My mother tells a story about her mother, my Mémère, which is French for Grandmother. The family lived in a cabin and had a homestead on the Lesser Slave Lake when my mother was growing up. The cabin had a dirt floor which needed sweeping regularly. People tell me a dirt floor is swept so things spilled on it are not packed down into the dirt and to reduce vermin.
Mémère was sweeping when, quick as a flash, a weasel ran across the floor. She, Mémère that is, moved her bottom hand adeptly up the broom handle much like a baseball player would to hold a bat and, without missing a beat, took a mighty swing that would have made even Casey proud. My mother recalls how the weasel was accommodating and hopped just a bit so he was above the floor. The broom head connected, the weasel flew across the room, and struck the wall solidly. It fell unmoving to the floor and Mémère returned to her sweeping as if nothing had happened. She quietly instructed my mother to remove the weasel and throw him into the yard for the dogs or cats.
My mother says it was an everyday event and was treated as such. It was just another day on the little homestead on the Lesser Slave Lake.