Poor Dining

We are slowly moving down the road of growing a family instead of adding to it.  We know this because of  the milestones we pass along the way.  As the LW and I, mostly the LW, have been knee deep in pregnancy, nursing, diapers, and various starts and stops throughout the last 10 years, milestones are a big deal in our house.  Potentially the biggest for us at this stage of our development is moving away from diapers.

Our 4th and final child is a handsome young lad who usually responds to the monicker of Win.  He is a blond 2 year old who is into more mischief and trouble than the other three children combined.  He played a large role in us deciding we did not want to add any more faces around the dinner table.  We love him dearly but he is a handful.  He is loud, challenging, chases his siblings around with various weapons, and makes his older sisters cry on a regular basis.  But, he is also loved, and probably the favorite among the three other kids.  They cannot get enough of him.

We are in a season of potty training with Win, and it is more than a little difficult.  He just doesn't seem to want to get it.  Case in point:

The Stribling Clan loaded up all of our beach equipment in, on, and around the family truckster and headed to the beach for a long weekend.  About halfway down I-16 we pulled off at a Zaxby's for dinner.  All kids like chicken, so we thought this would be an easy stop.  And they did.  Each child ate more than their fair share of nuggets, chicken strips and fries all dipped in the special sauce.  The trouble started when the three older children, and one friend's child who was riding with us, began screaming hysterically.  Win, smiling ear to ear, is standing in the middle of the aisle, in a pile of poop.

Imagine the LW's shock and dismay to witness this scene in a public forum.  Win is not satisfied with merely pooping in a restaurant, he wants to track it all over the restaurant, too.  He is not interested in just soiling one section.  He wants to have the place condemned and force it to be shutdown due to his personal health code violations.   A kid a couple of tables down from us turned green and just about passed out in his plate of chilli cheese fries.  I felt bad for him, until I realized what my job was about to be.  We then begged/ threatened the kids to calm down, scooped up Win in such a way that we would not get contaminated, and scooped up the poop before the restaurant knew it needed haz-mat suits for uniforms.  It was terrible.  Not only did the stress level skyrocket instantaneously, but we also just did not feel like we could clean our hands enough to return to the dinner table.  There is just not enough hand-san in a bottle to give you the comfort level you need to move forward at certain times in life.  The whole thing just left us feeling sick, and completely unsatisfied.

So, all that to say, that was a top 3 worst dining experiences to date.

The Big House

When I was a young lad in high school, I found myself on the wrong side of the law.  Now, the reasons for this arrest are trivial at this point, and there is no use in reliving them in this forum, but suffice it say that my youthful exuberance and indiscretion landed me in jail for a night.  This was not jail like you see on The Andy Griffith Show where you walk in under your own recognizances, let yourself in and out of your cell, move the doilies around and hang out with Barney.  No sir.  This was big boy jail.  Downtown Atlanta.  At night.

Imagine a young man, at the age of 18, on the cusp on manhood, having been arrested after a formal dance.  He is in a full coat and tie (none of which fits as it is all hand me downs), barely shaves at this point in his young life, and has no idea what he has just gotten himself into.  The only thing he really knows is that A- he is in a heap of trouble, B- man are his parents going to be mad, and C- holy catfish are they really throwing me into the back of this van, cuffing me to this enormous black man, and expecting me to get out of this van in one piece?  I have seen the movies.  I know what happens to preppy boys in jail.  It ain't pretty.  It is like a really bad version of the Crying Games, which was a really bad version to begin with.

After going through the finger printing process, the picture taking, and waiting, I was put in a holding cell that was approximately 40 x 50.  There were probably 100 men in there, one of whom was white.  He was large, in a shirt that was too small, and passed out under the urinal in the corner, which apparently no one used.  I think all my fellow inmates just peed on him, or wherever they happened to be sitting at the time.  I have cleaned a lot of diapers and wet beds, but I have never smelled such an overpowering stench of urine in my life. To this day, I have a hard time smelling my kids pee without retching.  It was like a wall of urine smell that was so bad I preferred to hold my bladder than relieve myself in there.  Plus, I couldn't reach the urinal with the big white dude on the floor, and I did not want to take the chance of peeing on him and making him mad or being the object of someone's wrath in a place I did not feel I belonged.

This holding cell had a bench that was bolted to the wall that went all the way around it, stopping only when it got to the vicinity of the urinal.  The wall where detainees over the years had leaned against was dirty, but more importantly, it was worn.  And by that I mean, the place on the wall where people leaned back and put their heads against it had all the paint worn off, all the way around the room.  It was like a dirty stripe of brown on a wall that was a dirty brown to begin with.

Sidenote- we have some friends who have children with cystic fibrosis.  They sanitize everything, and have a hand sanitizer squeegee in both cars, in their pockets, pocket books, and every room in their house.  I think if they were to see one of their kids in this cell, they would just cash in their chips and request a new child.  It would just be too hard to de-germ them.  Back to my story.

The only other thing of note in the room was a pay phone in the corner opposite the urinal.  Upon seeing it, I immediately saw my freedom, at least for a minute.

I looked around the room, scanning my fellow scofflaws and ne'erdowells, to make sure it was okay to use it.  I am not sure why I did that, other than to say that I was already in a boatload of trouble, I certainly did not want to get in any more.  I casually walked over to the phone, because as we all know, you never hurry in the slammer.  You never want to show vulnerability or weakness.  That only breeds violence, and that is one thing this preppy boy from Buckhead did not need.  So, in such a way as to draw as little attention as possible to my person, I shuffled my penny loafers in the general direction of the telephone, acting as nonchalant and cool as possible.

My plan was working great, until I finished dialing and was awaiting further instructions from the operator.  My eyes were downcast when they caught sight of a rather large pair of bright red, shiny, dress shoes.  They were connected to an extremely large man, dressed head to toe in a red satin tuxedo, complete with a hard red hat with a shallow brim trimmed in lace, that went all the way around his head.  He made me think of the Kool Aid guy, only this dude was a pimp, muscular as opposed to fat, black, scary, and tall.  He did not have to say much.  All he had to do was look at me like I was an idiot, tap one of his red shoes a time or two, and wait for me to hand him the phone.  Which I did in short order.  The phone, at that point, became his.  Apparently, he had a rather prosperous business at that time of night and needed to check on his employees. 

At that point, I pretty much thought it was hopeless.  I was never going to be able to call my parents, explain the wrongful situation in which I found myself, and be extricated from the premises.  But, that was not to be the case.  Apparently, there was a Good Samaritan incarcerated with me who took pity on my lowly station in life, and threw me a line.

What I did not know about this area is you could leave the cell, and go to another cell down the corridor if you so desired.  It is simply a block of identical cells and you are allowed to move about freely from one to another.  They are all gross, some just grosser than others.  I think everyone congregates in the least gross one as possible. 

This Good Samaritan took me across to the hall to an identical room.  It was significantly less crowded but smelled worse, if that was possible.  In fact, it was much worse, and hot, which is probably what made the smell worse.  That is why the previous room I was in was overcrowded.  But, it had a payphone that was not being used, so I snatched it up greedily.

This time, I did not shuffle my way to the phone.  I walked briskly to it, picked it up, and made a collect call home.

What you do not know about me is my parental situation as a youth.  My parents were married for 39 years before my father's passing, but they were an interesting pair.  In the case of an emergency, you absolutely did not want to get mom.  Especially if it was after 10:00 at night.  It didn't matter if you came into the house with an armload of orphans you just saved from a burning building, mom was not made for late night emergencies.  It would be significantly worse if you were in trouble.

Well, this evening I was able to make my phone call.  By having a pay phone in the cell, we could make as many collect calls as we wanted.  Hollywood, it turns out, did me a disservice by convincing me that I had one phone call and one only.  Who knows what else they erroneously taught me?  I dialed my parent’s number, and prayed for dad to pick up.  He didn't.  Mom answered, did not accept the charges, and promptly hung up the phone.

Imagine my surprise to finally get to a phone, have the ability to use it without the threat of being beaten with it, only to have my own mother hang up on me.  In jail!  It was and remains an all time low.  But, I was not one to be easily deterred, so I dialed again.  This time dad answered.  He automatically knew what the trouble was and soon had me out, post haste. 

Just because I was out of jail does not mean that the lesson was over.  I had a lot of "community service" hours ahead of me in the neighborhood.  But, thankfully, dad did not make me wait around in jail for a day or two to teach me the error of my ways.  The police did a decent job of scaring the hell out of me.  They saw me coming a mile away and knew they had easy pickings.  I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few who remember the incident and still laugh quietly to themselves from time to time. 

My Brother in Law Chep

I have a jackass brother in law.  Aren’t most brothers in law jackasses?  Even if they weren’t and you were very close, would you admit it?  Doubtful.

I have one particular brother in law who can build anything.  This is my sister’s husband Chep, not the LW’s younger brothers.  Chep calculated and detail oriented.  He is also full of great ideas, and has the ability to build whatever he is dreaming up.  It is a great combination of skill sets.  It is sort of like having your very own Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor in your back pocket.  Very handy.

Case in point: I was blessed to grow up with a lake house in north Georgia.  It is a lovely mountain retreat that holds countless fond memories for me.  The cabin I grew up with has been torn down, but was replaced by a much nicer house.  There are approximately 67 steps from the water’s edge to the door on the back of the house, on an almost 45 degree angle.  So, it is fairly steep.

Chep thought it would be a great idea to build a water slide through the woods to the water.  After all, between the two families we have 7 children, and it would be entertaining for them, and would be fun for adults to participate in as well.  He set about his construction, and before you knew it, he had a fully functioning water slide through the woods from the base of the house to the water. 

And, I have to admit, it is quite the engineering feat.  He thought up the design and built the entire thing almost entirely by himself.  It is awesome, even if he is a jackass.  Where he falls short is his math in calculating velocity, speed, and angle of trajectory when it is a related of his inventions. 

Those problems were soon to raise their ugly heads.  This is where Tim Taylor takes over from the Chep I have grown to know and love, and incidentally, why he is a jackass.  The ramp at the bottom of the slide is just that, a ramp.  Were I to build it, which I could not, I would have made it flatten out so that as you came off the slide, you would skip across the water until you came to a gentle stop.  Not Chep.  He actually turns the ramp up a little so that it launches the rider up, sending said person out over the water for a landing 15-20 yards away.  And the slide, being in the side of a hill, goes straight down to the water.  There are no turns.  Did I say it was steep earlier?  It is.  Chep did not factor in the velocity of the individual on their downward decent, the compression factor as the G forces crush the rider into the ramp at the bottom, or the distance the rider is launched from the slide. 

At first it was awesome, and the ultimate thrill ride.  We made every kid on our end of the lake who tried it cry uncontrollably.  Then, I made my fateful, and final trip.  I am not sure how it happened, but my angle of trajectory was off, so I went hurtling through the air at maximum speed as though I were standing straight up and down.  My feet hit the water with such force and impact that when they hit the water, the rest of my body pivoted and slapped me down face first.  The money maker was unharmed, but I broke at least 2 ribs, and have not been down it since. 

All of Chep’s other inventions are awesome, and put him in a play ground all his own.  But this devilish invention plunges him to the murky underworld labeled "Idiot Family Members" from which he will likely never escape. 

Marathon Training

I like to consider myself an avid runner.  It is one of my favorite activities on a day in day out basis.  It is a quick and easy way to burn off some steam or get some exercise.  You do not need a gym or any special equipment, outside of a pair of halfway decent shoes.   And, I find it therapeutic.  I have never done a marathon, and I do not run any crazy distances.  But, I run several times a week, which keeps me sane and decently in shape. 

Last year I decided to run a half marathon.  Not a problem.  It was in January in California, and I had plenty of time to train for it.  I ran all summer at my normal rate and pace, and just figured I would pick it up in the fall and winter.  It was not long until it got cold outside, and I was relegated to running on a treadmill.  It turns out I am a fair-weather runner, and I get board running on a treadmill.  I went so far as to purchase a new pair of running shoes, hoping it would give me the added boost of wearing something new to keep me interested.  I should have listened to my father when he told me that the joy of owning something new quickly fades.  I soon found myself extremely board, and quit running.  Completely. 

Part of my problem is that I still think of myself as a young athlete who can pretty much accomplish anything.  I figured, hey, I am 38 years old.  I can run 5 miles without getting hurt.  I can just add another 8.1 to that and be fine.  I had never run 8.1 miles, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I thought I could just add it on. 

The weekend of the race arrived, and I found myself completely unprepared.  Outside of my nightly ice-cream maraton diet, I had not trained.  I found myself drawn to the lovely siren’s wail of In-N-Out Burger upon my arrival, so had gorged more than once at that fine establishment.  Hollywood has done me a disservice by telling me that it is always sunny and warm in California, even in January.  It is not.  And, I don’t really have any running clothes, per se.  My shorts are more of a basketball cut athletic short than anything else, and all my t-shirts are cotton. 

I went out the day before and bought some athletic long johns that I am sure have a much cooler name now than long johns.  I also bought some light weight gloves and a warm hat.

Then, I got up at the crack of dawn, and proceeded towards the starting line.  I would like to think that I at least looked like I knew what I was doing, but my long basketball shorts and stupid looking long johns and the fact that nothing I had on matched probably took some of the intimidation factor away from my fellow competitors. 

Finally, they fired the gun, and I was off.  I knew enough to pace myself, so I assumed a nice pace and off I went.  I noticed that my legs started hurting around mile 4.  By mile 8, I was in a decent amount of pain, and by mile 12, I was hobbling.  Old women and idiots wearing costumes with capes were passing me. 

I had the good sense to know that if I stopped there was absolutely no way I was going to get that train started again.  I was in a tremendous amount of pain.  Everything hurt.  My legs were cramping in every way possible as I limped the last .1 mile across the finish line.  Then, to top it off, some joker thought it would be funny to run power cables across the finish line under one of those rubber runners that has a ramp on both sides of it.  It is only a half inch high, if that.  But, it was enough to trip me up and almost prevent me from crossing the finish line.  I managed to limp across before I came to a complete halt.  A race organizer ordered me to move on so I would not be in the way of people finishing after me, but I couldn’t.  I just had no gas left in the tank and I was pooped.  I finally managed to start moving again, albeit slowly, away from the pileup I was causing.

Then, to make my agony complete, we had to hurry to our rented Crown Victoria (sweet ride I know) and get to the airport to fly back to Atlanta.  That was a long and painful walk, only to be folded into an airplane seat for the next 4 hours.  Suffice it to say, the next 7 days, were not my most comfortable.

High Church

When I was a slightly younger man and had the margin in my life to get dressed up for church, it was not uncommon for me to be seen in a Seersucker suit in the summer time.  Nothing says southern gentlemen like a Seersucker and white bucs.  It is sharp, and I can safely say, that I looked sharp in it. 

On this particular Sunday, we had gone to pay a visit to the in-laws on Lookout Mountain.  The church my in-laws attend is very nice, and its congregants typically dress well, the men in coats and ties.   And, it is the same church the LW and I were married in, and the church she grew up in, so it always fun for us to attend.

We only had one child at the time, so it was a no brainer to get dressed up, including him, and still manage to get to church with a couple of minutes to spare.  Clothes little boys wear in this neck of the woods are often ridiculous.  They have snaps and buttons and folds galore, which can be very disconcerting in the case of an emergency.  In this instance, our son was still in diapers, which hind-sight being 20-20, were a size or three too small.  He had what I like to refer to as a pooplosion. 

I am not sure how an enfant does it, but they poop so violently and with such force that it explodes out each fitted leg of the diaper, and up the crack in his butt right up his back.  This time, it was like a car bomb exploded.  It went down both legs to his shoes and up his back to his collar.  You couldn’t get away from it.

Being a mostly capable husband, I gave the LW a look of sheer panic, and started to hand the baby to her.  She immediately gave me the, “Oh hell no!” look with her eyes and facial features, and shooed me out of the sanctuary.  Apparently she was in greater need of Jesus that day than I was.  That soon changed.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to sit close to the door, so it was a quick exit that went mostly unnoticed. 

I carried Junior at an arms length with our effeminate diaper bag slung over my shoulder in the least immasculating way possible.  We went down the stairs to the nearest men’s bathroom, to determine the extent of the damage.  Everything he had, without exception, was unwearable.  Younger parents I am sure are more than a little familiar with a nursing child’s poop.  It does not smell terrible, but is sticky and stains everything it touches a light brown.  That is what this was, only in mass quantity. 

Men’s bathrooms are generally poorly equipped for changing, and this old school church was no exception.  That is usually a good thing because it keeps me from having to do a lot of work.  All I have to say to the LW is, “Sorry.  Nowhere to change him in there.  You’ll have to take him to the ladies room.”   I had no where to lay Strib down, so I tried to hold him in one hand and remove the offending articles of clothing with the other.  It was akin to holding a greased pig in one hand, while all the time trying not to get any grease on my person.  That didn’t work, so I ever so gently laid him on the floor and continued to clean.  Fortunately the floor was clean, or at least it was at this point.  It was not long before I had run out of baby wipes and had moved on to the hand towel roll above my head.  The hand towel was not very absorbent, ultimately smearing and pushing around more than it was cleaning up.  At this point, I am covered in baby poop, have it on the floor, both sleeves, the bottoms of my shoes, and my nose is beginning to itch, and I could use a little more Jesus, and a little less kid. 

I finally gave up, turned on the warm water in the sink, and plopped him in.  That worked great until he started to enjoy the bath and splashed nasty water all over the place.  Then, once I had him mostly clean, I had to use even more towels to dry him off. 

I finally emerged, well after the conclusion of the service, with an empty diaper bag, a naked baby, and a ruined Seersucker suit.  I have never revisited that bathroom, simply because I know what we did to it.  There is no way, absolutely no way, the custodial crew was able to clean it to my satisfaction.  To this day, when I am attending church there and I need to use the little general’s room, I bypass that bathroom and find one that is as far away from it as possible. 

I walked outside and handed Strib to the LW, took off my own clothes, put my white bucs in a plastic bag, then in a paper bag, in the trunk, and sat in the car with a cloud over my head.  Everyone, with the exception of us, had long since left, so me standing in the middle of the road in my boxer shorts was poor form, but acceptable.  All my mother in law and the LW could do was laugh and enjoy my misery.   My mother in law still can’t talk about it without bending over double and laughing at me until she can’t breath.  I hope they enjoyed the service, and prayed for me.

Stupid Freshman

Freshmen in college are not known for being highly intelligent.  In fact, I think it is safe to say that they are known more for their stupidity and poor decision making than anything else.  Enter Strib on his first day of college freedom.  He is the baby boy of Jim and Carole Stribling, who along with his older sister Paige, was given an emotional sendoff to the rest of his life.  They cried.  Strib did not.  He was ready to spread his wings and exercise his lack of intelligence.

There was a rather odd tradition at this particular institution of higher learning that included streaking across campus, ringing a bell that was about 180 years old, and streaking back.  What a novel idea!  No one had done that before, at least this year.  Well, our hero, who considered himself somewhat of a trend setter, wanted to be the first.  He grabbed a couple of his buddies and ran outside full speed in his birthday suit.  It was dark out, which helped.  Tie that in with a total lack of clothing except for his running shoes, and he was aerodynamic and fast.  It was not long before he outpaced his naked brethren and was running alone in the moonlight, free as a bird, the wind whipping through his hair.

The only light that late summer night was the streetlight above the belltower.  This should have been our hero's first clue.  But he was not to be deterred as he ran full speed!  Due to his lightening fast speed, he reached it first, grabbed the rope, and started ringing as though he had never rung a bell before.  But, it was a moment of glory did not last long.  Our hero looked over to see the campus police sitting on the hood of his squad car, patiently waiting for me.  It was like the scene from Smokie and the Bandit, where Jackie Gleason is sitting on the hood of his squad car waiting at the exact spot where the Bandit shows up. "What we have here is a complete lack of respect for the law!" Only, in this case, I was no Bert Reynolds, and he was Jackie Gleason.  Without saying a word, this police officer opened the back door and motioned for me to get in.  I, not being completely stupid, obliged.

My friends at this point, still encased in the cover of darkness, saw the activity in front of them, and had the mental acuity to abandon the midnight raid and hide in the bushes until the coast was clear.  

The kind police officer, then gave me a free ride back to my dorm, sirens wailing and lights flashing.  I will not swear that he was driving below the speed limit, but I will promise you that it was a long ride back to my dorm, which was not far away.  I am convinced to this day that he did that on purpose.  By the time we arrived at our destination, there must have been 150 students standing outside on the steps, waiting to see what the fuss was about.  Holding my head high, ignoring  the blank stares, snickers, and awestruck faces, I walked confidently through the crowd (which incidentally parted like the Red Sea) picked up my clothes, and walked right up to my room never wanting to emerge from that dark cave of shame again.

But, I did emerge, and enjoyed my fifteen minutes of fame as I became a bit of a folk hero.  It did not last long, as my story was soon over shadowed by the next freshman who did something extremely stupid.   But, that was a spotlight I was more than happy to share before I exited the stage.

Beware of Spiders

My wife Jennifer and I have been married for 12 years now.  I am sure if you were to ask her about our marriage, she would confidently refer to it as “Twelve years of wedded bliss.”  In this time, we have had four children, each one very different from the one before.  And, we have developed an understanding of one another that is both wonderful and humorous at the same time.  I often refer to her as “The LW”, which depending on how things are going in our household, can mean “The Lovely Wife” or “The Little Woman”.  The former usually gets a smile.  The latter always gets an eye roll and general bad thoughts aimed like spears in my general direction.  Case in point…

Jennifer has an often unhealthy fear of smaller creatures.  She is not afraid of snakes, frogs, reptiles or things with scales.  She does not care for dogs, but she is not afraid of them.  I have personally witnessed her stick her hands in a child's diaper to retrieve things that should not be there.  But, creatures in the insect world throw her off her game.  She cannot handle them.  The worst is roaches.  I often refer to them palmetto bugs, which helps a little simply because I did not bring up the term roach.  But, at the end of the day, she knows I am talking about roaches, and her heart starts palpitating. 

In this particular incident, the offending insect was not a roach, but a spider, and it occurred in a moving vehicle, on the highway, in Atlanta.  The interstate in Atlanta is not a safe place without insects, much less if you have one that is going for your jugular.  But, when you have a deadly creature that is trying to gouge out your eyes, one wrong move and you can shut down the entire city if you are not careful. 

On my family’s way home from school, my eldest son innocently asked the LW if she could open the sunroof.  It is a nice, warm fall day, so why not, right?  Wrong.  What they did not know was there was a spider that lived in the crevices of the sunroof that was waiting for just such an opportunity to present itself so it could pounce on its unsuspecting quarry and eat the whole brood, one at a time.

 

Poor spider.  He had no idea what he had gotten himself into.  When the LW opened the sunroof, the spider lowered itself to get a new lay of the land.  Unfortunately, his new vantage point was on my wife’s shirt.  She is driving up the highway at a good clip and starts to literally, freak out.  She begins driving erratically, and not-so-smoothly veers over onto the shoulder-tires squealing, brakes smoking- all the time pulling at her shirt and screaming to our eldest child at the top of her lungs, “Strib!  Strib!  Get it!  Where did it go?  Where did it go?  It’s going to kill me!  Get it!  Get it!”  Josie, number three in line and all the way in the back starts crying because her mama has clearly lost all sense of reality.  Demi, number two and right next to Josie, calmly starts asking why the LW’s face is turning red.  Hint: it wasn't because of toxins from the deadly spider being injected in her face.  It was because she had lost control of herself.  Win, number 4, was sound asleep in his car seat, completely oblivious to the goings on. 

Strib, throwing caution to the wind, unbuckles himself, grabs a flipflop (which for some reason was within easy reach) and just starts swatting.  He knocked the critter off the LW’s shirt, onto her leg, and then onto the floorboard.  By that point, it was probably dead as it had pulled its legs in and was no longer moving.  And, I think spiders are a fragile bug.  But, in our house we treat spiders like a wounded bear.  You keep shooting until you are almost out of ammunition and you know for sure that it is dead, then cautiously poke it with the loaded gun just in case it decides to move again. 

Well, needless to say, the spider, or what could still be found of it, was dead.  In fairness to my wife, it was large.  I don’t know if it was a wolf spider or anything hairy with lots of eyes, but it was big.  Fortunately, my son was there to protect the lady folks.  Without him, I am sure they would still be parked on the side of the road, passed out from screaming and crying, and the spider would have moved on to greener pastures. 

Man Your Stations

We have been under siege lately.  We had a couple of raccoons break into our old chicken coop and kill our favorite chicken.  She has been producing for more than 4 years now and would crawl up into your lap to take a nap.  The Striblings do not like losing a favorite chicken.

Not being a family easily intimidated by varmints, we began building our defenses.  We set three traps, got the pellet gun sighted in to pinpoint accuracy, and shored up the coop.  Then, they broke in again the following night and killed another chicken.  They are wiley creatures, and curiously strong, but we were ready for the onslaught.

That night, I was awoken by a terrible squaking.  I ran outside in my skivvies at 4 am to find a dead chicken, a fleeing raccoon, a trapped raccoon, and a trap that had been outwitted. 

I don't get up at 4 am to catch one raccoon when I know his evil Ninja cohorts are on the loose.  I reset the trap with the dead chicken as bait, moved the remainder of that flock in with my younger flock in the newer coop, and went back to bed.

I came back downstairs at my appointed time to find the other raccoon trapped, a victim of his own curiosity.  HAHA!

I thought about taking them for a long ride and dropping them off to become someone else's problem.  The LW would have none of it.  "We take care of our own animal problems around here."  Too much Little House on the Prairie as a child if you ask me.  Don't ask her what happened to her pets when she was a wee lass and they got sick.   That's why we don't have a dog.  So, needless to say, we disposed of the vermin under the cloak of darkness, and have been resting peacefully since. 

Now, I realize that their little raccoon friends are gearing up for a full frontal assault.  We will be prepared.  We have bats, sticks, and helmets at the ready for hand-to-hand combat should it come to that.  I imagine it looking like a scene out of ancient England where the villagers (the peaceful Stribling Tribe) come out to fight off the invading barbarian hordes (the wiley Varmints) with pitchforks and shovels.  It will probably wind up looking more like a scene out of Monty Python than the Battle of Hastings, but we will be ready.

To quote Si Robertson, our favorite personality from Duck Dynasty, "(The raccoons) are like the Vietcong.  They only come out and night and they live in holes in the ground."