Ok, so I was totally going to write about the fact that I was mistaken for a 46-year-old, and two hours later, a 16-year-old, today, but I walked into this scene right around dinner time:
What is that? Well, that would be my father, "sorting his ammo," according to my mother's response to the question that must have been all over my face.
Let's back this up. My father, about 100 years ago when I was a wee babe, occasionally went hunting with a few of his buddies. (In this scene, picture a small red-headed she-devil crying and yelling from the front porch that they were killing Bambi's mom-that was me.)
They didn't really ever shoot anything; it was just a weekend to get away and be "men", or whatever.
He has not been hunting in years and I have not seen him go anywhere near guns/ammo in over two decades.
"Dad, where'd you get all this?" To which he responds, "Sid".
My father is a mechanic who works in a big shop owned by Sid. Sid is a very large, very loud Italian man with a crazy temper and a generous checkbook come weddings and graduations. He has also, during lunch at the local Chinese restaurant, stabbed a guy in the hand.
His gifts to my father so far? A 9mm, a piano, a coffin, and now, multiple boxes of ammunition.