My Dearest Son 15
by Bobbi Ann Duffy
Monday, May 12, 2003
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For those of you who have missed Grandpa and the gang for the last few weeks. He's at it again!
Subj: My Dearest Son
Date: 3/14/2003 3:39:08 AM Eastern Standard Time
My Dearest Son,
As you know I have always told you children that I am here for you no matter what time of day or night you might need me. You also know from experience that when such calls come in the middle of the night, I rise to the occasion through a veil of controlled hysteria. Such was my response to the ringing of the doorbell at four o'clock this morning. My heart jumped into my throat as my mind searched for reasons anyone would be at the door in the wee hours of the morning. My first thoughts were of your grandfather, as I explained in an earlier letter, he has been behaving too well for the last few weeks, but I could hear him snoring, so he was not the cause of the pounding that followed the knock. As I slipped on my nightgown, my mind locked on your sister, Daughter of the Morning Star, as the probable reason for the interruption in my slumber. At best, it would be her at the door, having forgotten her key when she moved out to life with Pietra. The hour suggested that she was now moving in with us again. If it was not her, then it concerned her, was my best guess. I made my way silently down the stairs to the living room hoping against hope that I was wrong. Since the outside light was on, I could see two figures through the frosted glass of the upper part of the door. Both were fairly large and male, so that let your sister out. I braced myself for what might be coming, and opened the door. Having had some experience with the police before, I was grateful that they hadn't approached the house with lights flashing and sirens screaming. Whatever else happened, there would be no gathering of neighbors across the street to bare witness. It was in that vein of thought that I invited the two plainclothes officers into the house. It would prove to be a huge mistake.
As I said, when I left my room, your grandfather was "cutting logs", as my grandmother used to say, so I gave no thought to what he might be up to. The officers and I hadn't even gotten to the reason for their visit before the ruckus began. I would find out later, that your grandfather got up to use the bathroom, and hearing voices jumped to the conclusion that there were burglars in the house. My Dear Son, you and I both know that a "normal" 75 year old, 5 foot 6 inch man would have retreated to the nearest phone and called 911. However, we both know that your grandfather is not the average 75 year-old. With stealth born of his years in the military and he recent behavior, he made his way down stairs and to the kitchen. Once there, he armed himself with the best weapons he could find. He chose a broom, a rolling pin and a butcher knife. How you ask did he manage to handle three weapons with only two hands? Imagine if you will the limited places a man in his BVDs can hide a weapon. Now, picture that weapon being a very large, very sharp butcher's knife. To move forward, the smaller of the two officers was talking when your grandfather pounced. Mickey Mantle would have been proud of your grandfather's pitch. Somewhere between, "reason" and "visit" the rolling pin came out of nowhere and hit its mark, namely, the back of the officer's head. Before he could finish the sentence, he was kissing the floor as if they were long lost lovers. Before the second officer could draw his weapon, your grandfather came out from behind the dining room/living room divider swinging the broom as if he was a martial arts expert (I really have to start monitoring what he watches on television.) Once disarmed of the broom, your grandfather seemed docile enough, so he wasn't frisked for additional weapons. They say that you never hear yourself scream when danger presents itself, in my case it was true . I watched in what I thought was silent horror as your grandfather reached behind his back and pulled the butcher's knife from its hiding place. It didn't take long for the issue to resolve itself; the cop had at least six inches and seventy-five pounds on your grandfather. Since, the cop on the floor hadn't regained consciousness and both the officer and your grandfather were bleeding from knife wounds, I called 911 and requested medical aid.
You know I never believed in the magic of the Blarney Stone, but your grandfather spoke as if he'd just kissed it. He was eloquent in his explanation of why they couldn't arrest him for assaulting a police officer. It turned out he was right, they were in plain clothes, and had not verbally identified themselves as police officers before or during the struggle. The conscious cop was irate, but your grandfather had, in fact, outsmarted him. It was then that a knock came at the door for the second time, assuming it was the emergency medical technicians I had requested, I flung the door open without looking to see who was there. Not that looking would have made a difference in the outcome. Both your grandfather and the cop attest that I screamed like a banshee "Ghost, be gone!" and then slid to the floor in a panicked faint. They also agree that if not for Mr. Spindleleg's fast reflexes, I would probably wound up with a severe concussion when my head hit the tile floor.
It seems that the events of the night were the result of the police doing Mr. Spindleleg and I a favor. He arrived at the police station to get directions to the house. When he explained about the reports of his death and subsequent immersion into shrinking chemicals, he didn't wait for permission from his employers, but came immediately back to the United States, and to our house. The police, trying to "protect and serve" discussed it and offered to escort him to the house and prepare me for the shock. They explain that they were concerned because of the stress I had been under of late I might not be able to handle seeing him without being forewarned. It seems they were right.
So this is how things stand, your grandfather was not arrested, both police officers were released from the hospital before noon, and Mr. Spindleleg is napping in the spare room. Please don't ask me what I'm going to do next because to be honest, I have no "freak'n idea" as your sister would say. I will tell you this, however, I have no intention of telling your brother about last night. He may carry out the threat he made in his last letter to change his name, re-enlist in the navy and tell every on his entire family was killed in a tsunami when he was six.
Well, My Dearest Son, I have to end this letter, I hear your grandfather and Mr. Spindleleg talking in the upstair's hall, I think I'll make a pot of coffee, then when neither of them is looking, spike it with Irish Whiskey. Since I don't drink, one cup should be enough to knock me out for the night. Jeez, I sure could use the rest.
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|Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen
|Hahaha, oh, yeah, just what I needed to feel "normal" in my child-imprisoned summer life!! :D Thanks!|
|Reviewed by Bhuwan Thapaliya
|superb as always from u|
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|Great as always!!|
|Reviewed by Tony Nerone
|Dear Bobbi, I wish you would publish this. I find it hilarious.
|Reviewed by William Bonilla
|great write enjoyed reading
|Reviewed by E T Waldron
|You shime with these Bobbi, good to see you back!|
|Reviewed by Birdie Houston
|Reviewed by Kate Clifford
|LOL. Great as always.|
|Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
|Hilarious !!!I love. it.|