Promises Are Made to Be…

Source of photo: yourtango.com

************************************

I have a few childhood memories that will always haunt me but one of the worst happened in one single, terrible moment. I must have been 6 or 7 years old and we had been visiting my Grammy and Grampy. I remember that it was a beautiful summer day: we had all gone somewhere – I don’t recall the location now – with the exception of my beloved Grampy, who had opted to stay at home that morning.

Upon our return, as our cars pulled into the long dirt driveway that led to my grandparents’ humble little country home, I was the first to tumble out the car so that I could go find Grampy and excitedly tell him all about whatever amazing thing we had just been doing. He was unusually hard to find: I ran all through the little house, scouring every room for him.

It took awhile, but I finally found him outside, bent on one knee, and he was grimly holding the barrel of his old hunting rifle against his squalling, squirming barn cat. Just as I burst through the outer door of his old garage and into their tiny back yard, he pulled the trigger.

I adored my Grampy. We all did. He was strong and vital and he always smelled of fresh cut wood. He was loving; he was kind; he was generous with his time and he was always, always happy to see us. There was a special drawer – in the old kitchen – that was designated ‘Grampy’s drawer’ and it was filled with sweets of every imaginable variety. It was understood that each grandchild was allowed to open the drawer and take whatever goodie we wanted: he always called it ‘our little secret’. What I remember best; what I used to love; was how Grampy would call me “my little girl” in that French-Acadian accent that was so very dear to me.

Even now, 40 years after he died, I can still recall those loving words in his beautiful accent.

I was a quiet, sensitive child who lived the life of a lost little daydreamer, deeply engrossed in my books or in my meandering thoughts. I grew up in a small town and was not familiar with the things that all country children grow up seeing from infancy: births, deaths, bloody wounds, mice traps, fox traps, hunting guns and how to force a squirming worm onto the tip of a fish hook (which disturbs me still). Seeing Grampy shoot that cat horrified me beyond any words I have to express it.

I don’t remember the terrible minutes between seeing Grampy pull the trigger and sensing him, as well as my Mom and my uncles, surrounding me and trying their best to soothe me as I wailed inconsolably, face-down on the couch in my grandparents’ tiny living room. I remember that Grampy was devasted. I remember understanding that he had not meant for me to see such a thing. I remember that I was completely unable to be angry with him, so great was his distress.

“I’ll buy you another kitten,” he assured me, as I tried my best to stop crying and to undo the awful look of remorse in his eyes. “It’ll be here next time you come to visit.”

“Promise?” I sniffled.

“I promise,” he smiled, as he held me tight.

Grampy never did keep that promise, although – for the longest time – I searched for the kitten every time we came to visit.

As I got older, I came to be very grateful that he broke that promise. Country folk – especially back in the day – didn’t have much use for pets. If you kept an animal around, it was because the animal had a specific purpose: a dog was left outside, for protection; a cat was not coddled or welcomed into anyone’s lap; it was meant to keep the house free of mice; a pig was meant to be fattened up for winter eating. ‘Pets’ were for pampered town folk who wouldn’t be able to survive a day on a farm. For many years, I asked my parents why he killed the cat – that day of all days, while we were visiting – all to no avail. I’m pretty sure he had a good reason: perhaps the cat was sick; perhaps it had caught its paw in an animal trap; perhaps it had the symptoms of rabies.

I just needed to know the reason why, and it haunts me still, but there is no one in my family left alive who would remember the reason, now.

50 years after it happened, I am writing about that day because it made one very fundamental impression on me. Most of us, I think, have what my husband calls ‘power words’ in their vocabulary. These are words that we rarely utter because they carry great weight for us. The words I almost never say to anyone are “I promise,” or “I give you my word.” These are great, significant, important words for me and if I say them, I intend to mean them until I die.

Sometimes, like I did all those years ago with my Grampy, little kids will ask us to promise the ‘unpromiseable’ (and yes, I know that’s not a real word). Because the words are so important to me, I rarely uttered them to my own children when they were little. Instead, I would tell them, “I can’t promise you that because it’s a big promise to make, but I will do everything I know how, so that I can honour what it is you are asking.”

It might be a quaint term to use in this day and this age, but to me, my word really is my bond. The problem is, despite our best intentions, life can occasionally get in the way of even the best promises and sometimes, we make a promise before thinking through all the possible consequences. I had to break my word recently. Under the circumstances, I know it was the right thing to do. But I couldn’t help but think back on that awful look of remorse in my Grampy’s eyes.

And while I assume full responsibility for my decision, I know it is going bother me until my dying day.

Patti Moore Wilson © wednesdayschildca.wordpress.com

Advertisement