On my last trip up to Boomershoot, it was just me and the Son&Heir (aged about 16) in the old F-150 FX4 making the three-day-up, three-day-down journey.
On the way up, we drove along Idaho Rte 55:
…whereupon I stated idly: “I wouldn’t mind retiring to a little cabin up there against the foothills”, to which the Son&Heir replied, “No, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll still be living in Texas, and I’ll be damned if I have to fly back up here every time I get a call from the sheriff.”
“What do you mean, call from the sheriff?”
And the fruit of my loins (and heir to my gun safes and their contents) proceeded to have the rest of this conversation all by himself, complete with the appropriate accents.
“Jack? Sheriff Johnson here, up in Valley County.”
“Oh God, what’s he done now?”
“He’s shooting at trucks driving along the main road again.”
“Didn’t we take all his rifles away from him the last time?”
“Yeah, except his .22s. And he’s using them now.”
“Why this time?”
“He says they make too much noise and disturb his peace.”
“But he’s as deaf as a rock.”
“Can you come up and talk to him? Next time I’ll have to arrest him, and you know what happened the last time we tried to do that.”
“Is the deputy okay?”
“Well, he doesn’t have to use that walking stick anymore.”
“Dad, you have to stop shooting at trucks from the porch.”
“Why? I gotta keep my eye in.”
“Well, for one thing, it’s against the law.”
“It’s a stupid fucking law. Trucks are noisy; isn’t there a law against making a public racket?”
“Dad, we talked about this last time.”
“And it’s only a little .22 bullet, anyway. At that range, you’d hardly feel it even if it hit you, and anyway, I’m only aiming at the trailers, not the drivers.”
“Yeah,” the Son&Heir concluded, turning to me, “just tell me that all this could never happen.”
I had no answer.
