The Exterminator

For my father-in-law, there is no household pest problem that cannot be solved by the use of some sort of firearm. There is really no way to overstate this man’s skill with a gun; he has been shooting so well for so long that he could take out a housefly at 50 yards. And during the hot Montana summer, no pest is safe from his sidearm. Bats, rats, skunks, woodpeckers and gophers have all found their way into his crosshairs and met their end. This is why I did not blink an eye last night when he blew away a pack rat that had skittered across the back deck.

At first blush, one might think our markedly different life philosophies would lead to tension between the two of us. But after eleven years, we have mostly learned to accept each other as we are, and neither of us applies to the other any judgment harsher than benign bewilderment. He has learned to accept with good humor the Hillary Clinton birthday cards I send him. I have learned to dismiss him with a grin when he quotes Rush Limbaugh.

After all, we have plenty of common ground. Last night, as he was sitting on the doorstep watching the sun set over the Cabinet Mountains, I walked outside and paused next to him. I hadn’t been standing there three seconds when he proclaimed, “Montana is the last best place, you know.”

Yeah, I know.