by Bella Rum
I’ve slept through two nights in a row. I’m on a roll. And I slept for two hours in the middle of the day on Tuesday and one hour yesterday. Alert the media.
We went down to Dad’s a couple of times this week to empty the contents of the fridge, pack up all the canned goods and to collect any “thing” we wanted to keep. I didn’t want much. We met my sister there on Wednesday. She managed to gather an impressive pile of stuff. I’m not interested in anymore stuff, but she is. She felt like she was getting the deal of a century, and I watched with delight, knowing that each thing she removed was one less thing H and I would have to drag down to the road for bulk pickup. See how well that works.
My house is a wreck. All the canned goods from Dad’s and half the contents from my kitchen cabinets are sitting all over the dining room and kitchen. Remember? They put new countertops in my kitchen just before Dad was rushed to the hospital. We had to empty the bottom cabinets before installation, and we still haven’t put everything back. That’s the job for today.
During the thick haze of details following Dad’s passing, I recalled Dad telling me about a revolver that belonged to my mother. In the early fifties, when Dad worked the night shift, Slatz Parker gave her a gun for “protection.” Slatz was a friend and police officer. If you knew my mother, you’d know how absurd this idea was. She weighed 110 pounds and was a sweet, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly sort of person. Maybe Slatz gave her lessons, but I can’t imagine that anymore than I can imagine my mother shooting someone. I guess she was expected to apply the Joe Biden method of running out on the balcony and firing into the starless night. We didn’t have a balcony, but we did have a front porch. Perhaps a window was to be opened for the occasion.
After a little investigating, H found the revolver tucked away in the back corner on the top shelf of a coat closet (unloaded and without any ammunition in the house). Still.
About three inches long, weighing only a few ounces and fitting in the palm of a hand, it looked more like a toy than a working weapon. Just before we left to meet with the reverend, I slipped it into the outside pocket of my purse and walked across the yard to my brother’s house. I pulled it out of my purse and held it out in my palm. I told him what Dad told me. He was as surprised as I was that our gentle-as-a-mouse mother had a gun. He handed it to Donna to put in the safe. Mostly forgotten, it floated around from linen closet to dresser drawer to kitchen cabinet for the better part of sixty years – everything you are NOT supposed to do with a gun. Now it’s safe in a safe. A tiny cap gun of a gun with a feminine pearl handle, it lived an uneventful life. Thank goodness.
Of all the things that have happened over the past few weeks, I have no idea why this is the goofy story I chose to tell you.
I’m so glad my sister took all that junk from Dad’s house.