Genealogists and family historians get a lot of satisfaction from chasing their ancestors’ stories. Finding a diary, a message on a postcard, or a photo with a name attached is like the sun coming out after a storm. One day we will be somebody’s ancestor. We need to leave our descendants a little bit of sunshine too. So here is my story told alphabetically, not chronologically: Growing Up in Cradock.
is for unnerving memory.
How old was I? 7? 8? 9 maybe? Like so many other times, I was playing at my grandparents’ home next door. Most of the time, my friends and I played in the yard or in the garage. Sometimes we actually played in the house. My grandparents had an old desk with lots of cubbies and little drawers that made good hiding places for small objects; one of us would hide something and the other would try to guess where.
On this particular day, a neighborhood friend and I were playing inside. We were in the bedroom where we shouldn’t have been. We were snooping where we had no business snooping. I opened a dresser drawer and found this:
It was so cute. White handle. Child-size.
It must be a toy. After all, only cowboys and bad guys had real guns. And my granddaddy was not a bad guy. He certainly wasn’t a cowboy.
I pointed it at my friend. I pulled the trigger. We both laughed.
“Look what I found!” I said joyfully as I handed the pretty little toy to my grandmother. My, but she looked grim. I don’t know what became of it; I never saw it again.
With unabashed admiration for my utterly unequal colleagues, I issue this ultimatum for you to unite with umpteen users at the A to Z April Challenge to uncover some uncanny and unconventional blogs that will be unveiled to you.
© 2016, Wendy Mathias. All rights reserved.