Coons and Karma Will Both Gladly Bite You

Our friends had set out a live trap last night to capture some noisy, pesky squirrels and a raccoon had gone for the bait instead. Before we could get to their house this morning, a meddling neighbor had unfortunately called Animal Control. (Unfortunate for him, that is.)

We wanted to eyeball the furry bandit . . . he growled and twisted and hissed as we approached. It looked thirsty so we dropped in an apricot, which he spitefully bit and spit and stomped to dramatically demonstrate his disdain for us.

We wanted to transport him up to the mouth of the closest canyon but our hands were tied since the local officials had been summoned. So we chatted with our friend Cathy for a few minutes, said our goodbyes to the masked intruder, and left a little depressed, knowing that Animal Control would likely dispose of him. I didn't even take a picture because seeing it later would just make us sad. I guess I should have got a shot, seeing how things turned out. (Update: Our friend Cathy had snapped a few photos so here's the optical proof.)

We went to the local farmers market and, a little while later, Cathy called us with some news that made our day. The tattling neighbor had picked up the cage to move it, stumbled over some tree roots, and to avoid twisting his ankle, let go of the captured raccoon. The impact popped the cage open and the liberated animal ran "like a bat out of hell" for the bushes, across the street, and out of sight.

The neighbor then had to call to report this development to Animal Control. Later the official vehicle was seen cruising the neighborhood but there was no raccoon to be found.

We were told that, not long after this incident, the neighbor went up to an equipment shed to prepare for an Scout outing and was promptly stung above his eye by a wasp.

I think the moral of the story is 1) to mind your own business, 2) be kind to animals, and 3) be prepared for nature to bite back if you ignore rules 1 and 2.

World’s Biggest Cherry-Picker

So, for the latest health challenge at work, I tried lifting weights. After the third time in the weight room, my body parts told me I should start looking for something less painful. Now, not all body parts are trustworthy decision-makers, believe you me; but triceps know their stuff . . . they are the next best things to having eyes in the back of your head.

Luckily, today, there was a game of hoops and they needed another guy. (Pick me!) It’s not my regular MWF group, these are Tues./Thurs. guys. They play games to 11 points, counting regular shots as one point and three-point shots as two. This works for me as I love to shot outside and those shots are worth more in this style of game.

We got beat down pretty hard in one game, I think it ended 11–1. So we rallied in the next one, played some defense, got rebounds, and our shots started falling in. We were ahead 9-8 and could win it with a three (two). I was getting pretty tired (these guys are quite a bit younger) so I thought “hero or goat” and launched a shot well outside the NBA arc. It swished, the game was over, and we lined up at the drinking fountain. Truthfully? I was just too tired to work the ball inside so I threw it up there and hoped for the best.

Winners stay on for the next game but I should have known better and subbed out. I was lagging and let my team go down and defend four guys on five. Luckily our guy got the rebound off a missed shot, hurled it downcourt to me, and I got an easy lay-in. I joked about being “the world’s biggest cherry-picker” and how the fruit was definitely in season. A couple of minutes later, the same thing happened, almost an exact replay. One guy on the other team cried foul, saying, “I don’t think we should count that point.” “Really?!” I said, “I didn’t hear any complaints when you had a number advantage on the other end.”

He continued to fume and his team seriously considered the legality of a player not running down to play defense and then getting easy layups. After letting them know I was not, at any time, in the key for three seconds, I decided to sub out and let a younger player finish up the game (which I’m sure my team won).

I hit the showers where the whole situation struck me as truly funny and I began to laugh out loud. I had never been faced with anyone who wanted to win so badly that he was willing to discount points made by a cherry-picker. I began to think of different scenarios where you could try to trim points. Anybody up for “He didn’t say ‘bank!’” This was not a game of horse. Count the basket, baby.

Born in the U.S.A.

I'm a long gone Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
I'm a cool rocking Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.

A bus in South America is a strange place for a tall gringo to be feeling patriotic. But when the driver reached up and boosted the volume on his overhead FM/cassette player and Bruce Springsteen's pop anthem accompanied the slightly cooler air coming in through the half-open sliding windows, I started bobbing my head and singing along. While I was enjoying my lengthy immersion in a foreign land, in that moment, I was fiercely proud to be from the United States.

One of my most memorable Fourth of Julys was spent in Tulcan, an Ecuadorian city just to the south of the Colombian border. I was part of a small district of missionaries (pictured below, right) and we decided that we would have a big "birthday" party for Henry, a local Church member. We really liked Henry so we decided to splurge a little and procure some exciting party favors at a local shop for the celebration to be held in the cement courtyard behind the chapel.

There was some butterfly-shaped firecrackers, just a piece of paper, really, wrapped tightly around two tight wings of gunpowder with a string/fuse tied down the middle. These would violently explode with a flash and a bang, twice . . . always sooner than you expected. But the real highlight was a bottle rocket unlike any you've ever seen. The propulsion section and explosive combined to be the length of a Pringles can but half the diameter. This was attached to a 5- or 6-foot piece of bamboo. We would lean one of these against a chair, light the fuse, and retreat rapidly. The rocket/bomb would shoot up into the night sky and explode in a brilliant burst of fire. Mesmerizing. Then every time, we would realize, almost too late, that a smoking chunk of broken bamboo was hurtling back to earth. It was then time to quickly locate the projectile and move nimbly to dodge it. Thankfully no one was injured as these were above and beyond your typical pinched Whistling Petes or even Wyoming fireworks.

Okay, I just checked my journal and the bottle rockets were only 3-feet tall. Hmm . . . odd how fish grow every time you tell the tale. Here's the rest of the journal entry in case I try to exaggerate again:

"We ate cake, listened to music, and oh, they whacked Henry 29 times with a belt, once for each year. He just stood there and took it. . . . Then we had a little "appreciate Henry" program, then set off fireworks. (Snuck a little U.S.A. tradition in the party, on the 4th of July, even, IMAGINE THAT?!) 3-foot bottle rockets (big ones!!) and double boom firecrackers that made your ears ring. Wild, they were super loud and very dangerous!"

After 21 months of the natives suspecting I was CIA (dark suit, tie, believable cover as a missionary), I returned to the U.S. on my birthday (the longest b-day ever, as the 747 crossed several time zones.)

The airport in Miami felt like something out of Star Wars, all shiny and ultra-modern. Then, the other fresh RMs and I spied something gleaming partway down the airport terminal. We began to shout, then started sprinting, pushing each other aside as we jockeyed for position. We must have been quite a sight for the other travelers as we slid to a stop at a drinking fountain and started gulping down water like we had been stranded in the Sahara. Clean, cold water at the touch of a button. Quite a miracle if you think about it.

Coming back to the U.S. was like a dream. Our gray-green money looked unreal. And there were so many white people in one place, and most of them weren't missionaries. It took me a while before Ecuador became the dream and the States the reality.

Well, it's time to cook up some ham, potato salad, mushroom soup with french fries on top, and some rice. No wait, that was 4th of July lunch in South America, as close as the “momita”—the sweet lady who cooked for us—could get to a "gringo" meal. Here, it's burgers and hanging out with the fam. Now, we just have to decide whether to watch G.I. Joe or Independence Day on blu-ray after we go and see the fireworks over the stadium.

Have a great Fourth! And a big shout out to the men and women in uniform who keep this country safe and the cold water running. Your sacrifices do not go unnoticed.