Last night’s cold snap, had Floridians running to turning on furnaces, covering up tender outside plants with blankets, and donating blankets to the homeless, who have recently multiplied in unprecedented numbers. Last night, also brought my city-girl adult daughter to near hysterics, because she saw a field mouse hanging upside down, trying to get in her window.

Last night, made me think of all I know about coming in from the coldness of a world, we sometimes can’t control. I guess it was all that thinking that made me dream of mice, peacocks, African guineas, and a certain Southern Louisiana plantation, some seventy-six miles up the Mississippi River from New Orleans.

The source of my dream began with the mice. Basically, in life, mice are one of the things that seemingly are beyond our control, at least in terms of being completely free of them, forever and ever, if you live in the right rural environment.

I'm not the kind of woman who gets upset at the sight of a mouse scurrying across the room. No, you won't find me up on a chair screaming for someone to "Get rid of it!" This fact has a lot to do with my childhood animal playmates. My grandma raised rabbits and poultry for commercial market, and such endeavors go hand-in-hand with mice infestations.

Right or wrong, we kids were allowed to play with baby mice, once she'd killed their mothers with poison. Unaware that they were starving to death without their mothers, I happily played with newborn mice, even going as far as making felt outfits and little cardboard houses for them. Their natural demise was as normal as understanding that death happens, besides there was always a new supply of playmates with the next liter of mice.

Poison kept things in check for awhile, until the day Gram's beloved little dog swallowed the bait and died. That trauma was the end of this form of animal cruelty on our ranch.

Still back then, Gram was fighting a losing battle when it came to field mice. There weren't enough traps on the planet. Thank goodness, sticky traps hadn't been invented back then. Desperate for a solution, she decided to go for a more humane way of controlling the population explosion -- she bought a flock of Indian peacocks.

Soon, one problem was replaced with another, noise pollution. Gram took it in stride,but my mother was less understanding of beautiful birds that woke my baby sister from her naps, roosted on the cars, and seemed to stare at us through the windows endlessly (actually they were enamoured with their reflections). Gram stood her ground, the peacocks stayed, the mice were banished along with peace and quiet between the birds and their arguments.

Mice still got in the grain, still tried to room with us inside the house in the winter, but they were more the exception than the rule. Gram had gotten her idea to use Indian peafowl from older Cajun relatives, who'd advised her that this was an old-time remedy, frequently used on Louisiana plantations.

Peaceful co-existence, with a little help from mother nature's natural enforcers, was a lesson well-learned in my childhood. Instruction, I apparently would need to take in a remedial crash course as an adult.

The dream began as my adult real life mouse ordeal had, with squawking geese standing around me on a cold winter day, as I went to a scoop cracked corn meal, from the industrial barrel we stored it in. (It's cheaper to by animal corn by the pick-up load, than to buy it by the bag, and storing it in barrels that have metal seals keeps it dry and clean).

The weather that day was a whopping nine degrees, so I not only had my indoor clothes, but I also had the kind of work snow suit men in that region wear when they are hunting or riding. On top of that, I had one of Bill's much bigger coats, gloves, ski cap, and fleece lined boots -- completing the West Virginia fashionista look, of a transplanted Californian, already tired of cold and snow, when winter had barely begun.

When I lifted the barrel seal, and scooped one grain measure with one hand, and proceeded to scoop the second measure with my other hand -- little did I know, that I would be getting more than I bargained for. Before I knew it, one mouse went up the wide open sleeve of Bill's jacket, another leaped from the barrel to the top my head, and ran down into the open collar of that work snow suit.

Getting back to the dream, it was as my real life event was. Mice running around inside my clothing, freezing cold, and me doing the crazy panicked dance of horror, trying to rid myself of my guests -- all to the tune of mocking raucous squawking and rasping screeches. To this day, I'm convinced all of geesedom thought my ordeal was hilarious.

Just as in real life, my dream continued, as I stomped back into our cabin and started packing for a time-out from rural life. I needed time away from there to think about what I was going to do about mice. When my husband came home from his railroad freight run, he nearly fainted at the sight of suitcases, until he understood that he was going with me (men in that region worry that their women will leave them for the city life) -- and off we went to White Castle, Louisiana for a stay at Nottoway Plantation.

We'd just arrived at Nottoway and were about to go inside to our room, when a mouse scurried across the walkway. Suddenly, it stopped dead in it's tracks, as a nearby peacock appeared. He quickly grabbed it and ran off to consume his prize. Before either of us could say a word, the waiter arrived with a pitcher of sherry cordials to welcome us, to a kinder and gentler time and place -- and all we could do was laugh. Some things you can't control, and clearly living among mice is one of them no matter where you go.

Last nights dream?-- Well, the mice were moving in, and I was planning our escape once again to Nottoway. Once we arrived, the mice were being chased by peacocks, the peacocks were being chased by African guineas, and I was bribing all of them to leave me alone by offering them the sherry cordials. All I could think of when I woke up was, "I think it's time to be planning another vacation from reality, while I figure out how to move the mice away."

Maybe I'll move them out, by sneaking in some African guineas into our resort development? I'm thinking the home owners association will be real impressed, although I won't be admitting to knowing how they got here. There might be some fun in watching African guineas chase field mice, and watch city folks try to catch them (it is almost impossible to grab a guinea).

Years ago, once back home from our winter vacation to Nottoway, I could fully relate to Gram's stance that was the source of many arguments between her and my mom. Alone again, in the woods with thousands of field mice, all looking for a warm home, the minute the weather turned cold, wasn't my idea of a good time.

Well, I wasn't going the peacock route, although I did entertain the idea briefly. We already had enough noise between the geese, our barking dogs, and the roosters. However, I was going to take a stand for a more humane way of dealing with mice than my beloved's traps and bait. When I announced this, my skeptic of a farm-boy husband was very amused. He claimed I was "afflicted " -- which in West Virginia vernacular isn't a compliment.

As a woman who is used to getting my way, we finally settled on buying African guineas, who do an excellent job of keeping the rodent population in check (along with ticks, etc.). We also provided an accessible barrel of corn just for the mice far away from the house and the barn. We piled a few bales of hay next to it -- providing the mice a warm place and food. Seldom, were we bothered by mice again.

Bill still thinks I'm afflicted and will only concede that our mice were probably the most well fed in West Virginia (by design).

African Guinea Fowl are fierce night guardians of your property, and your chicken house. They are hearty, and relatively stress free animals to have around. They have all the qualities of peacocks without being as loud as peacocks.

They will especially keep the population of mice and ticks down on your property. They are also great gardening companions, as they'll eat the bugs, but not the plants.

Some people raise them to eat, but personally, I find them to be so valuable in other ways that I would never eat one.  The females have a distinct call that to my Cadien French ears sounds like parce que -- because.  So, to my husband's inquiries as to why they were exempt from the cook pot -- my answer is "because."  I guess that's why I'm forever branded as "afflicted."

They say some things don’t change, but I beg to differ. Nottoway Plantation has survived the Civil War, economic hard times, hurricanes, mice, and men. Some of the sugarcane fields are still there, but it’s once magnificent gardens and over six acres of the front yard, have been re-claimed by the Mississippi River. The mice have left, thanks to the Indian peafowl. It has been beautifully restored, and is a worthwhile step back into another era experience.

I have a particular fondness for it -- as my family once owned the land that it stands on, before hard times struck. The bank sold it out to someone, who in turn sold it, to John Hampden Randolph. It didn't set well with my Cajun/Acadian family, that an English speaking outsider ended up with their cotton fields.

Years later, after his widow lost it, Cajun faith was restored when it returned to Acadian surname owners. Today, it's owned by someone from Australia. It is only because they are doing an excellent job with keeping it "real" and managing it wonderfully -- that this Cajun, does not want to cry, because still another historic part of America, has been sold out to a foreign owned entity.

I highly recommend a visit to this historic plantation home, where as a guest, you will actually stay and sleep inside the period rooms. You'll also have run of the mansion after hours, and tours for the day are over. It is an incredible opportunity to enjoy a time gone by. The meals are magnificent, and the staff will pamper you beyond what we expect in this country.

Nottoway Plantation has a wonderful history, indictitive of the times in which the Randolph's lived. If you are going there, be sure to read up on their lives, including finding a copy of Plantation Parade, by Harnett T. Kane and White Castle, by M. R. Ailenroc (pen name of John Hampden Randolph's daughter).

Not to be confused with the harmonica, which is also known as the French mouth harp.  The songs once played on french gilt harp at Nottoway are one ghosts of a time that you'll imagine and view while staying there.

Aside from being a beautiful instruments, harps today, are now being used as therapy.  There are some fascinating things to learn about that concept, that I hope more people will explore. Additionally, harps are an exceptionally easy instrument to learn to play.