“Man, that’s the last time you’ll put ya
hands on me . . .”
That incident with the broom wasn’t intentional. It started when Dad had
hemmed Mom in the washroom. He lifted his hand and struck her.
Mom’s voice crackled as she shouted, “Man, that’s the last time you’ll
put ya hands on me. I’ve had it! All these years, I’ve been tippy-toeing and keeping the blinders on. Naw, they come off today! You bring those women
into our home and have intimate relationships with ’em! Then when I walk in on ya, you shout out for me to get out of the room? Ya strike out and fight when the mood hits ya. The things you’ve done to this family. It’s a wonder the kids ain’t affected. Man, may God have mercy on your soul!”
After lashing out, Mom turned and grabbed a broom that stood against
the furnace door. But as she raised it over her head, the broom handle hit the ceiling light. The glass broke and shattered into tiny pieces all over Dad. He jumped back and yelled in his deep, harsh tone, “Woman, what type of God do you serve?”
Of course, Dad refused to go to the hospital. So, they spent the next
hours plucking tiny glass particles from his dark, bruised skin. And it was the God who Mother served that put some fear in him. Dad never again
struck Mom. My siblings may not recall the details of what was said, nor the
incident. But this whole scene and my parents’ words stuck with me through
the years. After witnessing the evil things done, my thoughts rang: Dad’s an example of damaged goods.
Sorry you had to go through that. At least it turned out positive (I believe from this short incident). My parents had fights, too. Always made me wonder why they stayed together 62 years.
