Calamity Jane
The other night, I was working out in our basement gym, just minding my own business, when my husband burst in and said there was a criminal on the loose. Apparently, deputies had blocked off the road about a half mile down from our house, blocking the criminal in with all of us on the mountain! Needless to say, I left the treadmill behind and rushed upstairs to find out what the heck was going on. According to the information received from our neighbor, a love triangle had reached its breaking point, and the new girlfriend of a guy who liked to ride his ATV on our mountain road threatened to kill the old girlfriend if their mutual boyfriend didn’t do it first. Now, the first question out of my mouth was why was the old girlfriend there to begin with? But then I had to remember who we were dealing with: the muddy buddies.
Just down the road—practically close enough to throw a rock to—is a well-loved mud hole where a small pack of these crazies ride through, slide through, and sling from until everyone is as covered as an ice cream cone dipped in melted chocolate. Night after night, for about two weeks, they came; revving their engines, and apparently each other, until an eruption occurred as large as Mount St. Helens. According to the police scanner that our neighbor is in possession of (not to mention that he knows about every deputy on the force), the guy and his present girlfriend went after the old girlfriend, who hid at an abandoned house (you knew there had to be one in this story), and called the police. In response, the law came flying up our mountain, sirens blastin’, and blocked off the road way below our home. A deputy told our neighbor to warn all of us to stay inside, with doors locked, and weapons at the ready (only in South!) So, my husband grabbed his giant shot gun and I retrieved my far daintier Ladies Smith & Wesson from under our bed, and it was then that I realized that we had a slight problem: It was dinner time and we had NY strips to cook on the grill!
I thought about pan frying them, or broiling them in the oven, but you know when you get that craving for something completely smoky-tasting and charred to the point that it leaves little black specks all in your teeth that no other method of cooking will do? Well, such was my dilemma that night. Thus, I told my husband to grab the steaks and that I’d cover him with my pistol while he grilled them. As I sat on our porch swing with my gun, and my head swiveling around like a periscope on a submarine watching for Mr. Lover Boy and Miss Present-Day Lover Girl, I wondered if I’d actually shoot them if they came at us. And the answer was yes, but also two-fold: 1). If they came after my husband and/or me, they’d get it in the knee caps. But, if they went for our steaks, they’d get it right between the eyes.
Within a few days, the guy and his new girlfriend were apprehended, and not too far from the mud hole. No shots had been fired—by law enforcement or anyone else, for that matter. Everything is back to normal, at least for now, and to tell you the truth, it’s a bit anticlimactic.
As I sat on my porch swing again last evening, minus a gun in hand, I couldn’t help but think how different my life was these days, and how I’ve changed along with the passing of them. Even with as bad a rap as South Florida gets for its high crime rate, I can honestly say that the only thing that ever chased me inside, seeking escape from certain bloodshed, were the mosquitoes. And the only gun that I owned back then was a glue gun. All things considered, I made the right move to this neck of the woods because only in these beautiful woods is grilling steak such a grand adventure. And in the end, isn’t that what all of us want? When my run in this life is over, I hope I’m able to say, “Woo who, what a ride!” And mosquitoes and glue guns won’t help me make such a declaration.