Once upon a time, in a galaxy far before social correctness and PETA, the ultimate garment a man could purchase for a woman came in the form of a fur item made of mink. Of course, this only became fully acceptable after the large diamond engagement ring had been purchased, offered on a bended knee, and accepted.
Only the most affluent of men could afford a full length mink coat for the love-of-his-life. If Gwen ever dreamed happy thoughts of a full length mink coat during night’s slumber, then she also had dreamed of seeing a different checkbook than the true reality version housed in Angelkeep’s kitchen cabinet drawer.
Angelkeep owned a junk drawer which included five-year-old cough drops, rubber bands dried out to non-elasticity, and multiple appliance operational booklets. Angelkeep’s second junk drawer contained the checkbook alongside stamps, address labels, Christmas and Easter Seals for which no remuneration had been mailed to the begging non-profit senders, a mini-stapler sans staples that fit, a worthless penny since nothing today can be purchased with a single cent, and sundry items neither I nor Gwen claimed to having placed inside.
Lesser men offered their love-of-their-life mink fur items such as — in descending order corresponding to checkbook balances — a mink jacket, mink stole, mink shoulder wrap, mink hat, mink muff (during the Victorian era), mink-lined mittens, or lastly a mink bookmark. The last item surely ended with a slap across the face of the presenter, just preceding the return of the diamond ring, suddenly way too small to be followed with any upcoming wedding ceremony.
Along came the era of fur garments becoming magnetized to the attraction of airborne eggs. Mink farm stocks tumbled on the DOW. Mink anything became replaced by a lover’s supreme gift of the latest version of iPhone. iPhone’s were never thrown back at a suitor, they simply received the text “It’s over, and I’m keeping the iPhone.”
A single mink stepped onto the Angelkeep patio’s west edge at just the moment I peered out the bedroom window prior to dropping into bed for much needed slumber. Gwen beat me and already had fallen asleep so she missed the viewing of the mink. For her benefit I raced to the kitchen for the camera.
The living room windows between the bedroom and kitchen provided one more glimpse of the mink already making its way eastward. In the kitchen the camera’s on button preceded a focus pause aimed at the concrete just outside the kitchen window in anticipation of the soon-to-appear mink.
It did.
Click.
A race to the west wall kitchen window ended with a photo fail. Only a glimpse of the mink’s rump and tail appeared for a brief second as it dove into a large clump of six-foot-tall ornamental grass. The photo ended as well focused on ash seeds lying on the concrete, but the mink’s picture resulted as somewhat blurred due to its hasty movement to what it observed as a new hiding place.
What could Angelkeep do with a single mink? For one thing Angelkeep could preserve a single blurred photo of the only digitally captured mink visiting Angelkeep. Even a blurred image provided bragging rights to confirm observation of a visiting mink. However it also testified to a lacking in photography skill. It appeared rare but too terrible a photo to download on Facebook.
Click.
Posted.
“Was there only one?” asked a family Facebook member likely anticipating an upcoming Christmas gift in the form of a homemade mink bookmark. Mink earmuffs for Gwen’s Christmas became only a consideration if it could be captured. Angelkeep named it Mink Streak, because it appeared streaked in the photo and it streaked fully across Angelkeep patio. Do you remember the good old days of streaking? It appeared Oreo-ed between Hula hoop’s 1950’s and Pac-Man in 1980.
What could Angelkeep do with a single mink? Blurred bragging rights, there was that.
Mr. Daugherty is a Wells County resident who, along with his wife Gwen, enjoy their backyard and have named it “Angelkeep.”
