We arrived in Southeastern Tennessee at dusk. Our cabin was covered in a thin layer of frost. But no snow.
I was hoping for snow.
My good friend, Jim, lives in this area and tells me they have a coyote problem. So I am keeping my eyes peeled for anything that resembles scavenging canines near our cabin.
I have always had a looming feeling that coyotes are going to be what finally kills me.
Anyway, we are in Tennessee for a getaway to celebrate our fifteen-year belated anniversary. After I finished unpacking, my wife insisted that I build a fire.
So, I went outside into the cold to get firewood. I loaded an armful, keeping a lookout for ravenous coyotes. I think I saw one or two on the roof, but I can’t be sure.
On my way back inside, my foot slipped on a piece of ice. I was airborne. The last thing I remember is watching hickory logs fly upward into the night.
When I awoke, I saw my old Little League coach, Mister Whiting, standing over me, smoking a cigarette.
He said: “Get on your feet, and quit whining or the coyotes will eat you!”
“Yessir,” I said.
Then he popped my rear and said, “Can’t never could! There is no ‘I’ in team! Quitters never win and winners never quit! Have you called your mama? I wish I could call mine!”
It was obviously a hallucination, Mister Whiting has been dead for many years. I can’t remember how he passed, it was either old age or coyotes.
I finally got a fire going. A roaring fire does something to the primitive man in me. I love a fireplace, and when I tend logs I do it with the sincerity I would use to guard a bank vault.
I kept looking out the window for snow, but no…