On most days, catching up on the goings-on from West Virginia blogs is an enjoyable part of my morning routine. With it's hot cup of joe and the occasional sausage melt from Tudors, the early hours of the morning are reserved for The Huntington Herald-Dispatch, The Charleston Gazette and the newest blogposts fed to me by Bloglines.
The fun came to a halt this morning, though, when I read that my friend Scarlet had her car burglarized. I'm guessing a plan has already been put into place at the home to keep things safe and secure, and I pity the fool(s) should he, she or they be caught.
As I read the story I kept wondering what I would do if I was in the shoes of Scarlet and Jackie. And then I remembered.
I remembered how my grandpa distributed country justice.
During the early 1970s, a thief regularly stopped by our rural chicken farm during the wee hours of the morning.
He'd help himself to a chicken here and there, and once in a while to something of more value. My grandpa--a County Constable--didn't take nicely to thieves, especially those brave enough to thieve regularly.
Although I was very small, I still recall watching my dad and grandpa string electric fencing around the perimeter of the barn, then hearing my dad ask something about where it would be plugged in.
"We'll run an extension cord into the house, and plug it in there," my grandpa answered.
"But that high voltage could kill anyone that walks into the wire," replied my dad.
My grandpa paused for a second, then said: "Yes. Yes, it could."
He was a nice guy, but he really hated thieves. And ours sure didn't come around much after that.