I was sixty when I moved to Roland, Arkansas and began living alone in the woods. I'd never been scared of things that go bump in the night, but I was a sensible woman who believed in taking precautions. My house was built with strong doors, dead-bolt locks and iron bars on the bedroom window.
Outside, motion-detector lights were installed near the roof. If a prowler came sneaking around in the dark, my yard would light up like a football stadium. For good measure, my son-in-law, Ron, put a warning light on my bedroom wall. When triggered by outside motion, this light would shine down on my sleeping face, and prompt me to scramble out of bed and go searching for the gun Ken Blankenship had given me ... a gun I'd hidden so well from grandchildren, I could seldom find it myself.
Sometimes all those lights would turn themselves off again before I reached the front window, making me think a bad man had, perhaps, been scared away by the midnight sun. Other times I peeked out the window, lethal weapon held at the ready, only to see a fat raccoon waddling across my grass, or a hound dog sniffing my oak tree.
Security was tight at my house, but I figured I could always use more so one day, when my eyes fell on Ron's size 16 feet, a plan began to take shape inside my head.
"Patti," I said, "Next time Ron discards a pair of worn out Nike's, can I have them?"
"Sure, but why in the world do you want them?"
"Burglar deterrent." I answered.
"Oh."
Next Mother's Day, here came Patti ... large box, wrapped in shiny paper ... super-sized bow perched on top ... streamers hanging down.
"Patti, is that something store-bought?" I demanded, "It looks store bought. It better not be store-bought! You know the rules."
"Believe me when I tell you, Mama, no rules have been broken here."
I eased the ribbon off and set it carefully to one side. My gift-wrap recycling program was a never-ending source of amusement to my none-too-frugal children. Gently pulling scotch tape off with only minimum damage, I smoothed creases from the beautiful paper and heard my daughter begin muttering to herself. Probably counting to ten. All my children became good counters at early ages.
Finally the box was open and there, nestled in a cloud of tissue paper, lay two very big, very ragged, very worn out tennis shoes. They were perfect! PERFECT! I hurried to place them just outside the front door. Those shoes looked, for all the world to see, like a mean man had just come home from a hard day's work, kicking butt from one end of Pulaski county to the other, and stepped out of his shoes on the porch to preserve the carpet.
No criminal in his right mind would risk tangling with the giant owner of those well-worn Nike's.
Even Jehovah Witnesses would hesitate to knock.
My brother dropped by often and unexpectedly during those days. No advance call ... just barged in complaining about how long it took me to answer the door. He'd head straight through to the bathroom, throwing loud and clear orders over his shoulder ... Iced tea with no sugar and a ham sandwich with mustard ... no mayonnaise ... and get a move on. He didn't have time to put up with slow service.
You get the idea ...
One day he knocked softly instead of banging. When I answered, he eased through the door in a cautious manner quite unlike himself. I had tea poured and bread in the toaster before I realized he was still standing. What was going on here? Telling him to please sit down, I began sharing the latest family gossip ... he remained silent. Finally, almost in a whisper, he said, "Am I intruding?"
"Intruding? INTRUDING? You've been intruding in my life for well over half-a-century!" I laughed, "Why act concerned now?"
"Well ... those shoes on the front porch ..."
Ohhh ...
For a minute I was tempted to worry the man ... let him think I had a sawmill worker napping in my bedroom. A sawmill worker who'd had to hitch-hike to my house because he didn't own a car, and even if he had owned a car he couldn't have driven it because he lost his driver's license after too many DUI's ... Oh, my mind was racing there for a minute. The lies I could lay on this brother of mine. The worry I could cause him. I OWED him grief. But, one look at his face told me I'd better not push this issue too far, so I explained my burglar deterrent.
He was proud to have such a smart sister, and relieved he wouldn't have to fight a giant to defend his sister's honor which he wasn't sure, most days, deserved defending in the first place.
I loved those shoes.
I kept them for about two years. Now and then, after a hard rain, I'd hang them on my feet and slosh through a few mud puddles to restore their original corrupt appearance.
My heart was broken when I discovered one shoe missing. Carried off by a stray hunting dog, I suppose. I searched my woods and offered a 5.00 reward to any grandchild who located the missing shoe, but it was lost and gone forever. I threw its mate into the trash.
Nobody is scared of a one-legged giant.
Outside, motion-detector lights were installed near the roof. If a prowler came sneaking around in the dark, my yard would light up like a football stadium. For good measure, my son-in-law, Ron, put a warning light on my bedroom wall. When triggered by outside motion, this light would shine down on my sleeping face, and prompt me to scramble out of bed and go searching for the gun Ken Blankenship had given me ... a gun I'd hidden so well from grandchildren, I could seldom find it myself.
Sometimes all those lights would turn themselves off again before I reached the front window, making me think a bad man had, perhaps, been scared away by the midnight sun. Other times I peeked out the window, lethal weapon held at the ready, only to see a fat raccoon waddling across my grass, or a hound dog sniffing my oak tree.
Security was tight at my house, but I figured I could always use more so one day, when my eyes fell on Ron's size 16 feet, a plan began to take shape inside my head.
"Patti," I said, "Next time Ron discards a pair of worn out Nike's, can I have them?"
"Sure, but why in the world do you want them?"
"Burglar deterrent." I answered.
"Oh."
Next Mother's Day, here came Patti ... large box, wrapped in shiny paper ... super-sized bow perched on top ... streamers hanging down.
"Patti, is that something store-bought?" I demanded, "It looks store bought. It better not be store-bought! You know the rules."
"Believe me when I tell you, Mama, no rules have been broken here."
I eased the ribbon off and set it carefully to one side. My gift-wrap recycling program was a never-ending source of amusement to my none-too-frugal children. Gently pulling scotch tape off with only minimum damage, I smoothed creases from the beautiful paper and heard my daughter begin muttering to herself. Probably counting to ten. All my children became good counters at early ages.
Finally the box was open and there, nestled in a cloud of tissue paper, lay two very big, very ragged, very worn out tennis shoes. They were perfect! PERFECT! I hurried to place them just outside the front door. Those shoes looked, for all the world to see, like a mean man had just come home from a hard day's work, kicking butt from one end of Pulaski county to the other, and stepped out of his shoes on the porch to preserve the carpet.
No criminal in his right mind would risk tangling with the giant owner of those well-worn Nike's.
Even Jehovah Witnesses would hesitate to knock.
My brother dropped by often and unexpectedly during those days. No advance call ... just barged in complaining about how long it took me to answer the door. He'd head straight through to the bathroom, throwing loud and clear orders over his shoulder ... Iced tea with no sugar and a ham sandwich with mustard ... no mayonnaise ... and get a move on. He didn't have time to put up with slow service.
You get the idea ...
One day he knocked softly instead of banging. When I answered, he eased through the door in a cautious manner quite unlike himself. I had tea poured and bread in the toaster before I realized he was still standing. What was going on here? Telling him to please sit down, I began sharing the latest family gossip ... he remained silent. Finally, almost in a whisper, he said, "Am I intruding?"
"Intruding? INTRUDING? You've been intruding in my life for well over half-a-century!" I laughed, "Why act concerned now?"
"Well ... those shoes on the front porch ..."
Ohhh ...
For a minute I was tempted to worry the man ... let him think I had a sawmill worker napping in my bedroom. A sawmill worker who'd had to hitch-hike to my house because he didn't own a car, and even if he had owned a car he couldn't have driven it because he lost his driver's license after too many DUI's ... Oh, my mind was racing there for a minute. The lies I could lay on this brother of mine. The worry I could cause him. I OWED him grief. But, one look at his face told me I'd better not push this issue too far, so I explained my burglar deterrent.
He was proud to have such a smart sister, and relieved he wouldn't have to fight a giant to defend his sister's honor which he wasn't sure, most days, deserved defending in the first place.
I loved those shoes.
I kept them for about two years. Now and then, after a hard rain, I'd hang them on my feet and slosh through a few mud puddles to restore their original corrupt appearance.
My heart was broken when I discovered one shoe missing. Carried off by a stray hunting dog, I suppose. I searched my woods and offered a 5.00 reward to any grandchild who located the missing shoe, but it was lost and gone forever. I threw its mate into the trash.
Nobody is scared of a one-legged giant.
1 comment:
You're so funny, Grandma! You've mastered the ability to tell a story in full circle; starting with a clever hook, unwinding an elaborate story, and then tying it all together in the end with a touching conclusion. Every detail in your stories are all appropriately related. Some deatils are hysterical, others are sentimental.
I have trouble keeping my stories on the right path. I often stray from the point and get a bit too excessive. I've been thinking about taking a writing class while I'm here in the Big Apple.
I admire you so much Grandma.
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