Here in Illinois,
there are many Easter traditions. Most Christians go to church, spend time with
family, hunt Easter eggs, fill baskets with goodies and remember the reason for
the celebration: He is arisen. It’s a time of celebration and rejoicing, a time
of reverence and gratitude. There’s ham and deviled eggs and readings of the
Passion of Christ.
In Jewish
households, it’s the time of liberation, the Pesach, or Passover. It’s about
the Ten Plagues, a stubborn Pharaoh and Moses. It’s a celebration of the Exodus
and freedom from slavery, a celebration to be savored with unleavened matzah
and wine, song and ceremony.
Then you have
Rednecks.
Nothing says Easter
to my family like shootin’ stuff. Every year, on the Saturday before Easter, we
get together with our arsenals; fill glasses with wine, pop caps off beer and
yell, “Pull!” A clay target is thrown by some guy or gal with his/her hand on
the lever of a strange contraption. It’s followed by a cacophony of gunshots, which
we all hope will eventually splinter the target into black powder against a
blue sky.
I like to shoot.
There was a time—with youthful good vision—when I never missed. When I stepped
up to the line, most of the men would step back because they knew they would
never get a chance with me shooting against them. One of the proudest moments
of my life was when my grandfather, a seasoned duck hunter, put his gun down
and vowed to shoot no more because his granddaughter out-shot him. I still grin
when I think about it.
This year, a new
target was introduced—the exploding target. It was stationary, set in the field
to await its fate. It’s essentially a plastic jar wherein two chemical
components are introduced to each other and mixed thoroughly. All one must do
is shoot the thing and duck and cover. The trouble is you must hit the target.
I didn’t get a
chance to shoot at it.
Many others did,
though. Shot after shot rang out as they tried to hit the tiny jar in the
distance with hand-guns and rifles. I got tired of watching and walked back up
toward the house. I should never have turned my back. A moment later, I was
covering my head and looking for a hole to dive into. An explosion rang out
over the hills. It was a boom of deafening proportions. When I chanced a glance
back, billows of yellow smoked filled the air above a crater in my father’s
unplanted cornfield. For a minute there, I thought we were under attack.
Now, I know what
you’re thinking: guns, alcohol and explosives? My God, what about the children?
Fear not, dear
readers. Those children were right there where they should be—in the thick of
it all. They shot guns, kept score, tried to out-shoot, out-talk, and out-do
each other all day. Hey, they’re not your kids. They’re redneck kids. My nephew
brought in his first turkey when he was only seven or eight, and he did it with
a bow. He has a good eye and was proud to bring home dinner. My daughter shot
her target pistol like a pro and earned the envy of every boy there.
But . . . with all
those guns and all those kids running around, you’d think it was a recipe for
disaster. No, not in this family. Anyone who grows up with guns in families
such as ours has a healthy respect for them. We all learn proper safety, proper
handling and proper care. A gun is not a toy, it’s a tool. Like any tool, it’s
to be cared-for and respected. That’s the way of it.
So, no, no one was
hurt—unless you count all the sore shoulders from shooting all those long guns.
Mine still aches. But guns are not the downfall of such gatherings. It’s when
the guns are put away for the day because Ma Nature decides to rain on our
parade that you need to worry.
That’s when the
ATV’s come out. That’s when the kids really run wild. When you have the entire
big farm to run wild on, you don’t worry about freaks and weirdoes or drunk
neighbors driving home from the local bar. Hell, you just don’t worry. You let
the kids have their freedom. Freedom is in short supply for city kids. Farm
kids have it made.
So, a myriad of
four-wheelers and go-carts were at their disposal. Fun things, these vehicles
in the hills and forests of the farm. With a tank of gas, you can go all night
in the spring mud.
But it’s all fun
and games until someone flips a go-cart.
There we were, the
adults of the party, ducking into sheds and outbuildings to get out of the soft
drizzle that added to the mud. I’d just watched my kid ride off with her cousin
at the wheel. My mom alarm was going off. I had a strange feeling I shouldn’t
let her go, but she begged, “Just one ride before we leave? Please?”
“A short one,” I
told her. Then to her cousin, “Be careful and go slow.”
It was a short
ride. With my niece at the wheel and my grinning child in the passenger seat of
the go-cart, I watched them speed up the hill and disappear into the trees.
They were followed by my other niece’s boyfriend on a four-wheeler. I stepped
into the shed to wait with my mother, my sister and a few others. I didn’t wait
long.
It turned out to be
a very short ride indeed. The four-wheeler came flying down the hill and over
the creek and to a skidding halt in front of the shed. My daughter was on the
back with terror in her eyes. The boyfriend said, “They flipped the go-cart.”
It’s funny how
those words can galvanize so many adults into action. I was on her in an
instant, thinking my little girl needed to be picked up. I’d seen that look on
her face before when she was six and had broken her arm. I knew something
terrible was wrong, but she wasn’t six anymore. She’s twelve. She no longer
weighs forty pounds.
Still, a mom in
such a situation can do miraculous things. I lifted her from the vehicle and
stood her on the ground. Grandma was suddenly there, shoving me aside,
demanding to know what was wrong.
Hello, I’m the mom
here.
Then Grandpa showed
up and tried to shove Grandma aside. Auntie was there, too, trying to get into
it. Before I knew it, my parents had taken over and I couldn’t get next to my
kid.
Ah, well . . .
They’d raised the three of us—and we were a real handful. There were broken
bones, open wounds, cracked heads. I suppose I could defer to the more
experienced ones, and my dad had some first-aid training.
Dad declared it to
be a sprain. Mom decided she’d take her to the hospital. I raised a brow. Um, I
guess I’ll get the insurance card and meet you at the car.
Mom drove. We took
my child to the ER at our little hometown hospital. It’s a very nice hospital
with a good trauma ward. Yep, her arm was indeed broken, in the shaft of the
radius. Crap.
The good doctor
spent a good amount of time lecturing about safety equipment such as helmets
and pads. Yeah, okay, I get it. Next time, listen to the mom alarm. Visions of
my child’s head or spine crushed under the roll bar of the go-cart flooded my
mind. I wanted to smack him.
If he shot me the
hairy eyeball once, he did it a dozen times. He wanted me to be ashamed, to
feel the guilt of a mother who failed to protect her young. Next time, I won’t
put the guns away. Next time . . .
We got back to the
farm with the kid’s arm wrapped from fingers to shoulder. The molded splint was
bigger than her head. She was in pain, had missed her dinner and wanted to go
home. We had prescriptions to fill, it was late and her father kept calling. Of
course, I didn’t answer until we were on the road for home. We were supposed to
be leaving just after he had, but that was hours ago. I’d called him from the
hospital after saying a silent prayer of thanks he’d already left when the
accident occurred. Nothing says “emergency” like a father on a rampage.
We got home shortly
before midnight and spent a quiet Easter Sunday at home with no ham and no
deviled eggs. I just wanted to forget the holiday—or all holidays. Given our
track record of late, boycotting the holidays wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
So, the moral of
the story is, don’t stop shootin’ stuff. If you do, someone’s bound to get
hurt.
