It was the summer of 1998. On Saturdays, we typically did
yard work and then had a late lunch/early dinner. My mother thought it would be
a special treat to eat on the back porch as we had been working all day. The
house was cluttered as it always was in those days. After all, three kids ages 16,
13, and 10 lived there, respectively.
A week previous, our neighbors across the street had gotten
robbed. There was a lot of talk as a mysterious jogger had suddenly been seen
in the neighborhood. One neighbor asserted that this family, nicknamed the
Clampets, had faked the robbery in order to get insurance. No one knew for
sure.
We were a gun owning family, but not a vocal one. My Dad
wanted us to know there were guns in the house and to respect firearms. He felt
it was important. We also knew how to fire a gun if we had to. For a time my parents
even belonged to what was known as a local “gun club.”
However, gun culture proved just to be too overwhelmingly
stupid for my parents for lack of a better word. My dad wasn’t a hunter.
Because of his career and work hours he didn’t have time, and my mom felt it
was disgusting. Plus a lot of those folks were toying with starting their own
militias and spouted Second Amendment rhetoric frequently. My dad studied it
and knew while the Second Amendment was important, there was no truth to this
hillbilly paranoia. When he explained no one was going to lose their guns
anytime soon he was met with resistance.
My dad would explain as a lawyer this couldn’t happen, there
would have to be many, many, many lawsuits before the Second Amendment was
overturned. But they would interrupt him explaining one could never trust the
government for very long. My dad would say they were giving the government too
much credit. They couldn’t even deliver a piece of mail on time. But this fell
on deaf ears, and some were really and truly losing their hearing because they
were around guns so damn much.
Out of our family, the best shot was actually Skipper. I was
a terrible shot. My skills behind a gun were tragic. Skipper could shoot a
bullseye without effort. Later, she would go on to become a champion
markswoman.
My dad’s whole thing was that yes, we owned guns but we were
never to tell anyone. It was because he didn’t want them stolen or used in a
felony. He also knew that if one of our moron friends accidentally shot
themselves, it would be a shit show for lack of a better term. But yes, we had
them and that was all we had to know.
After dinner, we were cleaning off the table. Dishes were
about to be washed and the TV was about to be turned on. Auspiciously placed
were my brother’s cleats from summer football practice. Not so far away was my
notebook from writing camp. Pick up after ourselves…..ehhh……you know how it
goes with kids.
Just then, there was a loud banging from downstairs.
“What was that?” My dad asked curiously.
“Nothing.” I said. “Probably some crap from Wendell’s
football.” I said glancing over at my brother. While the season had yet to
start, my brother had weights and other things he was using to buff up. Cumbersome
and annoying, I had stubbed my toe on several.
There was a second bang, now it was more like a slam.
“I think it’s the boxes
we stacked.” Skipper said, referring to boxes of books we were getting rid of.
These books were old, outdated encyclopedias in our basement that still
referenced the former Soviet Union. My father felt they were obselete and we
needed space for other things, so my mother, sister and I had stacked them one
night while our dad was working late.
The noise grew louder. Now it was as if someone was walking.
We all froze in panic.
“No one’s home.” A male voice was heard saying.
We all gasped in horror. Oh shit.
“Guys, stay out here.
Dad is going to get his gun.” My mom assured us.
Then she instructed, “If there is a group of intruders, run
out the back deck. Run to the nearest neighbor and get help.”
Note this was before the age of cellphones so this all made
sense.
My dad went and retrieved a firearm from a place in the
house where it was hidden. Meanwhile, we were in the Florida room closes to the
deck in case my father couldn’t shoot the intruders in time. These burglars might
have been bad but they had never seen my dad when his was pissed. He was just a
Western Pennsylvania man defending his home and he knew that at the end as a
lawyer, he knew his rights and would get off.
Skipper began to cry. I held my sisters hand, and Wendell
covered us both. “Keep it together. They can’t know we are here.” She said.
“Beware mutherfuckers.” My dad said under his breath. “I
will kill any sonvabitch that comes in my home.”
My dad’s dark eyes flashed. There was no way these intruders
were making it out alive.
Sure, these guys might have been bad, but they never saw my
dad when he was pissed let alone defending his home. My dad was a nice guy, but
when you crossed him he could cut a bitch for lack of a better term. One former
associate at his law firm referred to my dad as “Satan” because of the way he
spoke to opposing counsel. Yet when someone who heard this story saw our Dad
with us at a local restaurant, he could hardly believe it was the man he had
heard so many horror stories about. Bottom line, you didn’t fuck with my dad
and come out unscathed.
“If any of you see their faces before you run for it, remember
them. They are going to ask you in court.” My mother instructed.
Wow Mom, way to make a bad situation even worse. My stomach
lurched at the thought of the potential tragedy that was about to happen. My
heart beat and I felt everything freeze. I got ready to run, bad ankle and all.
Skipper could go the fastest and Wendell wasn’t notorious for his speed. My mom
always tripped and fell when she got nervous. It was a tick she had. Gosh this
was going to be a shit show.
And shit show it was.
The door opened and I was expecting a scene from what would
be a 20/20 crime special in seconds. I expected tragedy. Instead I heard, “Wendelin, that is no way to greet your mother
in law!”
Fear disappeared and now we were just startled and amazed.
My mom sprinted inside as my father dropped his gun to his side. The look on my
dad’s face was priceless. Standing there was my Nuni, barely five feet tall
with snow white hair and a light purple summer pants suit. On her head was a summer
bonnet. Her lips had frosty pink lipstick. With her was a man who looked like
the disenfranchised son of Charles Manson.
“MOM!” My mother said, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You
didn’t tell me you would be stopping over!”
“I tried to call but you didn’t pick up and your message
machine was full. Here’s the book I promised you. You know the one about raising
a teenage daughter with an interest in the arts.” My grandmother handed my mom
the book.
Nuni continued, “It was from Barb.” Barb was my cousin’s
wife. Their son had gone to film school and wanted my mom to have the book
because I liked to write and work with puppets. He was currently living in LA with
some girl from Brazil. The book was to give my parents hope and to assuage their
fears about my dreams.
“Get in here and give
your grandmother a hug.” My mom instructed, trying to make the most of an awkward
situation. Meanwhile, my embarrassed father disappeared to put his firearm back
in the undisclosed location.
When he reappeared she said, “Wendelin can’t kill me! He has to do my will
first.”
“Who’s this?” My sister Skipper asked pointing to her
friend. Her strawberry blonde hair had recently been cut and she was wearing
her summer shorts and top.
“Oh this is Bob.” Nuni explained. “He’s a friend of Rachel’s
from the Ren Faire. I saw him at the Walmart and he needed a ride.” At the
time, Nuni worked as a greeter at Walmart. She was literally the mayor of the
superstore. Nuni was so incredibly popular that she was even featured in several
of their local television commercials.
Aunt Rachel worked at the Ren Faire. It had become her
yearly gig and the only thing in her life that was constant. After breaking up
with Rick and then running out on her wedding to Josh (subject of another blog)
Rachel had sough solace in the Ren Faire. While my grandparents had blown their
life savings on a wedding that was never to happen, they were glad their
wayward creation was finding an outlet.
As for Aunt Rachel’s friends, they were notoriously nondrivers
or had their license’s suspended for whatever reason, so Aunt Rachel was the chauffeur
of the group. On this day, Bob needed a ride to wherever he was staying,
probably a halfway house. Who knew…..
Either way, Nuni, who’s conduct never ceased to shock, awe,
and amuse thought it was nothing short of hysterical that my father had almost
shot her. Meanwhile, my father’s face was twisted in that state that was a mix
between embarrassed, confused, and somewhat pissed. Nuni explained she would
have knocked but when she parked her car, she saw the garage door was open.
Yes, Nuni was notorious for never using a front door let alone
knocking. She had let herself in my Uncle Seth’s townhouse once because he left
the back screen ajar. Needless to say he caught her youngest son and his wife
Taylor sharing a moment of passion. Talk about killing the mood. Of course,
Nuni freely and fearlessly relayed this story as my dad continued to stand
there, mouth gaped open at this happenings of the day.
Minutes later, Nuni and Bob departed. My dad was pissed, but
not for the reason we figured. Nevermind he had almost blown his mother in law’s
head off. As he explained, , “A STRANGER CAME INTO MY HOUSE AND IT WAS MESSY! I
WAS SO EMBARRASSED!”
“Honey…..” My mom said trying to calm him down.
“I WORK TWO JOBS TO KEEP THIS HOUSE GOING AND YOU GUYS SIT
AROUND ALL DAY EATING BON BONS. I ASKED YOU TO CLEAN THE BASEMENT!” My dad roared.
My dad had not come from much and having strangers see his
house messy always got under his skin. However, we didn’t know we were going to
have company. My dad continued, “GRACIE, HOW COULD SHE! I ALMOST SHOT HER! I WASN’T
PREPARED FOR COMPANY. THERE IS THIS FUCKING THING CALLED A PHONE. YOUR MOTHER COULD USE A FUCKING
PHONE! OR BETTER YET, A FRONT DOOR!”
My mother said nothing expect, “Sorry, you know how she is.”
“HOW SHE IS ALMOST GOT HER FUCKING KILLED!!!” My dad was on
a roll. “AND THEN FOR THIS STRANGER TO SEE MY HOUSE MESSY, HOW DO YOU THINK I
FEEL!”
“Dad the stranger was probably homeless, it’s better than he
normally lives.” Wendell reasoned. We all nodded in agreement.
“Nuni is hardly a housekeeper.” I said. It was true. And if
Bob had been to Nuni and Pop Pop’s house, our place would have been the Palace
of Mr. Clean in comparison.
“It doesn’t matter what you think or feel at this point.” My
mom said trying to smooth things over.
“You almost shot grandma!” I informed him. “How we feel completely
matters.”
Skipper ran over and gave our dad a hug. He probably needed
one after that. “How about this, lets red off the table and forget this ever
happened.” My mom suggested. I thought she was in good spirits seeing her
mother almost got shot. (Red in Pittsburghese means clean off).
My dad shook his head. “Okay, but April has to vacuum the
basement and Wendell has to pick up first.”
“Why do I have to vacuum?” I protested.
“Because I said so.” My dad snapped.
Wendell and I marched down to the basement to clean. After
that, my dad calmed down and the gun was returned to the undisclosed location.
We watched some stupid Adam Sandler movie and the incident became a piece of
the family’s woven fabric.
And from that point forward, we all remembered to close the
garage when we were done for the day. That way, if someone got shot it was a
burglar and not grandma.
