COUNTY AGENT GUY
The blizzard roared down upon us like a ravenous lion attacking a turtle. And like a turtle, my wife and I simply hunkered in. No one was expecting us anywhere and if they were, well, too bad.
We remained snug and warm as the storm shrieked outside. I told my wife that my plan for the day was to do nothing first and rest later.
My wife stated that her main ambition was to remain in her jammies all day long.
We entertained ourselves by looking out the living room window and noting how far we couldn’t see. Now the barn is all but invisible; now you can barely see our car sitting in the driveway.
We also availed ourselves of other diversions such as cable TV, the Internet, and a cache of DVDs.
Should those things no longer suffice, we could always break out a deck of cards and hone our “Crazy Eights” skills.
Our winter idyll slouched into a drowsy afternoon – until it was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door!
My wife dashed for the bedroom to get dressed while I went to see who might be at the door in the midst of such ungodly weather.
A young man – I would guess he was in his mid 20s – was standing on my deck. He was properly dressed for the conditions: insulated coveralls, stocking cap, heavy gloves and so on.
His ensemble was embossed with that camouflage pattern that now appears on everything from coffee mugs to diapers.
This guy apparently didn’t get the memo that camouflage and snow don’t match. He stood out like a buffalo at a Ladies Aid meeting.
The young man neither introduced himself nor apologized for the intrusion. He simply blurted that he and a couple of his buddies had gotten stuck a bit west of here and could I help.
I first had to learn a few things, such as: why in blazes were they out driving on a day like this? Even the Interstate was closed!
Pheasant hunting, he said.
Aha! Everything suddenly made sense! Before me stood a prime example of that annoying endemic species known as the American Eejit.
These creatures habitually take undue risks and trust that they will invariably be bailed out whenever they land in a bind.
I considered informing the Eejit that there ain’t no pheasants out during blizzards. And that they sell chicken at Hy Vee and that such birds, when properly prepared, taste remarkably similar to pheasant. But such intelligence would be lost on an Eejit.
Addressing the Eejit’s request for assistance, I said I would like to, but lacked the log chain that would make it possible. I didn’t tell him that I also lacked the will.
This lack of will was further eroded by the fact that the Eejit began to use profanities within moments of meeting me. This did not sit well.
I am by no means a prude. I have personally employed every obscenity known to mankind and have even invented numerous new swearwords after doing something such as flattening a finger with a ball peen hammer.
But the Eejit couldn’t know that. Besides, what gave him the right to stand at my door and cuss?
I told the Eejit I would see what I could do and he left.
That may have seemed cold, to turn him back into the cold. It’s not like I had no sympathy. Lord knows I’ve spent my share of time stuck in snowdrifts and have been the recipient of much goodwill from friends and neighbors.
But each of those times I got stuck I was trying to make a living by going to my parents’ farm to do chores or struggling to get back home at the end of a long day at the dairy.
None of my “dad gummit!” situations came about because I was so daft that I deemed it a good idea to go hunting in whiteout conditions.
Rescuing the Eejits would have simply taught them that unwise decisions have few negative repercussions.
Better that they sit in their pickup a while and watch the snow swirl past the windshield and contemplate the consequences of their ill-conceived choices.
I made a few phone calls, but no one seemed willing to ride to the rescue of the Eejits.
The storm had diminished by dusk, so I fired up my pickup and ventured out to check on them.
I found nothing. No stuck pickup, not even tracks. Certainly one of the Eejits had had a cell phone, or perhaps they eventually dug themselves out.
The Eejits will now have a story to tell about that bad day of pheasant hunting.
But then again, Eejits seem to have a lot of bad days.
Nelson is a freelance writer from Volga, S.D. Reach him by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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