life targets

For the first time in my life, I have treated a head cold seriously.

My normal routine is to ignore the fact that my head feels as if it going to explode while I wander around in public spreading my germs. I call it Christmas giving.

But not with this cold. I have donned my pajamas, downed my medication, and slipped under a Chinese red comforter in my sister-in-law's guest room to let nature do its best in fighting off the virus. And it has worked. After two days of rest cure, I was well enough to explore the exotic wilds of Prineville.

Darrel and I stopped at Bi-Mart for a couple of items. A young boy (I would estimate to be 10) was standing in line in front of us. He could have been Ron Howard's understudy on The Andy Griffith Show. Red hair. Optimistic smile. The kind of kid who would not only help you across the street, but would accompany you home and help to place your groceries in the pantry.

Filling his hands were two large boxes of high-caliber ammunition. Standing behind him was his dad, packing a carton of targets. The boy was beaming. And it was easy to see why. He was going to spend some time with his dad plunking at those targets. When he had developed an eye, he would then go hunting with his dad.

When the boy reached the check-out clerk, he unwillingly handed them over to her to be scanned. The moment she was done, he grabbed the boxes. The clerk then scanned the targets and the dad paid.

As they started walking away from the check-out counter, the clerk, in a tone between resigned and desultory, told the dad he would have to carry the ammo boxes because the boy was not 21.

For a brief moment, I saw a thought pass over the dad's face, and just as quickly saw that look we all get now and then when we realize it is better to say nothing. And that is what he did.

But the moment the two of them walked through the exit sliding door, the dad passed the ammo boxes to his son. The boy's face took on that look of joy that only comes with those dad-son memories that enliven our later days.

And it was a gift for me, as well. It was another reminder that our lives are not only controlled by distant governments. Our lives are lived out through strong families and local networks that teach us the lessons of being productive members of our communities.

Of course, I would not need to tell that boy any of this. He was living it.