The Rock

Mom and Dad were probably the most loving couple I ever knew. I can truly say that I never in all my life saw them fight. They sometimes would disagree but they never fought. Each told the other every day that they loved them, not just once but many times. Love in our house was a tangible thing and it was always there. No matter what happened. No matter how angry we got. No matter what you did wrong, the love remained. We never went to bed angry. Whatever had happened that day had to be resolved or we would sit at the kitchen table all night talking it out.
It may have come to light, throughout this narration, that I was not always a perfect angel as a child. My parents understood that and loved me perhaps even more because of it. You see, sometimes, kids are more fun when they aren’t behaving perfectly. I was very good at that.
One fine summer evening I was outside in the barnyard doing some small chores, watching the pigeons flying in and out of the hay mow. They were gathering sticks and pieces of rock and other stuff as pigeons do. Mom and Dad were both in the barn milking the cows. Now, you have to understand that Dad hated pigeons. He called them disease carrying vermin that served no better purpose than to poop (he didn’t say poop) all over everything in a hay mow. The only hunters allowed on our farm were some men with a thick accent. I remember them coming around to shoot pigeons in the barn a couple of times a year. Dad always let them in with an admonition not to shoot any holes in his steel roof. Dad really loved that roof.
Suddenly I had an epiphany. There were tons of small rocks laying around and I had a fairly good arm, so it would naturally follow, that I should pick up a rock and, with all the might and accuracy I could muster, hurl it toward a flying pigeon.
Hey . . . I missed . . . oh there’s another one. Pick up a stone . . . take aim . . . wait for it . . . follow through . . . swoosh . . . dang. Missed again. Ok this time for sure. Here he comes. Nice big rock. Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . . Swoosh . . . Crash!
Seconds later Dad emerged from the barn holding the rock that just crashed through a window and hit him squarely in the back of the head, as he was bent over milking a cow. He simply held up the rock, rubbed his head and watched me standing there, trying to look as innocent as possible. I was good at it too.
When he asked me why I had thrown a rock through the window I said, "Huh? Rock? What rock?" (It just doesn’t get more convincing than that does it?)
"The one that just hit me in the head!" said Dad.
"Hit you in the head? A Rock? Really? How the heck could that happen Dad?"
"You tell me!" he insisted. (I think you get the idea.)
I was good, but the dust on my hands and the fact that I was the only one out there sort of gave me away. I did what any red blooded boy would do. I lied some more, but Dad was having none of it. I could see that he was starting to get angry. His ears were getting red. That was a sure sign that it was time to come clean, except on hot days when his ears tended to get red all the time. (Another story there too)
I wasn’t a dumb kid. I knew the right thing to do, so I made a snap decision. I stood up straight, looked Dad right in the eye and I lied some more.
I started with something about the neighbor kid, who was probably at home lying to his own father, then went off on a tangent ending with something like "I didn’t do it . . . on purpose . . . sorry." Followed by a flood of tears. Tears always helped. Dad hated to see me cry, and I could do it on command.
By the time all was said and done, Dad was laughing too hard to be mad anymore. After all, as he said, I did have good intentions, if not good sense, and no one was really hurt. The window which had already been badly cracked got fixed and I put some fear of God into those pigeons.
Oh . . . and I really pulled the wool over Dad’s eyes that time.