My mother was not prone to fits of temper. At least when she was free of her mental struggles. The real Marjorie was gentle, and never laid a hand on her children in anger. But she did have a curious strategy when my brother and I argued. 

"Shall I get the baseball bat?"

Let me reassure you that my brother and I were buds. After the older two sisters left home we were all we had, and made the best of it. When he set up his racetracks, I helped send cars down the incline. In his era of home movies I was the complete cast. He explored stop action, and had me move incrementally across the driveway in an invisible hot rod, sliding over obstacles and around trees. He let me hang out when he and three friends had a short stint playing electric guitars in a band. I was their fan club. 

But sometimes we fought. 

That was when my mother would offer to get real instruments of pain so we could go at it with gusto. Which made me throw my arms around him and weep. She knew that we actually loved each other and the prospect of weapons brought that instantly to the surface. 

The other day I harbored grisly feelings toward someone. I was peeved with their  behavior, and groveled in ill will. Then I heard that they were suffering from a real calamity. In a flash my disgruntled sentiments evaporated, and I wanted to do something, anything to help. 

I wish I could concoct a means for keeping my affection for the people around me in the forefront. Being irritated wastes precious time that could be spent being in their fan club.