Bearing (my heart on my) Arms

I function under many delusions, one of which being I'm a lot tougher and more fearless than I really am. So in addition to opening my eyes every morning to a world that does not include cabana boys, fame, notoriety, or riches that spring eternal, I must also contend with the fact that all my posturing and all my sailor-mouthed bravado means absolutely nothing in the face of the North Carolina mountains.

I can deal with feral kitties, the scavenging raccoons, and the occasional interloper in ursine form. But nothing -- and I mean nothing -- will keep this girl from hitting the deck every time a gun goes off.

I could blame it on living in the city too long. After all, whole sections of my extended family sustain themselves on what they can grow or kill. Trucks are sold with gun racks already installed. Following my last post about bears in the woods, a good friend of mine sent me the link to this t-shirt. And I'm not sure I could have named a single playmate of mine growing up whose parents didn't keep a shotgun in the house -- loaded or not -- for security purposes. In short, guns are as commonplace as sweet tea and God down here.

But to know of a thing's presence and its function is entirely different from hearing it perform that very function, repeatedly and within relative proximity to the window where I sit writing, exposed for all the world to see. I'm sure they're just shooting blanks, taking aim at soda cans or scaring off the many aforementioned feral kitties.

But let's face it, I'm still shaking as I type this. I might as well put a bullseye on my forehead and inquire as to whether anyone knows a good taxidermist, because I feel -- quite literally -- like a sitting duck.