Shotguns and Stolen Vegetables

On a clear, sweet summer day with the wildflowers bending in the breeze and the ocean dancing with the sun, a shotgun blast shattered the sleepy morning air. It was followed by a high pitched yelp of pain, a stream of curses, and the sound of running footsteps - up the path at breakneck speed came Willie Foot, clutching a live, upside down and wildly protesting chicken in one hand and a good sized head of lettuce in the other - he darted past me, stumbled and fell and several tomatoes tumbled out of his pockets along with a summer squash. The chicken, recognizing opportunity when it was handed to her, immediately fled into the blackberry bushes and Willie abandoned his vegetables and took off like a shot, up the driveway and across the strawberry patch. Only seconds later, Old Hat appeared on the well worn path, shotgun still smoking. Seeing the strewn about vegetables, she raised the gun to her shoulder and sighted on Willie, now halfway to the turn on The Old Road and still running for his life. Realizing he was now out of range, she lowered the weapon with a violent curse, her face dark with rage, her ragged breathing reminding me of steel on steel, like my grandmother sharpening knives. At that moment Nana rounded the corner, broom in hand and a scowl on her face. In one quick glance, she took in the situation from the vegetables to the chicken squawking in the blackberry bushes, from me crouched in the corner of the side steps to Old Hat, bent over trying to catch her breath and still muttering profanities. Hattie! she yelled, loud and sharp, What the Sam Hill is going on here?

Old Hat straightened up and it suddenly occurred to me that she bore a striking resemblance to Mammy Yokum from the Lil' Abner comic strip. This made me laugh out loud and the tiny little woman whirled on me, glaring like a thundercloud. Hattie, my grandmother said, her tone firm with warning but no threat, Put that old relic down before you shoot your damn fool foot off and sit down before you have a heart attack! When the old woman hesitated, my grandmother's tone sharpened, Now, Hattie! she snapped. At that moment, John Sullivan materialized as if he had dropped from the sky. In one swift motion he snatched the shotgun away and wrapped one arm around Hat, lifting her clean off the ground and pinning her arms securely to her sides. Be still, he said calmly, and all the fight went out of her at once, she sagged like a bedraggled Raggedy Ann doll. My grandmother closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath, one hand on her heart, the other still holding the broom. Both she and John began to laugh when the flailing chicken emerged from the blackberry brambles, fluttering and cackling among the ruined vegetables.

Willie, crazy as a tick as folks liked to say, but not stupid, steered clear of The Point for the rest of that summer - the gardens of the summer people and up islanders were fairer game and the risk of lethal weapons was considerably less. Old Hat's property was declared off limits and Nana took to giving us daily briefings to keep our distance from her. Even though Long John had confiscated her shotgun, She's sure to have another, Nana warned, Don't tempt her.

Most sweet summer days when the ocean danced with the sun and the wildflowers bent in the breeze were peaceful and sleepy. Now and again, madness crept in and made everyone pay attention and be a little more careful, a little more thankful.

Thou shalt not steal, James preached the following Sunday, Especially from someone with a shotgun.