"Bruge"

My dad had rheumatic fever as a kid.  It damaged his heart to the extent he couldn't qualify to carry a rifle in the Big War.  

But he could make bombs in the Sunflower Ordinance Plant in Lawrence, Kansas, for our war effort, and he did.  He learned so much about physics and chemistry while so doing he decided to try and become a pharmacist.  He discovered there was a special post-War program enabling those without a pharmacy degree to practice it in underserved towns of under 300 people.   He took the test and passed, and we were on our way to the tiny town of Bosworth, Missouri.

Dad bought one of those drug stores where you could get an ice cream cone along with your custom-compounded prescription.  And maybe a box of candy or other gifts.  And any sort of liquor you could possibly imagine.

My Mom and older brother and I lived along with Dad in the back of the store.  I was about 4 or 5 and brother John was six years older.  We were both pressed into helping out around the store, cleaning and dusting and running errands.  Our living quarters were painfully small, maybe 800 or 900 square feet in total.  This was in the late late 1940's, remember, and everyone was trying to get back on their feet.  Just having a place to live and food to eat was a blessing.  The kitchen and dining area was nearest the back, outside door, leading out onto the alley, with the bedrooms between it and the store itself.

I don't remember a lot of Dad's customers but I do remember "Bruge," for the reason you'll soon know.  Bruge was the "town drunk."  I put "town" in quotes, as it Bosworth barely qualified for that term.  It did have a little movie theater, and a grocery store, and an ice plant, and a feed store, and a one-pump gas station, and a school.  Yeah, the school.  One, three-story brick building for grades 0 - 12.  

Anyway, Bruge could be called one of Dad's "best" customers.  He was a drunk, and wobbled in every other day or so to buy a pint of Four Roses.  That's rotgut bourbon, for those of you who don't know.  And I'm happy for you if you don't.  He would most generally have the cash for the bottle, but every now and then when he was drunk, he didn't.  He would often wangle the credit out of Dad, who would front him a bottle for a day or two "on the arm."  

But after awhile Dad grew weary of this practice.  I recall the day Dad gave Bruge the ultimatum.  "No more credit!," Dad said.  And he meant it.  But Bruge was going to test him.  And that test would prove to be a life-altering decision.  Life altering for all of us, but Bruge, especially.

Around 3:30 in the morning that next day there was an awful pounding on the back door.  "Thump, thump, thump!"  Dad turned his night lamp on, got out of bed and went to investigate.  "Who is it," Dad yelled!  "It's Bruge!  "Give me my bottle," he said!  "Get off my porch," Dad yelled.  "Get off my porch and get out of here or I'll call the sheriff," Dad yelled!  "Give me my bottle or I'll shoot," Bruge barked!  "Get off my porch," Dad screamed!  

At that the sound of gunfire rang out.  "Bang, bang, bang!!!"  Bullets whizzed through the intimate confines of our small apartment, richocheting off the fireplace and into the bathroom.  "Get down," my Dad yelled!  My Mom screamed for my brother and me to get under our beds and for us to cover our heads with our pillows.  

"Bang, Bang!"  Bruge sent two more shots blazing through our small apartment.  While that was unfolding my Dad was reaching for his shotgun.  "BLAM!"  One shot.  Dad had fired a single shot through the back door at Bruge.  And then all the noise and the commotion ceased.  Suddenly.  Dramatically.

The silence was deafening.

The Carroll County Sheriff was there all night long.  It took him and the coroner that long after they removed the body to take all the witness statements and mop up all the details.  His report summed up the happenings quite nicely : Bruge tried to kill us with an unwarranted attack with a firearm, and Dad had blown him off our porch and to his death.  A shot to the chest with a 12 gage will tend to do that.

We never learned who Bruge was or where he came from.  His body was never claimed and he was buried by the County in an unmarked grave.

The moral of this story:  Seems to me you'll never know when, or if, you'll be called upon to protect your life, or the life of others dear to you, from an unprovoked attack.  It might be a good idea if, like my Dad, you're prepared to deal with it when it arrives.

I know I am...