H. Neal Glanville

We've all known them; most likely someone like them interrupts a portion of your life's quest for a normal day.

Yes, I'm speaking of that creature who walks among us, the dreaded all knowing all seeing, "know it all."

Yes indeedy, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, there's nothing more "life interuptis" than failing to make a quick clean getaway from this creature before their mouth opens and they remind us of their "legendary" exploits.

Such a personage is "Bob Smith."

I'd like to use his real name, but "Bob" once sued the neighbor's dog for pooping on his lawn. I know it sounds stupid, but "Bob" won the case and now gets 34 cents per pile plus 7 cents per foot mileage.

"Bob" is a well off accountant, a world-class archer, and frankly, an unbelievable pistol shot, which is what got me into the light bulb shoot out.

During the late 1970s and early 80s, the family and I were employed by the White Pine Lodge to take people fishing and whatever in the summer, deer and elk hunting in the fall and skiing in the winter.

It paid poorly, but what a great way to make a living and raise four kids.

"Bob" worked for the lodge and traded part of his fee for a weekly prime rib dinner for himself and any number of guests.

It was during these weekly visits that anyone inside the lodge's dining room would hear of his latest and greatest exploits. One such night, we fortunate few were subjected to his hour-long story of shooting bottle caps off fence posts.

There was no reason to doubt his ability to do it - it was the on and on part of his story I couldn't take.

It has been said, more than once I'm afraid, that at times I lack people skills of any kind, and though true, the lack of such skills has been somewhat of a blessing.

As "Bob" and his seemingly bored band of well fed sheep approached the lodge's bar, which I was proudly standing behind, my mouth took it upon itself to tell "Bob" that I, yes I, had heard just about enough of his pistol escapade and "why don't you sit down, shut up and let the air around us repureify itself so the rest of us might breath properly."

As you've probably guessed that brought about a boisterous challenge and wager from the king of ego, followed by more wagering from his flock and my mouth matching each bet dollar for dollar.

As I returned home, it dawned on me that not only could I not shoot my way out of a closed milk carton, there was no way I could cover the bets my mouth had so proudly made.

As I swung open our front door, wondering how painful it would be to cut off my trigger finger, my salvation lay on the kitchen table - a UPS box marked ammunition.

The shoot took place the following morning at "Bob's" three-acre ranch.

As the easy money crowd gathered, I admitted aloud that "Bob" was much better with a pistol than I would ever hope to be, and would anyone mind if we shot at light bulbs tossed in the air.

"Bob" jumped at the idea and volunteered his wife's arm for the tossing. He gave the poor girl a quick lesson on tossing light bulbs and began firing his six rounds.

The crowd went nuts each time he hit one of the two bulbs he blew out of the sky. I stepped up smiled at his still shaking wife, saying "just toss them, our pain will end soon."

When I hit the third bulb, the crowd went silent and started digging in their pockets.

When I missed that last shot, the nonbelievers stepped forward, money in hand. With as much bravado as I could muster I held my hand up, tipped my hat to "Bobs" wife and said "thank you for your time."

Amazing what you can hit with .38 caliber bird shot.

"Hey, you be careful out there."