You may recall that my brother, Shotgun Bob and his wife now have a son, an 11 year old boy named Albert. The kid is bright, but doesn't have the patience for problem solving. He gives up too easily. When Shotgun Bob got him as a foster child, the public school system advised all concerned that Albert was ADD, ADHD and a classic PITA. The State, in its infinite wisdom, put Albert on some kind of drug cocktail designed to calm him down while increasing his love of all things feminine.
Once adopted, the medication officially ceased. When Albert becomes too rambunctious he and the dog pack get turned outside to amuse themselves on Shotgun Bob's six or eight acres that includes a dense forest. Albert wears himself out and turns up about supper time unless he's cadging a meal at the neighbor's house. Daily chores can be problematical, but if Shotgun Bob is working on some kind of project, like building fence or putting a roof on the shed, Albert is right there with him. He thinks it's fun to work with Shotgun Bob, you see. And I guess it is if you're an energetic eleven year old boy. For one thing you get to belt stuff with a hammer, and if you get dirty no one cares.
I guess Albert was in school a week or so ago, standing around the classroom talking to some other little boy, when Suzy Smartypants walked up to the duo and, pointing at each boy in turn, proclaimed in a loud voice that, "You're a dweeb and you're a geek." To which Albert replied, "What's that you're wearing? A unibrow?"
Completely devastated by this unwarranted verbal attack, Suzy burst into tears. She was immediately surrounded by a protective circle of her symbolic litter mates who murmured words of comfort interspersed with howls for
vengeance justice to be visited upon Albert and his cadre of future oppressors. The local authority figure sallied forth and after quieting Susie's hysterics, escorted Albert to the principal's office where he was suspended for three days. Susie is undergoing therapy - not electroshock therapy, which is too bad, but regular old therapy.
Back in the old days when something like this happened the participants were told to sit down and be quiet, and that was the end of the matter.
Shotgun Bob managed not to laugh out loud when he heard about the whole business. His only thoughts on the matter revolve around the fact that all authority figures concerned are female, and all are black. He wonders how much discrimination is involved here. Which, frankly, I wonder about as well.
Meantime the family came up for Thanksgiving and we took Albert out to the gun range. I have a Smith and Wesson .22 revolver that he's able to shoot, and he turned in a respectable score. More importantly he didn't violate any of the four rules of gun safety, nor did he cause any adults nearby to flinch.
The holiday went pretty smoothly. I refused to allow Shotgun Bob's wife to get under my skin, even when I caught her going through Mom's china and picking out the pieces she wanted to have after Mom dies. I think that's a bit much, but maybe that's just me.
Oh well. I hope everyone reading this had a happy Thanksgiving holiday.
