Suddenly the back door banged and we heard mama land heavily back on the slammed door.
“Mama! You okay?” I asked as I turned the corner to peer into the back hall. She was bent over, silver hair bobbed in time with her gasps for breath, her panting mixed with her laughter.
My father and his measured steps moved to the back hall.
“Alice? What happened?”
Mama looked up, “There was a squirrel eating from the bird feeder so I thought I would scare it away, so I picked up a little rock,” and she held her crooked arthritic index finger together to her thumb to show us the size of the little rock, “well, I threw it at the squirrel.” And she bent down to catch her breath.
“So?” asked my father, the perfect straight-man.
“So? So, I hit that squirrel right between the eyes! And he reared up on his hind legs and he CHARGED at me!” and she made a scampering motion with her hands, “I haven’t moved that fast in years.”