There’s some dispute in the family about whether my grandmother
actually hit my grandfather when she fired a pistol
in his direction as he clambered up the downspout
to gain access through a second floor window
to the marital bedroom. He’d been locked out
(locks changed!) by his wife because of his carousing.
There’s no dispute about the fact that he fell
backwards onto rain-softened grass,
clutching his side and laughing.
The dog I had in that fight
was my mother’s sense of fun.
The good cheer with which the story
is told seems to require a winging,
a neat lovehandle through-and-through.
That’s the Irish-Catholic side.
On the German-Protestant side there’s
a horribly macabre twelve-gauge
story involving a door handle,
a phone call and some wire.
Indeed, among hard core enthusiasts,
melting pots are still used for ammunition.