The Danger of Trucks

My Mother is full of stories, and most of them are cautionary tales. She has one for every occasion -- drinking, dating, midget wrestling -- it doesn't matter what it is, she knows someone who has done it before, and for whom it ended badly. Her favorite story involves a set of twins, a rolled down car window, and a big truck. I could go into the details, but I wouldn't tell it as well as my Mother. Let's just say one of the twins stuck his arm out the window, and after the truck went by it became much easier to tell them apart.

I was told that story too many times to count during my childhood. My friends were told that story, my classmates were told that story, the neighbor kids were told that story, and even random kids on the street who looked like they might be "arm hangers" were cornered and told the tale. So ubiquitous was the story that every time a man with one arm walked down the street every child turned and stared, wondering if he had a twin.

Over the year the story of the boy getting his arm ripped off became a bond every child who had grown up around my Mom shared. We would tell it in unison, our voices rising and falling in the same places that my Mom's had. And the more we told it, the less she did, no matter how much we begged her. Finally, she stopped telling it at all -- or so I thought.

Today I was driving along with Luke in the backseat, when I rolled down the window to enjoy the unusually warm November afternoon. Suddenly, a small voice came from the backseat. "Don't stick your arm out the window," Luke said. "What?" I replied. "If you do a big truck could come along and smack it off."

My Mother is now reaching a whole other generation. And she is making damn sure they grow up with all of their limbs.