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One of the things I'm slowly learning about my family is that we have a wacky and colorful history. Those of you who know me/have known me for a fair bit of time by now will probably not be surprised. One of the advantages to living as I do is that my aunt loves to tell stories about our wacky and colorful history. I am thinking I should also repeat the one about the stuffed ostrich.
However, today, you get the short one about the rat.
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When my grandmother was roughly the age I am now, my aunt was about eight or so, my mother not yet a year old, they moved to Portugal. My grandfather was heading off to Angola on business and leaving my grandmother and all their myriad children in a castle. An actual, factual castle. It came rented from the trustees of an estate of a countess who, by my aunt's account, was quite mad. She lived her mad little life in two rooms a tower (she must have been a very important person) and I don't think my aunt saw much of her.
She did, however, see much of the grounds. The castle being what it was, tiny and built in the days when people built such things, had no indoor running water. It had to be carried in from what I presume was a well. Which was, as the oldest child, her task.
One day as she was going about the business of ensuring the family's fresh water supply and keeping an eye on my infant mother at the same time, she encountered a rat. Or rather, the King of Rats. It might have been the size of the rat or it might have been the size of my aunt at the time, but this was a big gorram rat. And by all accounts, or at least the one I have heard now, if she had not fended off the rat with a big stick I would not be born today.
My aunt versus the rat. A battle for the ages.
However, today, you get the short one about the rat.
--------------
When my grandmother was roughly the age I am now, my aunt was about eight or so, my mother not yet a year old, they moved to Portugal. My grandfather was heading off to Angola on business and leaving my grandmother and all their myriad children in a castle. An actual, factual castle. It came rented from the trustees of an estate of a countess who, by my aunt's account, was quite mad. She lived her mad little life in two rooms a tower (she must have been a very important person) and I don't think my aunt saw much of her.
She did, however, see much of the grounds. The castle being what it was, tiny and built in the days when people built such things, had no indoor running water. It had to be carried in from what I presume was a well. Which was, as the oldest child, her task.
One day as she was going about the business of ensuring the family's fresh water supply and keeping an eye on my infant mother at the same time, she encountered a rat. Or rather, the King of Rats. It might have been the size of the rat or it might have been the size of my aunt at the time, but this was a big gorram rat. And by all accounts, or at least the one I have heard now, if she had not fended off the rat with a big stick I would not be born today.
My aunt versus the rat. A battle for the ages.
