Burning Bush on Truman Road

               Most of the time I attempted sneaky disobedience.  Rarely was I outright, in-your-face disobedient.  That’s because one time I absolutely did what I had been told not to do, and I did it right in front of Daddy. 

             I got what was coming to me and got it swiftly.  No questions asked. No one said, “MJ, why did you do that?”  I’m sure I had a reason and could have explained it perfectly well with great clarity of thought.  But, nobody asked.  Nobody cared.

            Thomas, dear little brother, is several years younger than I. We were about age 3 1/2 and age 8 or so. He could be really fun to play with – like a big toy or a boy-doll.  I could whip him around into a choke hold and exercise my superior strength on him.  I did that routine during the Saturday morning cartoons, so we always watched my favorites.  None of that Tom and Jerry stuff…we watched Betty Boop and other intellectual, funny girls. A little Roadrunner and Pepe’la Pew for good measure, and "out of the blue of the western sky comes Sky King."

            I watched Daddy rough-house with Thomas, toughening him up for the daily onslaught from his sister. Much to Mother’s dismay, Daddy would  ride him around as on horseback and buck like crazy. 

That looked like loads of fun to me. Daddy let me try it but somehow I got thrown off much more than Thomas.

            One evening, I was feeling my oats after being conquering heroine for most of the day. We were horsing around in the den on Truman Road and Daddy admonished me, “He’s getting too heavy for you to ride around on your back like that.  Don’t put him on your back again.”  And he went on about his business. I put Thomas down, for about 5 minutes.  Then, we decided to try it again, only this time, I gave Thomas a ride around the house with me standing up, him on my back, like a captured prisoner or dead horse-thief.

            Daddy came around the corner upon hearing the commotion coming from the den and living room, our stable and corral.  He saw me with Thomas hoisted upon my back.  I saw him; his eyes glowed with incensed anger.  “I told you not to put him on your back!” and the scolding was accompanied with a sharp smack across the face.

            First time.  Last time.  Only time.

            I must still have PTSD or something because I do not recall anything after that moment.  I don’t remember crying, pitching my usual across-the-bed-fit, nothing.  I was shocked into immediate and complete obedience.  When my father spoke, it might as well have been coming from a burning bush.  

                                     Telling Your Own Stories - American Storytelling   
A goal for the Blog this year is to intersperse Family Stories guided by Prompts and Discussions in the little text named above.