My life story part 4

The gun had a name and it was George

It seemed like we had just got comfortable in the couch seats from our eight-hour-long car voyage when my Father's devious plans were laid out on the table as if it were his soiled shoes from working in the cow pasture, that he mindfully did not take off before entering the house. It was late afternoon and the setting sun gave the house on the farm a nice orange and grey ambiance. You could hear the afternoon winds gently brushing the cottonwood trees and the cow pastures alfalfa as the backdrop to my mother's embarrassed gasps of bewilderment. I can barely remember my mother tending to my brother or where my sister was other than I was hurried out of the room by one of my step-cousins and distracted by tv and video games.

To this day it surprises me how little of an effect this had on me, the distractions that is. I was listening to my Dad or rather someone who looked like him controlling a situation as everyone lost their minds on him. I knew my Father had placed greater value on this old, outdated relic of a gun that served as nothing more than a symbol of an ancestor's good wishes on the family and its future generations than us children. It kind of hurts more now as I'm older to know how this greatly affected my mother and still apparently myself. I'm not sure if my innocence was lost in this moment or when I saw my parents having loaded handguns in each other's mouths later on in my childhood. This was for sure a top moment as I could feel his love lost to this gun.

It was one of those rare times I saw/heard my Father take full control of a hostile situation. Truly what made him the great metro 'casino' cop was being put on display at this very moment. My (half) Aunt Trina was screaming so much I couldn't really remember much of what she was saying other than her physically attacking my father and not having much success in stopping my father's advancements to her family heirloom that was her birthright to have. My Grandmother Sherrilyn was crying and kept saying things like "I'm sorry" to Trina and "what happened to you James?" to my father. Once my father acquired this weapon from Grandmother it seemed like the winds had stopped blowing outside and the orange tones all turned grey. The room went from loud violent noises to somber cries.

The whole scenario was uncanny. Normally my Dad would have reacted explosively if he were attacked either physically or verbally especially towards my mother though he was always quick to draw his gun on Vegas crackheads too, lurking around asking for money or just acting weird. My mom would always stand up to him no matter how drunk/high and power trippy he was. None of this was the case this time. Every single person in this house was victim to my Father's devious and well crafted, simple but yet hostile plan. No loud outbursts or reactions from my Father, however, I can recall my Aunt's hand being broken afterward but no one ever elaborated on it after the fact. That was one thing I was used to was unresolved issues causing the same problem perpetually over and over again due to fear. It was strange seeing my mother helpless to my Fathers cold and calculated move in bargaining off her children for a gun. That moment was in slow motion and life seemed to have been fast-forwarded in a blurry fashion after that. Reality had less feeling to it after this. It all was such a shock I no longer found the same joy or importance in things like playing outside or even seeing my parents come home from work. At least in the immediate future from that moment on I really had nothing to be excited about as a child. Just subconscious fears and unspoken problems that were now undeniable realities

I had felt a serious disconnection from my parents at that moment. I knew my mother was being held hostage, in fact, I knew my father was not a good cop after that. I felt like he isolated our mother from us kids and she couldn't do much but play along with this new evil version of my father that seemed to be public for the world to see constantly instead of in the bedroom where he violently took out his drunken aggressions on my mother. His evil seemed to be cold and calculated and not reactionary like usual. Even as a 9-year old, I knew this to be scary as all hell.

My Grandmother had to tell us kids about this gun after the fact and its name was George she told us. It turns out our great great great great grandfather in the 1800s was a forest ranger for the U.S. Government. They had a standard issued shotgun and for some reason, it looked like a rifle if my memory serves right. A Grizzly had attacked him as he approached his campsite. Luckily he had his gun named George or else he wouldn't have survived the attack. He felt as though the gun would be best passed down to the youngest daughter in the family in order to better provide protection to them, and so his words and wishes were to be forever immortalized in this Gun meant to protect and serve.