile and stood her ground.

That should do it, I thought. They will hate the smell and go away.

I checked the porch an hour later. The “kids” were playing hockey with the moth balls, most of which had been batted off the edge of the porch onto the grass three flights below. Their indulgent parent was watching the action from the excrement-encrusted ledge half a flight below. Not willing to admit complete defeat, I thought maybe I should keep my remaining weapons, in case. Back in the drawer they went.

Time for more extreme measures. Bellowing like a grizzly bear, I brandished my broom like a sword, and stamped my feet, shocking a neighbor who was watering plants on a nearby porch. Begrudgingly, the foursome retreated. So did my neighbor, without the usual friendly nod.

The next day, they were back. My intimidation tactic failed to work a second time. They gazed at my roaring antics as if I were an idiot.

Google also suggested apple cider vinegar. I waited until the raccoons were out on a foray and placed a full bowl right where the babies napped.

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After three days, my porch was still vacant, and my chairs remained upright and in order. Complacent, I removed the bowl. Most of the vinegar had evaporated anyway. Sighing, I scraped up another mound of excrement.

About a week later, my furry squatters were back.

The mother backed away, but only slightly, when I again did an impression of Godzilla. Then I poked her snoozing children with the end of my wicked-witch broomstick. Those once adorable munchkins woke up and hissed, exposing tiny, razor-sharp teeth. Fearful, I retreated, waiting for them to leave so I could put out more apple cider vinegar.

Over time, the vinegar has only been partially successful. Evictions are temporary. I have since settled for a truce.

Eighteen months ago, I made a firm decision to get serious about decluttering, in response to an eviction notice from my landlord to vacate the premises in sixty days so that the son of the landlord can move in. I have never missed paying rent. Seeking legal counsel, I have adopted the defiance of the raccoons. I like it here. After forty-eight years, where else would I go? I’d pay triple the rent elsewhere. I am a pensioner on fixed income.

However, just in case I were to lose the battle, I began the process of getting rid of endless things I forgot I even had. I again came across the remaining mothballs and pondered keeping them. It took effort to add them to the pile of discardable items.

Letting go of old objects is such a challenge. What if I need something I’ve pitched? Then again, it’s just stuff, right? I can’t take it with me when I leave this world.

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Hope I don’t regret my decision. No worries. Mothballs are available at Amazon.

Recently, I attended a Hearing at the Landlord and Tenant Board. The Adjudicator ruled in my favor. Corporations can’t evict tenants to move a family member in.

There is currently a raccoon living on my porch. I have decided to let it stay.