Nov 3, 2014 3 min read

It started off like any other Monday morning in the fall. I crawled out of bed slowly, rubbing grainy eyes, regretting I stayed up to try to watch the late-night football game. (My regret dissipated somewhat when I remembered the final score and that the Steelers came out on top, however.)

I turned on the heater in the bathroom, stirred the fire in the wood-burner and started the coffee.

Then I woke the kids for school.

My son was the first down the stairs. Immediately after saying good morning, he asked me for a “woplett.”

“A what?” I asked, certain that my ears weren’t working any better than my eyes.

“A woplett,” he replied. “You told Daddy you would make them this morning.”

“Oh, an omelet. Got it,” I replied.

I have long loved his random mispronunciations. Most of them occurred when he was little and learning to talk, but occasionally I still catch these glimpses of innocence. I remember when he used to ask to watch “noovies” on TV, he would hide the “mote” so his dad wouldn’t change his cartoons, and when he was scared of the noise that the “bacuum” made. There were others, I’m sure, but I never did get around to writing them down.

I was fortunate enough to have a second glimpse of that type of adorableness this weekend.

A talented and friendly acquaintance had offered to come to the farm to hold Metal Detecting 101 for me and some friends. Uneducated but enthusiastic, our group had about one hour of combined experience using our three devices, but my new friend was undeterred. He not only brought his expertise, but two extra detectors and some tools that refine the digging process and minimize ground damage.

He was most agreeable to having my son use one of his detectors and also in allowing my son to be all-time digger. This has gained him a friend for life, as my son aspires to dig for a living as an adult.

For several hours, we walked around the yard, learning techniques for ensuring that we swept an area completely, discerning the types of metal likely to have been found based on the different noises that our machines made, and occasionally actually finding something.

My son excitedly stuck with us the entire time. He laughed about the squeaks and whines that indicated treasure, and never tired of the digging, even when we dug up pop tabs and bottle caps. He was certain he was rich when we dug up a couple of pennies, and wasn’t deterred from that assessment even when he found out they were from the 1990s. He even felt that the old nails he found were something to stick in the treasure bag.

When it was all said and done, we had a small cache of trash but a great memory. And my son said it best when he told me with utmost seriousness, “I love metal protecting!”

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.