Lava and Tonic

When I first moved out here, I'm pretty sure my Mother worried about me constantly. Not so much like she was waiting by the phone for me to call, or resisting the urge to call herself while fighting off images of me being trampled by herds of elk, found frozen in the mountains after the spring thaw or being run out of town by the locals after inadvertently offending some cowboy by making a wise-assed comment about his hat or belt buckle.

No, just a general thought to what I've been doing, if I'm eating right, If I'm developing a social network of friends that would help pull my car out of a ditch, chase off that herd of elk, or organize a search party before the spring thaw. It probably doesn't help that if have some great need, Mommy is more than a day's drive away and can't get there in time to stem the bleeding from a nasty wound, then kiss it to make it better. This is, after all (I think), the furthest west that anyone with my last name has been for more than a few weeks, and I lived with my parents up until the day I got on I-80 and went long for Wyoming.

But I've been here a year now, arrived just before the worst winter here in about 16 years. I've held a steady job (still holding it, Praise God!), built friendships, and adapted to life in the middle of nowhere. I'm pretty sure that my mother is far less worried than she was this time one year ago.

But because I am a terrible son, I have to give her something else to worry about. When this sucker blows, it's taking out the entire west and most of the midwest, but at least I'll be killed instantly and won't have to worry about fighting packs of Feral Cowboys for the few scraps of meat from a wild chipmunk.

Sorry, Mom.