William Martin
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The Department Meeting

10/27/2013

2 Comments

 
I debated on whether to put this in the blog portion of my website or the 'short story' part. Maybe it's a matter of determining audience. Who knows? In any case, here is what I worked on during my weekend. I hope you enjoy. 

The Department Meeting

            “Okay, so it looks as though we’re all here, which is great, because it means we can adhere to our communal agreement to honor each other’s time. Susan, could you please record the individual names of those who are present?”

            “Um, okay, but didn’t you just say that everyone was here?”

            “Yes, Susan, but it needs to be recorded for the current meeting minutes.”

            “Oh, okay.”

            “Also, we should point out in the minutes that Susan is taking meeting notes and Bill has volunteered to keep time, so that we stay on track with the meeting topics and honor everyone’s time.”

            “But what if we stray from the meeting topics to clarify other aspects that invariably come up when we attempt to discuss an issue?”

            “Susan, please take note that Fred has introduced another topic for consideration, which we will address as time allows when we’ve completed our current agenda.”

            “But that doesn’t address the immediate consideration of allowing us to explore varied opinions and concerns in regards to our current meeting agenda.”

            “Fred, we haven’t even started the meeting proper yet, but you seem to have an issue in regards to our proceedings, which we all agreed upon at our last meeting. Do you have an issue you’d like to bring up at a future meeting?”

            “Um, no. Never mind. I’m okay.”

            “Good, then we’re able to proceed without further interruption...although if you feel the need to interrupt the meeting with other thoughts or input, we’re more than willing to stop and consider any and all input, even though it may extend our time frame, which will not honor our agreement in respecting each other’s time. Now, the first item on our agenda has to do with the school-wide policy on pencils.”

            “I’m a little confused as to how ‘pencils’ are on our department’s agenda.”

            “Bob, this has been a district wide concern that each department and each individual within that department should have concern over.”

            “But aren’t pencils just pencils?”

            “Bob, as you were informed of via email and in the email reminder of meeting minutes and the copy of those concerns placed in your mail box as you came in this morning, and the email immediately prior to this meeting, pencils are a very important issue within our department and within every department in the school. It literally reflects our school district’s policy and communication to the general public.”

            “I guess that’s where I’m a bit confused. Aren’t pencils just pencils? How are they a matter of department, school, and school district policy? I don’t get it.”

            “Let the record show that Bob ‘doesn’t get it.’ Bob, have you ever thought about what a pencil is and what it could potentially be?”

            “Um, I guess not. I guess I’ve always thought of a pencil as a pencil.”

            “Bob, I think it may be a matter of your not considering the bigger issues at stake here.”

            “What issues? Isn’t a pencil just a pencil?

            “Bob, I really wish you would have taken the time to read through the paperwork placed in your mailbox and read the emails referencing this particular topic.”

            “I’m sorry. There are just so many emails, copies of which are put in our mailboxes, and which we review at staff meetings, which are also put in our mailboxes. It’s difficult to discern what is of actual importance and what is simply repeated for repetition’s sake.”

            “Bob, it seems as though you’re approaching this meeting with a bad attitude. Is everything okay at home? How are your wife and daughters?”

            “Uh, they’re all okay. My comments have nothing to do with, nor reflect upon them.”

            “Okay then, if there’s not a problem, then perhaps we can continue?”

            “Sure. Whatever. Go for it.”

            “Thank you, Bob, for allowing us to continue while honoring everyone’s individual work time.”

            “Okay.”

            “So, back to the pencils.”

            “I thought the issue of the pencils was determined last night at the school board meeting.”

            “Fred, they discussed it at last night’s board meeting, but they still require our input.”

            “Actually, I don’t think they do. They voted and reached a decision. The local newspaper printed a column on their debate and decision today. I think it may be a dead issue.”

            “Fred, administration has asked for our input on the issue, which is the primary purpose of our meeting today.”

            “Why would we meet on an issue that has already been decided? It looks to me like they’re just giving us the illusion of having input. The issue regarding pencils has already been decided.”

            “Fred, that’s where we’re trying to be proactive in regards to other aspects of the pencil issue.”

            “But what is there to be proactive about? The board decided that a pencil wasn’t a lethal weapon unless sharpened beyond a .02 diameter tip and the student illustrated ‘intent to harm.’ What else is there to be proactive about?”

            “Fred, I want to put this across professionally, without you taking it as a personal statement or attack, but have you considered the implications of varied sexuality when it comes to the pencil?”

            “Sexual implications? What the hell kind of sexual…”

            “Which is my point, Fred. We can help each other in being more proactive in understanding the varied implications of an issue, rather than the one that seems most apparent.”

            “But how the hell does a pencil relate to sexuality?”

            “You illustrate my point exactly, Fred. Have you not noticed that most pencils are --and I mean this with all decorum-- hard? And it goes without saying the implication of pencils having pink erasers on the tips. Ticonderoga is probably the most obvious example of this and in their blatant insensitivity to race, because of their particular color.”

            “They’re yellow. Is that what you mean?”

            “Um, yes Fred. Haven’t you noticed the implications of that? We’re not only talking sexually, but also in regards to ethnicity. As you know, we’re all supposed to be a bit more sensitive to those issues.”

            “Okay. Give me a moment to wrap my head around that one. Please go on.”

            “Okay then. Administration would like to have our input on the pencil issue.”

            “Our input, specifically, in regards to what?”

            “Hannah, have you not been paying attention? We need to come to a consensus regarding whether we consider wooden pencils to be a potential weapon in the hands of a student or not. Can we have a show of hands? Please raise five fingers if you believe they are and we’ll work our way down to one if you don’t think they are.”

            “But what if we’re the only one to raise one finger? Won’t that single us out?”

            “No, not at all. We’re sensitive to everyone’s opinions and input. If you vote with a single digit against everyone else, we will simply stop and re-discuss the issue until a consensus is reached.”

            “But if I’m the only one to disagree, won’t it amount to my being bullied into agreeing or being labeled as a troublemaker?”

            “Fred, I think that’s a rather cynical viewpoint. Can’t you at least give the agreed upon system a fair try? Of course, if you disagree, we’re more than happy to consider your thoughts and opinions.”

            “Um, okay.”

            “Okay then. All who vote five? Okay then, all fives except for Fred’s single ‘one’ vote. So, Fred, what can we do to convince you that you should vote along with the other fourteen of us?”

            “I guess….maybe it’s just a matter of my being confused…but you’re asking us to vote on an issue that’s already been decided, but if we don’t agree with the other votes, it will be a matter of record and we will be met with frustration and disagreement until we vote with the majority?”

            “That’s a very cynical way of looking at the proceedings we all agreed upon Fred. Would you like some time to reconsider your vote or would you like to discuss the issue that the school board voted for last night so that you might contribute in…some way?”

            “No. No. I think I understand the issue at this point and the varied opinions of all of those in our department who have contributed.”

            “Good then. So we can call it all fives. I can’t tell you all how happy I am with what we’ve accomplished today. And I really appreciate everything that everyone in our department contributed to the discussion and decision. I’ll report our thoughts, opinions, and votes to administration.”

            “Um, I don’t mean to be the spoiler in the group, but we’ve went beyond the hour of allotted time.”

            “Thank you Bill, your contribution to making sure we were all on task and accomplished so much is very much appreciated. I feel good about what we’ve managed to accomplish today people. It makes me feel good about each of you and the good things we can continue to do in the future. I look forward to letting administration know what we’ve decided here today.”

            “Um, but…

            “What was that, Fred?”

            “Nothing. Just clearing my voice a bit. I look forward to our next meeting and all that we can accomplish.”

            “Good for you, Fred. That’s the kind of input and attitude everyone can benefit from.”

            “Just noticing. We went over by four minutes on our meeting.”

            “Thank you for that input Bill. We'll talk to those who feel the need to move beyond our established time frame with our next meeting, perhaps you can help with minutes as well as time-keeping?”

            “Um. Sure. Okay. Happy to be able to contribute. As I’m sure, all of us are.”

            "Fred, in between now and the next meeting, would you like a pencil or two, just to look over and possibly take notes on so you'll be better prepared for our next meeting?"

            "That sounds great. I'll look the pencils over real well before the next meeting."

           "That's the spirit Fred. It's always a good sign when you know you have a solid team player working with you."

            "Um, thanks?"

 


2 Comments

Mixed Messages

10/22/2013

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It could just be me and my individual perspective, but it seems as though I've been receiving a lot of mixed messages lately. I can't help but wonder if it's my perception or if others also receive mixed messages in their day to day lives.

For example: I submitted two of my poems to a literary journal recently and, instead of the usual rejection where the publisher simply says "Thank you, but your stuff doesn't appeal to us just now" (okay, I'm paraphrasing there), the senior editor felt it necessary to add his junior editor's comments --I assume as a form of constructive criticism to help me improve as a writer or to lessen the blow of rejection. The comments had to do with two poems I have on this site. The first was "The Promise." The comment from the junior editor was simply "I didn't get it."

Really? (Read the poem folks and judge for yourselves. I honestly don't know how anyone could not 'get it.')

The second was in reference to another poem on this site called "Meeting Death." The constructive criticism I received on that one was, "Had it not been for the title, I wouldn't have known what it was about."

Okay. Granted, I have a degree in Language Arts that includes a good portion of studying literature, but really? The junior editor assumed the title was an afterthought? That if he or she hadn't had the epiphany that the title might tie in with the body of the poem they wouldn't have fully understood it? And that, because they had 'editor' somewhere in their job title or employment application, no other readers would have understood that most poems relate to their title in some way? 

I was angry. I admit that. Yet, I've experienced enough rejection letters that I'm fairly thick-skinned and can slough them off. I think it was the junior editors' helpful 'comments' that got to me this time. It bothered me that they were so obtuse about the work. It bothered me even more that they might assume my potential readers were that obtuse.

I don't normally do this (because it's never a good idea to burn bridges), but I sent a fairly terse letter to the senior editor of the publication stating in very politically correct terms that his junior editors were morons who shouldn't really be evaluating a writer's work.

Here's the best part:

The senior editor emailed me back to say that the editors didn't really have any writing/literary background and that they were volunteers because the publication couldn't really afford to pay those with experience or credentials. He acknowledged the comments were "off the mark," but to make up for it he offered me a free year's subscription to the literary journal.

Oh boy! You can probably imagine my joy in knowing I would receive, gratis, a year's worth of a literary journal where the editors were (admittedly) completely incompetent! Obviously, I bypassed my complimentary e-code and deleted the email.

Another mixed message I recently received: As an educator, one of the buzz words going around in public education awareness recently is "bullying." As teachers we should be more observant of it, sensitive to it, and aware of it. We've been told this in more than a few staff meetings. 

I couldn't agree more.

So I read a recent article in the New York Times where two teenage girls were being prosecuted because their bullying led to the suicide of another teenage girl.

Wow. That's some serious stuff. And a teaching/learning opportunity that, as teachers, we should jump on. I emailed a copy to my colleagues in the English/Language Arts department simply pointing out the educational opportunity that (if they were comfortable with discussing it) was available to us through this event. If they weren't comfortable with the topic or would rather not address it, no problem. I'm not in a position to dictate curriculum.

Two days later I received an email from my supervising administrator saying (I'm summarizing here) that my contributions to the department were valued and appreciated, but not to not send out any more emails like that.

Here's the best part:

He concluded the email by stating he looked forward to more of my input and participation.

Now, I'm old enough and have seen more than my share of rodeos, so I know I can't be the only one who receives mixed messages. I guess what bothers me most is that the mixed messages we're often sent directly relate to who we are as individuals and, by way of that understanding, to our loved ones. 

Maybe it's a matter of having the crap slapped out of us while being told how much we're appreciated and loved.

Maybe that's supposed to make it easier to turn the other cheek.

But to be honest, I think I'm ready to start slapping back, whatever the outcome.
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Everything Old is New Again

10/19/2013

1 Comment

 
            Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis. Maybe it’s simply that I’ve never completely lost my immaturity. Maybe it’s nostalgia.

             However, it may be a well planned and executed marketing strategy.

            Whatever the reason, it seems that things are becoming more cyclical and every thing old is new again.

            The other night I was wasting time online – I mean, researching for possible writing projects – and discovered I was looking at cars for sale. Not just any cars. Chevys. More specifically, Chevy Novas. Even more specifically 1971 Chevy Novas with a V8, gold color, black vinyl top, automatic transmission, and a decent interior. Okay, I was looking for my first car.

            That in itself is a bit ridiculous, because I totaled that car in 1978 by plowing through two guardrails, spinning the car around 180 degrees and hanging its ass end up in a tree. The last time I saw the car, it was in the wrecking yard giving me a bent, twisted, but decidedly guilty look as though to say, “How could you do this to me?” I grabbed all my cassettes off of the floor and quickly left, trying very hard not to look back

            But that’s another story.

            I began to realize that many of the cars available now are “re-creations” or “tributes” or simply cars being re-introduced. Camaros, Mustangs, Chargers…they all have the latest gadgets and safety features but resemble those models from the sixties or seventies. Then I realized that when I was a kid in the 1970’s one of the most popular shows on television was “Happy Days” which took place in the 1950’s. As we moved into the 1990’s “That ‘70’s Show” became very popular. Now that we’re moving into the 2010’s (or is it 20’teens or…hell, who knows?) everyone is starting to get all goo-goo over “Seinfeld” and “Friends” again. (By the way, goo-goo is a technical literary term that writers sometimes use, but it should be left to professionals.)

            That’s when I had the epiphany. Sure, I’ve had a ton of epiphanies that people seem to quickly judge as simple, weird thinking, but this is different.

            If everything old is new again, why not resurrect other things people are nostalgic for and make some bank from it? It’s brilliant. I hope manufacturers are reading this when I suggest the following:

            * Re-introduce Mt. Dew the way it was originally marketed –with a hillbilly laying                    down drunk and swiggin’ from a moonshine jug.

             * Bring back the Pillsbury knock-off of Kool-Aid that had such colorful flavors                        like “Injun Orange” or “Chinese Cherry.”

             * “The Frito Bandito.” ‘Nuff said.

             * That beautiful old pickup from the 1950’s Chevy made and called “The Apache.”

             * Bring back the Chevy Impala. Okay, I know they did that, but they brought it                         back as an even cheesier version of a current Ford Taurus. Bring it back
                  in all its 1960’s muscle car glory.

             * Resurrect the Trans-Am. There could even be a remake of “Smokey and the                         Bandit” to help sell a gazillion of them. (By the way, gazillion is another
                technical literary term that should be left to professionals.)

             * BRING BACK “KNOCKER-BOCKERS”!!! You remember the greatest toy ever                     made. It consisted of two hard-plastic, golf-ball sized balls connected by a string                 with a small ring in the middle. You clacked them together faster and faster
                until one shattered and threw plastic shrapnel everywhere. They were even
                more fun than Superballs (I won’t even try to explain those to anyone who
                hasn’t experienced them. I’d probably end up being arrested.)

             But most of all bring back the 1971 Chevy Nova. I think I could even deal with it not having any safety features. I’ve matured –a little. And I can even guarantee that I won’t end up hanging its ass end up in a tree. 



1 Comment

On Brothers, Gangs and Advice

10/12/2013

2 Comments

 
I’ve mentioned elsewhere in my blogs that I was the youngest of five children and the youngest of four boys. You would think that having that many brothers would be like having your own gang, although if we were to go with the gang option, our gang colors would have been hand-me-downs, rolled up denim jeans, work boots (they lasted longer), plaid work shirts (they lasted longer too) and short hair –not the kind of image likely to strike fear in other gangs.

Dad’s rule: He gave you $5 to go get your hair cut, however you liked, just so long as it didn’t touch your eyebrows, your ears or your collar. Not a lot of leeway with those instructions.

But the hair cut only cost $3.50, so if you were within those boundaries, you got to keep the change. However, if you dared to challenge those rules, he would march you right back to the barber’s and have your hair cut his way. No one wanted that. I don’t think it ever happened.

So much for having a tough gang.

Older siblings do like to dispense advice, although I was too young, too stupid or a combination of the two to realize that often their advice was intentionally wrong.

For example: One of my older brothers decided to take up chewing tobacco. I guess because my grandfather chewed tobacco, Gary thought it might bump him up a bit on the favorite-grandkid-o-meter. (Little did he know, I think my grandfather pretty much hated all kids.)

Gary got pretty good at chewing tobacco too. I’d hang out in his bedroom with him and he’d open the window and spit a thick brown stream out the window and onto the lawn. Simply put, to me, it just made him look tough. Looking tough is quite a feat for a 16-year-old kid who is 6’3” and weighs about 145 lbs. but the tobacco and the squirt-spitting was helping him pull it off.

I began to wonder if I could try.

“Absolutely,” he said.

He then advised me to take the biggest wad of tobacco I could manage and stuff it into my cheek. I did, even though it felt like a billiard ball and tasted like dead…well, whatever the grossest dead thing you can think of might taste like.

I tried spitting out the window a few times, but my prowess in spitting was only matched by my stupidity and soon my white tee shirt looked like a crow stood backward on my head, overdosing on Ex-lax.

Then the room began to spin a bit.

Me: “Gary, it feels like the room is starting to spin. What do I do?”

Gary: “Whatever you do, do NOT spit out the tobacco. If you do that, you’re sure to get sick. It’s best if you just lie down on the bed and try not to move…at all.”

Of course, this was absolutely the worst advice anyone could give, but he was my brother and I trusted him. So I lay back on the bed, kept quiet, as the room picked up momentum. For a second or two I thought maybe that whole house spinning thing from the Wizard of Oz actually happened. I finally had to jump off the bed and make a run for the window. I stumbled and fell twice, but made it in time to empty out just about every thing that was in me.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see internal organs, my kneecaps or my socks come up.

I fell back on the floor, my head pounding as I sweated and moaned. Yet, through my own head-pounding, moaning noise, I could hear my brother’s laughter.

Another bit of advice I received included being a part my oldest brothers’ ‘plan.’ Hell, to be included in anything was a step up for me, so I naturally said "count me in."

It had happened that the brother closest to my age, Glen, had gotten in a fight with a neighborhood tough guy the day before. The kid was a year older and slightly larger than my brother, but knowing Glen, he’d probably provoked the kid somehow.

That didn’t matter to my two oldest brothers. They reminded me that they were both five and six years older than the neighborhood tough kid, so it would be ‘wrong’ for them to just hunt him down and beat him up. They needed a viable excuse to do it. They couldn’t use the excuse that the tough guy had beaten up Glen, because, in all honesty, Glen was an ass and probably started it.

But they were adamant that the kid wouldn’t get away with beating up a Martin kid. That was where we all needed to make a stand of solidarity.

I was swelling with the pride of brotherly solidarity. It was a heady thought, because it had never happened before. There had never even been a slight hint of it before. I was ready to work in brotherhood to kick the crap out of this kid who beat up a brother who often beat me up and who I didn’t even really like all that much.

Me: “So, what’s the plan?”

Gary: “The three of us will walk down the street. The tough kid is in his front yard. We can’t just start beating him up, he has to start it.”

Me: “Okay.”

Gary: “So you call him a fu**ing coc* sucker and he’ll make a move to beat you up.”

Me: “Okay, now I’m having a few doubts on this plan. Not really seeing how this is going to work out with him in a state of beat-up-edness and me living happily ever after.”

Gary: “As soon as he makes a move toward you, we’ll jump in and beat him within an inch of his life. We can say we were justified because he was going to hurt you. Come on. It’s a fool-proof plan.”

Me: --to dumb to know that the fool in the plan was me—“Alright! Let’s go for it!”

We walked the few blocks down to the tough kid’s house. He was outside. I walked in front of my older brothers.

Me: “Hey you fu**ing coc* sucker! I heard you beat up my brother. Well, I’m here to kick your ass.”

Oddly, the kid didn’t reply at all. He didn’t go through all the posturing rituals that I thought were a part of every fight. He simply walked up to me, hit me squarely in the nose and put me down. He was also soon down with me and continuing to hit me.

Me (shouting): “Backup! Where’s my backup! Call 911! Backup!”

My backup stood together over on the sidewalk, laughing so hard they were crying.

When the neighborhood tough kid was worn to a frazzle with beating me up, he got up and simply walked away and into his house. I don’t think he said a word the whole time.

My brothers picked me up by each arm and dragged me home. Of course, my mom was there and began freaking out over the blood, various swellings and bruises.

Mom: “What the hell happened?”

Gary: “I don’t know. He just went stupid and tried to pick a fight with the kid down the street.”

I think my mom knew better. I just told her I couldn’t remember what happened.

But at that point I knew, without a shred of doubt, that we’d never have a gang. I think I also knew that at best we’d only have a passing sibling relationship.

I’m proud to say I now think carefully about giving or receiving advice. I’ve long since quit thinking about a gang, knowing they kill individualism, individual thought and empathy towards others.

I often wish though, that the sibling relationships had not passed away. I’m not sure why. They say you often miss most those things you never had.

And who am I to argue?


2 Comments

Karma Cat

10/5/2013

3 Comments

 
I should start off by clarifying my family make up before diving into the story of this week’s post. My parents were pretty young when they married and it’s said they married because mom was pregnant with my oldest brother. I don’t know for sure the truth of it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Many marriages started off with the cart before the horse, even back in the 1950’s. Soon after the marriage and birth, my folks had my sister and another brother in fairly quick succession. Then, for some reason they waited five years, had another brother and then me.

I grew up thinking that, after five years, my parents just decided they wanted a couple of more kids. I kept that assumption clear up until I was 19 and was riding with my dad in his pickup. We were listening to the news on the radio (my dad was a news junkie) and the announcer just finished discussing a story of unwanted pregnancies. My dad looked over at me for a second:

            Him: “What’s it feel like to be an accident?”

            Me: “Um, I didn’t know I was an accident.”

            Him (bulling through the awkwardness): “Well, you were. You should think on it.”

I asked my mom about it later and she said she thought of me as a ‘surprise’ rather than an accident. For some reason, that didn’t really help much.

The five year span between siblings made a difference in growing up. I wasn’t real close to my three oldest siblings, except when I was a baby and my sister wanted another girl in the family so badly she sometimes dressed me in girls’ clothes. Thankfully, I was too young to mind and now I don’t even remember, so it has never bothered me or caused me any kind of sexual confusion. As I got bigger, she finally realized that I wasn’t going to turn into a girl and stopped pretending that I was.

Because I was closer in age to the brother just before me, Glen, he is the one I spent most of my time around. That’s not to say that spending time around Glen was a lot of fun. Being a year and a half older than I, he often relieved his boredom by picking on me until I finally fired back, which gave him the reason he was looking for to beat the hell out of me. This was a pretty common occurrence. If he really got to me, I would hit him first, but I always avoided his head, because I really didn’t want to hurt him. He wasn’t burdened by that hesitance and always tried for maximum damage.

Sometimes, when he had me pinned to the floor beating me, a wild look would come into his eyes. That scary ‘lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home’ look. That’s when I truly wondered about his mental stability –while I was struggling to get free, of course.

But sometimes Karma actually does kick in and people get their comeuppance.

My siblings and I grew up around firearms, firearms safety and use, and hunting. If my memory is correct, we had our first BB guns when we were seven or eight and a .22 rifle not too many years after that. In our early teens we started hunting and had larger caliber rifles. I saved up and bought a bolt action Savage 30-06 and Glen was given dad’s Remington pump action 30-06.

The day of Glen’s comeuppance came when he, my mother and I were the only ones at home. We lived out of town a few miles and it was a beautiful summer day. My mom told me to take the paper garbage out to the burning barrel in the back yard and burn it.

Side note: There is a bit of arsonist in all boys, so this was one chore I didn’t mind at all.

I watched the fire, mesmerized as the flames danced around the barrel’s interior

And that’s when I heard the shot. It sounded like an explosion coming from inside the house. The shot was immediately followed by Glen screaming.

I ran for the house, thinking he had shot mom, then I had a flash of that vacant, ugly stare he sometimes had when he beat me, so I slowed down a bit. Better not to rush into the unknown, especially if that unknown involves a gun and a possibly unstable brother.

When I finally heard mom’s voice I ventured inside and discovered what had happened. Glen kept his rifle on a wall rack and with a loaded magazine in it. In his boredom, he took the rifle down, took out the magazine and began racking the pump and dry-firing the gun at different things around his room. Mom called him to do some chore or other, so he slapped the magazine back into the rifle and put it back on the rack.

When he finished the chore, he went back to his room and picked up the rifle again. Except this time he forgot he had put the loaded magazine back in it. When he racked the slide, he unknowingly chambered a cartridge. He pointed it at a few things around his room, but then saw his cat walking across the front yard.

He slid open the window, aimed at the cat, and promptly blew half of its neck away.

Where karma can be a real bitch, is that this was his cat; a cat he had raised, fed and that slept at the foot of his bed every night for years.

When he finally quieted from his screaming and crying, I took his gun, unloaded the magazine, put the gun back on the rack, and gave the magazine to mom. Once Glen had calmed down enough, mom sent us out to bury the cat.

Glen walked slowly. I got to the cat before he did. The upper half of the cat’s neck was gone, but it was still alive and trying to breath. It made an odd sucking/hissing noise. As Glen came up behind me, I couldn’t help but think that, although the cat didn’t deserve this, he certainly did. I also couldn’t help but make a wisecrack.

Me: “I don’t know Glen. It’s not dead yet. Maybe it’ll make it.”

He saw the cat, glared at me and lifted the shovel.

Him: “I don’t think so.” He put the cat out of its misery with the shovel and stood looking at it, still crying. I still couldn’t hold back.

Me: “Hey? You know how you’re always picking fights with me and beating me up?”

He looked at me, with a frown and one eyebrow raised in question.

Me: “Karma can be a bitch sometimes, huh?”

He chased me for awhile with the shovel raised in his hands, but I think his emotions had exhausted him and I easily out ran him.

After the cat incident I could honestly say that I never saw a more careful, safety-minded person around firearms than my brother.

Still, I never turn my back on him.  

3 Comments

    William Martin

    Just observing, sometimes remembering, often shaking my head, then writing.

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