As I look back on my youth, I fondly remember our family’s Saturday night ritual. Of course, over the years, most of these nights tend to run together – every Saturday was the same. Except for one particular night, that is – a night that stands all alone in my memory. After all, it was the night that Mom was shot. She certainly was not hurt, but if she reads this story and figures out which of her son’s shot her, that son might not be getting much in the way of Christmas presents this year. Confused? You should be. Let me start at the beginning.