Let the record show that the following is not intended to be a hatchet piece. It's merely an illustration of the far-reaching effects of karma and, perhaps, irony, if Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has developed a rudimentary grasp of what irony actually entails.
We have been tidying up some loose ends after the passing of our mother. My sister the ex-mayor's wife retired last year, and has a bit more flexible schedule than I, even with keeping her baby granddaughter while my niece works. Further let the record show that Sis was a teacher of very young children at a neighboring district, and her daughter works at a district out past Newmentia. When we are off work for snow, chances are that she is off work for snow, and my sister is off babysitting duty.
The weekend after the funeral, Sis and the ex-mayor took the valuables from Mom's house for safekeeping. It could have been either of us, but they live closer, and she said she was nervous about leaving things there. Included in the removed items were several firearms, but Sis didn't get them until a day or two later, during the week.
Now don't go thinkin' that Mom was some rootin' tootin' Yosemite Ma'am. She had them because they belonged to my dad, who was an avid quail/squirrel/rabbit hunter and fisherman and all-around outdoorsman. There was one item that I had given him, and I said I would like to have that one back, to give to one of my boys down the line. I had bought it from one of Newmentia's faculty who fancied himself a dealer in objects with triggers that go boom. He had a business license and everything, it was all above-board, and I had to get permits and such for him to order me the item in question.
It's been a few years. I had forgotten exactly what it looked liked, because as with Mom and Sis, we Hillbilly women don't really care about such things, but know our menfolk like to have a few around for popping an errant legless reptile or celebrating the ringing in of the new year. I asked Farmer H if he remembered exactly which kind I had purchased, and he gave me a description. Of course this was like a game of telephone for Sis and me. Only by text.
"You put the bullets in the side."
"In the side?"
"Yes. In the stock. There should be a slot. You don't break it in half to load it. That's a shotgun. This is a .22. It's not a name brand. It's an off brand. It will look old-fashioned."
"I have one that looks dilapidated. Is that it?"
"I don't know. It shouldn't be all that old."
"Well, it would be from the seventies, so it's old."
"The SEVENTIES! I was not even out of school yet! I did not buy that way back in the seventies! It shouldn't be old, just look old-fashioned."
"I don't know what that is. I have two of them that load in the stock. You'll have to come by and take the one that's yours."
"There's snow on the roads. I'll have to wait until I can get there."
"I don't want them in my house. What if somebody saw me bring them home?"
"I wish I could have seen you driving with them. I'll bet you looked guilty as all get-out. It would have been so funny if you got pulled over, and had all of them in your car."
"I don't think so. But I WAS nervous! I want you to get yours so I can give the rest to my son. Mom promised them to him. But I won't give yours away. I'll send you a picture and maybe you can tell me which one." Then she sent a text. "Can you tell?"
"I don't know. I didn't get the picture."
"What? The ex-mayor just sent them."
"I'll have to try and send them. My phone is full of baby pictures. I'll have to find a way."
The next day I got the pictures. Pictures of Sis standing in her kitchen, brandishing four different firearms. Like Annie Oakley, perhaps, if she was an ex-kindergarten teacher in retirement, and barely knew one end of a firearm from another. When I went by her house to see them in person and pick mine up, Sis was in a tizzy.
"Now I'm worried about why you didn't get that first set of pictures. The ex-mayor checked his phone, and said, 'Yeah, they sent.' I wonder who they went to. You said you didn't get them, right?"
"I never got them until the next day, from your phone."
"Great. There are pictures of me WITH MY FACE smiling and pointing a bunch of guns."
"Well, at least it's not pictures of you in a dirty car."
Such sweet karma, perhaps with a little sauce of irony.