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Living out here in the Agricultural Reserve of Montgomery County, we see a lot of wildlife that our down-county friends rarely find.  It’s not unusual for my family to be eating dinner, and see a fox or two out in the back yard.  And, of course we have the ubiquitous family of raccoons, squirrels, possums, skunk, and chipmunks, or as I like to call them, ‘Zippy-Chippies’.   We also have black bears and coyotes, though, to be honest, we never see them in the yard.

Recently, our local community members had a debate on Facebook about them-thar coyotes.  Some people fear them enough to want them dead.  Others have a live-and-let live attitude about them.  And, of course, everyone supports the notion that we have the right to defend our properties should chickens, dogs, or baby goats become prey to the dog-like critters.  Luckily, most coyotes will run if you clap, or yell, or throw a stick at them; but there is always the likelihood that they’d come back at night.

My Captain, Varmint, Critter and I sat around the dinner table tonight brainstorming about how we would deter a coyote from taking up residence in our own yard, should one ever come around.

This is where Critter, who is eleven years old, began thinking along the lines of Wile E. Coyote.  His ideas are fresh, outside-the-box, and more than a little scary.  His best contraption concept, which he named ‘The ACME Coyote Cannon” entailed motion detectors, randomly placed baseball fast-pitch machines, and water balloons.

But the others weren’t bad either.

One idea began with the same weight/pressure sensors found in minefields, and ends with catapults buried flush with the ground. It was dubbed “The Coyote-a-pult“.   Another had to do with a strobe light and Justin Bieber music.  (That would sure as hell deter ME.)  It was called “The Bieber Bomb“.   Another idea started with rounding up all coyotes, inserting metal plates in their backs, and installing powerful underground electronic magnets around the perimeter of the yard. It would be called, of course, “The Magnycote“.   Expensive and unrealistic, sure, but wouldn’t it be fun to wake up and see how many coyotes you have stuck to the grass?

Every one of these ideas rocked, frankly.  The problem was, with the exception of the last idea, that most of his contraptions could not differentiate between a coyote, and, say, Mama taking the trash out.

I have no wish to be catapulted into the neighbor’s corn field.

Thankfully, we have no need of any of these inventions, yet.  But I see great things in Critter’s future.

And I’m damn glad I’m not a coyote.

Many years ago, My Captain and I were inspired to ride the 10 miles (20, round-trip) from Confluence, Pennsylvania, to Ohiopyle, at the falls of the beautiful, whitewater Youghigheny River.

Our romance was fairly young.  We were both willing to go the extra mile to impress each other.  It was still the days when we wouldn’t fart in front around one another, or pick our teeth at the table, or wear the same socks three days straight.  We were both intent on woo-ing!

The day was beautiful, and riding our bikes along the cool, sweet river water was pure heaven.

The first half of the ride went off without a hitch.  It is a slightly downhill grade to Ohiopyle, and we enjoyed a leisurely pace.  Stopped at the Hershey Ice Cream store in town, held hands, walked to the bridge near the falls, enjoying the sunshine and each other’s undivided attention.

When it was time to get back on the bikes, we both admitted to being slightly tired, and would be glad to get a shower at the River’s Edge Bed and Breakfast, and then gorge on their fantastic food.   It was a good plan, and all was right with the world….

Until the second mile back.

One of My Captain’s pedals broke.  We had at least 8 miles, uphill, still go.  What were we going to do?  Were we going to walk 8 miles?  We were already kind of tired!

My Captain got to work.  A little chewing gum, dental floss, and C4 later…..

Behold the solution.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was an interesting tow-job.  He had taken the wires for the bike locks, and created a pull line.

Being a proud manly-man, he was determined to be the one to tow, so I got put on the broken bike, where I had nothing to do but coast and enjoy the view.  Within a couple of miles, he could feel every single one of the extra pounds on my thighs and butt.  Hell, he probably could even feel the weight of my extra chins.

I started singing by the fourth mile.   He glanced back to see me with my feet on the handle bars, and my hands behind my head, lounging.  He didn’t appreciate it.

And by the time we arrived in Confluence, he was totally, thoroughly, and in all other ways devoid of romance.  He was DONE.

I took this picture of him back at the bed and breakfast.  This is him holding the broken pedal.

He was not pleased.

Not just because he was tired, or because his leg, back, and butt muscles were exhausted, and not just because he cared that his bike broke.   It was mostly because he had wanted to impress his girlfriend, and thought he had failed, miserably.

But what he didn’t know then, and I hope he knows now, is that his on-the-spot, adapt-and-overcome-fix-it job impressed me more than any easy ride up the river ever could have.

We haven’t done that ride since, though I’d really like to.  I think My Captain has flashbacks whenever I bring it up.  I’ve gained weight since then, and I don’t think he has the heart to pull me ten miles up the river anymore.

He picks his teeth at the table now, too.

I can’t judge him too harshly, though, because I fart at it.

I saw this picture on the news today:

It is Lt. Walsh’s wife.  He died in the Boston fire a few days ago that claimed the lives of two firefighters.  This picture was snapped of her as she watched them load his casket onto the fire engine’s hose bed.

I couldn’t stop looking at it.  What am I seeing?

Is it pure grief?

Is it shock?

Is it fear?

Is it pride?

No one but her will ever know.  We could only imagine.  But I do know one thing for absolute sure…..

I don’t ever want to be where she is.

I don’t want to be the hero’s widow.  I don’t want to be the one left behind to grieve.

I have no say in it, obviously.  My Captain is who he is.  He has put his own life at risk for the past three decades, in the service of strangers, thousands upon thousands of times.  He did it before he knew me, he does it now, and he’ll probably do it after he retires – if he lives that long.

None of that changes the fact that I don’t want to be the one left here to suffer alone.  If there is going to be any suffering going on in this marriage, we’ll do it together.

Wait…..that came out wrong.

You know what I mean!

God bless you, Mrs. Walsh.  You, and your husband.

And thank you.

I’ve been begging My Captain to take me away for a day or two….to take me on some adventure that didn’t include laundry or dishes or the same four walls of the little cottage.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my little cottage in the woods and am deeply grateful for it, but it’s been a long, cold, white winter and I need a change of venue to straighten my perspective.

I’m married to a good listener.  If there is one thing my Beloved can do, it’s fix things.  So yesterday, having heard my plea for a change of pace, he drove me three hours to Kingwood, West-By-God-Virginia.

In the rain and sleet.

Why?  Why did he take me to Kingwood?  Was there a romantic restaurant or Inn there?  Did he have some creative date planned for me?  What was up this guy’s sleeve?  I envisioned roses, chocolate, soft music, perhaps champagne.  Whatever the reason, I just knew it would be beyond my expectations.

Turns out,  I was off by a little.  We went there for…..

Guns.

Guns, and all-you-can-eat smoked meat, to be exact.

Apparently My Captain’s best friend, Ty, was helping to run the gun raffle for his In-Laws’ Ambulance Company’s fundraiser.

My Captain, being the quintessential pragmatist, and expert in efficiency, decided to kill three birds with one stone, and take me there for a surprise change of scenery while simultaneously supporting his old friend, and supporting a good cause.

I was right.  It was different than anything I may have expected.

We were there for 6 hours.  Six. Long. Hours.

(Which was nothing to Ty’s poor daughter, Nicole’s time there.  She’d ended up waiting for her dad for nearly 10 hours! Nicole, who had never shot a gun before in her life! Now THAT is a supportive daughter!)

Six hours of guns, and more guns, and more guns.  If it had not been for meeting Ty’s fabulous in-laws, and the fantastic smoked (as in, cooked IN a smoker!) hot dogs which were, Get This, FREE, I’d have been disappointed. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like a raffle as much as the next guy, but guns are not the thing that floats Mama’s boat.  Had he taken me to a gourmet kitchen tool raffle, THEN we’d be on to something.  But guns are more my Beloved’s arena.

My Captain knew what he was doing, though.  He distracted me with the all-you-can-eat smoky, salty deliciousness all day, he got to drool over different kinds of firearms, Ty felt supported by friends, and Ty’s in-laws made money for their ambulance company.  Sure, it rated low on the romance scale, but we DID get to spend 6 hours alone together in the car listening to Blue Collar Radio on XM, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

(and farted.)

But that’s another story, altogether.

I was at our little town’s High School Basketball games a few weeks ago.   Yessirree, I actually got out of the house, free as a jaybird for one glorious evening!  Out to cheer during a fun game of local sports, and then maybe share a meal with good friends and family at Bassett’s Restaurant afterwards.

I love the corny, campiness of an evening like that.  Maybe it’s the time of life I’m in. Maybe it’s the fact that I appreciate the Mayberry, old-fashioned Americana in which we are lucky enough to live.  Maybe I’m just an uninspired, lack-luster dork.  Any or all of those are possible, but whatever the reason, I was in heaven.

The game was fairly well-attended; the bleachers 75% filled.  The PA turned on with a pop and crackle, and all were asked to rise for our National Anthem.

This is where the trouble started.

I was near the top of the bleachers, and a few rows down from me were some high-school aged, good looking young men.  A group of them, sans parents.   They were eating pizza and laughing amongst themselves, enjoying the evening much like I was.  When the announcement for the National Anthem came, and everyone stood up, the young men eventually did so, but one young man didn’t put his pizza down, and another continued to talk to his friend, with his back turned to the flag.

Now, you see, I have a family history rich in patriotism.  One of my brothers attended the Naval Academy and became a Navy pilot.  My father paid a brief stint in the army in the ‘50’s.  My step-father was a colonel and retired in the ‘80’s.  I have ancestors listed in nearly every war going back to the French and Indian War. What I’m saying is that my family has paid its dues to keep our nation together.  Our freedom was won partly on the backs of people whose very blood courses through me and my children.

So facing the flag respectfully with your hand on your heart during the National Anthem?  Taking an ever-so-short moment out of your day to consider the people who died so that you can enjoy a campy evening of high school basketball unhindered by communism or socialism, or any other ‘ism that would come and take our hard won freedom…..yeah, it’s a big deal to me.

I didn’t clear my throat.  I didn’t give a polite “Ah-hem.”  I leaned forward on my newly-built knee, snapped my fingers in front of their faces, and jerked an angry, pointed finger at the flag.  The two, who had the courage to look back at me, received a most disconcerting stink-eye, not only from me, but from every ancestor who sacrificed, or ultimately died for that flag, and everything that it stands for.  I could just imagine the hurt those dead men and women would feel, having been forgotten so quickly, having been rendered irrelevant, for even the mere moment of a song, by children who live in the very spoils of their past battles.  Friends, I was peeved.

Critter witnessed the whole, and asked me why I had done that.  I looked at him with an “Et Tu, Brute?!” incredulousness, and his innocent eyebrows told me all I needed to learn about my own shortcomings.

Those boys could not respect the depth of meaning of that flag and its anthem because obviously no one had told them everything that went into it, past a textbook story.  My son could easily have been one of those young men, had that exact moment not shown me my own negligence in teaching him about our family’s sacrifices, our country’s sacrifices.  My son could have been the kid noisily chewing the pizza during that quiet minute of selfless respect we are asked to take out of our day.

Holy Crap.

We talked.  I tried to draw a picture of life as it could have been for him. I attempted to illustrate life as it is today in other, less fortunate countries.  I tried to tell a story of sacrifice and the gift of freedom paid for with blood, or health, or ultimate happiness.  How do you tell this to an 11-year-old boy during a basketball game?

You can’t.

So when I started to lose him, I gave up and concluded with, “…and if I EVER see you not take your hat off, or not put your hand on your heart, or eat pizza when the anthem is being played, so help me God…..” because as any good parent, we default to the unfinished threat.

Obviously, my son has the movie “The Last Of The Mohicans” in his near future, and maybe an evening sitting on the couch with his Grandma Jane going through the 200-year-old family bible.

And the next time that anthem is played, by golly, he’ll know WHY he is standing.