During my usual Monday blog-browsing, I came upon this post and sparked a traumatic memory from the weekend.
I just got back from a quick three-day trip back to Oklahoma for my grandma's 80th birthday. As part of the festivities, all of her children, grandchildren, etc. were supposed to submit a memory for a "memory book" that my aunt was creating for the party. I had a really hard time thinking of a good one besides that one that I used for her and my grandma's 50th anniversary video, and reusing it felt like cheating. So I sent off something short and lame, only to find upon inspection of said memory book, that several of my cousins had skipped their memory submission completely. However, when we attended the "after party" with several visiting relatives from California at her house, I gathered some solid material for her 90th birthday.
We were all sitting around having some "Owl Wine" , as she called it, and telling stories, and the subject of pesky wildlife came up. My mom mentioned that she had trapped a raccoon that had been killing some of her ducks, but didn't have the heart to shoot it, so she just drove it several miles from her house and let it go. That lead to my grandma telling about a recent bout of killing squirrels (as she tends to do) and the rest of the story went as such:
So then I looked up in a tree and there was this tiny little baby raccoon. It was the cutest little thing you'd ever see. Then I shot it....
Ew. I think I'm scarred for life.