by cheri sabraw
For twenty years I have told the story about what a sharp-shooter my father Hugh was.
Why, as the family lore and legend go, while in the military at White Sands Proving Ground, New Mexico, in 1954–when I was just a little squirt, following him around like a obsequious duckling–he shot and killed a road runner which was traveling over 20 mph.
The Army awarded him a plaque and certificate documenting his feat.
So you can imagine my delight the other day when one ran into my eyesight and stopped to evaluate his options.
I was in my robe; the weather was cold; I grabbed my camera and handed it to my husband, who is an excellent shot himself. ( I mean he took an excellent shot…)
As he, the roadrunner followed by a man with a camera, proceeded along his way, what should be lurking down the way, but Wile E. Coyote, licking his chops.
The Road Runner always wins against Wile E. Coyote but just to be safe, he headed south, toward the dry creek.
I was tickled, not only by the splendid pictures, but also in the calling up of a memory that reminded me of what a grand person my father Hugh was.
I had been telling the wrong version of the story and had been corrected my brother Steve.
“Dad did not shoot a road runner. He shot a jack rabbit, Cheri.”