My Mother's Favourite Weapon

This time my brother, Fred was in trouble. Sandy, my older sister was outside talking to a friend, when he decided to scare the daylights out of her.

Mom and I were in the kitchen talking when this blood-chilling scream erupted.

I looked at Mom, she glanced at me and we both rose from our chairs and ran for the door. I stood outside looking at the scene before me, I beheld the most horrendous sight imaginable for a girl.

We were just in time to see Sandy take one look at a jar Fred held in front of her face, and let loose another scream. He was holding her by one arm, and in the other hand, he held a jar. He was jumping up and down, yelling and laughing in her face as he taunted her with it.

"This is what you're having for supper tonight." I heard him tell her.

I glanced at the jar, and my mouth hung open in shock, as I realized that the jar had worms in it. He was taunting her with it.

Sandy let loose another earth-shattering scream and dug her nails into his arm causing him to lose his hold on her. She then turned and ran towards the house. He was right behind her.

We watched as he pursued Sandy with the squirming mass of worms. He hadn't just put one or two in the jar but had packed it full. As he ran, he was trying to pry the lid off.

Oh, my God! He's going to throw the whole jar on her! My thoughts tumbled inside my head.

What on earth is wrong with him? I thought my parents were going to blame this on the devil. They were always saying hell is not just for the devil, but people too. My bible-believing parents had told us that devils made people do evil things. In my nine-year-old mind, Fred was qualifying for a good candidate for hell.

Lord only knows what he would have done with it. My imagination cooked up a scenario with my poor sister wearing a mass of worms all over her dress. Her screaming nonstop; tears streaming down her face.

He was always doing something horrendous and usually to either Sandy or me. This time it was the grossest, despicable thing he could have ever done.

To make it worse, Mom was serving spaghetti for supper tonight.

Now here he sat on a chair, huffing and puffing as my mother paced back and forth in front of him, waving an old yardstick. It had seen a lot of things and been the punisher of many humiliations.

I knew first-hand because it had met my backside many times. Mother thought it was an invaluable tool in learning arithmetic. Unfortunately, the only thing that old yardstick delivered was absolute and total fear.

Mom strode back and forth, ranting about the insensitive behavior of my 12-year-old brother. They were in the kitchen where the family would gather to discuss the day's events. She never yelled, for her voice wasn't at all strong.

Mom shook with anger, her one hand on the yardstick waving it in front of his face. She waved her other hand in the air to stress each word. With each word, she uttered her voice rose higher and higher.

Fred's eyes followed Mom as she paced before him. His narrowed eyes shot daggers at her. He had turned a reddish hue, his breathing labored in anger as his chest rose and fell from huffing. At his sides his hands were fists. His body taut and angry, he sat on the chair glaring at Mom. Something had taken over my usually mild-mannered but joke loving brother.

Mom stopped pacing and stood in front of him and continued to give him the third degree. She emphasized what she was saying to him with the old yardstick, waving it in his face. The whole time she ranted at him not one strand of her hair was out of place. She clutched the yardstick in her hand jerking it as she walked back and forth in front of him.

I stood out of reach of them both, holding my breath. Mom continued her ranting then stopped in front of him again.

With lightning speed, he lunged off his seat and stood there glaring at her. I gasped in alarm as I saw him snatch the yardstick from her. He placed it over his knee and snapped it in two, ending my mother's rant.

This was getting more interesting all the time. I stood peeking around the corner, watching the drama unfold. He deserves punishment, but not that ruler, never that ruler.

Inside I was glaring daggers at him, for it could have been me he did that to. Knowing my brother's temper, I knew something was going to happen. But breaking the ruler was not what I expected to go down.

My mother was so stunned; she just stood there, mouth agape, and glared at him. She threw up her hands and continued to lecture him.

Delighted thoughts upon seeing that broken ruler danced in my head. No more terrorized arithmetic sessions! Freedom at last. A flashback of the ruler hitting me came on the heels of my jubilation. I relived the pain and fear all over again. I grinned ...no more ruler for wrong answers.