Here's a conversation had with my daughter lately. From her point of view:
My father sat at the kitchen table, a 1942 Infield No. 4 MK1
in his hands.
“This is about the same size as a
guitar, Morgan” he says as he strums the barrel like an instrument. “But it
plays an entirely different tune.”
As he
continues his monologue about his gun, he informs me that he doesn’t even have
ammunition for this gun.
“We must go
out for ammunition for this gun, Morgan. What if something happens and we need
it for an emergency?”
“All the
guns you have, you would reach for the one that you don’t have bullets for if
you ever actually had to shoot the damn thing.”
This
induces a fit of giggles from my father. No, he’s not drunk. In fact, he
informs me that he’s only had three beers today. He’s in withdrawal. It has the
same effects.
“I don’t
get why people give feminine names to things.”
“Speaking
of, I named your truck today.”
“Ralph?”
“No,
Shelby.”
“Uh! A
female name? What?? Did it refuse to start? Did it balk? Did it give you a
fight and then say, ‘Well, if I must’?”
He
continues his monologue.
“Don’t
point that gun at me.”
“Morgan.
I’ve stated before that I don’t have bullets in this gun. And you know that
I’ve never pointed a gun at you….” He beats the butt of the gun like a drum.
“You know, when we went to the NRA convention, we went to eat at Hooter’s and
on the walk, there was a guy playing a drum.” He beats the butt some more,
“That’s a primitive beat.” More beating. “That’s the Star Spangled Banner.”
Pause. “Would you like to hear Beethoven’s Fifth?”
I type some
more.
“You know,
I can continue this monologue with a tennis racket. Or a fly rod, if you
prefer.”
“How do you
spell Beethoven?”
Pause….
“Big B. Excuse me??” Giggles. “He said
that a lot.” More giggles. “That was cruel. I’m sorry Beethoven, where ever you
are. Whether you be on a cloud playing a harp or… Well, I guess playing a
piano.”
I read this
story back to him.
“You missed
some of it!”
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