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T A B L E++T A L K Going back to work after six years at home with the kids? Discuss the challenges facing moms returning from extended maternity leave in Table Talk - - - - - - - - - - R E C E N T L Y Straight-laced sisters
Drama Queen Candidates
Making sense of Jonesboro
Hey hey, ho ho, the matriarchy's got to go
In a league of their own
- - - - - - - - - - Mamafesto
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IN THE WAKE OF THE ARKANSAS SCHOOLYARD
KILLINGS, BY SALLIE TISDALE | My sister, Susan, and I were splitting a nice thin-crust at Round Table with my father the other day. We grew up in a small town and never fail to run into a family friend or two at the pizza parlor. This time, Mr. Bettis joined us while he waited for take-out. "My night to cook," he said, laughing. Mr. Bettis is in his late 50s, a tall, broad-chested man, a volunteer fireman like my father. Most of my father's friends are firemen, but then, a lot of the healthy men in this town are firemen at one time or another. I'm 41 now, and sometimes I call them Joe or Rick or Gary, but they are mister in my mind. Mr. Bryan, Mr. Coburn, Mr. Ling, Mr. Culp -- they stood around with my dad for hours, leaning on his battered Chevy pickup out back by the workshop, drinking Coors from a can and laughing and smiling at me benignly. Mr. Bettis looks quiet, but he likes to talk. He talked a long time about being "Fireman of the Year" for the department, but not winning in the county-wide contest. He lost to a young man from the valley. "He's only got nine months in," said Mr. Bettis, a little aggrieved. "Not that I'm anything special," he added. "I've gone in, I figure, about 6,000 times." "Going in" is fireman slang for entering a burning building -- for going in where no one else will go, going into fear. "But him" -- pointing at my father -- "How many times has he gone in? Ten thousand?" My dad grunted, and we shook our heads at the injustice of local politics and talked about the new pumper and the floods in the valley. Then Mr. Bettis got another beer and said, "Did you hear about those shootings in Arkansas?" We had not; it had only just hit the news, so he told us about the two boys, 11 and 13, who had pulled the fire alarm and lain in wait for their friends and methodically killed four girls and a teacher. Mr. Bettis is a nice guy. When my dad was in the hospital a few years ago, he and some of the other firemen were a big help to us. They're all incredibly nice guys, small-town guys who work hard and keep promises, who don't read many books but never seem to lack for stories -- guys who get married young and watch a lot of football and do a lot of favors. They drink beer and remember your name and keep their yards neat and don't complain about much. I would buy a used car from any one of them, without a worry. They are good people who spend their free time learning how to go into burning buildings and pulling people like me and my children out to safety. When I was a little girl, they all seemed big and kind and safe to me, and one of the surprises of my adult life has been to discover that it was true. Many are not quite as big as they once seemed, but each one has proved to be kind and safe over the years. They are kinder, I think, than I. "They ought to put those kids in the gas chamber," said Mr. Bettis. In the brief silence that followed this pronouncement, Susan and I looked at our teenage daughters and then she asked, "Where did they get the guns?" "Oh, kids can get guns anywhere," said Mr. Bettis. "I've got 11 guns myself." He sipped his beer. "Of course, only two of them are loaded." N E X T+P A G E: Taking guns for granted
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