Gene and I were sitting at the picnic table at our campsite, playing Dominion and drinking microbrews (are you seeing a theme here?) when we heard a terrific thumping and grumbling coming from the campsite next to ours. The sites at Glacier, at least in this campground, are divided by stands of trees, which is nice for privacy but does make it hard to spy on your grumbling neighbors. However, by craning his neck a little Gene could see next door.
“He’s trying to chop wood with a hatchet,” he marveled. “I should loan him our axe.”
“Yes,” I said. “Tell him to keep it.” (This axe is a sore point with me. On the one hand, we have consistently needed it on camping trips to chop wood into nice fire-sized pieces which allow me to have s’mores. On the other hand, I am always convinced Gene will lose a toe in the process and then what the hell will I do? He does all the driving, after all.)
So Gene went and got the axe and walked it next door, calling out “Hey, do you want to try something other than a hatchet?”
“If he can use an axe, he’s welcome to try it,” replied a woman who I assumed was the hatchet-operator’s wife.
“Yeah, I think an axe would be better,” said the hatchet operator, and walked forward into my sightline to claim it. And I swear to you, Harry Potter was standing there. I mean a young Harry, before the series even begins. He was just this tiny, way-too-skinny kid in enormous glasses. His hair was over his forehead so I couldn’t see if he had a scar, but I figured a scar was not far away as Gene handed over the axe and walked back to our table.
“Did you just give an axe to, like, an eight year old kid?” I demanded.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Jesus, I hope we’re not liable,” I said.
Luckily everything turned out fine, or head wounds might have been the theme of our trip. Still, accio axe, am I right?
Wielding the death machine.