Che at play

Most people I know are lucky.  They have an Elf on the shelf.  A tiny miscreant who is always up to sort of mischief.  All is good.  All is fun.  No one gets hurt.  Maybe.

Well that's not my case.  I guess an elf on the shelf just isn't for me.  Nope... I have a 'Che at play.'

How did this change come about.  How did I come to have this South American revolutionary who is always ready to 'light the fire of revoluiton?'

Now for those of you that know me know that I refuse to loose a Zippo.  I have only had about five during my life.  The one I have from my grandfather, a.k.a. Pa, I don't let leave the house.  The others, along the journey of life, have managed to grow a pair of legs.  All, save one, have been lost at a party.  But even the one that was was caused by the same distraction... a girl.

So I made some rules.  I bought an orange one.  It was bright.  A color that no one else could easily claim as there own at a party.  If it was a girl that needed a light, I would light it myself.  If it was for a guy... well I would let him light it, but I would watch him the whole time.  So far, it has worked.  Like I said, I still have the Orange one.  But then, something happened.  Our meeting took place in a small Texas town of 840 people called Nevada (pronounced Nee-vay-da), Texas.  That is where I made his acquaintance.

It was at a convenience store.  Like most small town convenience stores, it always was more comfortable giving directions like "go down two blocks and you will pass the McClure farm on hte right.  You know the one with the white barn.  Well after you get past the red plow he keeps by the chickens take a left until you come across Haver's tree by the Seed and Feed...."  It was the kind of place where Bait was as likely to be found as Butane.

But on this trip I needed water.  I was on a project and it was my way to thank the students that showed up for the Service Learning Project of helping out the storm victims of a Tornado that touched down over winter break.  I found the bottled water that had been drawn from the finest springs of New Jersey.  I hefted it to the front counter.  In the resonance of the dull thud of placing the water down, that is where I found him.  From high on a zippo rack that contained a collection ranging from camaflouge, confederate, to pithy sayings like "Get 'er done", his fierce eyes shone.  As he and I were born on the same day... I took him home.

As I am a disciplined Zippo owner if I cannot find him, I am not worried.  I tell myself that he has merely gone on a revolutionary foray.  He will be found.  So far, he has every time.  He might be recovered from a nook.  Perhaps he took refuge in a cranny.  But he is always found.  So whenever I cannot place him, I am not worried.  I know that it is merely "Che at play".