Standing Up for the Kittens

The Peterson’s were old-fashioned Swedish disciplinarians who brought their children up in a world of fear and threats in what Mom called, “Old World ways.” Mrs. Peterson was a dour, moody lady who moved her large body very slowly and said little. Mr. Peterson was a tiny guy with a thick Swedish accent who worked from morning to night in his little orchard. If we spilt our milk, Mom would say, “The darn milk spilt itself, now we have to clean it up,” and that would be end of it. Not at the Petersons. An immediate horrific slap in the face was Mrs. Peterson’s response, as we watched in terror when her daughter Eileen broke a plain drinking glass on the sidewalk. We were never allowed in their house. The kids were forced to study for so many hours a day or take a beating. Their choice. Somehow, Eileen grew up to be the sweetest person you could imagine, but I think the harsh rules made both boys a little troubled, especially Billy. He was a very complicated kid who delighted in bullying and teasing other kids. He was nice to Bob and me because he lived so close and feared trouble from his father, or worse, from ours, if he were to taunt us. However, I came to really not like him. When we were, maybe, ten years old, he decided to kill some kittens with his BB gun. The kittens were in a rusty old burn barrel when he called Bob and I over to watch. I was so mortified that he would really kill the animals that I ripped the gun out of his hands and ran away with it. The sharp sight on the barrel ripped his palm wide open as I whisked the gun away. He was my enemy after that because he couldn’t tell on me without getting a beating for threatening the kittens. I was actually proud to be his enemy because he was so mean to everyone. We really got back at him one day when Bob and I were walking through his strawberry patch in a tremendous rainstorm with him. The patch was so muddy and the mud so deep that he got stuck knee-deep and couldn’t move. We just left him there and didn’t tell anyone.