Mass Murder in the Rose Bushes


Last night while listening to one of Nashville’s great songwriters at The Bluebird Café, I was once again reminded of the events surrounding my childhood in south east Mississippi that helped mold me into the Diva I am today.

My music partner and I have made a pact to hear live music more in an effort to hone our own writing skills and creativity. I was delighted to find a kindred spirit in last night’s songwriter, Marshall Chapman. Marshall has been around for years and while she does not have a string of number one hits, she has had consistency and staying power over the years. Upon meeting her, I can understand why.

She stands close to 6 feet tall, strikingly beautiful, even at the age of 56 and reminds you a lot of Blythe Danner. She has the most charming southern accent and delivery by way of Spartanburg, SC, as you’ll ever hear in these parts. She shared some commentaries that she has recently written for a program that is now airing on satellite radio. One particular commentary was entitled “Guns” and this is where my blog begins.

When I was growing up, guns were something that your Daddy used for hunting game. My Daddy, in particular, was not overly fond of deer hunting but loved to hunt for squirrels, quails, rabbits and occasionally coons. He had a few shotguns that he kept in my parent’s closet away from us kids. No one had a handgun unless you were law enforcement and even then, it wasn’t something that was readily discussed in mixed company.

Daddy decided that my Momma needed to learn how to shoot. At first she protested saying that proper southern women did not do such things but after much discussion, she relented. Much to Daddy's surprise, Momma was a natural shot. It didn't take long for her to began to get addicted to “target” practicing out in the back field. The summer she learned to shoot, she went through a dozen boxes of shells and finally Daddy had to take the gun away from her. We were thankful however, for my Dad’s encouragement. It gave us both a sense of safety after his passing, that should a need arise, we could protect ourselves.

After my sister Jill moved back home into my Granny’s house to help during those first few years without my Dad, the two of them decided to start a “rose garden” in between the two houses. They worked diligently and to their credit, started a beautiful garden and we had fresh roses most all spring and summer. All colors and smells; around 15 bushes.

Roses, while gorgeous, require a lot of care and maintenance. Both women fussed over this garden like it was Cheekwood. One constant aggravation was the armadillo’s and possums that would dig in the yard and soon found their way to the roses. The dog would go crazy at night and you knew one of the critters was digging in the yard/garden again.

My Momma, not to be undone by such critters, decided that she would “scare” them away by firing a few shots into the night. So I became accustomed to Momma going out on the carport in the dead of night and ripping off a few rounds of buckshot. Several times she had to call the neighborhood yard boy to come and “dispose” of her killings. The more she killed, the more obsessed she became.

My sister was not totally aware of Momma’s killing sprees and one particular night, not long after she moved back home, she had gone on a date with a nice guy that she had fancied for a while. They got in from their date and were enjoying a nice glass of wine on the screened back porch while listening to the night sounds.

Sadly, an armadillo decided to pick that moment to visit the rose garden which set our dog Odie to barking. I was in my room reading and Momma came to the door and announced, “I’ll be on the carport”……seeing the rifle in her hand, I knew what was coming.

She marched out on the carport, shone her 2 foot long flashlight into the garden and sure enough…there he was…digging away. WHAM! WHAM! Odie was going crazy. WHAM, another one got fired. WHAM went one last round. Momma appears in my door again. “I think I got the nasty thing but he ran off. Just in case, I’m keeping the gun next to the bed tonight. If he dares come back, he’s mine.” I wasn’t about to argue with her.

The next morning, I awoke to loud voices coming from the kitchen. Not overly anxious to find out I rolled over but the voices continued to get louder and louder and curiosity got the better of me.

Apparently, the armadillo that Momma filled full of buckshot found its way under my sister's house and passed on to the next life, but not before making horrible sounds as he was dying. The new boyfriend, having thought he was being fired at by my Momma out on our carport, had made a quick exit, just about the time the critter was running under her house. He told my sister it was all just a bit too much Walton’s for him and he wished her the best. She never heard from him again.

This practice continued for many years until Momma sold the place and moved to town. She still has the rifle but it’s kept at my sister’s house, locked in a real gun cabinet. Jill is too afraid to let Momma keep it at her house because she’s really not up for bailing Momma out of the county jail for having fired off a round and scaring the next door neighbors. You just have to know that somewhere, the armadillos and possums rejoice that the killing sprees are over.