Remembering Diane
My city friends often cock their heads and wonder (sometimes out loud) if my childhood stories - sometimes current stories - from home are real. Few of them grew up with shotguns parked in the corner of the dining room, transmissions in the living room or dinner hanging in the trees. Short of someone with Sheldon Cooper's eiditic memory, I doubt anyone can recall anything with 100 percent accuracy. My memories are shaded, of course, by my position in the family, ability to see/remember and the myriad influences that come with re-telling. But my sister Diane really did scratch her butt with a revolver while shooting rats at a dump and subsequently shot said butt because she still had her finger on the trigger. She was actually lucky to be alive to do that because decades earlier, she'd called my eldest sister, Donna, the "b-word." We were a Pentecostal household where you weren't even supposed to say "shoot" because it was just a placeholder for the wor