I’ve owed my sister this story for over two years now. I promised I would write it down for her, finishing the collection of stories I had written about growing up in southern Indiana in the sixties, each one highlighting one of my eight brothers and sisters. But I could never quite get this one out. It’s because even after all these years anyone that hears it says, “John Michael Witmer! What kind of monster were you!”
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There were eleven of us in the family, Mom, Dad, six boys and three girls, an island of Catholicism in a sea of Protestants. Mom didn’t get out much. Between having all the children to care for and the community shunning us for being pope-lovers, she didn’t have much of a social life. But when the invitation to go shopping in Indianapolis came up, she did something very out of character: She accepted.
Normally Marilyn, our big sister, would have been in charge but for some reason she was shirking her responsibilities, so my brother Ron was left in charge of us, his five younger siblings (I have no idea where baby Howie was.) The minute my mother’s car left the driveway, dark storm clouds rolled in and blotted out the Sun. Tropical vines sprang up and completely covered the house. The yard was overtaken by six-foot-tall saw grass. We became savages in our own little jungle.
Big brother Ron, at Eleven years-old, was much too powerful to be overcome by any of one of his three younger brothers so we formed an alliance. We agreed to collectively lie to Ron, telling him that we had chosen this moment to share a deep, dark family secret. We told him he was adopted and not only was he adopted, he was retarded. It took some time to convince him but eventually Ron fled the house screaming, breaking a chair as he left.
Next we turned on the weakest member of the tribe, dear little Anna, not yet in the first grade. Now the alliance explained to Anna that she was really a ghost because we had killed her. We held up the murder weapon, a punch can opener, for little Anna to examine. Anna wailed. We patiently explained, to Anna, that there was no use in crying because we could not hear her; she was dead and everyone knows you can’t hear someone cry after they’re dead. Our proceedings were interrupted by the sound of gravel crunching under tires; a car coming up the driveway.
At this point, the memory becomes fuzzy, but I do remember getting in line for my licking.
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There were eleven of us in the family, Mom, Dad, six boys and three girls, an island of Catholicism in a sea of Protestants. Mom didn’t get out much. Between having all the children to care for and the community shunning us for being pope-lovers, she didn’t have much of a social life. But when the invitation to go shopping in Indianapolis came up, she did something very out of character: She accepted.
Normally Marilyn, our big sister, would have been in charge but for some reason she was shirking her responsibilities, so my brother Ron was left in charge of us, his five younger siblings (I have no idea where baby Howie was.) The minute my mother’s car left the driveway, dark storm clouds rolled in and blotted out the Sun. Tropical vines sprang up and completely covered the house. The yard was overtaken by six-foot-tall saw grass. We became savages in our own little jungle.
Big brother Ron, at Eleven years-old, was much too powerful to be overcome by any of one of his three younger brothers so we formed an alliance. We agreed to collectively lie to Ron, telling him that we had chosen this moment to share a deep, dark family secret. We told him he was adopted and not only was he adopted, he was retarded. It took some time to convince him but eventually Ron fled the house screaming, breaking a chair as he left.
Next we turned on the weakest member of the tribe, dear little Anna, not yet in the first grade. Now the alliance explained to Anna that she was really a ghost because we had killed her. We held up the murder weapon, a punch can opener, for little Anna to examine. Anna wailed. We patiently explained, to Anna, that there was no use in crying because we could not hear her; she was dead and everyone knows you can’t hear someone cry after they’re dead. Our proceedings were interrupted by the sound of gravel crunching under tires; a car coming up the driveway.
The vines retracted, the saw grass vanished and along with it, the alliance of the younger brothers. Now, it was every savage for himself as we raced down the driveway, each of us trying to reach the car first, each of us wanting to give our version of events, shouting over one another before the car had even come to a stop.
At this point, the memory becomes fuzzy, but I do remember getting in line for my licking.
1 comment:
Great story!
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