Now I know what many of you must be thinking. You poor, poor lad…how could your mother have been so cruel? The answer is quite simple – practice. She had seven children running around the house like a pack of wild Indians. She discovered early on that her sanity hinged on control, and control revolved around fear. My father had to work two jobs just to keep bread on the table, so it was up to her to provide our daily dose of consternation. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was home or not. Mom was the disciplinarian. Dad was the pushover.
“No.” That was my mother’s answer for everything. It didn’t matter if you were asking for a ride to school, or whether or not she was interested in the cure for the common cold. It was always, “No.” I think she did that to avoid getting into lengthy debates. With seventeen loads of laundry staring her in the face, unlimited gab-sessions with her friends and meals to burn, I guess she felt pressed for time. She wasn’t about to sit there and explain to my sister, Natalie, why she wouldn’t let her go for a joyride with her friends, or why one of us couldn’t have a new puppy. “No” was much easier. If you wanted something in our house, you waited until my mother left town to go shopping, then asked my father.
My three sisters really worked my dad over. He was helpless against their pubescent charms. They would sit on his lap and run their fingers through his jet black crew-cut, while hinting around at the object of their desire. In most cases, it usually involved going to someone else’s house. We always wanted to go to someone else’s house. Why? Because my mother’s rules didn’t apply under someone else’s roof.
Surprisingly enough, my mother did occasionally allow us to go to a friend’s house, but only on one condition - there had to be a parent at the house. My siblings and I were well aware of the rule and repeatedly assured my mother that, indeed, a parent was home. Of course, our word meant nothing. My mother still picked up the phone and asked to speak directly to the parent in charge. She did it to poor Mrs. Landry a million times. Right before she’d hang up, she’d say, “Now Charlotte, if you have to run to the store or the post office, send Jack straight home.”
What did my mother think Donnie and I were going to do in the five minutes Donnie’s mother was gone...plot an overthrow of the government? We were playing ping pong for Christ’s sake! I suppose one of us could have spiked the ball, sending it from table to ceiling, off Mr. Landry’s workbench, on to the floor, back off the ceiling and directly down one of our throats. Geez...that’s kinda scary when you stop and think about it. If my mother wasn’t dead, I’d be sending her a thank you note and a bouquet of flowers.
I’m sorry. Did that last statement sound callous? Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I miss my mother very much, and wish with all my heart that she was still among the living. However, I cannot view her death with any degree of deep sorrow or regret. The reason being – she gave us a heads up and braced us for the tragic event. The minute she turned 50, she informed us she was dying. What we didn’t know was the fact that it would be a long, drawn out process, encompassing the next thirty-two years of our lives.
It was also around the time of her 50th birthday that she made her memorable proclamation regarding old age. We were gathered around the dinner table, preparing for our nightly burnt offering, when my mother stood up and announced, “I refuse to be a burden to you children. When I get of old age, I want to be taken out into the woods and shot.”
A hush fell over the table. (Our little minds needed a few extra moments for that novel idea to soak in.)
My father broke the silence, when he leaned into my ear and whispered, “Tell her to save the bullet and eat a pork chop.”
I brought my index finger to my lips. “Shhhh....,” I urged. I didn’t want my mother to hear him. I figured it was bad enough discussing my mother’s impending demise. I didn’t need my father getting killed on top of it. He shrugged and took a bite of his peanut butter sandwich.
My mother proceeded to glance around the table. One by one, she examined our faces, searching for something within. She arrived at my brother, Scott, and stopped. Pointing at him, she declared, “You. You’ll be the one who takes me out in the woods and shoots me.”
Scott turned his head and looked to make sure no one was behind him. When my brother finally realized it was he that was chosen, a grin broke out on his face from ear to ear. You would have thought he won the National Spelling Bee or something! His shoulders went back and his chin went up.
Even more noticeable, was the disappointment on my other two brothers’ faces. Dana acted as if his inheritance had been taken away. I guess being the oldest male, he felt slighted, and thought the noble task was his natural birthright or something. Jay, on the other hand, just wanted a chance to shoot a gun and sulked at the missed opportunity. As for me, I could have gone either way. There were days when my mother seemed downright tolerable. But had I been holding a rifle the day she chewed me out in front of those women, she probably wouldn’t have been standing there in the kitchen that evening.
Spurred by morbid curiosity, an impassive debate broke out amongst the males seated around the table, starting with my brother Jay.
“What size gun would be good for a job like that?”
“Nothing smaller than a 30/30,” Dana replied in a know-it-all voice.
His macho tone and confident use of firearm terminology may have awed his impressionable younger brothers, but in reality, he was as clueless as the rest of us. Our mother wouldn’t let us go near a sling-shot, never-mind handle a gun that shot live ammunition. Consequently, we didn’t know the difference between a .22 and a pellet gun. Dana was just repeating a number that he heard his friends throw about - the friends in his grade that were lucky enough to take the New Hampshire hunter’s safety class. They’d earn their hunting licenses then spend the weekends up in Pittsburg with their fathers, stalking deer. Oh, how we envied them!
Jay turned to my father for a second opinion. “What do you think, Dad? Is a 30/30 big enough?”
My father swiveled around in his chair and began eyeing my mother up and down. I could see the wheels turning in his head and it frightened me. I was always afraid for my father. I guess because our minds were a lot alike. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Sensing the impending danger, I decided to rescue my father, using the only weapon at my disposal – mental telepathy. I closed my eyes and concentrated all my energies. Don’t say it, Dad. Don’t say you were thinking more on the lines of an elephant gun. Please, Dad. I beg of you. Don’t say it.
My mother must have been getting similar vibes, because she cocked her head sideways and gave him one of those ‘don’t-you-dare’ glares. It worked better than the brain waves I was struggling to send him. Smiling, he turned to Jay and said, “Yeah. I’d say that’ll do the trick.”
My sisters, Jane and Jill, began whining, and insisted we change the subject. They accused us of being insensitive towards our own mother. Imagine that? My mother and the word insensitive in the same sentence! Natalie had no stomach, whatsoever, for guns or violence and was sitting across the table with both hands over her ears. She simply refused to listen. I wasn’t surprised. She used to stand up and leave the room when Gunsmoke came on the television.
Dana ignored their protests, and began searching for ways to wriggle the responsibility away from his naive younger brother. (It was a perfect example of the way his mind worked.) “Hey, Dad…do you think Scott is big enough to handle a 30/30?”
Scott’s head snapped around. The look on his face was unforgettable. You would have thought someone had threatened to take away his chocolate Easter bunny. He searched his father’s face for the slightest sign of approval. He even sat up straighter in his chair to make himself look taller.
My mother scowled.
“Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?” she snipped.
No one heard a word she said. We were all hanging on my father’s next syllable. To tell you the truth, I think my dad was relishing the attention. It was the first time he’d ever spoken at the dinner table. After an agonizingly long pause, my father finally patted Scott on the head and gave him the good news he’d been waiting for.
“He’ll do a fine job. I’m sure of it.”
Scott was beaming. Dana punched himself in the thigh. My mother was seething.
Now, I won’t even try and begin to explain the inner workings of my mother’s mind. That is a dark and foreboding place better left unexplored. But I will say, she had clearly reached her boiling point. Evidently, our flint-hearted discussion about gun calibers wasn’t the reaction she had been searching for when she disclosed her well-thought-out plan of being shot. I don’t know why she was so upset. We were just being chips-off-the-old-block. Expectations aside, it was quickly becoming apparent my mother wasn’t quite finished being a ‘burden’ on her children.
The last straw came when Jay innocently turned to my father and asked, “Do you think we could borrow a gun, Dad, and go practice-shooting at the sand pit?”
My mother exploded.
“There won’t be any goddam guns in this house or anywhere else! Do you understand me?! If I catch you so much as looking at a picture of a gun, I’ll take you to that sandpit and bury you six feet under! Now I don’t want to hear another goddam word about it!”
Jay could never shut his mouth and tried to plead his case.
“But, Mom....”
She slapped him upside the head and barked, “What’s the matter? Have ya got shit in your ears?! I said not another word! Now, shut up and eat!”
We obediently returned to our plates. Over a minute went by in complete silence. I couldn’t resist the urge to peek over at my brother, Scott. He had stopped eating and was staring down at his plate with a faraway smile on his face. I found it rather peculiar and decided to take a closer look.
He had used his fork to skillfully sculpt a rifle out of his mashed potatoes. The detail was remarkable. It had a scope and everything! He even had green peas coming out of the barrel. I’m guessing the blackened pork chop represented my mother. I’m not sure. If my mother had allowed ketchup at the table, Scott would have been able to complete his masterpiece with oozing accuracy. It didn’t matter. I thought it was cool.
The important thing was...he had been ordained the ‘shooter’. From that point on, Scott was treated with a little more respect around the house. The rest of us just kept an ear to the ground for someone looking to unload a used gun and a round or two of ammunition.
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