Revenge of the Fallen

"No! Not in my desk chair. Out!"

It was a once in a lifetime, dream-come-true cliché—a hunting trip for the men in our family through the wilds of Texas. It was a rugged, manly exercise in the production of testosterone. There were guns. There were animals sporting massive branching horns on their skulls. There were pop tarts. It was man heaven.

Disclaimer: Unlike a bunch of city folks raised on Disney and PBS, we are country people. We know that ducks don’t wear pants, that ‘possums have the most teeth of any mammal on earth, and that given a chance, a Bald Eagle will carry off your pure bred puppy to feed to its chicks—piece by bloody piece. Mother Nature is a b . . . booger. Hunting is what animals do to animals, and if my biology teachers are right, well, then we’re animals. Right?

Sherwood went hunting with Aric and Adam in Texas and shot a white stage (a kind of elk.) Two hundred pounds of meat came in the mail and went into my freezer. Delicious. Frankly, I’d have eaten the hooves if they’d sent those.

The white stag’s mounted head came in a crate, on a semi—that stopped traffic on our street. The trucker, mumbling something about damage to the crate, insisted on cracking open the box.

“Lady, the last time I saw something like that I was at a ski lodge,” he said.

He wasn’t kidding.

Unfortunately, we don’t own a ski lodge, and it’s been a real challenge finding just the right spot to hang, Attila the White Stag.

“Not there. It’ll poke out the children’s eyes.”

“You cannot hang it there. It’ll breathe down my neck during Sunday dinner.”

“And if you hang it over the fireplace we’ll have to tear down the mantle so the horns don’t hit the roof.”

So now it’s on the wall of our bedroom, staring at me. Or it was.

Until yesterday, when Sherwood stumbling around in the dark looking for his pants, bent down and then stood up, smacking Attila the White Stag right off the wall. 

Attila tumbled down off the wall and stabbed Sherwood in the thumb with his enormous horns.

I heard the unmistakable sounds of white stag violence and husband cussing, and jumped up out of a sound sleep screaming, “Oh no! It’s attacking!”

The screaming escalated—mine!

And that’s how Attila the White Stag continues wreaking revenge, beyond the grave.

Linda (Elk Burgers) Zern

   

 

Quickies:  Postings that are Short and Sweet!

The best grandpa in the entire world, maybe the universe.

Our philosophy is to let sleeping boys sleep.  The John Deere Lawn Tractor is worth every penny it uses in expensive foreign oil. The porch swing uses domestically produced energy:  donuts and Diet Coke.

Barefoot and With Child

My first Mother’s Day was a celebration of sleeping baby atop Poop Mountain.

Sherwood worked graveyard shift. He offered to “watch” the napping baby while I went to church. He didn’t mention that he would be napping while watching.

It’s a little reported but true fact that napping babies wake up.  Napping husbands who work the graveyard shift not so much.

Our eight month old woke up. His father did not. Our eight month old, unable to rouse his father, entertained himself by sketching, smearing, wiping, trailing, painting, and possibly ingesting through his ear-holes—poop, his own. I came home from church to a Mother’s Day tribute of poop-encrusted child, napping—once again—on an artful poop mound. The nursery smelled like a scene from the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

I cried.

Three more children quickly followed. They also tended to poop. I cried a couple more times—off and on. They cried.

Then they laughed and brought me wads of flowers ripped from the ground, trailing roots and dirt. I taught them to read the great books of their people, and sacrifice for the good of others, and dance the dance of duty versus personal fulfillment. Mostly, I raised them not so much to kiss me but to kiss their children.

For this, I am accused by my silly, short-sighted, materialistic society to be a do-nothing, stay-at-home mom. I have nine grandchildren and if each of those children have spouses and produce four children . . . well, you do the math.

That first kid, the poop artist, he grew up and went to the Amazon as a warrior. Then he went to Greece, and Spain, and Iraq, and Afghanistan and Texas as another kind of warrior.

This Mother’s Day he sent me a zombie novel, a rifle, and a note:

"To the greatest survivor I have the honor of knowing. In this text lies a story of great adventure. Happy Mother's Day.

From: Your Son--Stay Alert, Stay Alive!

And I earned every word! By the way, I finished a five hundred page zombie novel in three and a half days and harvested a butt load of green beans from my garden, and pressure washed a chicken coop, and reached the twenty-five thousand word mark on a new book and . . . . try to keep up . . . would ya’.

Linda (Barefoot and With Child) Zern