Ten Minutes Till' Midnight

It was the first freeze of the winter in the North Carolina mountains. We needed to make sure the pipes wouldn’t freeze. I’d settled into the top-shelf bunker in the makeshift pump house, re-reading chapter thirteen, The Lordly Buffalo, from Roosevelt's Hunting Trips of a Ranchman & The Wilderness Hunter…

The buffalo is easier killed than is any other kind of plains game; but its chase is very far from being the tame amusement it has been lately represented. It is a genuine sport; it is in no way akin to various forms of so-called sport in vogue in parts of the East, such as killing deer in a lake or by fire hunting, or even  watching at a runaway…

Drifting off to Roosevelt’s hunting tales guarantees a hardihood man a night full of rifle-slinging, horseback, wild west campfire dreams.

The book slid through my fingers and onto my chest. I rolled over, reached up, and placed my finger on the light switch. Being our first night in the little well-house, I half-cocked my left eye to get one more glance at the boys just to make sure they were sleeping before I killed the light.

Dirt was knocked out, but Mud was not. A rare sight. Not only was he not asleep, he was in a staring contest with what looked to be the back of Dirt’s dog bed.

“Mud,” I lightly whispered, trying not to wake up a sleeping cow-dog (which is damn near impossible), but he didn’t flinch. I tried again, “Mud.” Nothing. Now, he had my full attention. I kept my eyes on him as I turned, slid my legs down the side of the bunk, and lightly placed my feet on the floor. He hadn’t flinched. Still lying on his bed, but with a dead stare facing the floor just behind and partially underneath Dirt's bed.

Dirt lay still. He only opened his eyes, oblivious to Mud's staring contest with the… floor…? and the real reason I crept out of my loft. Dirt likely assumed I needed one last spoonful of peanut butter before I killed the light until I turned my attention away from the kitchenette. I bent over him to pull up the back of his dog bed to find out what Mud was looking at.

Dirt stayed lying, only turning his head slightly as I reached down and lifted the back of his bed. I didn’t get half an inch of the cushion from the floor when Mud dove nose first and mouth open at what looked like the white label sewn to the bed! But as soon as Mud's teeth made contact with the label, a small, gray, furry-tailed critter leaped into the air and landed on the rear end of a cow-dog in a full-blown panic attack! I jumped back, Dirt jumped up, and dog beds flew everywhere!

Mud was gnawing at Dirt's backside, and Dirt was growling and spinning trying to buck off the mouse and nip Mud at the same time! Anarchy would be unavoidable if someone didn’t take control of the situation soon.

Now, I’ve never claimed to put eyes on Big-Foot, nor do I believe in ghosts. And the only out-of-body experience I’ve had is when I took a shot of Carolina Reaper-infused silver tequila in ninety-nine-degree heat in early August from a man who went by the name “Wild Bill,” who was holding an ornery old Chihuahua on Folly Beach nearly a decade ago. Still, in that moment, and with my left hand on the Good Book and my right hand over my heart, I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt and absolute certainty that our 26th President of these United States, Theodore Roosevelt, came back to this earth and took over my being.

There, in my black, silk, Mofiz boxer briefs, I stood stern and defined. A pillar of all 200 sqft of the pump house. The broom handle in the corner was suddenly a big stick, and words that would later be edged in the cornerstones of history came bellowing out…

“Let the strong survive; let the weak die!” I shouted as I looked down at the boys. Everything now in slow motion.

Like a U.S. Cavalry Commander, my left hand slowly raised up, giving the “stay” command. The boys acted with impeccable discipline. My right hand reached down and grabbed the mouse from Dirt’s rump. I then reached across my chest, unlatched the door, and lightly launched the mouse back to the safety of the other side of the two-acre field.

I closed and latched the door and turned around to face the boys. Both sat perfectly calm, awaiting their next order.

Roosevelt's final words echoed through the pump house in a whisper, “If I must choose between peace and righteousness, I choose righteousness.”

I looked at the boys. They looked back at me. We had a mouse problem. And there was only one entry they could have been using – the hole we forgot to patch before nailing the new wall under the kitchenette counter we’d spent all day replacing. I reached over, grabbed the sawzall, and plugged it into the wall.

We knew what we had to do.

I took a quick glance at the clock – 11:50 pm.

“Perfect.” I softly whispered, reaching up to twirl my imaginary walrus mustache. “Ten minutes till’ midnight.”

We went to sleep assuming we’d fixed the wall correctly. We didn’t mean to leave an unpatched hole. We simply forgot about it. In 2024, let’s work together and accept that we all make mistakes. It’s not our mistakes that define us; it’s how we respond to them and the lessons they teach.

Wishing you a very Dirty 2024!

“The only man who never makes mistakes is the man who never does anything.”

• Theodore Roosevelt