My father fired off another shot, but the bamboo continued to rustle. Or, to be precise, whatever it was that was in the bamboo that was causing it to rustle continued to cause it to do so. While we’re at it, to be perfectly accurate and true to history, it wasn’t a “whatever it was,” but, rather, a “whoever it was,” and “whoever,” in this case, was our neighbor, known to us simply as “That Bitch.”

When he was younger, my male progenitor had an aim which was something to be envied. A master with both the M-16 and the M-60, my father could have singed the tips of the pubes of Paris Hilton’s bikini line from three hundred yards with his eyes closed during an earthquake while angry squirrels threw nuts at him. His grip was steady as the North Star, and his sight as straight as The Marlboro Man at an anti-gay-marriage rally.

Now, in his older age, he isn’t quite as safe with automatic weapons. Even semi-automatic weapons, or just plain old manual weapons in his hands pose a serious threat to himself and others, and not because of his skill, but his lack thereof. He could no longer shoot a flea off a dog’s bottom from a mile away, but he probably wouldn’t have much difficulty shooting the dog’s bottom off entirely were he to try.

The hibachi in our backyard was just cooling down. Piles of discarded bone and meat pieces surrounded our little grill, giving it the appearance of something that someone ignorant of Voodoo practices might mistake for something associated with Voodoo practices. Being someone who is ignorant of Voodoo practices myself, I feel quite comfortable making this comparison.

Like so many other summer afternoons, we had just spent the better part of a couple hours grilling meat and then eating it with our bare hands, squatting around the fire, gnawing at the sinews and gristle of dead animal carcasses carbonized.

It was like the dawn of man. Either one of us could have been African Adam, first in the long line of upright bipedal and vaguely simian beings to follow.

Another shot was taken, and still our neighbor rustled.

The problem was simple: My father admires his privacy, and The Bitch disliked the bamboo which marked the edge of our territory. It formed a wall of jungle, not to be crossed by beast or man, except under pain of attack, and it was under such pain that The Bitch was attempting to uproot our fortress rampart.

Her complaint, or so I’m told as I never had any direct dealings with her myself (I can’t stand neighbors), was that our bamboo was creeping into her yard.

This seemed like a valid complaint, and yet… the bones. The gristle. The meat. My father wasn’t reasoning. His actions were primal. The only thing standing between our meat and those who would take it was that wall of bamboo. It was his mission to protect it, and protect it he would.

He raised his hand again, tracking from a distance the movement along our yard’s perimeter, and, with a whiff followed by the sound of the wind whistling over the lip of the beer bottle as it flew toward its target while rotating several times per second, the third attack was launched.

There was a tinkling sound, and the rustling stopped. It seemed for a moment as though the bamboo itself had paused to rethink the situation.

That was the last time our bamboo ever rustled like that, although we did eventually find, some months later, that The Bitch had dug a trench in our yard to prevent the bamboo from advancing any further on her land.

I can’t think of many things more white trash than my father throwing beer bottles at our neighbor while she tried to chop our forest down.

But a man must protect his bamboo.

And a woman must protect her garden.