Evicted

Though not recently.

Just after I graduated high school, which was just after my father died, my mother arrived at two novel ways of getting me to move out of the house.  Both were a surprise to me as there hadn’t yet been any talk of me leaving. Not even a hint.

The first plan was that she would die.  Being unable to maintain a home on my own, I would be forced to sell and move elsewhere.  A foolproof plan I have to admit, but it had a note of finality that would prevent her from any further attempts should she fail.  I gather that’s why she chose Plan B.

The second plan required the use of a revolver; a six-shooter as we say in Texas.  Luckily for her, my dad had one that he kept loaded and hanging in its holster in their closet.

I can hear you damned liberals now: “He kept a loaded weapon just hanging in the closet?!”  Yes, he did.  You can say, I told you so, later.  But for now, piss off.

This particular six-shooter had only five shells in it.  My dad left one chamber empty, the one behind the hammer obviously, in case something—anything—should happen that could cause the gun to fire accidentally.

Back to Plan B…  Having a weapon pointed at your face by the woman who gave birth to you can create/enhance/switch on the ability to focus intensely.  Things you ignored before are suddenly brought to the forefront along with all those things you weren’t ignoring.  The temperature, the humidity, the quality of the light in the room, the feel of the shirt on my back.  The fact that I could see the only empty chamber in the revolver which, of course, meant there was a live round behind the now-cocked hammer.

Remaining melodrama aside, I’m happy to report that I did not get shot in the face or anywhere else.  All firearms were removed from the house later that day.  I joined the military the following week.  My mother remarried and eventually sold the house.

After I joined the military and went through the various substance abuse courses, I realized my mother was addicted to drugs.  The drugs were all legal prescription medications obtained in a legal manner, but it was the way she used them that constituted the “abuse” part.

I only mention that last bit since it seems that decades of perfectly legal drug abuse coupled with perfectly legal old age resulted in some perfectly understandable memory lapses.  For instance, my mother seems to have forgotten that her first plan, Plan B, succeeded in getting me out of the house, and so she enabled Plan A.

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