More on the shillelagh

Pronounced "shil-lay-lah."

My grandpa had one. We found it after he died. It was a stick of wonderfully weighted wood -- perfect for cracking the heads or kneecaps of ne'er-do-wells. The grip was smooth and slender, and when you whipped it forward, it had the most satisfying SNAP. This thing would have done a ton of damage, even in weak hands. I don't have weak hands at all. And I remember holding it and imagining an enemy in front of me. I imagined flicking my wrist and -- WHAP-PO! -- broken nose, cries of pain, and lots of begging for mercy.

At this point, I think I should disclose this: my greatest enemy at the time was my ex-husband.

Anyway, thinking about the shillelagh, I went to Wikipedia. The entry had my new favorite term: mêlée weapons.

What a gorgeous way to say "small portable things that, in close combat and with a minimum of brute force, can really mess a person up." A gun is not a mêlée weapon. The fabulous shillelagh and its club-by relations are.

So, scanning the Wiki article, I eventually came across this.

Suddenly, being enamored of Grandpa's shillelagh seemed quite disturbing. Look at the picture again. Go ahead, I'll wait.

It's terrifying in so many ways: the girl's rapt expression, Grandpa's grin, the way they're BOTH holding the thing. And, dear LORD, it looks like the cover of a frickin' children's book.

Yes, yes, yes -- in this case, the shillelagh in question is a walking stick, but still. Still. EW.

So. What's the point of all this? What's the moral of this story?

Don't touch Grandpa's shillelagh, even if he's not using it anymore. It's just too weird.

The shillelagh in question went to my uncle, eventually. Part of me wishes I had it, creepy connotations aside. I've had to settle for an entirely different home security system: a 36-ounce aluminum softball bat. I suspect that would make a dandy mêlée weapon, too.