Every family has those stories that become a part of their tradition.
… by the way, can anyone out there say that word without singing it like Tevye? I’ll give you a moment to get it out of your system.
Who, day and night, must scramble for a living, feed his wife and children, say his daily prayers?
Ok, back to me, people. I’m talking about the stories that get told over turkey carcasses and angel food cake, at weddings and wakes, in the middle of a game of Scattergories, or at the bottom of a bottle of Jack.
I’m talking about those moments that bind a family together and…
The Papas! Tradition!
Hey! What the hell did I say, man?! All right… all right. I’ll get on with it. This is one of those stories—the time my sister almost killed my brother with an axe.
Actually, I was still an infant when this particular childhood fable of mine went down. So, I might not be the best primary source—but I’d like to think I tell the tale the best.
It begins with my pops finally getting around to chopping down some bushes in our backyard after weeks of being reminded, prodded, nagged, and ultimately threatened by my mother. Now, my dad—a woodsman to his core—figured the best way to bring down these mighty bushes was with an axe. After about an hour of minimal success, he decided to grab a beer and rethink his strategy.
My sister, circa 8 or 9 years old, had been watching the entire time and had followed my dad back to the garage where he leaned the axe against his workbench. The man had two decisions at this point. One, hang the axe back up on the wall, well out of my sister’s roughly five foot reach. Two, trust that this sweet, innocent little child would take his words of warning to heart.
He chose… poorly. “Don’t touch the axe, Rachel.”
And, of course, no sooner then he had popped open his brew and walked away did Rach scoop up the axe. She confidently set off down the hill into our backyard, ready to do her part and help clear the bushes. Unbeknownst to Rachel was that her younger brother (and my older brother) Ben was waddling behind her, eager to see what she was up to.
Ben, as a child, was eerily quiet. Rather than crying as an infant, he would gently knock on my parents’ door and whisper, “I don’t suppose I could bother you for a moment?”
So it’s no surprise that Rach had no idea he was standing directly behind her as she eyeballed where to strike the tiny sapling in front of her. Of course, it would be no surprise if she knew exactly where he was… as my sister had, and continued to over the course of her childhood, demonstrated a few murderous tendencies.
As she reared back the battleaxe for the stroke that would fell the bush, she struck my brother square in the forehead. Now, it was with the blunt end, mind you. At least she knew how to operate the axe, otherwise I might never have been able to watch
The blunt end merely caused Ben to crumple to the ground, his forehead bruised and bloodied. But to his credit, he didn’t utter a sound. Rachel, curious as to why the bush still stood, walked over to Ben to examine the situation. Kneeling down next to his body, my sister lovingly soothed him with the following words.
“Tell Mom and I’ll kill you.” Which, I think you’ll agree, is a bit frightening coming from a girl with an axe in her hand.
So little boy Ben ran back to the house. When my mother began screaming about how what had happened, my brother simply declared, “I ran into a tree.”
