This time my brother Fred was in trouble. Sandy, the eldest daughter of the family, was outside talking to a friend, when she decided to scare her into power.
Mom and I were in the kitchen talking when we suddenly heard this chilling scream.
I looked at Mom, she looked at me and we both got up from our chairs and ran to the door. Standing outside and looking at the scene in front of me, I beheld the most horrendous sight imaginable for a girl.
We arrived just in time to see Sandy take a look at a jar Fred was holding in his hand, and she let out another yell. He was holding her by one arm and in the other hand he held a flask. He was jumping up and down, screaming and laughing in her face as he teased her with it.
“This is what you are having for dinner tonight.” I heard him say.
I glanced at the jar and my jaw dropped in shock when I realized that the jar had maggots in it. He was teasing her relentlessly with it.
Sandy let out another shuddering cry and dug her nails into his arm, causing him to let go of her. Then he turned and ran toward the house. He was right behind her.
We watched as he chased Sandy with the squirming mass of worms. Not only had he put one or two in the jar, but he had filled it completely. As he ran, he was trying to remove the lid.
Oh Lord! It will throw the whole jar at you! My thoughts spun inside my head.
What the hell is wrong with him? I I thought my parents were going to blame the devil as they always said that hell is not only for the devil, but also for people. My parents, who believed in the Bible, had taught children that demons forced people to do bad things. In my nine-year-old mind, Fred qualified as a good candidate for hell.
Sir, you only know what you would have done to him. My imagination set up a scenario in which my poor sister wore a mass of worms all over her dress and screamed non-stop, tears running down her face.
He was always doing something horrible, but this time it was the most disgusting and despicable thing he could have done in his life.
To make matters worse, Mom was serving spaghetti for dinner tonight.
Now here he was sitting in a chair, puffing and puffing as my mother paced back and forth in front of him, waving an old measuring stick. He had seen many things and had witnessed the utter humiliation of many of his victims.
I know it first hand, because it had been used numerous times on my butt. Mother thought it was an invaluable tool for learning arithmetic. Unfortunately, the only thing that old measuring stick gave was utter and utter fear.
Mom paced back and forth, ranting about my 12-year-old brother’s callous behavior. They were in the kitchen, where the family gathered to discuss the events of the day. She never screamed, because her voice wasn’t quite strong. His voice rose and fell in what you would think should be a scream, but it was instead a harsh voice. His speech sped up with every word he spoke.
Fred’s eyes followed her as she walked ahead of him. His eyes had turned a reddish hue, his breathing ragged with anger as his chest rose and fell huffing as he shot daggers at him. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Body tense and angry, he sat in the chair looking at Mom. Clearly, something had gotten hold of my brother, generally good natured but a joke lover.
Suddenly she stopped walking and stood in front of him, continuing to give him the third grade. She emphasized what he was saying to her with the old measuring stick, waving it in her face.
Suddenly he stumbled forward from his seat, grabbed the measuring stick, sat down again, and with both hands tore it in two.
There was nothing I could do to help my brother, so I stared around the corner, watching the drama unfold.
She really deserves that ruler on her butt … Inside, she was glaring at him, because it could easily have been me that she did that to.
Knowing my brother’s temperament, I knew something was going to happen.
I stayed out of reach of both of them, holding my breath. I gasped in alarm when I saw him snatch the measuring stick from her.
My mother was so stunned; she just stood there, her mouth open, and looked at him. She raised her hands and continued giving him lessons.
I couldn’t believe what I had done, that I was brave enough to do what I could never do. Delighted thoughts ran through my head … well, at least he can’t hit me with that thing anymore. Anyway, I never liked his style of teaching arithmetic.
He finished the lecture and then sent him to his room.
In public school, a teacher’s method of punishment was less severe than that old criterion. Getting the leash was never as bad as getting hit with that lengthy judgment. It should have been discarded a long time ago. Feeling that ruler’s sharp whip not only hurt me, it instilled in me tremendous fear.
To this day I cannot look at a measuring stick and not remember that time ago when my brother broke the rule, and the joy I felt that it could no longer be used as a weapon.
