Posted by:
catnip
(
)
Date: April 30, 2017 02:28AM
My Dad was one of the sweetest-tempered, most loving people I have ever known. What he saw in my weasel-tempered mother, I never knew, but they clearly cherished each other. He died when I was 15.
This set her off on a drinking spree that ended only when she had to spend her final years in a nursing home. It must have been brutal, because she had to give up cigarettes at the same time.
Mother wasn't generally a nice person. When she drank, which was virtually every day after Dad died, she could be vicious. We had fought practically since I was old enough to talk (family legend has it that my first word was "no.")
She would come after me with a yardstick that had been varnished with so many coats that it was like being hit with a 2X4. That sucker left some serious bruises. But back then, of course, child-beating was a parent's natural right.
One time, after my father died, Mother and I got into it - seriously, tooth-and-nail. I don't remember what the fight was about, but when I saw her grab that yardstick, something just snapped.
I grabbed at the free end of it, at first, just to protect myself. Then, something far more primitive kicked in. We were about the same size by then, although she was maybe 20 pounds heavier. We twisted and yanked and even kicked at each other, both of us trying to get the yardstick away from the other. I remember thinking that if she got hold of it, she would beat me senseless.
I managed to wrench it away from her. Then, I broke the accursed thing across my knee, and handed her the pieces. I handed the pieces to her, and said, very coldly, "Don't you DARE ever raise a hand to me again."
She didn't.