Everyone I’ve ever known will admit to once doing something really foolish in his or her lifetime. Far be it from me to be the exception. I’ll even admit that I’ve done far more over the years than I care to remember. One of the worst was shooting up the closet.
I wasn’t trying to be Annie Oakley or Calamity Jane. It was an accident that began in the most innocent way possible. Isn’t that what always happens? It is for me. I can’t remember a time that I thought, “Now this is the perfect time to do something really stupid.” Who would admit it if they had? Not me.
My husband and I loved to restore old furniture. It’s been a hobby of ours since we were first married. Our marriage began on a shoestring. Like most young couples starting out in the late forties, we learned to economize. Our combined income totaled less than fifty dollars a week take home pay and from that we had to pay taxes, rent, insurance, groceries, utilities and entertainment. We even managed to buy a brand new stove and refrigerator. They were paid for on the installment plan but we didn’t care. We were proud to have them.
One of our first purchases in the furniture line was a small maple drop leaf table with four matching chairs. Someone traded it in at the store where Willis worked and, even though it was used furniture, it was in excellent condition. We bought all five pieces for five dollars. If you think about it that figures one dollar per piece. Don’t scoff. Remember what I said about our take home pay. We weren’t the only ones living on a low income. In our area, this was a living wage.
Willis brought the dining set home in the store’s delivery van one afternoon while making a delivery to another customer in the area. At the time we lived in an upstairs apartment of a private home in his hometown. It consisted of a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and large hallway. Our bedroom furniture was a wedding gift from his parents, we used our landlady’s wicker couch and chairs for the hall sitting room and now we could boast of having kitchen furniture and a place to eat. That was a plus. It beat the heck out of trying to balance a tray on your knee while wrestling with the meal of the day.
The preamble above was to acquaint you with the fact that we began to collect old furniture. I’ve always had a love of antiques but they were too far beyond our means to think of buying them. We knew if we were to ever have any someone near and dear to us would have to die. I don’t mean to sound heartless or conniving. It’s the truth.
Over the years we did acquire some very old pieces but not from the sources above. We attended estate sales, searched through antique shops and used furniture stores and were fortunate enough from time to time to find a “keeper.” We learned to restore these items and, after several years, became much better at it. That brings me to my present tale.
When restoring furniture there are many things to consider. You need an enclosure to work in. We didn’t have that so we depended on working with the weather in mind. It had to be cool enough for the solution we used to remove the old finish from the wood. We had to be sure it would be fair weather to allow us to leave the piece outside until all the fumes had dissipated. The cleaning solution we used was highly combustible. A well-ventilated work area was required. We were extremely careful to heed all the warnings and worked within guidelines that were considered safe.
It was a cool summer day, just the kind of weather we needed to accomplish a project that had been delayed repeatedly. Years before we found an old Queen Anne style bed made of walnut, in very good condition, and one that I especially liked. Each year we planned to restore it; each year we failed to do so. Some other item would take precedent and the bed would be set-aside for a later date. This year I was determined. It had been over ten years since we bought that bed and I was still waiting.
It was Saturday morning and we were up early to begin work. Tools and supplies were on hand, gathered the day before to save time. We were well underway on our project before noon. Willis was working with the solution, applying each coat and patiently removing the sludge that loosened after each application. We could see the beauty of the wood as he carefully removed each layer. Knowing how anxious I was to complete the task, he worked steadily throughout the day stopping only for a quick sandwich at lunchtime. He was back at work in less than an hour. When the last coat of remover had been applied, he cleaned the entire bed with paint thinner to wash away any stubborn spots that might remain. Pleased with the results, he called me over to inspect the bed. It was beautiful. He gathered the waste bucket and rags to take to the dump. While he was gone I put away the tools, cleaned up the other debris and waited for him to return.
My daughter and her family stopped by to check our progress. Some other family members dropped by and we were all waiting outside when Willis returned. It was almost dusk dark. Willis had not used the gloves we normally used when cleaning furniture and some of the residue from the sludge had dried on his hands. He used a little of the solution to clean his hands and then rinsed them with paint thinner. After making sure everything was covered and safe for the night he told me he was going inside to wash up. He headed for the door at the back of the house with our little granddaughter following close behind.
Willis was on the top step at the back door when he reached for the screen door handle. He missed it completely and was thrown off balance and fell backwards down the steps. My granddaughter, who was standing at the bottom of the steps, saw him fall and began screaming at the top of her lungs. The rest of us were at the side of the house and thought something terrible had happened to her and we ran in the side door to find out what was wrong. When we got to the back door she was standing over Willis who was lying on a concrete pad at the base of the steps. He was out cold. We didn’t know what had happened then but we couldn’t awaken him. We called an ambulance and carried him to the hospital.
By the time we reached the hospital Willis was wide-awake and wondering what had happened. He was more concerned about his clothing than his condition at the time.
We told the doctor in ER what had happened. He said fumes from the cleaning solution might have affected him. There was a possibility that he might have had a blackout and the fall knocked him out. He recommended that Willis remain overnight to be sure nothing else was wrong.
I returned home from the hospital with my daughter. When we arrived she suggested that I spend the night with her but I left my home phone number at the hospital in the event they had to call me. I assured her I would be fine and told her to go home and rest. That’s what I planned to do.
After she left I took a hot shower and dressed for bed. I turned on TV to watch until I felt sleepy. It had been a long day and I needed to unwind before going to bed. I made the mistake of watching a murder mystery involving burglary of a home while the lady of the house was there alone. Normally I don’t worry about break-ins but when you are keyed up it doesn’t take much to get the imagination going. I remembered my son, who no longer lived at home, had left a gun he used for target practice with us. Willis put it in the closet in our bedroom to keep it out of small hands. The gun was never loaded but he wanted to be sure it was out of reach of children.
I had to stand in a chair to reach the top shelf where the gun was stored. I took it down and put it on one of the shoe shelves at the foot of the closet. It took a while to find the bullets. He had them stored in the top drawer of a highboy. I turned on the closet light and sat yoga style on the floor to load the gun. Willis taught me to use a gun when we were first married and I was fairly knowledgeable about them. At least that’s what I thought. Little did I know that each gun has its own loading procedure. I pulled back the hammer and put a bullet in the chamber. When I tried to lower it again it wouldn’t close. We had practiced with a Smith and Wesson which has a release button that allows you to move the hammer back and forth. I searched everywhere on the gun but couldn't find a release. I tried to remove the bullet but it was firmly in place. I pushed and turned it around a few times thinking that it might not be far enough into the chamber. No matter how I tried I couldn't lower the hammer. There was no instruction sheet available. It was too late to call anyone to ask what to do and embarrassing to find myself in such a predicament.
I sat there considering my options. There was no way I was going to leave that gun cocked with a bullet in the chamber. The only way I knew to remedy the situation was to pull the trigger and I did. Now let me tell you right now that was a bad choice. The noise in that closet couldn’t have been much worse if a cannon had gone off. It deafened me for almost fifteen minutes and left me sitting there in a state of shock not knowing what was hit but knowing I hit something. Glass was all over the floor and some on me. I looked up at the light and it was still intact so it couldn’t be that. There's no window in a closet so that was ruled out. After making sure I was not bleeding or missing a limb, I got up on trembling legs and backed out of the closet. I went to the bedside table and placed the gun on top of a book left there to read if sleep continued to elude me. I went to the closet and gathered the bullets scattered all over the floor. After putting them back into their box I searched for a bullet hole. It's hard to believe but it’s the honest truth. There was no hole in any wall, the floor or any other place in that closet.
Suddenly I remembered that on the backside of that closet wall was our living room. I practically flew out of the bedroom to the living room to see what damage might have been done there. Not a sign of damage anywhere. When I returned to the closet I did find a wooden tea tray that was stored on one of the lower shelves. It had previously had a glass cover over the bottom surface. At least that solved the mystery of the shower of glass.
I finally gave up, checked the outside doors again to make sure they were locked and went to bed. If any burglar was unfortunate enough to break into our home that night he was assuming a risk far beyond any that he might imagine. There’s one tired, angry little bullet somewhere, still circling, that has yet to reach its destination in some time warp. Who knows when it may re-enter ours and find a target.
