Swept From the Corners of my Mind:
“Run,” I said, “and I will shoot you!” So she did. So then I did, and she has never forgiven me.
Now, let me give you some background. First, I come from a large family. The bigger the family, the more kinds of trouble the kids can get into. The more variations you add to the mix, the more likely there will be trouble. It’s simply math!
Mom married a widower with four teenage sons; very quickly two more boys entered the mix. Our parents finally got it right and gave birth to 3 girls within 5 years. Then Mom became a foster parent, so dozens more siblings added to the count, some for just a couple days and some for a lifetime. Dad was a small businessman and Mom worked at a local department store. We lived in Nordale, first renting a house (coincidentally built by my paternal grandparents) in the main section, then across the highway beside the big white Remittance Man house. There were few houses on our side of the highway, and between Nordale and Hazeldell there were several acres of scrub brush, bisected by the railroad tracks that served as an unofficial community border. Our yard blended into the scrub area, leaving us lots of room to play. Can you see the potential for chaos?
The Brothers were older than us, with their own pursuits. Sister One was sociable and quickly made friends in the area. I was a bookworm with a head filled with adventure and the outdoors, and Sister Three was a typical Baby of the Family. I often called her a princess, as she had higher standards than we did–no second hand clothes from big bags of church donations for her!—and she was somewhat naïve. Although she was (and still is) a Mini Me in looks and voice, we convinced her that she was adopted. Who would believe that the ninth child, with a rotating roster of foster sibs, and very visible Borrowman genetics, was not biologically one of us? Princess. Daughter Three. Baby sister T.
The stage is set.
One beautiful day when I was an early teen, Daughter Three and I were on our own in the big yard. I have no idea where anyone else was (it was highly unlikely we were home alone) but somehow we stumbled across Dad’s old bb gun. It was shaped like a pistol and had a long tube along the top that was hinged at one end. To get impulsion you swung the tube forward until it clicked, then back into its original spot. Possibly a second swing would add more impulsion. I can’t remember. I do recall that it was old and rusty and hard to pump up, though. Turns out this was a good thing.
As a devotee of books about cowboys and the outdoors, I was smitten, and took no time in persuading my sidekick that we should try it out. We ran around the big yard taking turns taking pot shots at different things. We made certain to stay out of sight of the house and I don’t remember actually hitting anything, so the excitement soon waned. We knew that we would get in trouble if we got caught. But it was one of those days where all the ducks lined up and the chance of getting caught just added spice.
Picture us, two young girls standing on the top of a rise looking down into the buckbrush that extended into the distance. The gunslinger in me turned to Sister Three, five years my junior but equally as responsible in my eyes, and said, “Run, and I will shoot you!” She said no, but it didn’t take long to persuade her that the odds of me being able to actually hit her were pretty slim. I did mention she was naïve, yes?
She turned and began running from me as I pumped the gun, put in a bb, and took aim. About 40 feet apart I pulled the trigger. The tiny lead projectile, around the size of a round pin head, surprised both of us when it smacked into her racing right buttock. She rounded on me. “You shot me!”
“Well, yeah, but you wanted me to.”
“What? I did not. You actually shot me!”
“Listen, I said if you ran I would shoot you. You ran. I was obligated to shoot!” This was the basis of an ongoing argument for over 50 years. It didn’t matter that the bb only caused a quarter-sized bruise. A bruise, might I add, that she used to extract sympathy from any and all. To this day she willingly shares the story of my “betrayal” at the slightest provocation.
Now, hear me out. In my defense, I felt contractually obligated. I try to be a girl of my word. Her running was her way of agreeing to the process. She kept her part of the bargain, so I had to keep mine. What kind of role model would I be if I didn’t? You see the bind I was in?
There is hope for my exoneration, though. Have you heard about the Saskatchewan farmer who wants to go to the Supreme Court to overturn a ruling that says he is responsible for a flax contract that he “signed” with a thumbs up emoji? The company sent him an electronic contract and asked if he accepted it. He sent a thumbs up. They expected flax but it never showed. Hence, the court case. In just the same way I “sent” my sister a contract when I told her to run. She ran, the physical equivalent of giving me a thumbs up. Just like the flax farmer, I was contractually obligated to complete my end of the bargain.
Dear Baby Sister. Princess. Sister Three. Mini Me. Yes, I bruised your buttock. You basically made me do it. If you dispute that, sue me! (Love ya!)
Cathy Bendle finds humor in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Reader comments are always welcome—because writers are fragile being who need constant reassurance that somebody, somewhere, actually reads what we wrote. Her column appears every second Wednesday.
