This being hunting season and all, before I strolled down the road to my mom-in-law's for some heavy duty leaf raking, I dressed myself head to toe in a fetching ensemble featuring a lot of bright red and fluorescent orange.

I particularly hate the fluorescent orange baseball cap I am forced to wear. More than once the spousal unit has warned me that my white hair could easily be a tempting target for someone hoping against hope to get a white-tailed deer.

"So you're telling me that my head looks like a deer butt?"

"Yes, but a very attractive deer butt," is the standard reply.

The spousal unit had to rummage around to find me one of the detested baseball caps. The one he found had been adjusted to fit his tiny head and he made what I considered a somewhat snippy remark about my considerably larger head.

I could have been mature and let it slide, but where's the fun in that? So I retorted that some of us have an actual brain pan.

He settled the hat on my head and smirked. "You might want to look in the mirror carefully, Zeke, before you say that again."

The worst part? He's absolutely right. Put a fluorescent orange baseball cap on my head and I look like a modern day Ma Kettle.

Fine.

For the convenience of our mailperson, our mailbox is down on the main road beside my mom-in-laws, at the top of her driveway. So when I got there I peered into both our boxes to make sure all mail had been picked up.

The sound of the mailbox lids creaking sent off a round of joyous barking from my mom-in-law's dog, Shadow. See, the spousal unit is usually the person who drops mail off down at his mom's. Shadow loves the spousal unit with all her heart because he is The Best Playmate a Dog Could Have. Every time he comes down he spends some time throwing tennis balls and sticks for the dog to make sure she gets a good workout.

The dog knows she's not allowed up at the main road, but she can go as far as the gate that's part way down my mom-in-law's curved drive. I could hear her barking ratchet up with impatience as I started down the drive. "OhBoyOhBoyOhBoyOhBoy."

Then I rounded a slight curve in the drive and she saw it was me. The barking stopped. Her disappointment was palpable. Believe me, you've never been made to feel second best until you've had a dog make you feel second best.

Because she is a very optimistic dog, Shadow ran up to me with her ball in her mouth making the happy, "Here, throw my spitty ball to me" growl, which is accompanied by head tossing and whirlwind tail wagging.

After the "Here, throw my spitty ball to me" ritual had been accomplished, the dog spat the spitty ball down into the grass at my feet and expectantly waited for me to throw it.

The spousal unit is much stronger than I am. He can throw the dog's ball great distances, a source of enormous joy for her because this allows Shadow to run and run at berserk, breakneck speed. I have seen her launch herself over a steep bank and swim to the middle of the river to get one of his tosses. At the best of times I can only throw it about half as far as he can.

Right now isn't the best of times because I've injured my right shoulder, some sort of rotator cuff strain. The motion you need for pitching overhand or underhand makes me wince. So right-handed me had to throw the ball with my left arm.

I wound up and threw the ball with all my might and the toss was so pitiful that the dog actually ran by it because she expected the ball to go much, much further. As she trotted back to get the ball she gave me this, "Wow, was that your best shot?" look.

Pity from a dog. The day was getting ever better as it progressed. Fortunately, the dog was able to adjust the game to my meagre tosses, resetting the challenge from running down the ball to leaping up and catching the ball in mid-air before it got to the ground. We have a serious potential Frisbee champion in the family, or would have if it wasn't for her habit of gnawing all her toys into oblivion.

Last night was our community's fall harvest supper held to raise money for activities for the kids here. The spousal unit and I pitch in a tiny bit with some of the prep work and kitchen work during the dinner. I think this year something in the range to 150 people showed up, so it was flat out busy. Even though we live in a tiny place, we can draw crowds like this because this is a home cooked turkey dinner with all the fixings and a table covered with homemade desserts. The food is insanely good.

We close the doors at 7 p.m. and all of us who staff the meal sit down and enjoy what's left. Left to my own devices, I would happily eat nothing but dressing smothered in gravy, but I forced myself to eat a balanced meal.

You know that old saying about how you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep?

Well, as I was about to inhale my food, my buddy Eddie and his sweetie, the luscious Dawn, joined the spousal unit and I. He said he had something for my meal. He rummaged in his pockets.

Did he pull out, oh, say, a mint?

No, no he did not.

Eddy pulled out a eensy weensy grater, lifted the lid of the eensy weensy grater and pulled out an oblong brown nut which had scrape marks on it. Closer inspection revealed that it was nutmeg. He informed me that mashed potatoes without nutmeg are not worth eating and so whenever he goes somewhere that he knows that mashed potatoes will be served, he brings his nutmeg and grater.

Some people walk around armed, packing heat. One of my close friends walks around packing nutmeg and a grater.

I would like to say that I was open-minded and covered my mashed potatoes with a light dusting of nutmeg, but that would be a lie. As far as I'm concerned there is but one way to eat mashed potatoes and that is to mound them up like a tiny white volcano and to fill the volcano's top with a pat of butter. As the butter melts, you dip the potatoes from the bottom of your volcano into the lava butter.

Anyone who would categorize this as playing with food is wrong-headed.

The spousal unit, however, is a man of adventure. He took the nutmeg and grater and dusted his mashed goodness. He took an experimental bite. He opined that it was different but it was not good, thereby confirming my prejudice clear thinking on the issue of mashed potatoes.

You know, I do think there's some truth in that saying about how you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep.

But, uh, while you might be tempted to judge me by the fact that I hang out with a man who from time to time packs nutmeg, remember, I married a man who knows the right way to eat mashed potatoes.

Oh yes, I am that complex.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 1221.63 miles.
Over half way there. Oh, man, please let this be over