Sometimes a blog hops right into the spotlight.
This morning at about 6 a.m. I sleepily trudged out to my pickup to plug it in—it’s an Alaskan thing, pre-warming an engine at least an hour before turning the key. As long as I plug in the block heater, the old Ford pings and shimmies awake, no matter how cold.
My son (one of 3), or a grandson (one of 4), or a granddaughter (one of 6), or a daughter-in-law (one of the 3)—gave me a cop’s flashlight for Christmas last. (I’ve given up trying to remember who blessed me with what gift anymore. I know it was one of them…)
Anyway, I aimed the flashlight beam at a trash can—and stopped dead. A pert little white ermine (weasel) stood in the spotlight, as still as a porcelain figurine. We had a staring contest for a few seconds, and then an identical ermine popped out of the snow, chirping.
They had warmer coats than I, so I left them popping up and hiding like wind-up toys while I shivered back to the house. I felt like an excited 8-year-old as I described my adventure to my wife (we’re closing in on our 40th anniversary).
And, strangely, my weasel wonder has deepened throughout the day–because I shared it with a girl who has loved me since I was 17.