Guns

We arrived at the cabin midafternoon. In the mad rush to attach all our devices to the Michigan Wi-Fi, I noticed our neighbors way off in the distance. They and a small group of friends gathered around a four-wheeler.

Then we heard gunshots. Bam…Bam…Bam…

“That’s an AR-15,” I said with authority.

“How do you know?” Di asked, mentally selling our cabin in her head.

“I’ve played enough violent video games to know the sound of an assault rifle.”

Luca, peering through our window in fascination and horror, said, “But dad, they are shooting a pistol.”

Oops. Regardless, I began lecturing the family about living in Michigan. This is gun country. It’s legal. They are clearly observing safety rules and are shooting away from the house. So let’s not get all liberal butthurt about…

BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM.

Our neighbors had moved on to a real assault rifle. Even at 2 football fields away, the sound was deafening and terrifying. I casually shoved Luca away from the window.

Sensing the panicky Democratic hand wringing next door, the gun club disbanded. For the next couple hours, the boys would speak of nothing else. Will the neighbors come over and shoot us? Will a stray bullet reach us in the cabin? What if they find out we voted for Obama? Would they shoot Grover if he poops in their yard?

Diana decided to put a stop to it in the only way she knows how: wine. We walked over to officially introduce ourselves and supply them with liquid friendship.

Yeah, okay. I’ll admit it. I assumed they’d be soaked in moonshine, wearing nothing but overalls held up by oversized diaper pins. Because I am a terrible person.

In reality, they were a lovely young couple who looked more at home in a college lecture hall than the Hillbilly Jamboree I had in my head. They chatted about the town and the ins and outs of living next to a creek. They also offered to keep an eye on our place and handled Grover taking a human sized poop in their yard with aplomb.

We went home, satisfied that our neighbors now knew we had cute children who were not bullet proof.

Luca and I then moved onto our favorite Michigan activity: prying shotgun pellets out of highway signs.