Whether it is a labyrinth on the back of a cereal box or a good crossword inside your newspaper, puzzles can be a fun—albeit, sometimes frustrating—hobby. One puzzle that has caused both amusement and frustration, and in my case, anger, is the Bean Puzzle Tombstone.

Located three kilometres north of the small town of Wellesley, Ontario in the Rushes Cemetery is the confounding Bean Puzzle Tombstone. This tombstone, which was erected by Samuel Bean in memory of two of his wives—both of whom died after being married to Bean for less than a year—features an epitaph in 15x15 alphanumeric code that baffled puzzle masters, historians, tourists, and locals for decades. But it managed to peeve me off within seconds.

Every week or so in the summer months, I drive my nine-year-old son Joseph an hour to a woodlot near a conservation trail in Newcastle, Ontario. Here Sam, his falconry sponsor, shows Joe how to offer a Harris Hawk her first live kill: a pigeon. 

Joe stands resolute and alert as the hawk swoops toward him from her high ring perch about 20 feet away, her four-foot wingspan materializing miraculously from her 780-gram body. As Sam has instructed, Joe gives a sharp tug on the lure holding the pigeon, which has been lying still near Joe’s feet. The tug excites movement from the bird and keeps the hawk focused.