As far as a watermelon seed can be spat

I don’t have many memories of my grandfather (my dad’s father). My other grandfather was long since past before I was born. What I do remember is a hard working country farmer. Leathered skin, with age spots. Tall and very lean. I’m told he wasn’t really all that tall, which would explain my father’s lack of stature, but as a child the world is filled with giants.

My grandparents lived in a farmhouse just south of El Dorado, Arkansas. Almost a watermelon seed spitting distance from Louisiana. Every so often, my parents would drive the 45 minutes to my grandparent’s house, and my siblings and I would then spend the rest of the day exploring the farmland, kicking dirt clods, knocking down old corn stalks, and poking sticks at the hogs. We left the chickens alone, they were mean. And the one milking cow was temperamental with a history of kicking.

My grandmother was hard working and had taken to operating several home grown businesses. One such endeavor is quilting. We’d always come and see the backroom filled with a large quilt she had received an order for. It would take weeks to complete. At first it was all hand stitched, until her arthritis began to take a toll. Then she started using the sewing machine, and the intricate patterns disappeared.

Her most successful endeavor was daycare. The quilting room was given up for a daycare. Area moms and dads would drop their kids off prior to heading off to work in the local petrochemical plants. Although it was a considerable drive, my parents supported her by dropping us off also. We didn’t mind the drive. Grandma always had the nursery books we always enjoyed. She even had Dr. Seuss, which my mom despised and refuse to purchase. No one ever read the books to me, but I enjoyed the illustrations.

Sometimes we would be left for a couple days. My grandma had a love for fat laden foods. And I didn’t care, it was delicious. And for anyone who knows me, this will come as a surprise. I loved her fried chocolate pies. Yes! The person, who really doesn’t care for chocolate, loved her pies. Eating one did far more damage than any super sized McDonald’s meal.

I remember waking up early one morning and looking out the window and seeing Bambi. I rushed to tell Grandpa, and he didn’t believe me. That’s the one thing I always hated about being a child. The giants never listened to you.

“No, no! Really, it’s Bambi!” I pleaded. I’m not sure I had convinced him, or he got tired of hearing me whine, but he finally got up from watching TV and came to the window. And yes! There in the corn field was Bambi having a morning snack.

The next thing I remember was my Grandpa heading to his room with me in tow. He opens his closet and pulls out a rifle I didn’t know he had. With trembling hands, he started loading the rifle when I noticed something wrong. The bullets seemed to keep getting jammed as he loaded them, which he kept trying to force in. Soon his fingers were bloody from loading the rifle. He got up from the bed and told everyone to be quiet. He slowly went out the front door and an eternity later, I heard the gun go off. I had been watching Bambi since my Grandpa had left, not knowing what to expect. When the gun went off, Bambi froze and lifted its head up to look around. Then before I knew it, Bambi was off running for the deep woods. The gun sounded again. Bambi was gone.

I didn’t understand why my Grandpa wanted to kill Bambi, later I understood that the deer was eating his crops. Bambi had leaped over the electrified fence put up to prevent the crop poachers. It didn’t work.

I’m not sure what I would do in his place today. Yes, I was brought up in a family of hunters. I remember weekends of running the dogs to tree squirrels. Of learning to shoot with a 410 shotgun. Of playing with a loaded 22 magnum pistol in my father’s trailer. Of the fact gun safety was non-existent.

For me, guns have no place in my life now. Do I believe in a person’s right to arms? It’s sorta a difficult answer. I could go into a discourse that the original intent was to be a check on the government. That the ability for a citizen to self-arm and join a militia to oppose a hostile government coincided with the era of the American Revolution. It would take too long to go into this, let’s just say I believe there should be restrictions.

In an age of flash anger and the dehumanizing of others, it’s far too easy for someone to strike out in anger using a handgun. When I was growing up, you settled your differences on the playground by a fist fight. The word would go out that so-and-so are going to fight after school at the football field. The whole school would congregate and the fight would start. Someone may come out with a bloody nose and loss of pride, but when it was over, everyone went home. Sometimes for a 3 day vacation or a morning of picking up trash.

Fist fights are almost unheard of now. Now arguments are settled at the end of a gun. Destroying both lives, the shooters and the victims.

I’m not sure what the answer is. Maybe everyone should walk around with the boxing game. You know, the one where you keep pressing the buttons as fast as you can in order to knock the other opponents head off? Anytime there’s a confrontation, you should be able to call a timeout and settle it with a good old game of “knock the head off the plastic man”. The loser buys the next round of beer.

Mizike