I remember this essay. The lengths you to which you went, joining the NRA, taking shooting lessons; your dedication to plumbing the dark depths, in order to find light and hope, and to agitate us to action. My peaceful mother never met you, but I visualize the smile and tears of affirmation your writing would have elicited from her. My childhood plastic squirt gun was translucent grape-colored, my siblings had variations of green, yellow and red. We played on hot summer days, mostly for the water-play. What I most remember is mom coming out from the house, having seen through the kitchen window one of us aiming a weapon-shaped toy at a living thing; a bird, each other, all in fun we thought—though we had been warned it was ‘not on’ to do that. She confiscated and raised a misused toy high in the air, to slam it down and break loudly it upon her knee. She used words then, too. Her urgency in her task was palpable as she explained to her young ones that our toys with their regrettable shape were modeled after a tool that had many unholy and harmful uses, and that we did not need nor would we want such a tool, once we knew the consequences. I’m sure mom was not the one who provided us those toys, and we may have thought mom was ‘kooky’ to make that much fuss about squirt guns: but her consistent lessons around that and other things made a lasting impact. It was a gift to lead us to mindfulness, such as you have as well, dear Mia.
I remember this essay. The lengths you to which you went, joining the NRA, taking shooting lessons; your dedication to plumbing the dark depths, in order to find light and hope, and to agitate us to action. My peaceful mother never met you, but I visualize the smile and tears of affirmation your writing would have elicited from her. My childhood plastic squirt gun was translucent grape-colored, my siblings had variations of green, yellow and red. We played on hot summer days, mostly for the water-play. What I most remember is mom coming out from the house, having seen through the kitchen window one of us aiming a weapon-shaped toy at a living thing; a bird, each other, all in fun we thought—though we had been warned it was ‘not on’ to do that. She confiscated and raised a misused toy high in the air, to slam it down and break loudly it upon her knee. She used words then, too. Her urgency in her task was palpable as she explained to her young ones that our toys with their regrettable shape were modeled after a tool that had many unholy and harmful uses, and that we did not need nor would we want such a tool, once we knew the consequences. I’m sure mom was not the one who provided us those toys, and we may have thought mom was ‘kooky’ to make that much fuss about squirt guns: but her consistent lessons around that and other things made a lasting impact. It was a gift to lead us to mindfulness, such as you have as well, dear Mia.
Ah! Your mother. I love her. Thanks so and ever, Eileen!