I’ve had a friend visiting from out-of-town for the past few days, down here researching the possibility of life as a snowbird. Considering that temperatures at home this time of year routinely hover near zero, I can’t say that I blame her.
I took her to the range the other day, and she tried out KatyBeth’s Smith&Wesson M&P15 .22.
Valerie DeFrance shoots an evil black rifle!
KatyBeth and I took her to Sunrise Catfish Farm, an entirely new experience for her. Apparently, back in Alaska, she just wades out into the crick behind her house and scoops 40 lb salmon up onto the bank with her bare hands. This whole “rod and reel” thing was a bit foreign to her.
Out of respect for the nice Mennonite family that runs the catfish farm, we didn’t use my preferred fishing technique, ala Hub and Garth McCann. We did catch a fairly nice stringer of catfish, though.
But the signature moment of the weekend came on Friday, when I went to the DMV to turn in the tags for the now-deceased Frankenhoopty. Valerie opted to wait outside while I went in, took a number, and settled in a chair to wait my turn.
I’d been waiting perhaps fifteen minutes when a concerned patron walked in and said, “There’s a woman out there just lying spread-eagled in the grass!”
Now normally, this would be my call to action, but something about the warm spring day told me to hold off. “What did she look like?” I asked. “Long brown hair in a ponytail, pink shirt, green cargo pants?”
“Yeah, that’s her,” the concerned motorist nodded. “Maybe somebody should go check on her!”
“‘Y’all don’t mind her,” I chuckled, “she’s from Alaska. She’s just not used to decent weather, that’s all.”
