This Is Not About My Father

Earlier this week my father pointed a coworker of his to my blog, and it just so happened to be the day that a certain entry about him nearly drowning on Father's Day went live. That earned me a shot to the arm. Totally worth it, though.

He then asked if today's (yesterday's, really) entry involved him, to which I replied in the negative. Then I corrected myself because yesterday's blog totally involved him and in fact I put all the blame of the situation squarely on him. I made it very clear that this was a True Fact and not just cracking a joke.

So today I would like to tell a story that is not about my father.


So many years ago, before I was born, my mother kind of shot my father.

With a bullet. From a gun.

She was very opposed to guns. No interest whatsoever. He finally called her a girl (or however it was he convinced her) enough times that she agreed to take the little .22 and squeeze off a shot in the general direction of the set up target.

It hit said target, and ricocheted directly back to strike my father in the leg, falling down into the cuff of his coveralls. My mother was not asked to shoot a gun again.


Later, my mother was asked to shoot a gun again. Or maybe this was before. It really doesn't matter. My grandfather was a runner so he and his neighbor set up a target with a 10" Runner's Digest photo of a guy, running, and proceeded to back away to shoot.

Again, my mother was goaded mercilessly into firing, until she grabbed the gun and squeezed off three shots.

One struck the runner between his eyes, one pierced his heart, and the third made him a eunuch. "Don't ever piss her off," the neighbor said to my father, and after that, my mother really never was asked to shoot a gun again.