The Badger Incident

There appears to be a convergence of the sports zealots, the political zealots, and the New Years resolution zealots this week on Farcebook. I haven't seen this much drama and collateral damage since the time we locked the badger in widow Thompson's outhouse. It's a cautionary tale worth remembering.

We had caught the animal under a bucket down by the creek and decided it would be best if we could relocate it to a safe place while we were fishing. Unbeknownst to us the quilting bee was meeting at widow Thompson's place that week and we had just closed the door on the outhouse when suddenly the pastor's wife came charging out the back door of the main house intent on answering nature's insistent call. Shoving us aside she raced into the little shack, banged the door closed and slapped the lock before we could say anything to her about the current occupant. Roused by the noise and offended by the intrusion, the badger came up out of the hole just as she was descending and expressed his desire she wait her turn. She replied in a most unladylike way and clawed through the door with her four inch acrylic nails in less time than a chainsaw goes through plywood.

Hitting the back door of the house at full steam, with the badger still attached, she tore into the middle of the quilting bee shouting and gesticulating wildly. The other women, apparently believing this was the great awakening that the pastor had recently prophesied, jumped up to start shouting, praying, and dancing around too.

The poor badger was now looking for a way, any way, out of the place and proceeded to start making laps around the room. We, not wanting him to escape and go back down to the fishing hole, blocked the door until we could formulate a plan to recapture the beast before he got out or came to serious harm.

The poor thing never stood a chance. Widow Willson kept a 12 gauge shotgun behind the front door and on the eleventh lap, from a distance of about four feet, she hit him with both barrels. He disintegrated in a rapidly expanding cloud of fur, teeth, and other badger parts that quickly enveloped everything and everyone in the room. What had begun as an impromptu revival turned into something altogether different. The women, now deafened by the blast and covered in various bits of badger, began screaming like a flock of witches calling up an unholy demon from the depths of hell itself. The sheriff's wife spotted us peaking though the window at the carnage and they all came at us at once.

We headed for the hills with them clearing fences, fallen logs, and the odd gulch right behind us. Eventually we lost them when Fatty Tommy Johansen fell behind and they set upon him. He thrashed about wildly, but only lasted twenty or thirty seconds before he was hoisted on high by his hair, both ears, and his belt. The mob of harppies carried him back to the house for summary judgment while his cries faded in our ears. It was a terrible sacrifice, but it provided enough time for the rest of us to break away and scatter to the four winds.

We never saw Fatty again after that. Our teacher told us his family had moved to Ryrie, but we suspected he had not survived to make the trip with them. The game warden confiscated the shotgun and the quilt the women had been sewing as evidence, the quilt being the object with the largest amount of the badger attached to it. The pastor and his wife were soon transferred to another church with softer chairs so she could recuperate more easily.

We learned our lesson though. We had missed out on our day of fishing and we all resolved that, no matter what, we would never let other people's drama do that to us again.

Speaking my mind

Over the years I have had a creeping suspicion that maybe I am not quite in tune with the rest of the culture. First music turned into whiny six-chord blathering. Then came "new" movies that were "reboots" of old movies, most of which stunk to begin with. Then one day the dam burst. I had spoken my mind.

Now, for those of you who somehow wandered into Idaho uninvited, you might not realize that "speaking your mind" has a long and hallowed tradition in these parts. When a person says they're about to speak their mind it's a warning to all present that they should take any medications on-hand, tie their hat to their head, and hold on for the unvarnished truth that simply needed to be said was about to come forth!

Results varied. Sometimes people looked down, kicked a rock, and murmured agreement. Sometimes people jumped up, shouted it was straight from heaven and somebody should probably do something about. Sometimes they might even disagree and say, "He's an idiot," in which case everybody would nod agreement and that'd be the end of it. No matter the outcome nobody got too upset about it. Nobody needed counselling and arbitration to help them cope with somebody's idiotic opinion. There were no "free opinion zones" to shelter others from hearing someone speaking their mind.

Sure, once in a while, you'd get punched in the face, but there were strict unwritten rules about that. You knew you probably wouldn't get decked if you didn't insult their wife, their truck, or the questionable nature of their personal genetic background. Even then the person would say, "I support his right to speak his mind. I also support my right to beat him to a bloody pulp for being the southerly end of a northbound appaloosa!" And, of course, the punched could very quickly turn into a puncher and then everyone would get a free ticket to a boxing smoker. Times were simpler back then.

Apparently we are no longer in those times. I spoke my mind and you would have thought that I had threatened to enslave all people with purple hair, assassinate the supreme leader of Nowhereistan, and stomp on puppies to the tune of Footloose. Suddenly there had to be endless meetings with long conversations about "feelings" with egghead arbitrators and "counselors". There was great wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Once I was done gnashing my teeth I was told to shut-up and behave myself. What could I do? What could I say? How could I have defended my 1st amendment rights? The world has moved beyond all that. When a man is deemed wrong by the arbitrary court of others' opinions he can no longer speak in today's world. So I bowed my head in defeat. There comes a time when even an old curmudgeon must admit times have changed. With trembling lips I finally found my voice again, "Yes, dear."

Wildlife

In Idaho we have a bird known as a turkey vulture which is the only North American species named after both a Democrat and a Republican.

Winter driving for precious little darlings

It has come to my attention that the main complaint parents have about school being in session during winter is that they or their precious little darlings may have a car accident and die on the way to school. I have a few simple suggestions that should allay these fears.

1. Ensure your child has a car that they wouldn't get caught dead in. Standard specifications include the following: Model year prior to 1990, no more than 4 cylinders (and one of those should have about 2 pounds of compression), manual transmission (clutch optional), bad spark plugs, two spark cables randomly switched on the distributor, clogged oil filter, leaky gaskets, no heater or A/C, AM radio. This will keep the car's top speed somewhere around 7mph. It will also fail to start on cold mornings, hot mornings, marginally cloudy mornings, or at any time the teen wishes to go racing off to do something with their friends. A good coating of rust and a spattering of panels from different colored vehicles of the same make (or similar make) helps other drives to be warned that the operator of the vehicle is likely someone who is wildly irresponsible, doesn't care if they damage their vehicle, and will probably swerve into their lane at any moment. Properly purchased such a car will run you about $500 at the top end. You will also cut down on insurance since this will be "their" car and they will now have to pay their liability insurance in order to be able to drive (promptly remove them from the policies for all your other vehicles for added savings).
2. Do not pay for fuel, oil (likely a weekly expense with the recommended vehicle), or tires. This has a wonderful effect on a driver's propensity to drive like a maniac. Should they complain that this is unfair promptly begin charging them an additional fee for parking privileges anywhere within 500 feet of your property line.
3. Stop paying for their cell phone plans. This will cause some drama but let them know you care and that you will provide for all of their personal communication needs. Follow up on this promise and provide them with a sheaf of notebook paper, a Bic pen, some envelopes, grandma's PO Box, and a map to the mailbox.
4. Teach your child that chains are something that go on tires and are not to be used to connect various parts of their anatomy that the good Lord never directly connected. Similarly studs are something for tires and not ears, belly buttons, tongues, and various other pieces of their anatomy.
5. Explain to them, should they not wish to drive the vehicle provided (see above), that you understand and you pay a substantial amount of your income for another delivery system that will be available every day a block or two away. This system (colloquially known as "school buses") is operated by the government and is more environmentally friendly than everyone driving their own cars. The vehicles are huge, heavy, easily spotted, and likely to take out pretty much anything that gets in their way to minimize injury to their occupants.
6. Explain to your princess that while you believe her little tiara is amazing, her manicure is to die for, and her shoes are the cutest things ever that she now lives in Idaho and we have things called "hats", "gloves", and "boots". These are important devices for your princess to haul her delicate self to school should she put her recommended vehicle in a ditch because she was still trying to text a lol to her bff on her deactivated phone. She should also learn that a "coat" is something that has enough bird feathers in it to warm a flock of geese and not a thin piece of fake fabric cut in the latest styles from some big city.

Properly done, these items together are what is known as "parenting". Your child will arrive safely at school where they will be sufficiently inspired to shut up, work hard, and get their life in gear so they can move out and buy a decent car.

Epiphany

It's not often that we have epiphanies and they can come in a variety of ways. Sometimes we see a great work of art or pick up the Good Book or step around a tree and come face to face with a cow moose with a calf. I've had such an epiphany. I'm a curmudgeon.

Ivy league eggheads define a curmudgeon as a bad-tempered or surly person. I'm good with that, well except the ivy league eggheads bit. Curmudgeons are made, not born, but being born in Idaho I had a lot against me in becoming a curmudgeon. There are the high mountains, wide valleys, fishing holes, hunting spots, hidden corners, and other Idahoans who know that personal space is defined in miles past the fence.

It takes a lot of years and hard work to become a curmudgeon. First you have to hear a lot of people talk about things that they do not have the first clue about. Then you have to try to help them by explaining the way it really is. Then you have to try to help them out of the jam they got into by still going ahead and being stupid anyway. Assuming they survive you have to keep repeating this. If they have the temerity to kill themselves off then you have to go find another person to blather on about things while ignoring you until they go and do something stupid and get themselves killed too.

During my formative years this was not as easy as it might sound to kids today. Back then we did not have the Internet or even cable television so very few people knew everything about everything. Another benefit was the stock of transplanted Californians were still getting started and generally spent their time in Sun Valley trying to pretend they were rugged campers in between sipping lattes in their mansions and driving like maniacs over Highway 75.

But there was something else against us becoming curmudgeons back then too. Idahoans had long ago learned that it was best to let their young learn early on that Idaho is a beautiful place, but she is always trying to kill you. Like some kind of girlfriend picked up in Caldwell, this state might be a lot to look at, but it is best to realize she is probably carrying a knife, a 9mm, and a bad temper. The dumb kids did not last long so it was hard to become ill-tempered with them.

Of course I did not realize at the time that I was becoming a curmudgeon. I was simply antisocial. I did not wanting to be near to any dumb kids that tried to take a Caldwell girl out on a date on a dark lonely road. I spent my time reading hunting books and gun magazines, hunting, fishing, target shooting, and otherwise perfecting my marksmanship should I ever run into one of those girls from the Oregon side of the state. I was also doing what I could to not get killed by Idaho which seems to be a life-long task.

Eventually though my journey to curmudgeonhood became a lot easier when we had an insurgence of Californians in the late 80's. Soon came satellite television, 24 hour news channels, Internet, and automatic transmissions. In no time at all they were driving rear-wheel drive vehicles in the winter, bungee jumping off the Perrine bridge, and trying to pet a mountain lion. We would stand back, waaaaay back, and gently say something like, "Gee Fred, jumping off a 486 foot bridge with nothing but a rubber band probably isn't too smart." Fred would jump and then we would have to go find another Californian to talk to about things they did not understand, gravity and terminal velocity often being at the top of the list.

Surprisingly, after many years of trying to explain the detrimental effects of petting large carnivorous wildlife, I still did not realize that I had become a curmudgeon. I thought of myself as a kindly, good-natured, antisocial guy who just tried to leave other people alone and hoped they would return the favor.

Things changed this last week. For at least a decade now I have been telling people that sometimes it really snows in our part of Idaho. With typical bravado they would whip out their dumb phones, check the average annual precipitation, and declare that no real precipitation ever falls here. In fact, they would point out, the last ten years there was a lot less than average precipitation. All attempts at explaining how averages worked simply fell on deaf ears.

Sure enough, we got three feet of snow in a short period. The devastation was horrific. Rear wheel drive cars were spinning their tires at the bottom of hills. Little kids with their faces glued to little glowing screens kept slipping and falling on their backsides. There was a run at the stores for batteries, food, and self-help books.

I snorted, sat back, and quietly took a sip out of my coffee mug. I snarled something unintelligible but along the lines of, "Well, it's not like I didn't worn those ladies and gentlemen." I was struck. It was then, at that very moment, the epiphany hit - I was a curmudgeon. It was no longer the words I said that mattered. It was the rumble of disdain that rolled up from my chest and spit itself out at the fools I could no longer suffer.

It took me a few moments to really realize what had happened. Suddenly the weight of the world seemed to be lifted from my shoulders. No longer did I have to worry that someone would not listen to my hard-earned wisdom. No longer would I spend nights awake trying to find the right way to talk someone out of jumping off a perfectly good bridge. I could just sit back, snort, shake my head and sip my coffee.

Of course, being a curmudgeon, it helps to let people know I told them so. Therefore, I blog.