It seems that each time she calls lately the house has been full of these strange, life-draining aliens who I am forced to refer to as family, lest they grind me up into chewbaca food or worse. It gripes me to no end that they can't be quiet long enough for Kat and I to catch up properly.
During one call from her, I was relating to her another tale told to me by my son, the correctional officer.
He rides this big ole horse now so that he can keep his eyes and ears on his hoe crew and since this crew works out in the fields or along side of the roads, he also has to carry a weapon. A couple of weeks ago he had to draw his weapon for the first time when two of the crew got into a fight.
It was a cold day so he was all decked out in his big field jacket and gloves and when the fight broke out he drew his weapon from it's holster. He tried to put his finger inside the trigger guard and it wouldn't fit because of the gloves he was wearing. He twisted his hand this way and that trying to fit his finger on the trigger but it wasn't working. He glanced up when he'd finally pulled off the glove and noticed that every man on the crew was face down on the ground, including the two who had been fighting. He reckons they felt it was better to be safe than sorry while a big ole boy, sittin on a horse, was fiddle-fartin around with a loaded weapon.
He has since cut the glove so his trigger finger is uncovered. It gets a bit cold but it might avoid an escape or a mistake some day.
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