Rod & Gun
Last Saturday, we attended a celebration of life for a relative (kinda, sorta) of Andrea. Judging by the size of the crowd, Mary was well loved. This event was held at a townie Rod & Gun Club that evidently hosts many celebrations such as this, reunions, parties, etc. When ever I heard rod, used in conjunction with “and gun club”. I pictured Andrea’s step dad, Joe, tamping black powder down into a musket. But that didn’t seem quite right. “What does rod mean? Like a rod to tamp powder into a musket?” I asked Andrea. Andrea looked at me as if trying to assess if I were pulling her leg. “Look around! See these fish? Fishing rod!” Andrea bewildered. “Ohhhh! Yeah. Huh.” I agreed. Leave it to me to provide unintended comic relief. These things are rife with opportunity for that and you honestly don’t have to look very hard. As Andrea thumbed through a photo album, she paused at a photo featuring a dog and asked, “Is this the dog that Kim ran over?” She asked. “Her own dog?” I asked. “Mm hm. In the driveway. The details get a bit fuzzy but I think she hit him twice.” Andrea said. Later, when talking to Kim, I learned the dog survived. “I called my mom crying, saying I’d hit Buddy.” Kim said. “Mom said, ‘It’s okay. Sometimes they make you mad.’ ‘No - with the car’”! Kim had wailed. Buddy somehow survived being hit by a plow too. Clearly, they should have named this poor bastard Lucky. Another silver lining of such gatherings is seeing people you haven’t seen in a long while. Andrea marveled at the weight loss of one attendee, remarking, “He lost a lot of weight! He looks like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia.” You’re welcome for that gem, Joe. I can’t take her anywhere - she also observed, “He needs an iron.” Wrinkles are enemy #1 of Andrea’s. I’ve somehow convinced her that I can get away with them on weekends. My obsession with organizing all the things continues to plague me. Thanks, Marie Kondo. I watch a lot of true crime shows so really, I should be glad the obsession is for good and not evil. Our refrigerator was more than I’d anticipated - we tossed out pickles that had expired in 2013. My lower back hurts now which may mean that I don’t get to our upstairs bathroom closet tomorrow. We’ll see. How bad could it be?