Inquisition

[david]

You want answers?
I think I'm entitled to them.
You want answers?
I want the truth!
You can't handle the truth!

We filed into the room, completely unprepared for the ambush. I, as fate would have it was first in line and bore the brunt of the attack. The welfare, perhaps the very survival of my two sisters would depend on how I managed a crisis that none of us could have anticipated. I may have been seven, eight at the oldest; and I was way out of my depth.

We were at Platte Lake – a small lake not far from the shores of Lake Michigan. On the mitten-shaped Great Lakes State, Platte Lake is near where the tip of your little finger might reside.

As a former proud resident of Michigan's Upper Peninsula – which is shaped more like an inverted high-heeled shoe – I am compelled to note that this midwestern state is bifurcated and is most definitely not shaped like a mitten when considered in its entirety.

In fact, I'm convinced that if former Northern Michiganders like me stopped reminding the masses that our lesser peninsula exists, secession would follow and we'd soon have a 51st state – probably named Superior.

Well, that's beside the point. We're talking about Platte Lake, circa 1955 and the three Burke kids are marching, single file, into the main room of our grandparents' lakeside cottage.

As I mentioned, it was an ambush situation. We were the ambushees and our Grandmaw Burke was the ambusher. Having Grandmaw as our antagonist created one of those worst case scenario situations.

We had two very distinct categories for our grandparents: “mean” and “nice;” Grandmaw was unequivocally in the “mean” group.

The irony of the situation didn't escape us. You see, Grandpaw Burke was our “nice” grandfather and while he was married to the mean grandmother, our “nice” grandmother, Grandma Whit, was irrevocably yoked to – you guessed it – the “mean” Grandpa Whit.

Nowhere was Grandpaw-the-Burke's niceness more in evidence than at Platte lake. He was a fisherman and the lake was all about fishing. He was an outdoorsman and the lake was all about nature.

At Platte Lake, Grandpaw was the picture of nice. He'd sit in the corner of the cozy little cottage on his comfortable rocking chair, smoking his Grandpaw-perfect pipe. Then he took us out in his boat to go fishing.

He was everything a kid could want in a grandfather we scored him 9.9, 9.9 and 9.9. He would have had three perfect 10.0s if it weren't for the fact that his lap only seated two grandkids at a time.

Meanwhile, we did our best to stay clear of Grandmaw – lap and all. She had a raspy sort of voice and a very stern demeanor. She wore her hair in a tight knot on her head and she rarely got into the boat – she never fished. She probably never even touched a worm.

Well, I'd have to admit she new how to cook fish – but I won't because that doesn't fit the story. Let's get back to the horror part of the story.

“David!”

The parade came to an immediate stop. We turned to our left and there, in full ambush mode, sat the mean Grandmaw Burke.

“David,” she repeated. It was obvious that she wasn't simply identifying me. She was clearly about to say something that she very much wanted me to hear.

And this is where my Platte Lake experience nearly took on a new dimension that I had previously neither experienced nor even imagined.

Oh, my father could have warned me. He should have warned me. His own childhood had been filled with moments like this. In fact, I'm guessing that he may have experienced a moment like this just about every day of his childhood.

“David...”

Well, I don't think she actually repeated it again. But I thought it might make the story better if I exaggerated a bit – and who doesn't love the sound of their own name?

GrandMaw didn't intend to make an announcement. She wanted to ask a question. And my response was going to make a difference – a big difference.

“David...”

Oh, now I've gone too far. She definitely didn't call my name four times. I must get on with it.

“Did you have your bowel movement?”

What? Did I have my … what?

I wanted to glance over at my sisters to see if one of them could explain. It was clear that Grandmaw wanted an answer and I had a feeling that there was only one answer that would keep me out of trouble. But the woman had me in some kind of invisible grip and I couldn't turn my head to seek advice.

A true-false question usually presents pretty good odds. Even guessing, you're right half the time.

But I had a premonition that half the time might not be good enough in the bowel movement game.

Could a brother get some help? I would certainly have taken the lead from one of my siblings. A tiny nod or shake of the head would have been determinative. I was desperate.

I can't recall what my thought process was. Logic would have probably indicated that anything with a name sounding like “bowel movement” probably wasn't a good thing.

Maybe it's just as well that I wasn't particularly analytical back then. All I think I based my decision on was the look on Grandmaw's face.

And that look told me to just say … YES!

I did. And she seemed to be satisfied by that answer.

When she shifted her attention to my sister, I moved away – my favorite direction when it came to Grandmaw Burke. Both siblings followed my lead and we dodged the bullet.

If I had guessed wrong, we might not have spent that morning baiting hooks and practicing our cast or feeding the minnows down on Grandpaw's dock or riding around the lake on inner-tubes.

No, we might have had a lesson from Grandmaw that potentially included castor oil … or worse.

Do you still wonder why we thought of her as our mean Grandmother?