Thanks, Gobbler, for reminding me why I do this

In journalism school, my profs used to call it a "Holy Sh** Edna" story. As in your typcial middle-aged reader picking up the paper and yelling: "Holy sh**, Edna, look at this!"

That was decades ago, when there was still a statistically significant sample of women named Edna, but I like to think the expression endures. Journalists yearn for "Holy Sh** Edna" stories. They're part of what makes our job -- life, in fact -- interesting.

Yesterday, I was blessed by God with a "Holy Sh** Edna" story. One that has, in fact, gone national.

Here's the thing about being in a smaller community, though. Some 15 years ago, my wife and I were having lunch with a friend of ours, Charlene Brown-Maguire, and her lovely family. I remember them as an amazing lot, one of those families who can only be descrbed in the simplest of positives: "nice," "friendly," "close-knit" and fundamentally "cool."

I'm pretty sure Mary, then in her mid-teens, was at the table with us when, from behind, came a loud, piercing, blood-curdling yell.

After checking briefly to confirm my continued cardiovascular functioning, I muttered the words, quietly I hope: "Flocking bird!" (I may, in fact, have used a different word at the beginning.)

Even back then, it seems, Gobbler had a way of nailing the unsuspecting with his powerful call.

Little did I know that his shriek would translate, loosely, as: "Holy sh**, Edna!"