Ratatouille

My mother carried a mortal fear of mice since, according to her report, she was chased as a little girl by a little boy with a dead mouse. I heard her scream one pre-dawn morning (she rose early and went to work across town, Atlanta, before her five grown and growing children went to their jobs or to school). I rushed into the kitchen where she stood atop the table. "A rat!" she said, looking fearfully toward the water heater. With me blocking the approach of her nemesis, she left the kitchen and shut its door.

It WAS a rat. A large one, which had to be removed from the kitchen or my mom would never return. I stood there barefoot, in my skivvies. I got a broom and poked the rat huddled in the corner behind the water heater which prompted it to charge straight toward my unprotected feet. I did a flat-footed straight up and back jump for the safety of a kitchen chair seat.

The chair went out from under me and I fell on my back on the rat. We both let out a yell, both scrambling wildly to make our escape. We each did.

My mom caught the trolley to her job. I resumed my early morning action as older brother, part of which was to play John Phillip Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever at high volume so as to gently and tenderly awaken my brothers and sisters to the dewy morn.