Esty, Get Your Gun

My father’s house has always had a gun case in it.  I was never allowed to touch it, but it was prominently displayed in the master bedroom. The Freudian implications of this decorating choice are not lost on me.

I probably would’ve been allowed to use each and every one of his guns had I finished all of the training he had in mind for me.  I, unfortunately, never made it past the hunting bow. The initial phase of practice involved pulling the string back and then easing it to its natural position over and over again. I was more of a reader anyway.

My mom, however, gave herself an honorary degree (along with a license to kill) shortly before I was born. The target was my father which isn't very surprising considering the likelihood of gun-related homicides are 2.7 times more likely for people with guns in their homes.

My father was very attractive to barflies.  That isn’t to say that he’s a beast only fit for the dim lights of a dive bar, but he is very...average.  His rock hard beer belly gives the impression that he is in the cauldron smuggling business.  The inside of his pick-up truck smells like the oil derricks he has to drive by every day on his way to work.  For those of you unfamiliar with the smell, it’s very similar to beer farts.

Not my father

Nevertheless, my hometown’s standards aren’t those of Carrie Bradshaw.  My father owned his house (trailer), was in the process of building a much nicer one (made of wood!), had a steady job, and looked like someone you wouldn’t like to piss off.  He was a Centralia catch, at least in the eyes of his future live-in girlfriend.

During her pregnancy with me, my mother had multiple complications.  I literally almost killed my mother multiple times before I even made it into this world.  Because of this, she was on and off of bed rest for the majority of her third trimester.

Not my mom

Most Centralians will claim to believe in God, though few will regularly attend church.  They do borrow some of the premises, however.  Instead of prayer circles, they had that-deadbeat-husband-of-yours-is-getting-awful-friendly-with-so-and-so-at-such-and-such circles.  During one of the “off” periods of her third trimester, my mom received a call from just such a circle.  She did what any pregnant woman would do: she grabbed the first rifle she could find in the gun cabinet, set it in the passenger seat of her car, and drove into town to bring my father home from whichever seedy bar he had chosen that night.

This may seem like a kidnapping, but considering my mother’s height (5’4”) and the fact that she left the gun in the car, the altercation took a much more domestic route.  It must have been an embarrassing spectacle for all parties involved. As someone who has been in a yelling match with both of them, I can say that my mother can cause a much more effective scene than my father.  Eventually, he bowed to the inevitable and got into the car.

I’d like to think that if time travel were possible, I would go back and tell my dad to nod and apologize, but I know myself too well.  Remembering how the story ends, I’d grab whatever passed for popcorn back then and watch the magic unfold.  The car ride was silent until they reached their street.  Then the void was filled with baritone and alto screams.  They finally reached the trailer where my mom grabbed the gun and waved it as they made their cacophonous way into their home. Who won this specific argument is still dependent upon who you ask.  What is known is what happened next.

My father drunkenly told my mom that she didn’t even know how to load a gun.  And that’s how my mom, in a successful effort to prove him wrong, shot a hole in the roof.