A digression before I get started-
My Aunt (by marriage) Jeannie's brother is named John. Is there a word for that relationship? He's not my uncle, not my cousin. I guess technically, he's my friend, but that doesn't seem right because he is part of my family. Can someone get back to me on that? Seriously, there has to be a word for it. Anyway...
Not-my-uncle John reminded me that my godfather, and my mom's little brother, Uncle Herbie (married to Jeannie, now departed. I mean, Jeannie is still with us. Herbie has passed.) used to call me a pistol. That's not a term you don't hear much in California, but in Texas, it's a thing. My Aunt Ruth (Dad's sister, and my godmother) also called me a pistol. This epithet was usually applied to me after I had done something precocious, or cute, or maybe a little naughty.
When I was little, I used to tell tall tales. It wasn't lying, really. Not the kind of lying I did to avoid punishment. These were tall tales that I would tell because I could see the adult I was telling them to seemed amused, and would laugh. I wish I could remember some of them. The only thing I can remember is, in the middle of one story, (I think I said something about shooting somebody and they rolled into a lake) my aunt said, "Donita, I think you're feeding me a line of bull." I said, "Yes, I shot the bull too and he rolled into the lake."
I was a pistol.
There were times when I was growing up where I could be bold. I wasn't a crazy, high-energy kid. My older sister was, but I was the kind of kid who could sit in a corner for hours playing with my stuffed animals. I didn't bounce off the walls. I was quiet then. Mostly. But sometimes...
I wish I could remember more. The boldness must have shown up when I was little, because I was called a pistol several times. As I got older, my boldness showed up a bit more often. I would say things: some inappropriate and embarrassing. But when I got it right, people would laugh.
In junior high I was in one of those little shows that each English class would present in an assembly. We did an adaptation of The Night the Bed Fell by James Thurber. I played a kid who sang Onward Christian Soldiers in their sleep. My teacher told me to sing it loudly, and as goofy as I could possibly make it. Most girls that age would probably shy away from doing something that foolish out of fear of embarrassment. Not me. I belted that thing out loud and crazy. I was offstage, but I could hear the audience's reaction. They laughed.
In high school I was involved in theater. In those three years I had several more opportunities for goofy stage business. In Oklahoma, I played Gertie Cummings, a girl with a loud, obnoxious laugh. In L'il Abner I played Moonbeam McSwine, a girl who carries a pig whenever she's on stage (a real baby pig that often shit on the stage. A diaper would have been a good idea). I don't think I was aware then that I was cultivating my pistolness, but it was there whenever I got myself in front of an audience.
And then, decades later, I got into comedy. Damn, that was fun.
When John reminded me that Herbie called me a pistol, it got me thinking. And remembering. And boy, it made me miss my Uncle Herbie, and my wonderful Aunt Ruth. They were pistols too. These days I'm going through a period of self discovery, and those early memories are giving me some insights into the person I am now. Damn, I wish I could talk to Herbie and Ruth. They loved me for myself when I didn't know what that meant.
I love being a pistol.
