“Oh, darn it,” said my daughter. “I have my armadillo meeting tomorrow and I haven’t done my papers!” “You … um …” I stuttered. “OK, what?” “My armadillo meeting! With Grandma Evie!” Jeez, dad! Don’t you remember anything. You know, Grandma Evie? Your mom? The woman who has been calling here every day for the past week because she says there’s an armadillo in her yard. Digging holes. Eating all the worms. In downtown St. Augustine. Which is more improbable than, say, green alien squirrels mining gold in the Castillo. But there it is. The agricultural extension lady came out, looked at at the holes and said that’s what it was. Or it’s where the alien squirrel mother ship landed. Only at Gandma Evie’s house! “So what’s this meeting you’re having?” I asked. Another dumb question. Eight year olds are a tough crowd. “Seriously?!?” she said. “I’m part of the armadillo staff. I have to do research. I have to look up what armadillos eat. I have to design traps. I have a meeting tomorrow with Grandma Evie. We need to look around the neighborhood. We have to measure the holes in the yard. We have to see if there’s an armadillo under the house. We have to build a trap. That’s a lot of pressure, you know.” “Yes, yes it is,” I said. “Did you say ‘under the house?’ Your grandmother’s not going to make you crawl under there, is she?” “Dad, you don’t honestly think SHE’S going to […]