The Wild East

There are many charms to living out here on the Edge of the Atlantic.

A week can't go by without fish or meat or a pot of stew or some baking being dropped off. And you try not to mention some lack or a problem in your life because it will be fixed, stat. And I'd be beholden, you know?

For instance, I whined about my old office chair a month or so ago, it was literally falling apart, I had replaced it with a $200+ new one a couple of years ago which crunched its own wheels out - much like an alligator chewing its own tail off - within 6 months of purchase. I had put the old beat up one in my shed, like you never know, and I was glad when I hauled it out again, though my sad arse was painful every time I rose up off its hard uneven seat and dicey uncertain back. Anyways, a friend picked up a spectacular government disposed beauty in St. John's for $20. I can assure you our politician's butts are well taken care of if they are getting rid of such fine pieces before their time. I'd say originally $400 or thereabouts of our precious tax dollars. Beautiful upholstery. That's what I mean. Newfoundland people are the best on the earth.

A well placed whine can work wonders out here on the Edge.

So here I am upstairs a few days ago folding laundry (one of my more peculiar habits, I fold every dang bit of laundry down to face cloths) when I hear gunshots. Many gunshots. Around my house.

I lurk behind my windows and spot four or five young people in camouflage across the road and down a bit firing into the hills behind my house.

I go out with my arms up. I'm more angry than afraid as Elder Dog has hidden herself, shaking, in a corner with her paws over her eyes.

"Hey, I say, stop it, stop it!"

I know, script fail.

"Wha', wha'?"

They turn as one to look at me.

"You're not supposed to be here," says the leader, shouldering his rifle.

"It's my house,"

"I know, I know that, but your car's not there!"

This all makes sense to Outeasters in a peculiar way, see here, and isn't the first time I've been challenged for not having my car in my very own driveway.

"You frightened the hell out of me!" I say with an edge.

"Oh we're real sorry, miss, real sorry, but it's the only place where we can target practise, we can't go into the woods or over the water or we'll be arrested!"

"But you can fire across a main road and shoot at private property?"

"The only place allowed, miss, sorry we'll pack up now, but where's your car?

"In the garage."

"Funny place to keep a car."

They're serious.

Going Off Half-Cocked.

Going off half-cocked

Idiomatic, colloqial

"To take a premature or ill-considered action."

So you thought I was perfect, didn't you?

Well, surprise!  I'm not.

One of my defects of character is running off with some hare-brained scheme and being forced (usually by others) to come up short, in terror and a kind of awe to think I nearly got away with it.

I think I've been this way since I was around three and a half when I tried to smother my brother with a pillow. I was Queen of the Home and his arrival destroyed my royal life. He was very sick, had a nurse in attendance, was not a girl, cried all the time and I thought if I could rid us all of this defective baby, life would be simpler for everyone concerned.   I was banished to the grandparents for what seemed like an eternity of paradise. But all ends badly as started badly when I was returned to my parents and forced to attend school on a daily basis away from the scene of my attempted fratricide. Low Babies Class was how we began school in Ireland then -  for any of you older and familiar with this particular Irish terminology. You would graduate at the age of four to High Babies. The visuals are awesome for those unfamiliar with the term. But they bear nothing to the reality of nuns with rulers in damp and dreary stone convent classrooms where a good day was when you were allowed to wear your woolly coat in class to keep the chills at bay and didn't have to extend your palms for blistering from the above mentioned rulers.

Anyways, as I was saying.  I've been blessed in my life by staunch and trusted friends who prevent me from half-cocking myself. One time it was a seedy motel in Nova Scotia, another time it was a house in the back of beyond that would have involved an hour and half's commute to work. Yet another was where I was clinging to the marital home, completely overwhelmed.  I've lost track of most of them. But a few nights ago, another Staunch sat me down and said seriously to me:

"WWW - this two car business in your driveway has got to stop."

"But I use the second car for my camper. And my daughter can drive it when she's here. It's got the hitch, it's...."

"No. The car is only used once a week, if that. Its value decreases the longer you leave it and the rust can get at it while your newer car is in the garage. And how many offers have you had on it - fifty?"

"Yeah, but..."

"I can't see any buts in this.  You sell the older car. You install a new trailer hitch on the newer car and you pocket several thousand dollars in the bank even after you pay for that."

And as soon as he said it, I just knew.

Another half-cock averted.

I am so bloody lucky with the friends in my life.