Family Pride
As previously noted here in my ramblins, I'm an illegitimate child. This doesn't mean, though, that I don't have a perfectly wonderful maternal family history filled with interesting and, uh, scary characters.
For instance, my great-aunt's husband committed suicide. With a rifle. While lying in bed with her. And she didn't discover it till the next morning. Yeah.
Her sister ran one of the most succesful brothels in this area. My great-grandmother, their other sister, refused to have anything to do with either of them. She was the "good" one.
Both of my maternal great-grandfathers were decapitated. One was murdered by a crazy man who first chopped out his intestines. When great-grandpa was still alive four hours later, Mr. Crazy Man cut his head off.
The other, whose real name we will never know (he changed his name after spending quite a bit of time in a penitentiary up north), was decapitated in a freak car accident.
Most males in my bunch seem to die violently at a younger age rather than quietly in their beds. This doesn't bode well for men in my family, does it? Perhaps we just have bad luck or something.
Perhaps my favorite family story: During the Depression, Uncle Charlie (my great-uncle) had a horse of whom he was especially fond, meaning that he taught it how to count. He wasn't into bestiality or anything, you nasty thing, you. Anyway, he'd say, "Hans, how many is five?" Hans would oblige him by pawing the ground five times with his hoof. Clever stuff, really. Hans had better teeth than Uncle Charlie, too. *sigh*
Anyway, Charlie was drunk on moonshine one night and decided to visit the local church. The doors were open, since it was summertime and rather toasty inside. The church didn't have electricity at that time and no air conditioner, of course. Heck, it didn't even have an indoor bathroom, either. Times were hard.
Rather than tying his horse to the post outside, Charlie simply rode Hans into the church directly up to the pulpit, turned around, and flipped off the congregation. Yup, he gave the entire bunch, including his mother and sisters, the ol' middle finger salute. He then laid the crop to Hans and rode back out and back home.
There was hell to pay the next morning. Charlie's mother gave him a taste of the willow switch, even though he was a 20-year-old man at that time. That's the rule in my family: You're never too old for your momma to tell you what to do. I'm proud to say that this rule has saved my bacon many times, along with my mother's other favorite: "If you do something that you know is wrong, whatever happens to you after is your own fault." God bless family tradition.
For instance, my great-aunt's husband committed suicide. With a rifle. While lying in bed with her. And she didn't discover it till the next morning. Yeah.
Her sister ran one of the most succesful brothels in this area. My great-grandmother, their other sister, refused to have anything to do with either of them. She was the "good" one.
Both of my maternal great-grandfathers were decapitated. One was murdered by a crazy man who first chopped out his intestines. When great-grandpa was still alive four hours later, Mr. Crazy Man cut his head off.
The other, whose real name we will never know (he changed his name after spending quite a bit of time in a penitentiary up north), was decapitated in a freak car accident.
Most males in my bunch seem to die violently at a younger age rather than quietly in their beds. This doesn't bode well for men in my family, does it? Perhaps we just have bad luck or something.
Perhaps my favorite family story: During the Depression, Uncle Charlie (my great-uncle) had a horse of whom he was especially fond, meaning that he taught it how to count. He wasn't into bestiality or anything, you nasty thing, you. Anyway, he'd say, "Hans, how many is five?" Hans would oblige him by pawing the ground five times with his hoof. Clever stuff, really. Hans had better teeth than Uncle Charlie, too. *sigh*
Anyway, Charlie was drunk on moonshine one night and decided to visit the local church. The doors were open, since it was summertime and rather toasty inside. The church didn't have electricity at that time and no air conditioner, of course. Heck, it didn't even have an indoor bathroom, either. Times were hard.
Rather than tying his horse to the post outside, Charlie simply rode Hans into the church directly up to the pulpit, turned around, and flipped off the congregation. Yup, he gave the entire bunch, including his mother and sisters, the ol' middle finger salute. He then laid the crop to Hans and rode back out and back home.
There was hell to pay the next morning. Charlie's mother gave him a taste of the willow switch, even though he was a 20-year-old man at that time. That's the rule in my family: You're never too old for your momma to tell you what to do. I'm proud to say that this rule has saved my bacon many times, along with my mother's other favorite: "If you do something that you know is wrong, whatever happens to you after is your own fault." God bless family tradition.
posted by Deonna at 12:22 PM
1 Comments:
You, too, fella.
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